Quarantine cooking gave me something to cling to when our understanding of normality flew out the window.

If there was one marginally positive thing that came out of this chaotic year for me, it would be learning how to cook. Like many other freshmen at the College, my senior year of high school ended with a flop: classes moved online, normal get-togethers were cancelled, I had very few cares left in the world, and with international travel restrictions in place, my hopes for a smooth transition to college were all but dashed. 

As city after city in China succumbed to the COVID-19 pandemic, it slowly occurred to me that I’d have a lot of time on my hands and very little motivation for anything else. It’s difficult to pinpoint the exact reason why I started cooking during quarantine: I knew it was only a matter of time before I had to roll up my sleeves and manoeuver the wok. After all, my mom had been urging me for months to acquire the skill of feeding myself. I was embarrassed to admit that I had never cooked a proper dish up until February this year. 

I had previously characterised cooking as a chore, as something people begrudgingly took on simply because there was nobody around to cook for them. As such, I always stopped short of attempting a recipe or even watching my parents cook step by step in the kitchen. I wished to avoid bearing adult responsibilities as much as possible.

On one nondescript night in quarantine, I came across a recipe for noodles. No, not the Americanised MSG-laden “chow mein” with overcooked beef and broccoli chunks so gigantic you struggle to swallow. It was a classic Shanghai dish with slender, golden noodles in a lightly salted broth topped with soft, chewy greens and a crispy over-easy egg. Since then, I’ve become hooked on all noodles — udon, vermicelli, ramen, egg noodles, you name it. Garlic has likewise become an indispensable ingredient in my life. 

But I’m not writing this essay just to say I learned how to cook. In fact, I’m a pretty terrible cook who doesn’t have the patience to learn proper knife-wielding techniques or any of the nuances that go into Chinese dishes — which is the main cuisine I dabble in. When COVID-19 brought on an onslaught of frustration and regret, I threw myself into the process of cooking to distract my mind from an uncertain future, relishing in my inexperience, clumsiness and naivety. 

Instead of moping about the house and guessing what ICE’s next move might be due to my international student status, I much preferred to contemplate what I would whip up for breakfast the next day. “Contemplate” might sound out of place in this context, but I’m hardly exaggerating. Thanks to the internet, the sheer number of options I could choose from made it infinitely more difficult to settle on one idea. Should I make a shrimp or sausage omelette? Sprinkled with Havarti cheese or mozzarella? What about the Peruvian avocados that I had neglected? Why are human appetites so small? 

Half the time I don’t know what the hell I’m doing in the kitchen. My slicing motions are mechanical and imprecise. I frequently burn my chicken breast. I notoriously over-salt everything. I hate cutting up pineapples and tomatoes. I will never believe a YouTuber who claims a recipe only takes 10 minutes. I even felt ashamed to claim Chinese heritage after making soggy fried rice. Yet I couldn’t stop.

My parents didn’t let my amateurishness in the kitchen go unmentioned. “You’re wasting my ingredients,” scolded my mom on a weekly basis. “What is that?” my dad asked quizzically. Their less-than-encouraging comments hardly fazed me. On the contrary, their lack of faith pushed me to keep cooking, to keep messing up until I had a dish I could confidently bring to a potluck. I don’t strive to make fancy dishes either. The most complicated dish I ever made was probably the time I ordered buttered naan from an Indian restaurant to complement some curry chicken. 

Sticking to the basics allows me to eat a delicious meal even on a time crunch, and you can make enhancements however you please, such as swapping out an ingredient or mixing different sauces — a term I use very broadly. I’m continually blown away by the vast assortment of dips, barbecue sauces, soy sauces, chilli sauces, miso packs, hoisin sauces, and oyster-flavoured sauces available in supermarkets.

I threw myself into cooking so much that it sometimes took priority over high-school Zoom classes — but I’m not reckless enough to skip college classes. I’d bring my laptop into the kitchen and talk about “The Handmaid’s Tale” with my literature class while dicing up bell peppers at 8:30 in the morning. And I almost never paid attention to the first ten minutes of US History because I was busy adding the final touches to my lunch. The sense of accomplishment derived from making a hearty meal made remote learning that much more tolerable. 

I couldn’t control the coronavirus’s trajectory and much less my ability to be on campus, but knowing that I finally took up a tiny slice of adulting assuaged my fears and, quite frankly, made me feel good about myself. 

Now at the half-way point of a (remote) college semester on steroids, I have to admit that I’ve gotten quite lazy — I cook less, and I cook the same thing every time. When I do cook, however, I feel extremely at peace as I momentarily forget about projects, quizzes, and club responsibilities. 

The other day as I waited for my ramen to boil, I looked out the window and saw the most beautiful azure blue sky. It felt like the Before Time. I was reminded that life is not completely meaningless. Now more than ever, we shouldn’t be taking things for granted. No matter where you are, I hope you find your anchor, something that brings stability and delight.