Embracing the Pain of Grief
“Food is symbolic of love when words are inadequate” — Alan D. Wolfelt
I hear the sound of the plate on the metal table outside my bedroom door. The noise is followed by my husband saying, “Your breakfast is served.” I put on my mask, open the door, grab the plate, and head back into my tiny cabin bedroom.
I can’t believe I have Covid.
The last time I had this many meals prepared and served in bed was in 1987 when I was recovering from a cesarean section after the birth of my daughter. I’m itching to get back into my kitchen. I want to make an apple crisp with the last of the Mutsu apples my husband brought home from the orchard near the Vermont border. I have anticipated their arrival ever since the summer heat faded away.
Oh well, the crisp will have to wait until I get the all-clear sign from my, so far, Covid-free husband.
As I eat, I see the photograph of me and my dear friend Janice gazing at me from the bookcase. I read the cutout from one of her cards that says, “We’ll always be friends…we know way too much about each other.”
I can’t believe that she died one year ago today.
I recall the time I cooked for Janice. It was soon after her diagnosis. I flew to Minneapolis to take care of her after her first surgery. I fumbled around her kitchen, making bone broth and finding things that she was able to eat. The biggest challenge was learning to keep the portafilter on her espresso machine from falling into her morning cup of coffee.
And one sunny day, just when we thought she was out of the woods, she called to tell me that her cancer had returned. That day, after we talked, I ran and bought a bag of Cape Cod potato chips. I ate the whole bag as I sat by the pond’s edge and cried my eyes out. I tried to crunch away the fear, sadness, and anger I felt, knowing that my dear friend was facing another round with her cancer demon.
Janice was an incredible cook. She was in her element, hosting parties for family and friends. At a potluck dinner, everyone who knew her would seek out her red Le Creuset pot knowing that a tasty delight awaited them when they lifted the cover.
She also fed people emotionally. Strangers lucky to run into her when she was out and about would receive a blast of love from her over-flowing heart when their eyes connected. Her smile and laughter alone could pierce through any pain.
I knew her time of feeding and celebrating with friends, and loved ones was nearing its end when her husband’s family was in town, and she told her husband to order pizza.
The last time I saw her, she gave me a cookbook. When I returned home, I stuck it, along with her funeral card, in the back of the bookcase. Maybe after I finish my quarantine, I will pull out the book and head for the kitchen. I will cook alongside the memories of my friend and the kitchen gadgets she bought me. Hopefully, this will be another step along the road of healing my grief.
“Food is symbolic of love when words are inadequate.” — Alan D. Wolfelt
With Love & Energy by the Pond,
Laurel
