Through this whole ordeal, I find myself returning to the food of my youth. Simple southern country meals, made from scratch. Some of my fondest memories of childhood involved learning how to cook at my mom’s side.

There’s no following a recipe. Unless it’s on a well-worn index card spattered with bacon grease and written by hand.

You go by taste and how things look. When you make gravy, you add flour to fat to make a roux, and mix in whatever liquid you’re using until it *feels* right.

Real biscuits don’t come from a can where I’m from. And if you roast a chicken on Sunday, you make chicken pot pie or chicken and dumplings the next day.

When a woman where I’m from passes, her kids fight over who gets her cast iron skillets & her favorite casserole dish. Family wars have been waged over less.

Every summer gathering involves potato salad, deviled eggs, & some sort of molded jello salad made w/dubious ingredients

There’s a lot I don’t miss about where I’m from. But there’s a lot I do. And the food is one of them. So in these uncertain days, taking the time to make food the old-fashioned, familiar way = coping with the unfamiliar.