Cooking My Way to the Finish

 Sujata Massey

Williamsport, PA, Nov 5

So, Nov 5 came and went. Even though I am writing this the evening of the election, I expected that not all states will have certified results by the morning after,  just as it happened in 2020. 

 

I know that delayed news is better to me than outright bad news. UPDATE: I woke up to the news that Trump won. And I'm so very disappointed.

 

We all have to live with anxiety and uncertainty—no matter which side of the political spectrum we are on. And I suspect a lot of us have suffered very serious uncertainty in our lives; for instance, worrying about someone in the military, or someone seriously ill. I tend to worry more about others than myself, and I don’t know whether this is a good or bad thing. 

 

As with regard to worrying, It's taken decades for to understand that worrying won’t stop anything from happening, good or bad. 

 

Leading up to this election, many of us who cared did the best we could. I tend to throw myself into doing things outside the house when I’m anxious about something I can't control. Therefore, I became a campaign volunteer on weekends. I canvassed for voters, which meant going door to door to talk with people, if they are willing, and leaving campaign literature. On Tuesday, I drove to a central Pennsylvania mountain town, Williamsport, to help with whatever they needed. Turned out it was doorknocking—in my mind, I had thought I might be a driver to polling places. This was simple and straightforward work, and I appreciated how the addresses were easy to find in this old-fashioned industrial town.  I did not find many folks at home—except for children, who had the day of because of the election.

Of all the volunteer shifts I've had, this one was the quietest with the fewest volunteers, and I was aware it was in a county that would very likely give the majority of votes to Donald Trump. The volunteer headquarters, which was in an interesting old factory building that at one time manufactured more pajamas than any other place on earth. Now it is mostly space for community and artists. Just a few days earlier, strangers had come by and noticed a truck with Harris Walz stickers parked outside the Pajama Factory. The people spray-painted obscenities about Kamala Harris on the truck and then set it ablaze. I heard it from the skeleton crew of volunteers in the building, hoping for the best. And when I traveled through the neighborhoods, seeing the number of people who hadn't yet voted, I had a very sad feeling that they wouldn't go.

 

The sun set and I put an audiobook on to play through the speakers of my car. I drove home along the small highways to Baltimore, just two-and-a-half hours to my destiny of waiting safely at home with unsafe emotions. As I mentioned, being at home has not felt relaxing lately. As a result, I haven’t cooked much and the fridge is almost bare. Recently Tony had left in the snack drawer a half-bag of kettle chips, carefully sealed with a clip. He came asking me later if I knew where the bag was, and I had to admit that I’d eaten it all. 

 

We are often lectured that eating in times of stress is an unhealthy habit, but I think it’s a lot better than some other ways of coping with unease. We all have our strategies.

Stuffed Shells at my Baltimore House, Nov 5

 

I'v had the feeling since Monday that I wanted a few casseroles in the house for emotional protection. I knew I wanted something I hadn’t made in a year or two: a rich, saucy lasagna. I pictured a large baking dish filled with a casserole of cheese, tomato, pasta and spinach. The kind my mother made. A large amount that would create leftovers that I would be able to reheat and eat to my heart’s content, yes, maybe with a little salad on the side, and maybe dessert.

 

I realized that nobody had the time to make this dream lasagna for me. So, on Monday, I tried to buy ingredients at my local store. Unbelievably, there were no boxes of the flat, wide strip noodles used for lasagna. It made me wonder if others are going through the same kind of cravings.  I've always thought that ricotta-and-spinach stuffed pasta shells are practically the same. he large shell noodles, conchiglie, were on the shelf, so I grabbed them.

At home I just parboiled the noodles, filled them with a mix of lightly sauteed spinach (1 box defrosted from frozen) and enough ricotta, parmesan and provolone cheese to suit my taste. Half of the cheese mixture was suitable for me (vegan or low-lactose cheeses) and the other half was bring-it-on full fat ricotta for Tony and Neel. 

I made a happy arrangement of conchiglie in an 11x9 ceramic baking pan with a little tomato sauce on the bottom. Over that I poured about 3 cups of sauce (one cup chunky homemade and two cups good quality marinara. Then I covered the casserole and put it in the fridge for election night.  And when I got home from Pennsylvania a few hours ago, weary from the driving, I opened the door and smelled tomato, onion and cheese.

 

Having a hot dish waiting at home for me, during the difficult time I'm waiting for news, made me feel a little more comforted. And the very act of cooking good things strikes me as an act of faith. It means that I can take care of my own needs and sustain myself to go on, no matter who is in charge of the country.