In the early days of the pandemic, people took to crafts and activities they could do at home. So many people baked bread that the supermarkets ran out of flour. I decided I would try to learn how to cook foods pleasing to Krishna. I used Yamuna devi's masterful cookbook and began to gather ingredients. Because of the plague, I decided to learn Indian cooking, and eat the foods of the liberated gods. The rice I had was unsuitable. Sticky. I went to a hip organic store. It was proudly aromatic -- lavender, fennel, expensive soap. I didn’t want to linger, though, the risk of infection was too high. I bought basmati rice that slid from a vertical cylinder that held the long grains. When I got home, I fumbled with keys, mail, newspaper, rice, the surgical gloves shiny and slippery with the rain. The thin plastic bag fell and split with an ease and efficiency that startled me, so defiant of its function, just before my anger emerged. The rice, emancipated, flowed eagerly over my porch, hastening to escape. As I picked up the bag, the tear responded by opening faster and faster. I flung the limp thing and the few lingering grains onto the lawn. I swept the rest off into the bushes, and as the days passed, it was all eaten. Birds, chipmunks, squirrels, taking it from the steps, the soil, the spaces in the lattice doormat, The mat that welcomes all guests.