Food & Funerals

Published on 12 August 2024 at 19:46

Sometimes food and family is all you need when a loved one dies. 

I’m sitting at my cousin’s dining room table. Josh is on my lap, and I’m feeding him while I eat dinner. He’s wearing a green and white stripped shirt. The green matches the beads in my necklace. I’m wearing black, a gesture of mourning and respect. It’s the second day in a row my extended family has gathered at Elena’s home. We've just returned from her father's funeral, where we paid our respect to one of the most noble men I’ve known -  my uncle Louis, the patriarch of the family.

The house is alive with people. Some are gathered around the dining room table, others are in the kitchen or spread out in the living room. Everyone is talking at the same time. My head whips from person to person, trying to keep up with the conversations happening simultaneously. I hear laughter coming from the kitchen. In the hallway,  young children  run up and down the hallway while the older kids head upstairs to play video games in one of the bedrooms. Josh is squirming in my lap, eager to join his cousins. It’s hard to believe this is his first funeral. At the service, I hesitated about letting him approach the casket, but my family gently encouraged it. With such innocence, Josh softly patted my uncle’s head and then leaned down to kiss him. The moment felt oddly natural, even beautiful.

Back at the house, you wouldn’t know someone dear to the family has just died - there’s so much lively chatter and laughter. One moment I hear Spanish, the next English, while the younger generation speaks in a combination of both languages, a form of Spanglish only their parents understand.

As the day turns to night, food is still plentiful, as are the desserts and coffee. We share stories about my uncle, as we reach for another powdery Italian Wedding cookie. It melts in our mouths like butter. It’s clear no one is leaving for a while.

To my delight, my aunt comes out of the kitchen holding a tray of Ecuadorian Empanadas, her specialty. Our eyes nearly bulge out of our heads as we grab a few of the freshly fried pastries filled with gooey cheese and scallions, sugar falling off the sides as we place them on our plates.

As Josh and his cousins continue playing, their laughter fills the room. I love watching him interact with other children. He loves to be silly and makes them all giggle.

My heart is full even though we’ve gathered for such a sad occasion. Everyone I love is in that house, except my uncle, of course. We have all come together to celebrate his life. As we reminisce and share our fondest memories, it’s clear this gathering is as much a celebration of life as it is a farewell.

Years later when Josh dies at the age of 20, a lot of the same cousins are with me once again honoring his life, a short one in comparison to my uncle’s. There is a lot of crying at the memorial service. There is no casket. Only pictures of Josh all over the room. Every time I start to take it all in, I begin to feel dizzy. I feel like I am going to get sick. I cry until there are no more tears.

I can’t stand the thought of being alone. Nights are long and painful, so I invite my family back to my house for dinner.

My refrigerator is stocked with food that friends have dropped off, so my husband and I don’t have to cook. We warm up trays of lasagna, bring out huge bowls of leafy greens as a side. We begin brewing coffee, even though it’s almost dark out. I don’t sleep much, anyhow.

“I wish we had some empanadas,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood, unaware that my cousins had already bought all the ingredients earlier that day, picking up on hints I’d dropped without realizing.

Before long, the familiar smell of freshly fried empanadas fills the house. We sit together, once again, reminiscing about another person's life - only this time it's my son's life, and it boggles my mind. We eat and share stories about Josh's quick wit and playful antics. I tell the story of how, at just three years old, he flipped his glasses upside down before walking into a room, grinning slyly to see who would notice. Even then, he loved making people laugh.

As the aroma of coffee and empanadas wafts through the house, it mingles with our laughter. For just that one night, for those few hours, food and family have brought me so much comfort; and for those few hours, the pain eases up just enough to see Josh again - through their eyes - smiling wide as we remember him with so much love. 

Add comment

Comments

There are no comments yet.