Ms. Rona finally decided to visit my beloved Lowland, right after the krokus holiday. How thoughtful of her! Our Prime Minister, in full panic mode, went on TV and basically said, “Stay home. Don’t move. Don’t breathe too hard.”
I worked for an American company at the time, and my manager called me like, “Hey, so… just don’t leave your house. Ever. Okay, thanks.” Work turned into a war zone—literally. If you wanted to enter the office, you needed a signed permit from the manager, and if you so much as cleared your throat, you’d get death stares that screamed, “Back to your cave, you germ factory!”
Kids got online school, which meant parents suddenly became IT specialists, teachers, and snack dispensers all at once. Our elderly got locked inside like VIP prisoners. Those who depended on "mantelzorg" (care from family or volunteers) were left hanging—some survived on just bread because they were too scared to step outside for groceries. Others struggled without their essential aids like oxygen or wheelchairs, while the news kept serving daily doses of doom:
“Ms. Rona strikes again!”“More people lost their loved ones!”“Global economy in shambles!”
Basically, every time you turned on the TV, it was just Ms. Rona hogging the spotlight like an attention-seeking diva. We wanted a refund on 2020, but turns out, no customer service was available for global pandemics.
One early morning, while mindlessly scrolling through Facebook (as one does before fully waking up), I stumbled upon a cool site. Some students from my beloved Eindhoven had set up a platform where people could offer or ask for help—kind of like a Tinder for good deeds, but with fewer awkward messages. Everything was volunteer-based, and you had to be healthy and follow government protocols.
Almost immediately, I signed up—grocery runs? Done. Dog walking? No problem. Skype chats? Sure, I can talk for hours. But after a while, I felt like I wasn’t doing enough. While cooking one day, I kept thinking, How else can I help? How do I make life easier for our elderly and the exhausted healthcare workers?
Then it hit me—I always cook too much for myself. Sometimes I even have to throw food away because I can’t finish it. Ding ding ding! Why not share my home-cooked meals? So, I put on my mask and gloves (looking like a contestant on a pandemic edition of MasterChef), made sure everything was clean, and cooked for three extra people.
The result? Those three meals disappeared faster than free snacks at a party. One lady told me she hadn’t had a hot meal in five days. Five days! That hit me right in the soul. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I played it cool and just said, “Well, today, you’re getting a homemade feast!”
After that, I went all in. What started as three meals turned into cooking for 40 people every Wednesday. FORTY! I never expected my little kitchen to turn into a community food hub. It broke my heart to realize so many people in my own town were struggling with hunger. But at least now, instead of wasting food, I was feeding people—one extra portion at a time
Easter was coming, and the “smart” lockdown (not sure what was smart about it) was getting harder by the day. Kids were bored out of their minds, parents were on the verge of losing it—juggling work, online school, and trying not to burn dinner for the 10th time. Meanwhile, I was lucky enough to have food on my table and no screaming toddlers to manage.
Then, in a moment of pure ambition (or insanity), I put out a call on Facebook: "Help needed! Food delivery volunteers and Easter egg decorators wanted!" It didn’t take long before my inbox exploded. Suddenly, I had 20 volunteers! I never thought my logistic skills would come in handy during a pandemic, but there I was—channeling my inner event planner, scheduling pick-ups, making sure no more than three people were in my place at a time, and basically running my own tiny food bank.
For an entire day and night, I worked on the plan, making sure everything ran smoothly. Another day went into picking up handmade Easter cards (shoutout to the artistic volunteer!) and groceries. Then came the cooking marathon—four different meals for 50 elderly folks, sick people, and exhausted healthcare staff. Fifty! My kitchen had never seen this level of chaos.
By the time all the volunteers came and picked up the meals and goodies, I was so tired I could’ve slept for a week. But seeing their smiling faces made it worth it. I’m not a millionaire, nor a saint—just someone who spent all their savings feeding people, because, well… why not?
I didn’t ask for money or publicity, but somehow, the newspaper and an online streaming studio found me. The introvert in me panicked. I didn’t do this for fame! But hey, if Ms. Rona gets all the headlines, I guess one story about kindness wouldn’t hurt.
l
Time flew by, the weather got warmer, and suddenly, I had a whole new social circle. People from all over Eindhoven started reaching out, wanting to help. It felt like I had accidentally started a secret society—but instead of crime, we were dealing in kindness.
At first, I was spending my own money, but then the magic happened—random donations started showing up. One day, I opened my door to find a delivery of meat and plastic containers, no note, no explanation. Just a mysterious "We support you" vibe. I half-expected a message to appear in the sky saying, “The Universe has got your back.”
Soon, people from near and far were cooking, delivering, and just making the world feel a little less grim. We kept coming up with fun ways to brighten people’s days, but the ultimate chef’s kiss of our efforts was Mother’s Day.
I wanted to give all moms and women something to smile about, so I went full Oprah: "You get a mini wine! You get a scented candle! You get a face mask!" With two other amazing women, we spent half a day putting together pamper packages. Then, a florist threw in 50 roses, a Chinese store supplied fresh ingredients for an Indonesian salad, and a friendly Turkish shop owner handed over free meat for skewers. I was basically running Eindhoven’s most wholesome black market.
This time, I didn’t have to do everything alone. Volunteers worked in shifts so we wouldn’t be breathing on each other too much (because, you know, Ms. Rona still existed). We worked like a well-oiled machine, and when the last delivery driver picked up the final bags, I broke down in tears.
Not from exhaustion (okay, maybe a little), but from the feeling that no matter how much we did, there were always more people who needed help. I wanted to keep going, but my body was like, "Girl, sit down before I make you."
l
Three amazing months, three unforgettable months—and then… reality hit. My cooking apron was hung up for good because I had to start a new job. Office hours, people! Gone were the days of whipping up meals for 50, or planning surprise pamper packages. Now, my biggest accomplishment was managing to cook one meal for myself before collapsing into bed.
I felt so sad, like I had dropped the torch and couldn’t pick it up again. I wanted to hand it off to someone else, but life was like, “You have no choice but to get up and go to work, now.” The universe didn’t care about my community kitchen dreams!
I still keep in touch with some of my volunteers, and honestly, I wish I could do more. I’ve always thought I could save the world one meal at a time (spoiler alert: you can’t), but one thing I’ve learned during the lockdown is that, even though it physically separated us, it brought us closer in ways I didn’t expect. We weren’t alone in our homes—we were a team of strangers-turned-friends, united by a common cause.
So, while my apron may be collecting dust, I know one thing for sure: no pandemic or job can take away the bond we created. If anything, it’s made me realize that sometimes, the best way to help is to simply be there.
Eindhoven, June 1st
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