I accidentally smeared some gravy on my nose as I was taking a bite of my pork chops, and for a moment I fooled myself into thinking my taste was back. It was not. I just had a faint whiff of the mushroom.
Meals have been such a joyless, soulless experience lately, a routine of sitting on my bed with a packed meal in front of me. Once, it was even the floor, wary I was going to spill my cousin’s lechon paksiw on a mattress I don’t even sleep on (I have two beds in this quarantine bedroom—maybe I should spend a night on the other one).
I never minded eating alone, but boy does it get completely lonely when I can’t even enjoy the food.