Lockdown Recipes

The best hummus is home-made. Soak the chickpeas overnight. Boil for an hour, or thereabouts. Drain and leave to cool. Leave aside some of the chickpeas for the topping. Blend the rest with silky-sticky tahini, crushed garlic (enough to leave a sting on the tongue), fresh squeezed lemon juice, and that pink Himalayan salt that’s so popular for making lamps and night light holders (a waste of an excellent seasoning if you ask me). Don’t forget a generous splash of peppery virgin olive oil. ‘Virgin’ means the first pressing of the olives, which produces the best quality oil. I hope the same is not true of sex. My first and only ‘pressing’ was a disappointment, and if that’s as good as it gets I shan’t bother to repeat the experience.

Mostly, I measure quantities by eye and by feel but you may want to use a proper recipe for your first time. As you’re puréeing the ingredients add a little water until you reach the desired consistency. Now taste it and adjust the seasoning if necessary. I like mine with an abundance of lemon.

Put the hummus into a container and scatter the reserved chickpeas on top with some fresh parsley, a dash of olive oil, and a sprinkling of smoked paprika.

I enjoy it with a generous hunk of focaccia from the Italian deli that I pass every morning on my way to work. The fresh garlic in the hummus has the welcome side effect of warding away anyone who might try to socialise with me at lunchtime.

We have a new person in the office. His job seems to be something to do with overhauling our website and its associated promotional material. I despise him already. He has a man bun, and a carefully tended designer beard. Everyone else is in subtle competition to win his attention. I’m quite happy to stay on the sidelines as usual.

Today I have a box of my favourite time of the month panacea; chocolate mousse cake with orange buttercream topping. I made it last night, but the buttercream had to wait till morning when the cake had cooled. I missed my bus, making me late for work, but it’s worth it. Dark chocolate melted with butter and beaten with corn-gold egg yolks, brown

Rosy Adams lives in Aberystwyth with her husband and their four children and pets. She graduated as a mature student from the University of Wales Trinity Saint David in 2017 with a MArts in Creative Writing. She works part time as a sports massage therapist and practitioner of the Rolf Method of

Structural Integration, and tries to fit in as much writing as possible in the gaps between work and family. After completing an online Arvon course during lockdown she decided to enter at least one writing competition. This is her third attempt so third time lucky.

sugar, and just enough ground almonds to give it substance. A pinch of salt to bring out the flavours, then fold in the whipped egg whites and bake in the oven until the warm chocolate smell fills the kitchen and spills out into the street, teasing passers-by.

He was passing my desk as I opened the box, and said, ‘Wow, that looks amazing! Did you make it?’

To my shame, I blushed. I gave a sharp nod, then turned my face to my monitor and pretended to be busy with emails. He stood there for moment or two, probably waiting for some kind of communication, but I’m very good at ignoring social cues.

His name is Oliver but he prefers to be called Ollie. He wears trendy glasses to read. He’s one of those people who can make even his handicaps look cool.

I had to bring him the corrected proofs of the new website content. I would have sent it to him via the company intranet, but I work much better with paper and pen.

He took off his glasses so he could look me in the eye and smile. He said, ‘That was fast! Thank you Liv, I really appreciate your help.’

I ducked my head and rushed back to the safety of my desk. His sincerity disturbs me. When I’m near him I feel simultaneously irritated and on the verge of tears. I think it best to avoid him as much as is possible.

I make sweetcorn pancakes for my dinner. My grandma’s recipe; perfect for feeding a brood of hungry children. A mix of plain and wholemeal flours, baking powder, and a pinch of salt. Two eggs, milk, and a tin of sweetcorn, including the water. I batch fry them, five at a time, in the black cast iron pan I inherited from her. When I was a child I would burn my mouth and my fingers, eating them fresh cooked, filling my stomach until I was fat as butter. Now I eat them with the once-hated ratatouille my mother used to make, a swampy tomato stew full of courgettes, peppers, aubergine, onions and garlic. The pancakes and ratatouille are just as good cold, and the leftovers make several day’s lunches.

My co-workers leave the office for lunch. I don’t know where

they go. I don’t really care. I always have a book to keep me company, and I’ve no interest in the over-priced sandwich shops and chain bakeries on the street where I work.

