Grandma's Diary of the Pandemic Year 2020
Title
Grandma's Diary of the Pandemic Year 2020
Description
Wednesday 1 January 2020.
Diary, I know you wish me a happy new year. It’s just your benign way as I have come to know you since our introduction in 2011 at the Morgan Library exhibit entitled The Diary: Three Centuries of Private Lives.
So, here begins another year in another private life. I’m calling it Grandma Perfects Her Cookery in the Year 2020.
Diary!! July now! I have abandoned that aspirational title in favor of one dictated by circumstance. This diary was meant to be an entertaining document in which, here in my seventy-ninth year, I would suss out a cookery tailored to carry me happily into my eighties.
Was the hope.
Not a vain hope in ordinary times. But these are not ordinary times, as you will learn from the following entries.
Mid March now and, oh, my goodness, Diary, things have changed. Coronavirus has come upon the world and I am confined to my home. Nearby family will not visit for at least two weeks because grandson Michael may have been exposed at school and could be a carrier even when seeming to be well. It’s a mercy that children seem to be spared the worst of this disease but they can carry the virus to the group most affected, people of my age.
Late May now! The death toll from the coronavirus has climbed above one hundred thousand in the U.S. We have been on lockdown for weeks. Global emergency has made cooking more difficult but also more vital, for I need the comfort of delightful food to help me manage the horror and terror of it all.
And the disappointment. Grandson Michael has no school, no choir, no baseball practice, no play dates. Grand daughter Fran will not study at the marine biology facility at Coos Bay, where she helped with research last summer so happily and productively. Her sister Nina, our high school senior, has no prom, no senior trip, no graduation ceremony, and no working as camp counselor throughout the summer. She will be lucky if she gets her first semester at the College for Creative Studies in Detroit.
Diary, as I reread January and February here in July, I yearn for the freedom of movement we took for granted then. I could just get on a bus and go downtown! I loved to get on the bus on impulse or by plan and go downtown. I could visit the Museum for British Art or look in at the library or shop for groceries at Elm City Market. I could go by MyRide to the Playwright Pub twice a week to hear the Irish music sessions. I loved the Playwright Pub. It was my place. I could have lunch at Union League Cafe, which I also love. I could invite people into my home for dinner, as I did two or three nights a week. I could have a houseguest, as I did in December.
Back then, I did not wake every morning with a sense of dread I had to identity all over again. What’s this feeling? Oh, yes. Oh, my, yes. We are in a pandemic. A pandemic. Everyone is in danger. People I love are in danger.
Thursday 2 January 2020.
Diary, here was life before the world changed.
A friend left for home yesterday after a visit of a few days from Ohio. I have skimmed my diary of those days to see what might inform my perfecting my cookery. I notice that the night she arrived I made us a pizza and an avocado salad. Diary, both rule in the new regime! A few months back, disgusted that I could not find decent avocados in New Haven grocery stores, I subscribed to monthly mailings of avocados from an organic farm in California. It has been a delight. The fruits are perfect, a triumph for my 2019. And the pizzas: such fun, every Friday. I enjoy the process of making them all day long. I’ll tell you about it some Friday soon.
My friend, whose name is Azaria, and I went twice to Union League Cafe, my favorite restaurant anywhere, ever. It is in the very beautiful Sherman Building with gorgeous woodwork and striking stained glass windows, built as his home by Roger Sherman, New Haven’s first mayor and the only American whose name appears on the Declaration of Independence, the Articles of Confederation, and the Constitution.
Union League Cafe captures the conviviality and old-world charm of a Parisian brasserie— less formal, more lively, un-pressured but with impeccable attention to memorable food, wine, and service. Our cuisine and service is a product of passion and exacting standards—and it guides our team every day.
On 29 December, Azaria and I ate three dozen raw oysters between us and very delicious appetizers. I remember saying I should come here more often! They make perfect martinis, which, Diary, I wish you could taste.
An email came from Union League Cafe in mid March with this opening paragraph:
“As our community responds to COVID-19, we want to express that our entire staff remains dedicated to upholding our high health and safety standards. We pride ourselves on the service we provide. In the coming weeks, we will strive for nothing short of perfection.”
I responded with a note that included, “All the very best from a grateful customer. I’ve had wonderful times in that room.” They sent back good wishes for my health.
A few days later, this restaurant and all others are closed on the order of the governor. When will this end? How will this end? Will there even be a Union League Cafe again?
During Azaria’s visit, we also drove in her rental car to Number One Seafood to use a hundred dollar gift certificate from my birthday. We got their very special smoked salmon for New Year’s Day brunch plus cooked lobster tail, tiny scallops from a nearby bay, shucked oysters for a stew that night, and caviar for late night New Year’s Eve.
Diary, thank goodness we celebrated so fully last year, for we are unlikely to be able to do anything like that this year. We seized the day!
There is eighteen dollars left on that gift card. When, oh, when? I hope it won’t expire.
I went to look at the card. There is no mention of expiration.
