10 to 12 lamb chops, salted an hour before using
White wine
1 teaspoon fresh rosemary leaves
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
In a large cast-iron pan, splash in a tiny bit of the oil and add the garlic. Cook over low heat for about 3 minutes. Remove and set aside. Raise the heat to medium-high and sear the lamb chops until they are browned, 2 to 3 minutes on each side. You may do this in two batches.
Remove the chops from the pan and set them aside on a platter. Add a splash of white wine to the pan, and perhaps a little water, and deglaze. Return the garlic to the pan along with the herbs. Cook for maybe a minute. Pour over the lamb chops and tent with foil for 5 minutes before serving.
6:00 p.m. GMT
The little ones eat their meal, which at times requires us to coax, plead, or threaten, spewing old chestnuts such as, “There will be no dessert for you, young man,” and “Do you think dragons leave food on their plates?”
“Dragons don’t use plates.”
“I know they don’t use plates, I know that. I’m just saying… could you please just finish it.”
After their meal is eaten, sort of, the little ones are allowed to watch a bit of television. Dragons for him, Peppa Pig for her. （There is no question that my wife and I, along with many parents, wish the creators of that irritating animated swine a slow death, but they are so rich they have probably purchased immortality. And yet at the same time said pig allows us respite for a half an hour or so every day. May God bless those creators.）
While the little kids are immersed, I begin to make culinary preparations for the next “sitting.”
TV time has ended, and we usher the little ones to bed. As usual the two-year-old is screaming between gulps of her bottle because she has had to leave her beloved pink porcine pal. After settling her into her cot, we then take turns reading about dragons to the five-year-old, who proceeds to tell us he’s hungry, so we begrudgingly make him some toast and say something like, “I told you to eat your dinner. This is the last time.”
And it is. Until tomorrow.
7:45 p.m. GMT
Felicity and I cook dinner for ourselves and the four other human locusts and eat standing around the kitchen island because we can’t be bothered to set the table anymore. We eat, drink wine, and comment on the food, but this past week we’ve barely spoken to one another. This makes me sad, as I know it’s because we are all lost in our own anxieties. I am sure the twenty-year-olds are thinking about whether their year abroad will happen at all, and my eighteen-year-old is lost in worried wonder as to how universities will decide who gets accepted and who doesn’t without anyone having taken exams. Felicity is worried about her assistant being furloughed, if her parents are staying safe, and a thousand other things. I wonder if my very social parents are really practicing social distancing and what jobs will be available when this is over, and I know already that I most likely will have to be away for a while working on one of them to fill the coffers.
But no matter how frustrated we all are with the situation, I know we can’t help but think how lucky we are to have each other, a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and no symptoms of illness. Only a couple miles away in any direction there are hospitals chock-full of ill and dying patients who are being attended to by overworked and overwhelmed National Health Service doctors, nurses, and support staff. Other than sending checks and raising money for charities and the NHS by making videos at home, we are helpless to do anything for fear of infection. As we eat in silence, we are all hoping this will end soon without too much more suffering, that our leaders will get at least one thing right along the way, and that the next time we are all sequestered together, it is by choice.
9:15 p.m. GMT
The kitchen has been cleaned by group effort and we head our separate ways, the kids to the TV room, my wife and I to the sitting room to read. In a short while I’ll climb the stairs and head to bed, knees creaking, as I plan tomorrow night’s meal. Chicken cutlets for the little kids, mushroom risotto for the rest of us.
* * *
It is nearly a year since the beginning of the first lockdown and we are now almost six weeks into the second. Obviously the first one didn’t work. However, it seems that people are taking things more seriously now, with a few exceptions, and sticking to the rules. The vaccines are being rolled out and the number of cases and deaths is shrinking significantly, something for which we are all thankful. During the first few weeks of this lockdown all the kids were home, including Isabel’s boyfriend, so lots of food was being bought, cooked, and consumed similarly to what is documented previously. But now, in order to preserve their sanity, Nicolo has returned to his flat and his “mates” （as he now calls his friends） in Brighton to continue university online, while Isabel and her boyfriend have retreated to his place. Only poor Camilla is stuck with me and Felicity, Matteo, and Emilia. Yet, unlike during lockdown number one, Emilia is now speaking in full sentences （although some are often completely incomprehensible） and talks almost as incessantly as her brother. Fun for all. （Actually it is.）