Digging Through Grief, Mining the Good Memories

It wasn’t long after mama was diagnosed that she lost her taste for scotch. In her final weeks, she didn’t have much taste for coffee either. We’d brew a cup and then I’d take it back and forth to the microwave, reheating it for 20 seconds at a time over the course of the morning. I’d pour it down the sink around noon, still full.

The radiation rewired her brain, and where before she might have something sweet with her afternoon coffee, she now woke up to a Danish, had cake for lunch, or would eat pie alone for supper. Then she lost her taste for sweets, and nearly overnight, couldn’t remember whether she’d eaten that day at all.

My refrigerator is full of pasta and meat. Big hunks of pork tenderloin and ham. Sheet pans full of creamy noodles. I’ve lost the taste for all these things, too.

Why do we bring food to the bereaved? Certainly, it does help feed my children when I haven’t had the wits to cook, but the sight of disposable aluminum sends me into a slight depression. More than once, I’ve been tempted to throw it all away, or wrap it with freezer paper and hide it, out of sight, somewhere deep down in the deep freeze.

But, I don’t. Instead, I deconstruct it all to make dishes that mama would have made. I slice the King's Hawaiian Rolls loaf straight through the center and pile it with Honey Baked Ham and cheddar cheese. I let my daughter crack eggs and beat them with a fork, slippery yolks all over the counter. I fry them into a thin crepe and transfer the eggs from the pan to the top of the cheese, taking satisfaction in the way it melts under the heat. The other half of the loaf is placed on top, and carefully I slice it along the perforated seams to make 16 perfectly portioned breakfast sandwiches.

I’ll eat one while I drink my coffee. I’ll probably have another later, now at room temperature after sitting on the counter all morning. Then, I’ll eat one more tonight with my scotch, just because I know I need something to soak up the liquor.

I’ll try to dig my way through the grief and mine the good memories, but most likely, I’ll end up staring into the refrigerator again, wondering what to do with all this food and wishing she were here to tell me.