Food, Family, and Memory

The Widow’s Guide to Recovery

Depression-conceptual My husband Mike passed away suddenly two years ago. A “catastrophic coronary event,” I remember hearing before the doctor launched into the “We did everything we could” speech. I sat motionless in the Naugahyde chair in that dimly lit room they usher people into to tell them such things.

My husband Mike could put the caption on the cartoon we call life. I can still be felled by a wave of sadness when the world calls out for his wit, but it usually passes as the business of life encroaches and forces the sadness aside. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that grief is not a linear process or a series of predictable steps. It comes and it goes, lingers or dusts by. It can overpower or gently remind. Now you see it; now you don’t.

The second year into loss, the cycles of grief had given way to the flat, dark monotony of depression. Since action is my default response, I checked out inspirational websites for those contemplating putting themselves out of their own misery, and I downloaded into my iPhone Kindle any number of self-help books about depression and the powers of positive thinking, and I answered every “Are you suffering from...” and “On a scale of 1-10...” quiz that the books offered.

Do What You Love--Knuckle & Claw

knuckle claw3 When Chloe was three, we lived on Martha’s Vineyard. She was an unusual three year old. She didn’t like pink, or dolls but her most unusual quality at that tender age, was her love of lobster.

Every summer, our friends from Chicago, rented the home next to ours for the month of July. We had celebrated their return this particular year with a big lobster feast – This is when, to my knowledge, Chloe tasted her first lobster and the love affair began.

The following morning, I heard our friends next door calling over the fence, “Chloe’s here.”

It was about 7am! I rushed through the gap in the garden to find Chloe, still in her pajamas, sitting on the back porch steps, expertly devouring a whole lobster that had been left over from the night before. She wasn’t interested in anything or anyone, except the massive coruscation as big as her arm that she was pulling apart and devouring.

The conversation went something like this…

Wolfer

A few years ago, my sister Laraine and I were having lunch on Larchmont at one of my favorite sushi restaurants, redundantly called California Roll and Sushi Fish. (My sister is Laraine Newman, of SNL fame and a regular contributor to this website.) My seat was facing out toward the other tables and Laraine was facing me. We had ordered and were both very hungry.

Sitting alone against the opposite wall, beyond Laraine, was a young, slender, beautiful Asian woman. I couldn’t look at my sister without seeing her too. Her clothes were perfect, her hair and make-up were perfect. She was perfect. Her sashimi arrived. She slowly poured soy sauce into the little soy sauce dish, slowly picked up her chopsticks, slowly pinched off a tiny bit of wasabi, slowly mixed it with the soy sauce, slowly picked up a piece of fish, slowly dragged it back and forth through the soy sauce, and ever so slowly lifted it to her mouth. Then she actually put the chopsticks down, stared straight ahead and slowly chewed. You get the idea. She was a perfect eater. She’s not likely to ever choke on her food.

I Was an Artichoke Diva

Growing up, my brother Paul was good at baseball, my brother Chris was good at math, and I was good at eating.

I don't mean I ate a lot (which I did). I mean I was a skilled eater. I could eat a big bowl of spaghetti without splashing my top with gravy. Every time. I could rearrange the components of a New England boiled dinner on my plate so that you would swear I had eaten virtually all of it, when in fact, I hadn't even touched it.

Some families would show off their kids at a violin or dance recital, my parents would invite people over to watch me eat an artichoke.

By age six, I was a virtuoso artichoke eater. It was a performance I had mastered like no other.

Whenever we had artichokes, I would be wiping the last drop of lemony juice from my lips, while all of the adults at the table were still hacking and picking at the outer leaves. Even my athletically gifted older brother was clueless when it came to the heart. Dumb jock.

The Lighter Side of Death

My father always said the worst thing about getting old was watching your friends die. Second worst was diminished distance off the tee. Now that I’m over sixty, I can attest he was right on both counts. Nonetheless, even death and the rituals that accompany it, somehow never fail to offer up a little comic relief. On the other hand, there’s nothing funny about losing yardage.

Of course, the memorial services for friends in show business are always filled with laughter because on those occasions you have talented, funny people telling stories about other talented, funny people. However, non-pro deaths offer their own moments of black comedy. As cases in point, I offer the following two examples.

After my mother died, my father, my sister, her ten-year-old son and I went en masse to buy her tombstone at a place called Swink Monument. I have no recollection exactly why we picked them, but price may have been involved. Their office was in a mobile home surrounded by a concrete slab, on which various markers were displayed. (In case you haven’t guessed, this is in North Carolina). My father, following through on his philosophy to the end, picked neither the grandest stone nor the plainest. Then, we went inside to fill out the paperwork, except for my nephew who remained out doors, skateboarding through the monuments.

Dotsie Swink, the heavy-set woman who was assisting us, took down the basic information, then asked a question I’ve never heard before or since: You want slick on top?

Food, Family and Memory