What does love taste like?
Maybe you have never contemplated a question like that, and
thought love was something you feel. Yes,
a taste can remind you of feelings of love, but I am talking about actually
tasting it. It’s this sense of actually
experiencing the energy the person preparing that food put into it. For me this answer is easy: oatmeal
cookies. Not just anyone’s oatmeal
cookies, but Nana’s made from scratch, prepared with love oatmeal cookies.
I lost my Nana this past Monday at the age of 94 from
complications with dementia. She hadn’t
baked in years, but our family still talks about her meals like they were
yesterday. Even while in the ICU last
week, when the nurse asked Nana how she and my Poppy have been together for almost
75 years, she simply replied, “Because I love him… and I’m a good cook”.
Nana wasn’t just a good cook, she was magical. No one could replicate her breads and rolls
no matter how hard they tried. Fresh out
of the oven, a hard roll with butter and jelly – it doesn’t get much better
than that, and you would love every minute of eating it no matter what time of
day it was. Her apple crumb pie was sent straight from heaven, and her chocolate
covered cream puffs could go toe-to toe with the world’s top pastry chefs. But her oatmeal cookies – oh you could just
taste the love stirred into them.
As a child, I spent many weekends and holidays at Nana and
Poppy’s on the east end of Long Island.
It really was idyllic – living on a canal right off Tiana Bay, we spent
our time fishing and swimming, and enjoying home cooked meals. I succinctly remember the opaque square
Tupperware container that sat just above eye level in the pantry – my
indication that oatmeal cookies were freshly made. So much happiness is connected to those
memories, and I wouldn’t change it for anything.
Feeling the warmth of her hand in mine while she lay in the
hospital bed, I was flooded with visions of those hands kneading countless
loaves of bread and rolling the perfect oatmeal cookies. Her delicate strength was still in her grip, despite
the years retired from breadmaking. On
Thanksgiving, those hands were particularly hard at work for the extensive
feast that lie ahead.
Thanksgiving was the
holiday for our family growing up. We
would all gather before noon to a spread of appetizers: Shrimp cocktail, sausage
bread, a cheese and pate platter, and other dips and treats de jour. After
a short break from the gustatory delights, we would move on to the main
meal. I recall there typically being
more varieties of vegetables than there were persons at the table, and there
were at least 10 of us present any given year.
The sound of the electric carving knife signaled that it was almost time
as we all eagerly awaited in the living room.
Special care was made to ensure the wish bone was intact for my sister
and I later that evening… but not before the desserts. At least three pies: pumpkin, apple crumb,
and mincemeat for my uncle – along with cookies and pastries galore. The vast majority of this was prepared by one
person – Nana – and it was always done to perfection.
Despite me being the nutrition professional in the family, I
am the lowest on the totem pole in terms of culinary competence. Luckily, my mother, aunts, and sister inherited
her love for cooking and skills in the kitchen.
One aunt is making about 5 desserts, and everyone else is tasked with
prepping different parts of Thanksgiving Dinner. (Me? I get tasked with taking
pictures.) This year, though, there is
an empty space at the table, and despite there being many joyful memories to
fill us up, there will be no denying the fresh wound in our hearts.
Every once in a while this past week I have put on my lens
of eating disorder professional and thought about how sharing this could be
helpful. I have sat with many
individuals who have not had such beautiful memories around food, and others
that despite once finding pleasures in these types of meals and events, they
have morphed into a judgment-filled plate that only equates to calories. Their emotional attachments to foods lead
them to punish themselves through behaviors and deny themselves of any joy that
could be experienced by eating. As an
eating disorder dietitian, you help others toe the line between not reliving
bad memories while allowing new positive relationships with food to form. That may be by not exposing them to their most
emotionally charged foods early in their healing process.
What I keep coming back to is the reality that not all
emotional connections to food are maladaptive, and for me - right now, in this
moment of my grief journey - there is healing power in this relationship. Nourishment is not always vitamins and
minerals, and accepting this concept can be a game changer in one’s
recovery.
Nana’s recipes and traditions live on, even the oatmeal
cookies. My mother has assimilated the
role of the oatmeal cookie provider, and has them ready every time I visit, and
enough for me to take a batch home. I
don’t even ask for them, they’re just there – and taste as love-filled as the
ones in the Tupperware container.
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