― Nikki Giovanni
This summer I have been experimenting with roast chicken. I found it surprisingly easy to fix and a wonderful treat for The Farmer and I each week. With fresh rosemary from our yard and delicious organic Washington raised chicken, I began to relish the routine of making our roast chicken and filling the kitchen with the aroma of rosemary and lemon. Not only was it healthy, but the fat from the crispy skin was also comforting and essential to start the healing process for my troubled tummy. It is impossible for me to refrain from nibbling between the time the chicken comes out (quality control!) and The Farmer gets home. He often asks, jokingly," where do you purchase these wingless birds?".
This weekend was to be no exception to the rule. I did my Sunday shopping and was excited about raising my culinary skills with the help of my friend (albeit imaginary) Alice Waters and her book "The Art of Simple Food" which reads more like a lovely book than a recipe book, my favorite kind. Alice suggests such wonderful things as putting garlic and rosemary under the skin of the chicken, and turning the chicken every 20 minutes. My previous roasted chickens had been savory, but efficient. This was to be a labor of love, executed first thing Monday morning so that The Farmer and I could have it for Monday's dinner, part of our weekly ritual.
Except...there was an exception. Late Sunday night I received the sad and heavy news that a dear friend, Cara, had passed away. In her early forties, the passing of this life came as a shock and a sorrow. Although Cara and I grew up in the small town of Spencer, West Virginia I never actually met her or had any memory of her. I met her two years ago on Facebook and ironically, it was there that we forged a deep friendship. We encountered each other first on a mutual friend's timeline and soon became fast friends. Although it was in virtual time, the connection never lacked substance. We eventually enjoyed more private interactions via private message and phone (Cara: "See, I don't have a West Virginia accent" Me: "oh Cara", as I try to stifle my giggles)
While Cara, and other Spencer friends were sitting down to dinner, I was in the midst of what is known as the "witching hour" to most mothers of young children still at home. That time between the fatigue of the day and the relief that bedtime brings. It can be a very lonely and frustrating time of day. I would post something about the children, but generally what I was fixing for dinner, on Facebook. For the next few hours I could count on a dialogue with Cara that was both a welcome diversion and a satisfying exchange of humor and ideas. It was not unusual for a few cyber friends to join us and the silliness that would ensue was just as warm and welcoming as if we were all in the same room.
Cara would be finishing up her work day and as a fellow foodie loved swapping conversation about what was being cooked and eaten. Her companionship came at a time that I was watching my marriage fall apart and having the connection with her each day made that loss more easy to bear. As our friendship deepened we often talked about what we would do when I visited Spencer again. We joked about pizza and beer, but I knew in my heart that I would want to make her a good meal, the kind that would nurture her spirit and her belly.
This morning my heart weighs heavy with the thought that we will never have that meal. We had so many virtual dinners, though, settling in on our couches through Winter's drear, accompanied by our fellow introverts. It will be a while before I am able, in the rainy blanket of mid-winter Seattle, to make my standard "Comfy pants, STAT!" status update. It was a joy we both shared, donning our elastic waist pants and sitting down to "chat" each evening. She was always the first to respond to that update.
In the shroud of that heaviness I remember that I have a family to feed today. I am sloth with grief and shock. How can I? I do not know how I can possibly peel the garlic that Alice recommends, deal with the task of doing this thing that I know will soothe my spirit, but also open up my grieving. Yes, it will open up my grieving and it will also be a gift to Cara, that meal I will not get to make for her.
I force myself out the door and into the brightness of the day. It is too bright. Too loud. But it is where the rosemary is and I need it to do justice to the memory of my friend. I pray that none of my neighbors comes out and asks me how I am, because I know I will weep if they do. Thankfully I go unnoticed (Cara would appreciate this sentiment I know). In the solitude of my little kitchen, (with Ruby Gloom occupying This Boy and That Girl) I get to the business of soul soothing.
I peel the garlic that The Farmer grew in our garden. It is succulent and the aromas open up my senses while sadness washes over me. I invite my friend Alice Waters into the kitchen for companionship, guidance and clarity. The instructions seem hard to read, but I know this is the weight of grief. The task of peeling the garlic seems too much, but not for a good friend. Per Alice's instructions I slice it thickly and put it under the skin of the chicken. The rosemary follows, and then an abundance of pure olive oil, kosher salt, and fresh ground pepper. It IS that labor of love and when I am done my heartache is palpable and raw. Yet, I feel that I have done something worthwhile in the memory of my friend.
That Girl comes into the kitchen as I am about to put the chicken in the oven. It is adorned with the rosemary and the smells have filled up our small kitchen. "Mama, it's beautiful!" she exclaims. "Will you teach me how to do that when I am older?" she inquires. I well up...choke back some tears, nodding "Of course sweet pea". The moment, the precious moment. It is all we ever have and for that time it is full of grace, bittersweet and still brimming with possibility.
I flee to the bathroom for a tissue, to escape, to be unseen. The smell of rosemary, lemon, and garlic waft after me, pursue me, find me and it is then that I begin to really cry. Those smells so comforting, so warm, such a comfort. This is the life that grief takes...it redefines simple pleasures, simple food, simple rituals like "Comfy pants, STAT!" .. it has its own life, its own plan and knocks us off our feet when we have our guard down.
It is then that the gravity of what I have done, becomes sheer and bright to me. I shall, from this time forward always pair those smells, this ritual, this simple task, with the memory of my beloved friend Cara, and the dinner we never got to share. Godspeed Cara.
More will be revealed.....
Lovely. You did share the meal with her in this writer's plane of thought and memory and imagination.
ReplyDelete