P&P CHALLENGE / Little Pleasures Lost and Found
The Simple Pleasures of Lost Love and Broccoli
When food equals care, self care can suffer
I salted a pot of water yesterday and as I waited for it to heat, I cut up a small head of just-picked broccoli. I slipped the florets in as the boil reached full roll. The moment their skins turned bright green, I drained them in a colander and returned them to the pot to toss with a knob of butter and a grind of black pepper.
Each bite was bliss, crunchy and fragrant as the country meadows and Amish fields where I live. I felt a bit like a Japanese epicurean, meditating on the universe inside each mouthful.
Why I am waxing rhapsodic on such a simple pleasure? Eating broccoli is, after all, a mundane experience. As a dad, how often did I default to throwing a little of it on a plate with cheese sauce so my kid could have some green in his belly?
How often have I turned up my nose at a soggy mess of it plated with meatloaf or chicken at a questionable diner? How often have I passed mounds of it at the supermarket without even seeing?
How could I have forgotten that little pleasures, properly appreciated, are often the most exquisite?
When I finished eating, I washed up and decided to clean out the refrigerator. I eyed a bottle of ginger ale I knew must be totally flat. As my arm reached out to toss it in the trash, my body resisted. I almost couldn’t make myself do it.
It’s not that I love ginger ale so much, though I do if it’s good and strong. Vernor’s is a brand peculiar to the US region where I live. It’s barely available outside parts of Ohio, Indiana, and Michigan. A sip of Vernor’s is a universe unto itself. It’s so good you can practically chew the ginger root, so sweet you don’t mind.
That bottle of pop was the last bit of food or drink I bought for my dad before he died a month ago. He’d woken up from 18 hours of morphine-induced unconsciousness, and he wanted a drink. I got him some water, which he sipped with difficulty. I wanted to get him a straw, but we had none in the house.
After he fell asleep again, I dashed out for straws and bought him that Vernor’s. It was always his favorite. I told myself if I could just get some liquid in him, he might live a few more days. A deepy irrational part of myself believed if I got him to drink, he might get better.
He never woke up again.
Yesterday, I finally threw the bottle away, and nothing I ever bought my dad to eat or drink remains in the fridge.
When I remember the people I’ve loved, I remember the food I prepared them. I made dinner for Dad every day, carefully and thoughtfully, if not always joyfully. I learned his palate, defaulted to foods I knew he preferred. Fresh fish, always breaded and fried, steamed shellfish, roast chicken, fresh corn, and mashed potatoes.
Never noodles, rarely pasta. Bread? Whole grain or nothing.
I made sure each meal contained a few simple pleasures that would bring a smile to his face.
Lenny, my late lover and de facto husband of a decade had a decidedly different palate. Meals for him meant roast breast of veal, white toast spread with rich chicken fat, matzoh brie, matzoh balls, and Chinese takeout. My memories of his last days revolve around the kitchen, tempting him with food that reminded him of childhood and love.
Jason and Brent, my second husband and foster son, shared a bland palate pleased with chicken breast, rice noodles dressed in peanut butter and soy sauce, white fish, and plenty of fresh white bread. The kitchen was my favorite room in the house. When they ate, I felt happy, like I was delivering love on a plate.
Now that Dad is freshly gone and Lenny and Jason are fading memories, I sit here in my kitchen clacking away on a laptop wondering what I’m going to eat tonight.
What am I going to prepare for my own dinner with nobody to take care of but me?
That broccoli last night wasn’t fabulous because I’m a meditative epicurean skilled in delighting in the ordinary. I loved it so much because I haven’t eaten it for years. I’d invested so much in taking care of Dad that I’d lost sight of my own simple pleasures. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve done anything purely for myself.
I’m getting used to the idea that I can, that it’s OK, that it doesn’t make me selfish.
I have some fish in the freezer, and you know what? I’m going to grill it and serve it with pasta and lemon sauce. Dad would have hated that, but I’m going to savor every mouthful as I work hard to transition to a new stage of life — one where I allow my own needs to matter. Where I let my own simple pleasures take center stage.
Dad, Lenny, Jason: here’s to you. I loved you, I loved taking care of you, and I’ll never forget the joy I took in feeding you.
But it’s time to move on, even if I’m not sure what that’s going to look like. You know what, though, guys? I’m definitely having more broccoli tonight!
James Finn is a former Air Force intelligence analyst, long-time LGBTQ activist, an alumnus of Queer Nation and Act Up NY, an essayist occasionally published in queer news outlets, and an “agented” novelist. Send questions, comments, and story ideas to [email protected].
This story is a response to Prism & Pen’s writing prompt Little Pleasures Lost and Found.
