In my share house, food was our religion.<\/p>\n
Time spent chopping and frying in our kitchen was time spent worshipping at the church of self-love. And like many, we turned to cooking as a source of comfort over the pandemic and its subsequent years; sharing our culinary endeavours on social media, prowling Bon Appetit<\/em>\u00a0for our next household meal<\/a>. To many a starry-eyed Instagram commenter I replied, \u201cFood is the one of the few pleasures we have left!\u201d.<\/p>\n We started small. A little rock salt, a little goat\u2019s cheese. We worked our hands around homemade pasta dough and freshly pinched gyozas. We weren\u2019t game enough to tackle the sourdough loaf, but many crisp focaccias were made. Our housemate Jack changed our lives with a bowl of smoked pancetta bolognese. Rich, turmeric fish curries slipped into heavy rotation. And then, there was that brief-yet-all-consuming homemade ramen phase.<\/p>\n In the warmth of long autumn afternoons on our front verandah, we debated the merits of vegetarianism, of the garlic bread at our local Dominos, of how a Pet Nat is made and what makes one so good. And the rest of the world seemed to fall away. Our sense of connection to the outside world dissipated, but I was reminded three times a day how much I missed shared love-ins over a dining room table \u2013 and how distant the concept of communal cutlery and close seating felt.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n A post shared by bonappetitmag (@bonappetitmag)<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n