I lost a very special person this month. My cousin, Dorothy. She got very sick, very quickly, and then she passed away. That, of course, is an over simplification of how things transpired, but boiled down to its simplest terms, that is what happened.
As is the case when someone dies, she’s been popping into my head at random moments and my brain has to take a few milliseconds to connect the dots.
I’m putting on my sneakers. There she is. Bam. Sneakers → There’s a hole in the toe of my shoe → Once she showed up to a bbq with a hole in the toe of her shoe → The hole became a whole thing → Conclusion: you do not throw a sneaker away just because there is a hole in the toe.
And then I go on with the day.
She pops up a lot in the kitchen. Mostly because whenever I would see her, there would be food. A birthday lunch. A summer bbq (see above). Christmas dinner. But no matter the occasion, I could count on one thing: She would always bring two (at least) Diet Cokes… one for her and one for me.
I’ll never be able to look at a Diet Coke again without thinking of her.
And there are so many other things that spark memories. Peanut Butter cookies (her fave - I shared the recipe in last month’s newsletter). Cumin… whenever she liked something and asked what was in it, it was usually cumin. She hated eggs, but loved my spanakopita (and I never had the heart to tell her it was mostly eggs).
And the Million Dollar Salad. If I was making lunch for Dorothy, I made this salad. Always a crowd pleaser, but it was particularly a Dorothy pleaser. I called it the Million Dollar Salad because it feels like it costs a million dollars to make. But it’s worth it.
I should be sad thinking about these things we shared. Knowing we won’t share another meal. Another conversation. Another laugh. But I’m not. If anything, it makes me want to consume these things with voraciousness!
When I make the things Dorothy loved, I’m inviting her back into my life. It’s sad that we won’t be together again, but in a way, she’s still at my kitchen table.
We need to grieve. We need to feel bad. Or mad. We have to go through those things. There’s no way around it. But on the other side of those feelings, is understanding that we feel this way because we loved and were loved.
So if we’re looking for a positive spin on grief, it’s our heart’s way of telling us that knowing this person was worth it. And that makes me feel a little less sad.
Whenever I make a “late-Mon-inspired” dish, nobody gets to have any without a side of stories about her. Keeps a seat at the table for her always. I’m sorry you lost your friend. May her stories live until the end of time. ❤️
What a beautiful tribute. This is so well written-so much humour and insight. I thank you Jan. I have two cans of DC in my fridge. Coincidence? I don't think so. My love to you and your family.