A Solution to Death: Food

I saw my grandpa at his house a couple of days before he passed on. He was my dad’s dad. He was in hospice care in the house he shared with his wife, Shirley (not my grandmother or related by blood, as my whole family made sure she was aware of). He was laid up, and barely spoke, which was not unusual. He passed later that week, I was invited to go see him that day.  I did not go. 

When I woke up the next day, I found that an unspoken rule now tasked us. My parents were already cooking. How could you be cooking, the morning after your father died? Noodles boiled in salt water, different types of cheeses were grated, and the oven was preheated. “Go ahead and get ready, we're going to grandpas.” A massive tray of mac and cheese rested on my legs in the Trailblazer, creating burning regret of not bringing a towel or something. The house had not changed since the 80s, with a terribly strong smell of dust, the kind that an old church reeks of. In a good way. She greeted us all with a subdued kindness, a rare and heartbreaking tone only spoken by the freshly torn. Inside, I began to realize we were not the first. The table in the parlor was covered, no surface in sight. Tin foil trays, covered serving dishes, mysterious containers, and tupperware that hadn’t felt the outside breeze since 1978. It was clear, to a youthful mind, that food must help. It must be some sort of comfort, especially to an older widow, now alone. 

I saw my dad in the hospital a week before he passed. He couldn’t speak, which was unusual. It was an effort of great kindness that we were allowed to see him. The day he passed, I was invited to see him. I did not go. 

I ignored texts, calls, anything from anyone with good intentions. I could ignore all I wanted, they would all come anyways. For weeks, deliveries were made. Relatives, family friends, acquaintances from the past, all walked to the screen door and knocked. They would stand there, often in their masks, never empty handed. Most would talk to us through the screen door about normal things, trying not to bring up the obvious. That was until they were about to leave, where polite condolences were made. They were all so thoughtful, no one had to do what they did. They brought far too much to remember, but there were some notable gifts: - Homemade apple pie, with a little pint of vanilla ice cream 

- Beef tips in gravy with rice (from my maternal grandparents: Mammaw & Pappaw) - Wingstop, for the first time in my life. Good fries. Haven’t been back since. - Honeybaked ham 

- Fried chicken 

- Lots of soup; tomato, potato, enough vegetable soup to freeze for months - Chili 

- Breakfast casserole (made with beyond sausage, a very nice gesture but they weren’t from around here)

Three dads from the theater came and helped rebuild the railing on our front porch. One mom, the chili mom, asked what I wanted to do for college. Upon being informed of art school, she asked how I was going to actually use that. Not everyone can read a room. It became old, quick. I was thankful, but it was a constant reminder that someone was absent. Absent from the conversations, absent from the dinners, absent from the dull everyday life. My community was truly there for me, though I felt indifferent in the moment. To feel ungrateful, for not appreciating kindness, kindness that was brought upon due to a life-altering event, is horribly odd. I did not, and still do not, think that someone should be expected to be a normal manners-following member of society when you experience visceral loss. I still felt bad about it, nonetheless. 

My dad was the main cook of our house. He cooked as if he was taught on the USS Yorktown, with serving sizes that would haunt Europeans. There were five of us, to be fair. He made all kinds of things, including the classic 2008 spaghetti special (meant to last as leftovers for the whole week). My favorite was chicken cordon bleu. Not the easiest thing to make in the world, but it being a rare occasion made it all the better. He was a big guy and when I would doubt his taste in food he would say “I wouldn’t steer you wrong, you don’t look like this and not know what good food is.” I don’t think he was necessarily passionate about cooking food, as much as it was a necessity to cook for my brothers and I. Either way, he made some great meals. 

It's hard to eat on an empty heart. Three meals a day is an almost unattainable feat, only being undertaken by the frustratingly annoying people with good habits. However, a schedule is helpful. You feel lost, hiking through unimaginable feelings, ones no one should become well acquainted with. Ones that are very easy to let wash over you. The reminder to eat, simply because it is a certain time in the day, can be a momentary break. To feel like a real human. 

I saw my uncle at his house earlier this year, about a month or so before he passed. He was my dad’s sister's husband. We weren’t very close, but I saw him a couple of times each year. He was a nice man, an EMT and volunteer firefighter. In the church at his funeral, we sang Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. I thought this was odd, maybe a little funny. Dad would’ve got a kick out of it. He was sent off by the fire patrol radioing a last call. 

We brought chicken pot pie, meatloaf, mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, and cornbread.