How I Learned to Cook Again: A Culinary Tragedy

My long-lost friend Keith found me on Facebook in the middle of May. He’d retired from the U.S. post office and, with nothing to do in New Jersey during the lockdown, was surfing links and lists—and there I was. I hadn’t heard from him in almost 20 years. I could tell from a rush of likes that he’d clicked through scores of the hundreds of photos I’ve posted of my meals at some of the best restaurants in the world. Under the most recent one, he commented: “Who’s got it better than you.”

“You don’t understand,” I replied from isolation in London. “I used to have it better than me. I used to eat out every day. Every day! Now, I have to cook. And do the dishes. And complain about what I prepare.” Most of my best pictures were months old. He’d put the comment under one of my home-cooked meals from the day before: a microwaved sausage roll and a cup of tea. I was flabbergasted. Didn’t he get the irony? He replied with an emoji howling with laughter.