feeding & being fed

I wonder how many meals we've been given since Mike's diagnosis in July 2015? It's been twenty-eight months of blueberry baked oatmeal waiting on the porch, hefty Blue Apron deliveries full of surprises, frozen soups for some future chilly night thrust into my hands at the doorstep with a smile, perfectly selected take out (how do they know?) arriving right on time for dinner. It's been a long, grueling walk, but through it all, we've been very well fed.

Today I'm not at work, and I'm not at a medical appointment for Mike. I'm in my kitchen, watching the sun and shadow move across the bright pear pattern of the curtains, listening to the quiet bubble of a bolognese sauce I'm simmering. Some friends here run a farm-to-table restaurant in town, and for many months they have been delivering bags filled with beautiful local produce culled from the restaurant's weekly haul at night, on the way home from work, such that on a regular basis I stumble downstairs in the early morning to discover an overflowing bag of vegetables waiting on the doorstep: abundant lacy green carrot tops and lettuce leaves spilling over the top, the bottom weighed down with dusty potatoes and apples in varied hues.

The sight of this bag fills me with gratitude, wonder (how can they keep doing this for us?), and more than anything, excitement: it wakes up my mind, which immediately starts planning what I can do with all this gorgeous food, when I can cook it, what might work especially well for Mike. I unpack it all on the kitchen table, stand back and behold: it is art, it is potential. The last delivery included ground beef (they've taken on a grass fed cattle ranch) and I remembered the last bolognese sauce I made a la Marcella Hazan: long-simmered, saucy, satisfying, easy to swallow and easy to enjoy. He liked it.

I think the hardest times in our journey of one treatment after another have been those during which I couldn't feed Mike. When he can't swallow, or feels nauseated, or is just too sick to come down to dinner, I feel helpless. But a day like today? Time and quiet in which to chop and saute and simmer, imagining the pleasure the meal I'm preparing will bring, is balm to my harried soul.

We are particularly anxious right now. Mike has an admission date for his stem cell transplant next week, but there are three clinical tests between now and then that he needs to 'pass' in order for this to happen. We all caught a cold over Thanksgiving. He's definitely not at his best. What if they won't approve the transplant? What then? For that matter, what if they do? My mind is constantly looking ahead, anticipating child care needs, imagining various back bends in order to maintain my work schedule, planning Philadelphia overnights, worrying about the changes we need to make at home to create a safe post-transplant environment. Will I need to take FMLA to take care of him? Will I need more intensive child care? Will I have to forgo sleep, or exercise, or God forbid, cooking?

So in the midst of this inner scratching and scrambling and knot-tying, I am given the gift of this day at home with a gentle, slow-cooking project to anchor me back to myself and this moment - so full of good smells, sunshine, quiet neighborhood noises.

Cooking gives me a sense of agency. In the face of so much uncertainty and fear, I'm doing something. Creating a meal is something to hold onto, a practice to steady my shaky feet. And being fed gives me the feeling of being supported and cared for. It's beautiful. My awareness of my own need to cook for my family right now helps me to accept the bountiful gifts of food we've received - I know that feeding is important for the feeder, too. It calms our anxiety. It nourishes us, the very idea that we are nourishing others. It's not always easy to be so consistently on the receiving end, but when it comes to food, it makes so much sense that I can accept it peacefully, with gratitude.

I imagine all our friends enjoying the sense of steadiness and warmth that cooking gives me when they bring us a batch of cookies or a glass jar filled with saucy meatballs. They get to do something. I'm not the only one who loves Mike and my kids. Our friends and family should get to reap the soul benefits of doing something, too. I am less alone in this caring network of feeders and eaters.

Maybe that's why I am sometimes irrationally annoyed at my kids when they don't like something I cook. (This happens, incidentally, every other night). Don't they get it? I get to feed them. That's the deal. It helps me feel like myself, capable and grounded. When they take that power away with their pickiness, it's a real downer. Or why I feel particularly helpless when what I make just doesn't work for Mike - too hard to swallow, too off-putting. No, no, no! That's not how this is supposed to go. I get the pleasure and peace of nourishing you. Cooperate, people. Please.

I have not achieved enlightened selfless feeder status, obviously. Feeding a family under the best of circumstances can be a treacherous proposition. What question creates more dread in this mother's heart - what question is more laden with lurking whines - than what's for dinner, Mama? It's hard. Harder still with a cancer patient. But wow, wow wow wow, this morning is heavenly. Beautiful ingredients, time and space and quiet, and the anticipation of a happy family at dinner after the children are back from piano lessons and ballet class.

After that, who knows what's coming for us. But for tonight, we'll eat pasta.