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My comfort food is onion rolls—you know, the kind you get at the grocery store from the self-service bins? They are likely horrible for you, but I love them.

When I was having a particularly terrible time during graduate school, I would escape the area and go down to see my grandmother a lot. And she always gave me onion rolls, slathered with butter. Later on, after she died, I would get myself an onion roll if I was having a bad day because they made me feel closer to my grandmother.

But I haven’t had an onion roll in eight months. Even though they’re my comfort food.

First of all, did I mention the self-service bins? Yeah. Not doing that right now with COVID-19 or perhaps ever again. You can get multiple onion rolls sold in a bag, but I haven’t found a brand I like. They all have a weird aftertaste. So I haven’t had an onion roll in eight months, and this week, I hit my breaking point.

Luckily, the first recipe I tried tastes exactly like the rolls of my childhood. I modified them by using one onion and caramelizing it for a long time over low heat. I’d use two onions next time. Plus I used four tablespoons instead of four ounces of butter (a whole stick!). But other than that, I made it as is. They were so damn good. And I felt completely satiated afterward; like I had spent a few hours with my grandmother.

What is your comfort food? And can you make it/buy it still?

I am feeling hopeful. Like the Magic 8 Ball says, “All signs point to yes.” Except, I have also read/watched Lord of the Rings enough times to know that you don’t turn your back when the Balrog is falling. You wait until you hear his corpse hit the rocks below or burn up in the fires before you walk off the narrow ledge. And maybe not even then.

I won’t relax on January 20th because the nightmare isn’t over—his supporters continue to exist. And if I have learned anything from 2020, it’s that there is not a point where we’ll breathe. There is just moving from moment to moment.

Election Day marked an entire year since I’ve seen my sister. I kissed her goodbye back in 2019 and made plans to see her in the spring. That trip was canceled. In a few weeks, I’ll mark one year since I’ve seen my brother. He lives closer, but our winter trip was stymied by colds and holidays. We thought we’d be able to pull off late January or early February. That didn’t happen, either.

I’ve stopped putting goal posts up, saying maybe by January 20th, maybe by a vaccine, maybe by the next midterms. I feel hope in this moment that we’re turning a hard-to-turn ship. And that is where I am right now. Because it’s all about moment to moment, not thinking anything is a given.

Josh asked what we were going to do today. On a normal year, we’d climb into bed after dinner and watch the returns with the kids. And that’s what we decided to do again, even though we know that we will likely go to bed without knowing the winner. Some information is better than no information, and it was weird enough voting by mail this year. Not watching election coverage would be even weirder.

I am nervous about the wait. I am also nervous about results and what comes next, after the results are in. So it’s just a big, simmering pot of nervousness, and there’s nothing left to do but wait and hope.

Four years ago, I was so excited for Election Day. Excited to vote, excited to watch the returns… I mean… until reality set in and Josh vomited and I sat crouched on the floor all night, refreshing the news on my phone because I couldn’t believe everything was really happening. I have none of that excitement today. It’s just my jaw firmly set, eyes forward, trying not to get carried away by any single piece of information.

Let’s get through today and tomorrow and the next day until we know, shall we?

I was talking to Leah over Zoom, and we were discussing what happens after the election is over. And I said, “Hopefully, we live.” And she responded, “Yes, hopefully!” But then we just stared at each other through the screen because… while I meant that everything will hopefully be fine—life as normal (or, at least, as normal as it can be with a pandemic)—it also sounded like we were entering the Hunger Games arena. May the odds be ever in our favour.

And then we mused how that statement sort of sums up 2020. Hopefully, we live. Hopefully, we get to the end of this pandemic. Hopefully, we get to the end of the political nightmare. Hopefully, we stop systemic racism. Hopefully, we restore families separated at the border. Hopefully, hopefully, hopefully, because the alternative is that we don’t live.

I am trying so hard to live right now. I am trying to plot out meals to lessen the number of trips to the grocery store. I am trying to make sure the masks are clean. I am trying not to scroll through the polls and obsessively think about the future.

Sending good thoughts to everyone for this stressful week and life beyond.

Once upon a time, I lived a big life. I traveled. A lot. I went to faraway places on my own or with a friend. We would split up, and I would wander the streets in foreign cities by myself. I would learn enough of the language to get by. I had great adventures.

Josh and I were only together a few months when we hit the road to drive to the Maritimes in Canada with only a loose plan of where we would go and what we would do. We purchased spur-of-the-moment tickets to Paris, saw theater in London, and drove to beach to beach to beach. We thought nothing of hopping in the car and driving many hours to see my siblings.

And once the twins were here, we involved them in the adventures, too. They have already had two passports, and they’ll renew for their third before they go to college because they’re game to go anywhere and everywhere. The ChickieNob organizes us, creating Google forms so the family can vote on the next place we go. The Wolvog takes 360 videos so we can watch them in VR once we’re home and feel like we’re still somewhere else.

We don’t really spend money on anything else. It’s just books and travel.

And then COVID-19 stopped travel. So now it’s just books.

My world has become so tiny.

It is partially tiny due to logistics. We can’t cross borders right now, and the places we’d go have their countries in lockdown. And it is partially tiny by choice. Or… choice doesn’t feel like the right word. It is tiny because it is overwhelming to be out-and-about right now.

Planes feel off-limits, and where would we even go? We’re not entering buildings or homes. Traveling on the highway feels overwhelming. The cars are moving so quickly, and it all feels too bright and too loud. We thought we’d go to the beach off-season this fall—it’s generally empty by the end of September. But it feels… too much. Just driving to the beach and reading on the sand feels like a Herculean task. So I’m staying home and reading with my pig.

That’s what I feel like I can do right now: Read with my pig.

See, everything is tiny.