We always knew a baby would mean a change of gear. But we’ve had a crash course in an old-fashioned way of feeding a family
Before coronavirus I was eating out around 10 times a week. Sometimes more, if I felt like I was wasting away, or less, if my doctor sister had texted me about diabetes again. It wasn’t just gluttony. I write about restaurants. And it wasn’t always the grande bouffe. Sometimes just soup. Sounds defensive, doesn’t it? It looks excessive from our new vantage point.
That lifestyle came shuddering to a halt at the start of March. Our daughter Lily was born on 11 March. Then the lockdown began. I haven’t been to a restaurant for nearly two months. Other critics have written heartbroken paeans to their former sweethearts. Not me. In fact, the longer the lockdown goes on, the more I wonder whether I miss them at all. The past few weeks have been a crash course in an old-fashioned version of sustenance. We plan meals, shop for ingredients, cook them ourselves. I feed wife, wife feeds daughter, nobody starves, I get to feel useful.
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