By Heather Lanier

Position one oven rack on top, another in the middle.

These instructions came before the overpriced meal delivery service told me to set the dial to 425 degrees. Genius! Without the recipe card, I would have consulted my phone, gotten distracted by a well-placed ad for strawberry-scented surgical masks, and, ten minutes of scrolling later, I’d remember I was “making dinner.”

Meanwhile, my stomach would have growled, my kids would have declared starvation, and recently washed broccoli would have dripped wanly on the counter.

Cut carrots into one-inch diagonal slices.

My husband has been doing 99% of the pandemic cooking. Beginning in March 2020, just standing in my kitchen sends a zing through my body that I think health professionals call “anxiety.” The white pitcher of wooden spoons by the stove has become as overwhelming as David Folkenflik’s NPR report that democracy is a shattered snow globe in the hands of a few hundred grown white man-children.

Spread carrots onto a pan in a single layer and drizzle with oil. Place carrots on top rack. Set timer for twenty minutes.

My kitchen-phobia made me feel bad for a while. Families need to eat, and I have a family, and I wasn’t feeding mine. At all. My husband was. It probably hasn’t helped that, since birth, I’ve seen a billion commercials with a woman pulling a steaming casserole from an oven. 

But even if my spouse and I donned identical sand-colored jumpsuits and had never been assigned a gender, I think I’d still feel a little guilty. I feel guilty about not committing to a daily regimen of flossing.

Open package of breadcrumbs. Open package of Italian seasoning. Open package of cream cheese. Mix together in a medium-sized bowl.

A global health crisis made commonplace things feel like distant possibilities. Should we gather with our forty-year-old friends and their ten-year-old kid? Our seventy-year-old parents? If we do, should we wear masks? Stay outside? What if we’re all vaccinated? What if it’s pre-Delta? What if it’s post-Delta, pre-boosters? What if it’s post-Omicron, prehistoric? What if we hold our breath as long as deep-sea divers? Keep sixty-eight feet of distance? Blow the roof off the house?

Tell me what to do, I’ve wanted to say to anyone. Give me simple instructions. 

Lay chicken cutlets onto baking tray. Spread bread crumb mixture onto tops of cutlets.

Remember when we wiped down groceries? Remember when a few million people thought the answer to their problems was: Buy more toilet paper? Remember when the powers-that-be said it wasn’t airborne, and we were like, For real?? That doesn’t seem right… And they were like, Yeah, no, it’s totally airborne? 

Remember the medieval days when you sat so close to a stranger that your love handles accidentally touched and neither of you was covering your mouths with layers of cotton or surgical paper? Remember before? Remember now? Remember anything? I sure don’t.

Put tray of chicken onto middle rack. Bake for fifteen minutes.

Question: If we have three rapid tests and four family members, and nobody has symptoms, but our youngest played outside with a next-door neighbor who later got the sniffles and we test the kid, which of the other three family members should receive the last two tests? 

Answer: We should just buy more rapid tests. All the rapid tests. No, not all the tests. That’s hoarding. Don’t hoard. There are no rapid tests available anyway.

It’s absurd that we’ve built our culture around the tiny institution of the nuclear family. We sweep every floor, disinfect every toilet, and cook every meal, each of us—alone, in our homes—for our “households.” We must do it all. All the time. Every night. Another dinner. Even in a global health crisis.

While chicken is roasting, slice loaf of bread.

I mean, every ingredient you need for the meal already comes in the bag! With each ingredient already premeasured! Studies show that 100% of humans suffer from pandemic-related decision fatigue. Did I mention that the recipe card has photos for each step? All you have to do is follow the instructions. 

Can we please make these for the pandemic? Can we please receive happy ice-packed boxes at our doorstep, filled with necessary ingredients and topped with simple instructions on full-color 6x9 cardstock?

You’ve chosen the “Exposure via Kid’s Outdoor Playdate” Meal. Great choice! Pull out the rapid tests. Rapid test all family members. Open bag of enclosed marshmallows and eat. Once bag is empty, check tests. Hooray! Everyone is fine. Throw out tests.

You’ve picked the “Please Tell Me What the Hell Mask to Wear” Meal. Low carb option! Wear enclosed animal-print cloth masks to stores before Delta. Wear enclosed rainbow surgical masks to work after Delta. Wear enclosed N-95s to your own bathroom after Omicron. Please enjoy the complimentary carrot cake! (Discard if defrosted.)

If you think this is an ad for meal-prep delivery services, you’re wrong in the sense that I will get zero money if you subscribe to one and right in the sense that I’m 100% convinced they are going to save my life — or at least my pandemic brain. And maybe yours.

Remove chicken and carrots from oven. Distribute onto four plates and serve with sliced bread.

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Heather Lanier’s memoir, Raising a Rare Girl, was a New York Times Book Review Editors' Choice. My work has appeared in The Atlantic, The Wall Street Journal, Longreads, Yes! Magazine, Shondaland, and elsewhere. My TED Talk has been viewed over two million times.