…And her food… her food. Her food was as good as anything you could get in a restaurant, better, even, because she fed every single person who sat at her table with love. She was a natural cook, who rarely used recipes, who measured things by sight, by taste, by feel. “Everybody’s hands are different,” she’d say, as she gathered a pinch or three of salt or garlic or cumin, showing me how much to use in her cupped palm before adding it to the pot. She just knew when it was right, and she taught me to trust my hands and my instincts, too…
…First we’d climb a tree
And maybe then we’d talk
Or sit silently
And listen to our thoughts
With illusions of someday
Casting a golden light
No dress rehearsal,
This is our life
– The Tragically Hip
That song has always been a favorite, but it feels particularly resonant right now. I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since that night.
You never want to think that any given time that you see someone when you hold their hand or laugh with them or eat a meal they’ve lovingly prepared for you, that that might be the last time. But last times are sneaky like that. You just don’t know when you’re in one until the moment has passed, and then it’s too late to do anything about it.
This was the first time in my life that I can recall that I visited my grandma and she didn’t cook for us. And at age 95, she has absolutely earned that right – I’m not mad or upset in the slightest. But I am sad that the “last time,” the moment, has passed, and we missed it.
When we visited 3 years ago, Julian gleefully tucked into a plate of grandma’s migas. Mirabelle has never tasted my grandma’s cooking, and likely never will.
So I am sad about that. And I’m sad that my biggest cooking inspiration and teacher, the person who taught me how to toast the rice in the pan before adding any liquid, and to cook the chicken until it looks drier than you think it should be because if you don’t, the tacos will be soggy, the woman who taught me the importance of sitting around a table and sharing a meal together, and who helped me realize the joy that could be found in the simple act of feeding people, has, for the most part, stepped out of the kitchen. She doesn’t have the energy to cook anymore, and she can’t eat a lot of the things she used to love, and I’m sad about that, too.
When we got back to Virginia, all I wanted to do was cook her food. I wanted to fill our kitchen with the smell of frying tortillas, onions, and garlic toasting, chiles roasted until charred, their blackened skins rubbed away to reveal tender flesh. Pinto beans cooked in bacon fat in a black iron skillet, mashed to creaminess and dotted with cheese. Guacamole and pico de gallo and salty corn chips.
Beer to wash them down. Bourbon to numb my sorrow.
I often joke that my ability to cut onions without crying is my superpower, but that night, I was powerless to stop my tears. I tried hard not to let the kids see or hear me. I want the memories they associate with this food to be happy ones, of a table full of family, boisterous conversation, laughter, animated discussion, security, and love, not of mommy standing in the kitchen mourning someone who is not even gone.
I want to figure out how to find time to cook again. I need to keep her food alive. I want my kids to grow up knowing this food, I want them to share this food with the people they care about like grandma taught me to do.
I want more time to climb trees with them, to talk, or sit silently, or both.
I want them to hear the music that kept me going through my darkest times, and that I celebrated my triumphs and joys with.
I want us all to spend more time with the people we love while they are still here, while we still can. To appreciate the moments before they pass.
No dress rehearsal. This is our life.
What kind of life do I want it to be? And how do I make it happen?
