Cooking For One

You are worth it.

One Woman and a Sink

My mother-in-law — Erna — was an inspired cook.

In the 70s, in her small eastern Saskatchewan town, she greased and spattered the recipe pages of “women’s magazines” as she experimented. It took time. She was a young bride and an anomaly in her community: a woman who wanted to veer far from borscht and pierogi options.

The family dog grew fat, fed with many hands under the table. But over time my mother-in-law developed some serious cooking chops. By the time I met her, she was a bona fide chef, creating wonders of her own. She loved to dream up new combinations of flavors and shop with care. She created intuitively and tasted as she did so that by the time the meal was ready, the family gathered, she herself did not need to eat.

Instead, she would stand over us, post-cooking cigarette held aloft, and ply us with “What do you think…good, isn’t it!” Not really a question.

But we were happy to nod and eat. No need for a dog! There are tastes that now live in my memory only; no one has ever been able to re-create them. She was affectionately called Big-E, and we were not referring to physical size, but to the sheer momentum of her personality, one that demanded a response. The delight in her abilities was so obvious…

So obvious, indeed, that it took me by complete surprise when — after the death of my father-in-law — she ceased to cook.

Crackers and Cheese

She was only fifty-six at the time. But suddenly crackers and cheddar cheese became a meal. A plate became too much effort. Many months, even years later, she would lean over the kitchen sink, eat quickly, wash away the crisp crumbs, and walk away.

I remember my shock the first time I saw this, and my gut reaction was wanting to cry. I told myself this was grief, but even though I had yet to experience my own widowhood in my early fifties, I felt — at gut level — that this was…not wrong, perhaps. (There isn’t “wrong” when it comes to grief.) But not right, either. There was a different type of loss here.

Knowing what I know now, and not being the reticent introvert I’ve been in the past, I should have tried to take her hand, lead her to the table, ask her to sit, to breathe, and say, “I’ll cook for you.” But I was young and not sure of myself. Even now, thinking back, I am not at all certain what would have been her response. I wish I’d thought to try.

Another Woman

My parents were blessed — and saw it as such — by decades more than those shared by my in-laws. Although my father never cooked when he worked, once retired, he grew curious. His initial forays into the hallowed space of kitchen were hesitant.

But some time later, bread-offs became the norm, and when any of us — children or grandchildren — went for tea, we would be plied with multiple slices of bread.

“So? What do you think?” And the qualities of each would be pointed out, and I learned quickly to find positives about both offerings…and would go home with a loaf of each, “Dad’s bread” and “Mom’s bread.”

My mother was always a good cook, in my memory — not of the exotic, but of soups and jams and fruitcake that would win over the most entrenched enemy of that seasonal tidbit. (And surely that takes some doing.) In spite of the bread-offs (or perhaps as a result), cooking became a shared pastime for my parents.

And then my father got sick. Time became short. Mom resorted to frozen foods, and even began to do take-out. Oh, the ways we surprise ourselves and others at times of crisis! Her body has never liked processed food, so this was a huge change.

Then my father passed. And we wondered what would become of meal-time.

The Act of Eating

Food is part of daily life. It is fuel. Sustenance. Nourishment. It creates community. And so much more.

I remember in writing class once, a classmate from South Africa was taken aback by how so many Canadians have no qualms about eating in front of others without sharing. I remember her saying she could not open a bag of chips without spreading open the bag and sharing…even if it meant she had the sole remaining chip after the bag had gone around the table. That was an eye-opener, for me.

But food also has the power to make one — a lone one — feel less alone. And to reinforce one’s own significance.

When you take the time to create a meal for your own self, it is an act of self-love. And in times of grief and loss, food — and the preparing of food — can be a way to hold on to your very self. Creating a meal is always an act of care (easy to forget in the buzz and hum of life), but it can also provide focus and healthy distraction.

An Admission

One day, my mother admitted to me, somewhat embarrassed, that she had bought an organic cut of beef, roasted it, and made herself a full-on meal with Yorkshire puddings, mashed potatoes, all manner of vegetables.

“Is that a strange thing to do, all on my own? Eating here, by myself?” She had reverted to her ways of baking bread, experimenting with jam from a neighbor’s excess kiwis, converting leftovers to soups.

Every meal she creates, every time she sits at her empty table, every time she says grace, and eats, she is telling herself she is worthy and loved.

“It’s a good thing, Mom, a healthy way to be.”

Bitter and Sweet

My mother holds her memories close. Memories are two-edged: they hurt and they heal. For her, memories of cooking together are bittersweet, and it takes strength for her to face them. Yet the solace is there, too. She knows it as she battles through the bitter of the bittersweet.

Right to the sustaining sweet. The flavors on her tongue remind her that life is full, and there is a time to sit and ponder.

And savor.

Alison Acheson teaches writing for children in an MFA program. Her newest books are A Little House in a Big Place and Dance Me to the End: Ten Months and Ten Days with ALS, a memoir of caregiving. You can reach her at www.alisonacheson.com