My coronavirus isolation started off strong.
I was donning business casual for all my Zoom meetings and doing at least 20 pushups daily. I even started taking lessons in coding online.
Soon, though, I realized I was hitting every quintessential phase of quarantine. I binge watched “Tiger King.” I responded to Instagram challenges. I downloaded TikTok. I bought a projector on eBay to Netflix on my ceiling.
I even started a quarantine journaling prompt that asked me things like, “What do you see out your window and how does it make you feel?”
In the early days of quarantine, I was optimistic and having fun. I was trying new things, following trends.
Looking out the window made me feel hopeful as I saw the spring fog float along Resurrection Bay.
Now, it makes me feel like crap because I want to look out of a different window and see other things, or just open the window and scream out to the world, “I miss you all!”
This morning, I’m sitting in a combination of pajamas and the same sweater that I’ve worn nearly every day since March 15. It’s long, flowing and soft, and wraps perfectly at my makeshift desk or when I cuddle up in bed midday for an exhausted stress nap.
Rinse, wash, repeat.
I try to remember the silver linings, though, and I’m happy to say that these drabbier days are the exception to the norm. All those quarantine fads keep me occupied when I can’t be bothered to read another book. I’m lucky enough to live in a place where I can still venture outside for a beautiful escape.
What have you been homing in on during quarantine? Or, should I take the guesswork out of it and just ask how is your bread making going? Have you hit that phase yet? If not, you should be stocking up on flour, on the rare occasion it’s in stock, just in case the need to knead strikes.
I’m dabbling in sourdough. A kindly neighbor left a bit of starter in a mason jar with my name written on it sitting on her front porch. When I stopped by to grab it, she popped her head out of the window and told me all about its history, traveling across Alaska through her family for generations.
It spent decades, growing, feeding and transforming, time and time again finding itself in the form of a new tasty treat ready to be devoured on the kitchen counter. Now, a piece of that history and resiliency lives on in a mason jar with my name on it.
The starter has survived plenty of miles, freezing cold winters, lack of oxygen and probably the touch of a metal spoon here and there, always to come back and provide for the next carb-hungry soul.
Who knows what my sourdough starter will become the next time it finds itself outside of the mason jar — maybe a classic loaf, a stack of pancakes or a dozen delicious scones?
And who knows what I’ll become on the other side of this pandemic, but hopefully I’ll be better at making bread than I am metaphors.
By KAT SORENSEN
For the Clarion