Meals Moods Moments Memories

I cooked for people last night. I thought that planning a dinner party and cooking would drag me back into myself, from a strangely sustained depersonalised sense I have been steeped in these last two and a half weeks since my father died. I was partly right, though when I came home from the veggie shop, I found that I had two packets of basil: not prepacked in neat punnets, but those which you gather yourself in handfuls and put into plastic packets provided: I did not notice that I had done that twice: that is how removed from myself I have been feeling..In my kitchen, when I unpacked the carton with goods, I stood half laughing and half crying, a packet of equal amounts of fresh basil in each hand..

Halfway through the afternoon I thought of cancelling: my usual enthusiasm and excitement when I’m in my kitchen getting the mise en place done was totally lacking: I looked at the duck breasts waiting to be prepared, and in stead of briskly taking them out, scoring the fat, admiring the dark gamey meat and anticipating the sighs of pleasure my guests would sigh, a juicy, slightly rare slice of duck just chewed and swallowed, I stuck them back into the fridge and got under the duvet in a darkened room and slept for an hour.

Of course, that meant that I had to rush to be ready in time for my guests: a second cousin of my lover’s and her husband, who we have not had over for dinner before. I had decided on veggie tempura with two dipping sauces to start, and in my detached state had gotten the tempura mix wrong so that the batter kept sliding off the veggies: that almost had me in tears too. I added ice cubes to the flour mix and waited for the oil to heat up more, and salvaged some, so that when they arrived, I had managed to get some right. But I also forgot in all of this, that I had a Woolworths bought selection of prawn wontons and springrolls in the oven, which I managed to, true to my prevailing mindstate, burn the bottoms of. My fiancée cheerfully and very creatively scraped the worst blackened bits off, and those too were salvaged.

I usually also check when I first cook for people whether they have any dietary preferences or issues, and of course I also failed to do that, finding out five minutes after they arrived that the husband was vegetarian… at that point I felt like pouring myself a stiff scotch and sending out for pizza, but in stead coolly sipped chilled champagne and seemingly effortlessly scuppered a pot of shrimp noodles(tipping them into the bin, not having the energy to think of something creative to do with them) and cooked ordinary egg noodles in it’s place.

This is one of my favourite things to do with duck: dry marinate them in Chinese five spice mix and orange and lemon zest, grated garlic and ginger and brown sugar, make a generous amount of dressing of soy sauce, orange juice, lime juice, more zest, honey, ginger, garlic, fish sauce, sesame oil, chopped spring onions and fresh coriander for the noodles tossed into the wok with stir fried oyster mushrooms and sugar snap peas and tenderstem broccoli and black sesame seeds, which forms the base for duck breast sliced on the diagonal heaped on top and eaten with chopsticks..

I had a pang of guilt this morning for not telling the vegetarian that there was some fish sauce in the dressing: he of course only had the noodles with the stirfried veggies: in fact, I had forgotten until I this morning put the sesame oil and fish sauce back into the fridge having left it out on the counter..

Despite all of this, the food was delicious and we had a wonderful evening: I persuaded my fiancée to play a jazz tune or two on his sax which he brought over  We spoke about deaths of parents, and the necessary sadness and inevitable losses which we have all had experiences of. We turned on the gas fireplace and sat there by candlelight and the scent of stargazer lilies and sipped a goodish shiraz which we did not finish at the dinner table, and when they left round midnight, I felt almost happy. Lives affirmed, sadnessed recognised, appetites rekindled, friendships confirmed. Not quite totally back in myself, but getting there with each meal I prepare, every word I write, this morning to the beautiful and in moments rather plangent sounds of sax played by my lover, and even as I cry when I think that I will never cook a meal for my father again…

When I posted last, I promised that my next post will be from Paris. Little did I know that my holiday would end in pain: two days before the end of the Paris trip, I got news that my dad was critically ill: I got back in time to see him, heavily sedated and on life support, and he died the next morning.

The funeral was on Monday. I have been back at work, feeling a bit numb most of the time, with deep sadness breaking through every so often. Not feeling much like cooking, though I have cooked a meal or two since then, not really feeling like eating either, but I seem to end up eating whatever is served to me anyway…so I am experiencing symptoms of grief, which is normal and even good…

I thought about writing something profound and or witty about funeral food, but I cannot: not yet. My sisters in law organised the platters of food, which included spring rolls and baby sosaties and samoosas and sweet chilli dips and on the sweet side custard slices: I could not have any: it all tasted like sawdust: yet I saw others tuck in with life affirming gusto. I was overcome though unexpectedly by a deep craving for koeksisters, of which there were none. Growing up Afrikaans, I actually cannot recall a single funeral where those were not served: in neat little rows in rectangular serving trays or fanned out in pretty round glass or porcelain plates..

I actually went to Woolworths that evening and bought a punnet of their baby koeksisters and much to the amusement but also deeply felt empathy of my lover, stuffed four or so into my mouth one after the other…closing my eyes against tears, my teeth crunching through the sugary crust, sweet syrup oozing coolly on my tongue…

It has been hard to hold the pleasure of a long awaited holiday in Paris in the same space as the pain of my father’s death… and yet in moments I am able to talk and think about the trip remembering the food: the fun and the romance of ordering in French from little restaurants’ menu of traditional French bistro food, to one evening ordering a gigantic rib of beef with a marrow bone, sliced lengthways to offer warm, browny beige marrow up in a boat of bone, served with pommes frites sited as the speciality of the restaurant by the Parisian friend who took us there. And the pure pleasure of buying fresh ingredients at a Paris market and cooking a meal in a French kitchen… and the sheer romance of having a picnic on the banks of the Seine: drinking wine in the middle of the day in public, with a crusty baguette, some French saucisson and a creamy Camembert from Normandy also bought at yet another wonderful market on a Saturday morning: Marché Ave du Président Wilson…

My father did not want to allow my siblings to let me know how ill he was, so that I only were told via sms two days before I would be back when he was not conscious any more that he was in ICU on life support. There is a part of me which is grateful that I could have had those carefree, romantic days of pleasure, but I am struggling somewhat with guilt that I have been able to have my wonderful holiday while everyone else at home were trying to cope with the trauma of seeing a father unexpectedly become ill to never recover….

I suppose that is how life goes: that in a briefest moment, our pleasure, our joy can turn to pain and sorrow.

Nothing to be done, except live it. And LIVE: cook, eat, drink, sleep, love, make love, work, cry, laugh, write…and cook, eat….