Today, he stayed in the office too. He made a point of not trying to engage me in conversation. The silence felt unbearable, but when I peeped at him from the corner of my eye he seemed to be completely relaxed. He was working at his laptop, taking sips of his coffee now and then, but not touching the limp shop-bought salad at his elbow.

He looked up and caught my eye. Funny how people sense it when you’re looking at them. Yet another reason for keeping myself to myself. But it was too late. He lifted the chipped office mug in a salute, saying with that ever-present smile, ‘Your lunch looks so much better than mine.’

Before my brain could intervene, my mouth opened and words came out.

‘Would you like to try some?’

‘I thought you’d never ask!’ he replied.

I was not myself today.

He drew words out of me with the skill of a fly fisherman pulling trout from a river. I talked about food, and books, and copy editing. I felt as if everything I said was erudite and fascinating.

Tonight I’m making apple cake. First, I have to make a caramel. Demerara sugar, a knob of butter, splash of water, pinch of salt, and squeeze of lemon. To make it extra special I add a dash of spiced rum from the bottle I keep for Christmas food. When it’s brown and bubbling I add three Bramleys, peeled and sliced, and cook them until soft but still holding their shape. Putting them aside, I make frangipani (like normal cake batter but with ground almonds instead of flour). I layer the frangipani and the caramelised apples, finishing it with a sprinkling of chopped hazelnuts and baking it slowly and gently in the oven, testing with a skewer to make sure it’s cooked all the way through. Tomorrow, I’ll take enough to share.

He didn’t come into the office today. I couldn’t bring myself to ask where he was, but I overheard something about a photoshoot. I’ve no right to feel so disappointed. He didn’t make any promises to me. Indeed, he didn’t say much about himself at all. I probably didn’t give him a chance, yakking on about myself as I did.

I tipped the cake in the bin on the way home. I’m not hungry today.

He wasn’t in the office for the rest of the week.

Today is Monday, and much to my surprise, I am not in the office either. It seems that all that fuss which I thought would come to very little, like the swine flu epidemic, has brought the world to a standstill. On a day as yet unspecified, my work computer and a printer will be delivered. Until then, my time is my own. I wish I knew what to do with it.

Without the journey to work, and the office nine to five, it’s hard to keep any kind of structure.

I do my work. I go for my daily walk. I read my books. I sit on my pocket balcony in the unseasonal sunshine and stare at the deserted streets. I didn’t think I would miss my co-workers. Even though I never joined in with their conversations, I liked hearing them chattering in the background. I realise now that perhaps I should have made more of an effort. I refuse to think of the one person I did make an effort for.

Panic buying has cleared the shelves of dried and tinned foods, but there is no shortage of fresh fruit and vegetables, or bread.

I make soup. Diced onions fried in olive oil until they’re soft and translucent. The smell of my childhood. All of my mother’s cooking seemed to start with a base of sautéed onion.

Crushed garlic, chopped fresh ginger root, ground turmeric, cumin, and cayenne pepper. Add red and yellow peppers seared black under a hot grill, and fat squashy tomatoes scalded with boiling water to remove the skins. The juice of half a lemon and a teaspoon of salt. Top up the pan with water and add red lentils for texture. Cook until the lentils are soft and season to taste.

I eat it with toasted ciabatta and chunks of crumbly yellow cheddar, and watch the sun set over the rooftops against a perfectly clear sky, wishing I had someone to share with.

In the morning I sit down at my computer and start my working day. I check my emails in case there’s anything which requires my immediate attention. There’s one from Ollie. It’s probably just asking me to read more proofs. I feel stupidly excited, so I ignore it and deal with all the others first, until I’m back to my usual self.

It’s not a work email.

He’s telling me about how much he enjoyed the sweetcorn pancakes, and how it’s inspired him to do some cooking of his own, and how he’d love to share some with me when we’re allowed to meet again, and how he wants to challenge me to a lockdown cooking competition, and he’s sent me a photo of some dark, squishy brownies drizzled with salted caramel…

I push my chair back from the desk and sit back. I’m a little breathless.

I rest my fingers on the keyboard. I type two words, and hit send.

Challenge accepted!