![]() Then I leaned over the bowl, scooping it away, lost in the steam. I baked it until bubbling and bronzed, and served it out to my family, both those infected and those not. I may have added some crisped bacon because in my world that often helps. I enriched it with fistfuls of good cheese and a little dijon mustard and slathered it over still al-dente florets. I made a rich bechamel, the very easiest of sauces (I really don’t know why anyone finds it a challenge). Happily, the fridge was ready to provide. And what my body desired most was cauliflower cheese. In the wretched brain fog of that first viral day, when I was fit for little, I realised I could cook the one thing my body desired. Before the mid-19th-century pharmaceutical revolution, before the arrival of reliable analgesics, antibiotics and the rest, good nutrition really was the cornerstone of nursing. But I do also recognise that those corny aphorisms about food being thy medicine are rooted in a one-time necessity. As the virus kicked in, I sent out for enough over-the-counter medications to stock a small branch of Boots. Now, in adulthood, we mostly have to be our own nurse, but any foods which recall a time when we were looked after have to be a good thing. It’s a memory of childhood, of being cared for. I am similarly drawn to the thought of buttery toast with Marmite, a fine and easily achievable mix of carbs, fats and salt. It’s because I know it will taste nice and soothe my throat. That’s not because it may genuinely have antibiotic qualities. Standing before that open fridge I spy a carton of chicken soup, and like the good godless Jew that I am, I know it’s necessary. Interestingly, while we know that indulgence is no longer an actual indulgence, our appetites often lead us towards older virtues. When ill, we are deep in the world of self-care. Look, it makes me feel better, even if it doesn’t actually make me better. And chocolate, by which I mean Cadbury’s Dairy Milk rather than any of that artisanal nonsense, is renowned for its profound medicinal qualities. Fat is no longer a food group to be fretted over. Your body needs bread, potatoes and pasta, ideally together. Perhaps, in non-viral times, you’re avoiding the carbs? Sod that. For being ill provides a double-stamped, fully watermarked, gilt-edged licence to eat what the hell we like. But if appetite has not been slaughtered, well then, it’s game on. And frankly, there are none at all, if gastric distress is part of the package. There are few upsides to having a bug, whether it be Covid, flu or just a raging, dribbling, snot-storm of a cold. After two years of thinking I was somehow immune, of giving thanks for my sturdy, bulletproof eastern European peasant DNA, I finally have Covid. ![]() So here I am, standing in front of mine, bathed in the promising yellow glow of the fridge light, certain that something in here will make me feel better. W hen we are unwell, we retreat to a place of safety.
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