Cooking in the after life
As you know, I love cooking. A blindingly obvious statement, since this is a cooking blog, but it's worth reminding myself of this sometimes. Cooking is therapy, it's meditative, it's a chance to experiment, and it's a way I communicate my affection and esteem. I'm sure you cook for many of the same reasons.
In the 2+ years since Kevin died, I've not been cooking much. When I do cook it's usually something simple, not the elaborate meals I made before he got sick. You can analyze this in many ways; his cancer took away his joy in food; it reminds me of what I've lost; I'm just too damned tired most days to deal with it; and so on. Certainly this is a part of how I'm experiencing grief. Analysis aside, I'm aware that I miss it, but I don't yet know how cooking fits into the after life.
I've come to think of my life since Kevin's death, especially as more time passes, as living in the Twilight Zone, as the after life. I have a rich life. I love and am loved. And yet it often feels as though it's not quite my life, as though it's someone else's. I've slipped into a parallel universe where everything looks much the same but is entirely different. I think my relationship with cooking might be a part of this, though I dearly hope I regain my passion for it.
All of this is in the front of my mind this morning. I am in Minnesota, where I am performing in the local fringe festival. I'm enjoying it, making money doing work I love. I'm staying with my sweetheart, a wonderful man in his own right, who accepts me as I am, understanding that Kevin is part of the package. I am looking out of the window at a lovely late summer day, where the air is beginning to feel like autumn is coming, my favorite time of year. And I have a pot of stock simmering on the stove, so the house smells rich and fragrant.
When I was preparing the stock this morning I found myself reaching for the familiar things I might find in my own kitchen but they weren't there. I had to find a stock pot of different dimensions than the one I'm used to. The knife is a fine one, but not worn to my grip. The spice cabinet didn't have everything I would usually use. All of the tools I wanted were there, easily at hand, but they weren't the same. They worked well. I will have a lovely pot of stock in a few hours. We will enjoy it together on some coming cold day.
And yet it's not the same. I don't regret living in the after life, not at all, but sometimes it's a shock noticing how I am in a parallel world. A loving and loved partner. Work I am good at and am earning a living with. Joy in many of the same things, like trees and music and food. A pot of stock, simmering. All of these things existed before Kevin died. They exist after. But they are all different.
I imagine as more time passes I will find my footing more easily; I know I am more grounded now than I could ever have imagined in the months immediately after his death. I expect I will try more complicated dishes again and may eventually even make some of his favorites - braised short ribs with sour cherries, for example - and will enjoy them even as I feel sorrow and longing.
Cooking remains a love letter, a way I communicate my affection and esteem. It's a language I need to relearn, that's all. In the meantime, soon enough I will have stock. I will strain it in a different colander, let it cool and freeze it in a new freezer. But the love and care that went into its making are no different. It will still be delicious, it just might mean a little more now, here in the after life.
Laura's basic chicken stock, more a guideline than a recipe. Your mileage may vary.
(c) 2016 Laura S. Packer
In the 2+ years since Kevin died, I've not been cooking much. When I do cook it's usually something simple, not the elaborate meals I made before he got sick. You can analyze this in many ways; his cancer took away his joy in food; it reminds me of what I've lost; I'm just too damned tired most days to deal with it; and so on. Certainly this is a part of how I'm experiencing grief. Analysis aside, I'm aware that I miss it, but I don't yet know how cooking fits into the after life.
I've come to think of my life since Kevin's death, especially as more time passes, as living in the Twilight Zone, as the after life. I have a rich life. I love and am loved. And yet it often feels as though it's not quite my life, as though it's someone else's. I've slipped into a parallel universe where everything looks much the same but is entirely different. I think my relationship with cooking might be a part of this, though I dearly hope I regain my passion for it.
All of this is in the front of my mind this morning. I am in Minnesota, where I am performing in the local fringe festival. I'm enjoying it, making money doing work I love. I'm staying with my sweetheart, a wonderful man in his own right, who accepts me as I am, understanding that Kevin is part of the package. I am looking out of the window at a lovely late summer day, where the air is beginning to feel like autumn is coming, my favorite time of year. And I have a pot of stock simmering on the stove, so the house smells rich and fragrant.
When I was preparing the stock this morning I found myself reaching for the familiar things I might find in my own kitchen but they weren't there. I had to find a stock pot of different dimensions than the one I'm used to. The knife is a fine one, but not worn to my grip. The spice cabinet didn't have everything I would usually use. All of the tools I wanted were there, easily at hand, but they weren't the same. They worked well. I will have a lovely pot of stock in a few hours. We will enjoy it together on some coming cold day.
And yet it's not the same. I don't regret living in the after life, not at all, but sometimes it's a shock noticing how I am in a parallel world. A loving and loved partner. Work I am good at and am earning a living with. Joy in many of the same things, like trees and music and food. A pot of stock, simmering. All of these things existed before Kevin died. They exist after. But they are all different.
I imagine as more time passes I will find my footing more easily; I know I am more grounded now than I could ever have imagined in the months immediately after his death. I expect I will try more complicated dishes again and may eventually even make some of his favorites - braised short ribs with sour cherries, for example - and will enjoy them even as I feel sorrow and longing.
Cooking remains a love letter, a way I communicate my affection and esteem. It's a language I need to relearn, that's all. In the meantime, soon enough I will have stock. I will strain it in a different colander, let it cool and freeze it in a new freezer. But the love and care that went into its making are no different. It will still be delicious, it just might mean a little more now, here in the after life.
Laura's basic chicken stock, more a guideline than a recipe. Your mileage may vary.
- A fist-sized stone
- Leftover carcass from a chicken or two. I also use the necks that come with whole birds. Sometimes I will add chicken feet if I can find them cleaned in the market.
- Several onions, peeled and roughly chopped
- Peeled cloves of garlic, to taste (I usually use a whole head)
- 2-3 good sized carrots, washed, trimmed, chopped into big chunks. I don't bother peeling.
- 2-3 good sized stalks of celery, washed, trimmed, chopped into big chunks.
- 2-3 bay leaves
The stone is there because of stone soup, so make sure it's well cleaned. I usually find an ocean rock of granite or other very hard stone then boil it before it becomes a soup stone, to make sure any crap is removed. The same stone can be used forever (I give mine away occasionally, but try to use the same rock for years). It MUST be big enough that it's not a choking hazard, so at least fist-sized.
Place everything in a big stock pot. Cover with water. Cover, bring to a boil then lower to a slow simmer. You may want to skim off the foam, this produces a clearer stock. Let simmer mostly covered for hours - at least six. Keep an eye on it and skim from time to time.
After six hours or so taste and decide if you want to add salt, pepper or other seasonings. I often don't so the stock is a more flexible ingredient in other recipes, but it may seem to be bland without salt, remind your palate that this is about umami and chickeniness, not a finished meal. Additionally, the chicken carcasses may have had some seasoning left on them, so it frequently doesn't need much more.
I let the stock simmer until the bones are quite soft, usually about 8 hours. Strain well and cool. It will likely become rather gelatinous as it cools; this is a good thing, it means it's a nice rich stock. Freeze until you want to use it for chicken soup, stew, etc. I often freeze some in quart containers, a few cups and one ice cube tray. I use the cubes to add a little stock to stir fries and so on.
(c) 2016 Laura S. Packer
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