Silver Linings Playbook: The Cool Things I Did During COVID

During COVID…Holly Barbera ran a marathon

When the first wave of the novel coronavirus hit the Northeast and everyone started living life on lockdown, Holly Barbera was in a pretty dark place. March was cold. April was rainy. Barbera only left her house to go to the grocery store and even at that, she’d aim for one trip a month to cut back on her potential exposure. She knew she needed to get outside more—for her sanity, and for some exercise. So, she started running every day.

Just a few months before COVID-19 was all anyone could talk about, Barbera started dating Sean, an endurance runner who’d completed multiple ultramarathons—100-plus mile races. As the two started spending more time with each other, “bubbling” together during the lockdown, things started looking up. “Sean is patient, kind, and has a real sense of adventure,” says Barbera. “Spending time with someone who was finding ways to continue to live his life was so inspiring to me.” So, when Sean suggested Barbera run a virtual marathon, she decided to go for it.

That’s not to say she didn’t battle some serious self-smack talk. “Once I got over that and stopped comparing myself to the runner I thought I needed to be—someone who could easily run far and fast—I realized that I’m someone who thrives on a plan,” she says. “Give me a set of procedures to follow and I’m on it, and I’ll learn to modify and adapt as I go.”

And so, with a plan in place and Sean as her new boyfriend and running coach, Barbera started training for her virtual marathon. Her daily training runs became a refuge. “I run without music because it helps me really be in the moment,” she says. “I’d pay attention to my breathing, my cadence, my pace, and for a while, that would help me forget all of the awful stuff that was going on in the world.”

If she was tired one day, she’d hit the pavement. If she started doubting her ability to finish the race, she’d lace up her shoes and go for a run. “At one point I realized that it’s not about how fast you go, it’s all about just showing up,” she says. “Sean would often tell me, ‘It’s just about time on your feet.’ I quickly started to see that it’s not about being perfect every time you go out for a run because, over time, you’ll look back and realize you’ve gone further than you ever thought you could.”

As it turned out, finishing 26.2 miles was way harder than Barbera expected. She approached the final third of the run—the proverbial “wall” marathoners and coaches talk about—and wished it would just be over. She walked a little, but she kept moving. “I showed up,” she says. “One of my favorite lines that I repeated during my race was ‘Comfort is a lie.’ It echoed the loving advice Sean gave me numerous times throughout my training: ‘Suck it up, buttercup.’”

Barbera, who got engaged to Sean in November, is still running. His coaching inspired her to take on that role—albeit unofficially. “I try to encourage people that whatever it is they might want to do, whether it’s something physical like running or revisiting an old hobby, start now,” she says. “I tend to be someone who hesitates to start things if I think I’m not going to be good enough, but I’m realizing that I’ve been holding myself to ridiculous standards. If doing something speaks to your heart, go ahead and do it.”

After all, it’s not like you’re going to paint the next masterpiece or run 50 miles tomorrow. Just find a way to start. “Make a plan, practice it, tweak it, and adapt to change.”

During COVID…Meghan Rabbitt Made Bread

Shortly before the U.S. shut down last March, I went to Whole Foods for a “zombie apocalypse shop.” It felt a little like Supermarket Sweep, where contestants filled their carts with the most expensive groceries—only this time, the name of the game was anything shelf-stable or freezer-friendly. I knew we were in for strange times when I saw a woman toss 12 bags of organic oatmeal into her cart. Twelve.

As I frantically rolled my cart through the aisles, picking through what was left of the pasta and keeping my fingers crossed that I’d find a few cans of beans, it was clear we were about to settle into uncertain times—and that I might need to get a little creative when it came to what we’d eat.

I started baking beer bread—a mix of flour, salt, beer, and a packet of instant yeast—that was surprisingly delicious and just the carb-bomb my riled-up nervous system needed. But I ran out of yeast after a few loaves, and when I went back to the store a few weeks later, those yeast packets were gone. I couldn’t even find them on Amazon. Apparently, everyone was stress-baking. This lack of yeast—coupled with the fact that my social media feeds were brimming with lovely loaves of all shapes and sizes—inspired me to give sourdough a go.

I procured a starter from a bakery that charged me $7 for “discard” they would have just tossed anyway. Then, I bought two 2-pound bags of bread flour at $18 a pop from that same bakery because we were in a pandemic, damnit, and didn’t we deserve heirloom wheat flour?

I ordered a book on how to bake sourdough that almost made me abandon the process, but when I mentioned this to a friend, she texted me a link to a simple recipe complete with how-to videos. It yielded a delicious loaf on my first try.

However, I’ve come to learn that sourdough is not an instant-gratification endeavor. Yet, something about the simple-yet-involved steps mirrored what we were collectively going through. We were being asked to stay at home—easy peasy. But once the joy of Netflix binges lost their appeal, we had to stare down the reality that all of our new restrictions were keeping us from the stuff that makes life, well, life: having friends over for dinner, a trip to the museum, going out to eat, traveling to another country, and not thinking twice about any of it. And I don’t know about you but putting my finger on that was a process that made me feel all the feels. Feels that a slice of freshly baked sourdough slathered with Irish butter made a lot easier to swallow.

After my first few successful sourdough attempts, I bought all the things. I’m now the proud owner of two banneton baskets, linen covers for said baskets, a bench scraper, and a bread lame. I’ve made bread for friends and for our 75-year-old neighbor. I’ve spent an entire paycheck on fancy flour. And when life felt darkest, I turned my kitchen into something that could’ve passed for the set of The Great British Pandemic Bake-Off, taking out my pent-up anger on balls of dough and making something simple, yet fundamental—during the simplest, yet most complicated—a moment of our lifetime.

Ten months later, I still make a loaf of sourdough every week. There’s something so satisfying about our house filling with the smell of fresh-baked bread. There’s nothing quite like taking that first bite or seeing the smile-inducing delight it prompts in my beloved. And while my Bâtards and Boulés haven’t taken away the stress, disappointment, and grief this year has brought, they have made it all go down a bit easier.

Especially when slathered in Irish butter.