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 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,

especially those entrenched in nostalgia, my family’s expeditions to and meals at Blue Dolphin encompass the comforts of restaurants and food.

Back on the living room couch, we ordered a handful of Italian dishes over the phone, and arranged for curbside pickup, a new contactless facet of pandemic dining. I ordered orecchiette with chicken meatballs and broccoli rabe, my sister chose fusilli aum aum, my dad went with eggplant parmesan, and my mom selected chicken scarpariello.

That first Blue Dolphin meal, after months of RPCC fried rice and repetitive salad-bar salads, was glorious. The four of us sat around our wooden kitchen table, and laddled up pasta onto our plates. We took turns grabbing chunks of Italian bread from a paper bag and swiping the leftover sauces with it. “Can I try this?” was repeated, as we took turns spooning pasta dishes and eggplant parm onto our dishes.

This experience, and the food itself, was comforting, how carb-rich, and well-spiced dishes envelope the body and mind in a hug, how meals entail conversation and togetherness.

For that one night, until we checked our phones and my mom retreated to the T.V. room to watch the news, I felt secure in the bubble of my home, thanks to Blue Dolphin South’s food.

As we approached mid April, I became more acquainted with Zoom classes and seeing my past classmates as virtual boxes in our distant bedrooms. Throughout this abrupt transition to online school, our Saturday night Blue Dolphin South meal gave me something to look forward to, a rest in the week, and a comforting meal and ritual. So, every Saturday, around 7:30 p.m., my family would head to our living room and dial up the restaurant. Over time, the owner began to recognize our order, and my family developed a relationship with him, over the phone, and through a crack in our car window during pickup. Despite the barriers of masks, hand sanitizer, and the omnipresent fear that a loving stranger would have the virus, food proved essential to connecting us to each other and to the restaurant owner during a time of disconnection.

Like most routines during the March through August fivemonth stretch, the novelty and comfort that their stability once provided eventually grew old. After venturing on the same walk, a loop of connected roads, around my town for months, what once brought me tranquility became droningly the same, and I began to feel a bit trapped in my town’s bubble. And after ordering from Blue Dolphin South more than 20 times, the comfort of the routine, nostalgic flavors, and pasta’s soothing qualities, waned. The Saturday supper had become another aspect of the repetition and sameness on which month-after-month of pandemic life brought. Although by July and August I still took pleasure in a restaurant meal, my relationship with Blue Dolphin South’s food mirrored my feelings toward being at home and gearing up to return to Cornell for the current semester. They both once protected me from the dangers of the outside world, but I was ready for a change and to experience something new.

I am grateful that we were able to order from a restaurant, and that Blue Dolphin South has survived this tumultuous time.

While I feel a scramble of emotions for returning home in November, I know I can count on Blue Dolphin South to provide my family and I with a loving and comforting meal once more.

blue dolphin south