“Don’t touch your face,” I say. I have become someone who nags. We haven’t gotten “the thing” yet, but it has sent my anxiety into overdrive. Being pregnant doesn’t help. Except when I use it as an excuse to lie down. We were prepared for a child to change everything, but not for something tinier – a microscopic hijacker – to steal the show.

These days we count stuff. Days spent quarantined at home. Fetal kicks. The number of people in the ICU at the hospital where I work. Remaining rolls of toilet paper. I regularly check the availability of a temporal thermometer I had on our baby registry. The one that used to cost 30 dollars costs 69 now.

We have a new vocabulary too. We talk of viral loads and air currents. We debate whether it is truly safe to go outside. Brett and I bought our condo in an area we hoped would become a hot real estate market. It is now a hot spot for “the thing.” Just living here is a risk factor, according to the latest medical guidelines. So I stay inside and, when it’s not raining, open a few windows and let in the cold spring air.

Our packages have a quarantine period that corresponds with my current anxiety level. On good days we wait 24 hours before opening them. When I have bad stretches, a parcel can sit in postal purgatory for a week. We don’t order anything readily perishable.

I have, however, become obsessed with ordering the type of food one might want on hand if foolishly trying to outrun the apocalypse. We are flush with dried fruits – cherries, apricots, and figs. Someone once told me figs gets invaded by wasps looking for a safe space to reproduce, so I no longer enjoy them. But I felt compelled to buy some anyway since so few options were available. Eating insects is the least of my worries these days.

Flour has been impossible to find for weeks, but I located a 10-pound bag online. It’s artisanal and cost as much as a four-pound rib roast. Our 800-square-foot condo will make room. The kitchen cabinet is crammed with canned sardines flavored with lemon, stewed in tomato sauce, packed with peppers, and smoked. I hope to make a lunch of these tiny fish at least once a week (this basic formula is a winner). The omega-3 fats are good for the baby. They are good for the part of me that thinks I have control over this.

Beans aren’t as easy as sardines to find, but my apocalypse-style shopping helps a bit with the sourcing. Back when we were both leaving the house for work, pasta con ceci was a favorite weeknight dinner. A dish of pantry staples that now feels like a luxury. Brett recently referred to it as adult SpaghettiOs and its new name has stuck. The grated cheese is entirely optional, as the real umami magic happens when the garlic, tomato, and olive oil meld into a clingy, addictive sauce. It’s a fast meal to make and one that feels wholly therapeutic. There is something comforting about a dish that won’t let you stray too far while cooking it. Staring into the bottom of a pan while you stir is calming in times like these.

And I’m grateful for it – for all of it. I am thankful we can afford the food we need and that we are healthy and, also, haven’t killed each other yet.

Brett and I are doing well, all things considered. Though we are pretty much down to fist bumps to show affection. Fear of passing “the thing” has limited physical contact between us. We show love in other ways though. He spares me the last of our yogurt and rubs my calves. I make chocolate chip cookies and save him the final scoop of our adult SpaghettiOs. He tries not to touch his face.

Pasta Con Ceci (“Adult SpaghettiOs”)

Adapted from Victoria Granof Courtesy of Food52

Ingredients:

½ cup olive oil
3 garlic cloves, peeled and thinly sliced
¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons tomato paste
½ pound (or about 2 cups) of uncooked pasta (aim for a small shape, like ditalini)
1 to 2 teaspoons kosher salt (or to taste - this will also depend on the brand and flake size)
1-15 ounce can chickpeas, drained and rinsed (or about 2 cups cooked chickpeas)
Pecorino or Parmesan cheese, grated (to taste) – optional garnish

Instructions:

In a small pot, add 3½ cups water and bring it to a boil.

In a large pot on medium to medium high heat, add the oil and then the garlic, stirring regularly until the slices become toasted and fragrant. This should only take about a minute or two. (Keep an eye on the pot, as the garlic quickly goes from cooked to burnt). Stir in the tomato paste and cook for about 30 seconds more.

Add the pasta, boiling water, and salt (if you are sensitive to salt or using a brand with a finer grain, start with the lesser amount). Stir to help prevent the pasta from sticking to the bottom of the pan. Turn the heat down to medium low, so the mixture is at a low simmer. Continue to stir occasionally for about 15 minutes or until the pasta is just shy of al dente.

Add the chickpeas and continue to stir occasionally until the pasta is fully cooked and most of the liquid is absorbed. (If the mixture starts to get a little dry, just add a splash or two of water to loosen it.) Taste and adjust the seasoning, if needed.

Top with grated cheese, if you are feeling fancy.

Serves 3 or 4