The Comfort of Repetition: How I Learned the Meaning of Comfort Food by: Hannah Rosenberg
I seek comfort in repetition. A lover of routines, I wake up at the same time every morning that affords me a large enough block to fit in my breakfast making, coffee sipping, and newspaper reading, perhaps with some leeway for a quick walk or last minute assignment. My breakfast itself is likewise strictly patterned in order to quell any morning uncertainties: I add spices, nuts, homemade granolas, and seasonal fruit to a bowl of oatmeal, and I buzz to my coffee maker to complete that ritual, changing up the coffee blend every bag down. But my love for cooking, new recipes, and concocting baked goods can overcome my desire for comfortable certainty. When the pandemic escalated across the U.S., and March rang in the Great College Student Diaspora, every ounce of life that I could look to for stability and comfort had wilted away. Once home, I tried to channel the overwhelming feeling of life upending into new habits and cooking, boundless walks, bread baking, and cake decorating. But even these activities could not bring me back into a stable orbit, or provide me with the sanctuary that routines in otherwise “normal” life had. The early stages of sheltering at home in my New York home were unsettling and
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painful, and I was desperate to find something—food, an activity, a routine—to comfort me. During my first weekend home, my family and I yearned for a respite from the increasingly horrific news reports. That respite was food. After my parents, sister, and I sat around our couch over-contemplating where to order dinner from, we decided on Blue Dolphin South, a newer addition to a restaurant, Blue Dolphin, that we had eaten at for over 10 years. Blue Dolphin, a small Italian, family-owned establishment, carved out of the building of an old diner, has provided my family and me with birthday dinners, sauce-laden pastas, wine-infused fishes, and crisp vegetable sides since I was five-years old. I can trace my love for food to the progression of the meals I ordered at Blue Dolphin. First, it was pasta bolognese in elementary school. Then as I stopped consuming red meat, fusilli aum aum—spiraled pasta fused with sautéed eggplant, mozzarella, and tomato sauce—became my order in middle school and high school, always with a side of olive-oil coated garlicky broccoli, and wedges of airy Italian bread that complemented the savory sauces. As I latch onto routines,
