During the early pandemic, a peculiar optimism bloomed among those hunkering into lockdown. This was it, we told ourselves. The chrysalis moment. We would emerge toned, bilingual, spiritually centered. We would stretch daily. We would roast more vegetables. We would become the kind of people who took Real Lunches.
To that end, my own ambition was, frankly, modest: I would eat a proper midday meal. Not a handful of almonds hoovered over the sink. Not yogurt eaten in a fugue state between Slack pings. A lunch with edges. A lunch that required a plate and, ideally, a chair.
