Food for the grieving soul

 Logan loved good food. He loved a home cooked, sit down meal. When he was here, we ate two big meals a day. He'd walk into the kitchen and lift the lid off the kettle or open the door to the oven and he'd say, "Whatcha makin', Mama?" Then he'd snitch a little of whatever it was before he set the table. Logan taught us to turn off the television and bow our heads to say grace. He always led the prayer and sat at the head of the table. He'd fold his hands, bow his head a bit, then give us an expectant stare to get our attention, or a little 'ahem', before he'd say, "Come Lord Jesus, be our guest, and let these gifts to us be blessed. Amen. Oh, give thanks to the Lord for He is good, and His mercy endures forever. Amen." Then he'd dig in. If the meal met his approval, he'd always say, "Good, Mama," when he finished. If it didn't meet his approval, he ate very little and said nothing. He refused most leftovers; he detested them. He also hated hot dish, even fresh, because it was 'too mooshed together'. He was a foodie. The other men in the family treat food as a fuel source. They don't care what it is or what it tastes like, as long as they don't have to make it. Or clean it up. They never say thanks or offer a compliment. They simply consume. But Logan delighted in the process and the product.

Walmart was a favorite of Logan's, so we went there about once a week. He rarely bought anything, but he loved to look at the electronics, then he'd move to the the reading section, where he'd browse through the gun magazines while I shopped. Occasionally, he'd buy one. About the time I hit the grocery area, he'd catch up to me. He'd drop this and that into the cart. He'd drop little hints as we walked, like, "You thinking about making stir fry soon, Mama?" or, "You know what we haven't had in a while? Pulled pork sandwiches." He'd choose his favorite yogurts, grab a gallon of apple cider, a box of Honey Bunches of Oats, some tea, macaroon cookies, and a small bottle of milk to drink on the ride home. That kid drank milk like a beef calf, but he never consumed pop. If we'd stop to put gas in the car, he'd go in to grab a bottle of milk. When we went out to eat, he always ordered milk. He often called it 'the nectar of the gods'.

On my first trip to Walmart after Logan's funeral, I nearly had to crawl out of the building and back to the car. I grieved my way through the whole store. Down every aisle, the memories washed over me. I heard his voice in nearly every row. It was the cereal, stacked five rows high that did me in; the sight of  his Honey Bunches of Oats on the shelf seemed to cause the earth to shift beneath my feet. My vision tunneled and my heart wept. I finally had to leave the cart right there, and I cried my way out to the parking lot. I got in the car and sobbed dry, heaving gusts of air. I crawled into the back seat and curled up in a ball and mourned. So much of my adult life had been spent making grocery lists, clipping coupons, and shopping. I'd haul home bags upon bags of groceries. Then I'd stand in the kitchen and prove my love to my family with my hands as they made the  that food that nourished their bodies and fed my soul. When Logan died, I lost the gift of delighting in this. Everything I made tasted like crap. I couldn't read a recipe and follow the directions. I couldn't clean my kitchen or bake a pan of brownies. My biggest fan was gone. No one lifts the lid on the pot anymore. No one rushes to set the table or say grace. Conversation is stilted. The room is cold. There is a 160 lb. hole in my life. I feel like an airplane flying with the passenger doors open; debris is flying everywhere, yet it's eerily quiet. 1/3 of every good thing I have done is gone.

I have forced myself, finally, after 13 months, to cook something each day. One good meal. I am still putting in the love, but I can't keep out the ache of loss. What once was joy is now simply good. As my husband and youngest sit down to eat, I know they have no idea the grief the simple art of cooking again has wrought in me. With the love, my heart has forced my hands to begin to process of feeding their grieving souls, while healing mine.

I so miss the us we used to be.