Diary, I know you wish me a happy new year. It’s just your benign way as I have come to know you since our introduction in 2011 at the Morgan Library exhibit entitled The Diary: Three Centuries of Private Lives.
So, here begins another year in another private life. I’m calling it Grandma Perfects Her Cookery in the Year 2020.
Diary!! July now! I have abandoned that aspirational title in favor of one dictated by circumstance. This diary was meant to be an entertaining document in which, here in my seventy-ninth year, I would suss out a cookery tailored to carry me happily into my eighties.
Was the hope.
Not a vain hope in ordinary times. But these are not ordinary times, as you will learn from the following entries.
Mid March now and, oh, my goodness, Diary, things have changed. Coronavirus has come upon the world and I am confined to my home. Nearby family will not visit for at least two weeks because grandson Michael may have been exposed at school and could be a carrier even when seeming to be well. It’s a mercy that children seem to be spared the worst of this disease but they can carry the virus to the group most affected, people of my age.
Late May now! The death toll from the coronavirus has climbed above one hundred thousand in the U.S. We have been on lockdown for weeks. Global emergency has made cooking more difficult but also more vital, for I need the comfort of delightful food to help me manage the horror and terror of it all.
And the disappointment. Grandson Michael has no school, no choir, no baseball practice, no play dates. Grand daughter Fran will not study at the marine biology facility at Coos Bay, where she helped with research last summer so happily and productively. Her sister Nina, our high school senior, has no prom, no senior trip, no graduation ceremony, and no working as camp counselor throughout the summer. She will be lucky if she gets her first semester at the College for Creative Studies in Detroit.
Diary, as I reread January and February here in July, I yearn for the freedom of movement we took for granted then. I could just get on a bus and go downtown! I loved to get on the bus on impulse or by plan and go downtown. I could visit the Museum for British Art or look in at the library or shop for groceries at Elm City Market. I could go by MyRide to the Playwright Pub twice a week to hear the Irish music sessions. I loved the Playwright Pub. It was my place. I could have lunch at Union League Cafe, which I also love. I could invite people into my home for dinner, as I did two or three nights a week. I could have a houseguest, as I did in December.
Back then, I did not wake every morning with a sense of dread I had to identity all over again. What’s this feeling? Oh, yes. Oh, my, yes. We are in a pandemic. A pandemic. Everyone is in danger. People I love are in danger.
Thursday 2 January 2020.
Diary, here was life before the world changed.
A friend left for home yesterday after a visit of a few days from Ohio. I have skimmed my diary of those days to see what might inform my perfecting my cookery. I notice that the night she arrived I made us a pizza and an avocado salad. Diary, both rule in the new regime! A few months back, disgusted that I could not find decent avocados in New Haven grocery stores, I subscribed to monthly mailings of avocados from an organic farm in California. It has been a delight. The fruits are perfect, a triumph for my 2019. And the pizzas: such fun, every Friday. I enjoy the process of making them all day long. I’ll tell you about it some Friday soon.
My friend, whose name is Azaria, and I went twice to Union League Cafe, my favorite restaurant anywhere, ever. It is in the very beautiful Sherman Building with gorgeous woodwork and striking stained glass windows, built as his home by Roger Sherman, New Haven’s first mayor and the only American whose name appears on the Declaration of Independence, the Articles of Confederation, and the Constitution.
Union League Cafe captures the conviviality and old-world charm of a Parisian brasserie— less formal, more lively, un-pressured but with impeccable attention to memorable food, wine, and service. Our cuisine and service is a product of passion and exacting standards—and it guides our team every day.
On 29 December, Azaria and I ate three dozen raw oysters between us and very delicious appetizers. I remember saying I should come here more often! They make perfect martinis, which, Diary, I wish you could taste.
An email came from Union League Cafe in mid March with this opening paragraph:
“As our community responds to COVID-19, we want to express that our entire staff remains dedicated to upholding our high health and safety standards. We pride ourselves on the service we provide. In the coming weeks, we will strive for nothing short of perfection.”
I responded with a note that included, “All the very best from a grateful customer. I’ve had wonderful times in that room.” They sent back good wishes for my health.
A few days later, this restaurant and all others are closed on the order of the governor. When will this end? How will this end? Will there even be a Union League Cafe again?
During Azaria’s visit, we also drove in her rental car to Number One Seafood to use a hundred dollar gift certificate from my birthday. We got their very special smoked salmon for New Year’s Day brunch plus cooked lobster tail, tiny scallops from a nearby bay, shucked oysters for a stew that night, and caviar for late night New Year’s Eve.
Diary, thank goodness we celebrated so fully last year, for we are unlikely to be able to do anything like that this year. We seized the day!
There is eighteen dollars left on that gift card. When, oh, when? I hope it won’t expire.
I went to look at the card. There is no mention of expiration.
Creator
Anonymous
Date
2020-01
Identifier
pandemic006
Collection
Citation
Anonymous, “Grandma's Diary of the Pandemic Year 2020,” New Haven Free Public Library Digital Collections, accessed May 2, 2024, https://nhfpl.omeka.net/items/show/928.