Cooking

If you see her, say hello;
She might be in Tangier.
She left here last early spring,
Is living there, I hear.
Say for me that I'm all right,
Though things get kind of slow;
She might think that I've forgotten her:
Oh, tell her it isn't so.
~ Bob Dylan, "If You See Her, Say Hello" Blood on the Tracks

Today I'm toying with the idea that separation (death) makes us confront who we really are. In every relationship - parents, siblings, friends, and especially spouse and children - we take on roles and end up living up to the role at hand. And we compromise, for the sake of the relationship, in thousands of ways. He doesn't like camping, so we stay in hotels. Mom objects to marijuana, so we don't talk about it in front of her. My daughter has a big night at prom and I miss the season finale of the symphony to help with dress, hair, transportation and money.

Obviously I don't regret any of those choices, nor any of the roles and expectations that I found myself living. But, like Dale, I am more than the sum of people's perceptions of me. What happens to those nooks and crannies of Kaydom that have been stashed away - the white elephants in the relationship? What parts of this life are really ME, and which were coaxed to life by someone else's wishes?

For example, I am NOT a boat person - but Dale loved boats and the water, and I accompanied him. And had a blast. I had not been a fan of auto racing, but he taught me to understand and love it. And it's the same with parents, siblings and daughter - for each, I can count up things I did "because of" her or hm. How much do I retain and adapt as my own? How much will I jettison?

***

Dale loved to cook. He tried some wild things, and for a while everything he cooked tasted the same, because he would empty the same spices into a dish with tomatoes, onions and peppers every time, regardless of what he started with. I mean, beef stroganoff would have tomatoes, onions, peppers and bay leaf; so would pork chops and fried cabbage. Also, if he couldn't find a particular herb in the spice cabinet, he'd substitute one with a similar name. No chives? How about chervil? And so on.

But he enjoyed it, and if he occasionally made something too salty - I'm thinking here of the fried rice in which he quadrupled the soy sauce - well, I could always eat cereal or something. After he'd gone to bed, not to hurt his feelings. <smiles>

So when he retired, I left the cooking to him. (And sneaked fast food now and again.) After the stroke, I left the cooking to Nancy the Nanny, except of course for Thanksgiving. And now, I resent so many chores that have landed on me; when it comes to cooking my rebellious reaction is, "That's not my job!" So slowly I've drifted into a lifestyle of "I don't cook." My boss asked me, as I was leaving work one night, whether I would go home and cook dinner, or maybe eat out? <blank stare> Because I didn't want to say, "I'll probably have a bowl of Cocoa Pebbles," I muttered something about stopping somewhere for carryout.

***

But part of my support group-inspired turnaround is to start cooking again, for health and financial reasons, but mostly for the feeling of DOING something. Peeling, chopping, stirring, testing - it's like learning to be a participant in life again. I've spent years spiraling into a murky depression in which, yeah, I do stuff - I go places (run away) and ride my bike (run away) and make improvements to the house (hide) - but it's like a Kay-shaped zombie is doing it, as far as I'm concerned. I don't think Kay is really in there.

If you see her, say hello ...

So this weekend, I cooked. I made some Crock Pot stew, and banana nut bread, and homemade applesauce. Comfort food, but of a higher order than Cocoa Pebbles - even Cocoa Pebbles with banana. The applesauce made me laugh, as I thought about teaching R to cook. After Dale's stroke, at our Thanksgiving dinner with Dale in wheelchair, she asked me how to make homemade applesauce.

"Peel and core your apples," I said, "and cook them down over very low heat. Then throw in some sugar and cinnamon."

"And then put it on a rocket ship and fly it to the moon," added Dale.

We didn't know if we should laugh. He seemed so serious, and none of us wanted to argue with him. It was Eel's first meal with us, and he bravely rallied: "Does the lower gravity make it cook better?" (R and I were very close to losing our composure.)

Dale replied, "You'll have to ask the pilot," which I assume meant me, and we just awkwardly moved on.

We'll never know if he was pulling our legs, or referring to some internal joke that only he understood. He did that - made private jokes that no one understood - even without brain damage. And it doesn't matter.

What matters is that I enjoyed making the homemade applesauce, and for a moment I felt a spark: this is me!

The stew was too salty.

***

She might think that I've forgotten her - oh, tell her it isn't so.

Comments

[no one you know]

"***
She might think that I've forgotten her - oh, tell her it isn't so."

ooooh, Kay why did that last line make me cry after reading your post?! I feel for you. You're in there! (and I don't even really know you..
..it must be a universal thing :-)

thoughts and pagen-prayers to you! keep it up!

-Alex

[KayO]

Thanks, Alex. I expect to stumble across her any day now.

[Dominik]

Jesus, this is epic. The sum of her parts, the chervil, the tomatoes/onions...man.