This morning around 7:30 my aunt died after a long and difficult battle with Parkinson’s Disease. I’m sad for her children and her grandchildren and for friends she has had for decades, but I am glad for her. The last year had been very difficult for her and to be free of the burden of her broken body must be a joy, as is the chance to join the daughter she lost many years ago.
When I was told her death would be soon my first thoughts turned to food. Some people hold a death watch for the ailing, some call relatives and friends, some make funeral arrangement: I cook. I thought about the dishes I prepared for funerals in the past, and of things the people attending this one might like. Once I got thinking, the memories followed.
You couldn’t really call the memories happy, but they are treasured. I have been to a good two dozen funerals in my forty years, and I still have some memory of all of them. Some of those memories have been sweetened by time, others still sting.
The first funeral I can remember is the one I wasn’t allowed to attend. I was deemed too young to say goodbye to Aunt Eva and spent the evening with my grandparents watching “Ben Hur” or “Spartacus” or something like that. All I remember is that it lasted a hell of a lot longer than the bowl of Cheetos Grandma gave me and there were chariots involved. (The fact that she made us watch Sha Na Na will someday be a post unto itself.)
I remember the funerals of my grandfather’s aunt, and her sister, my great-grandmother. I can smell the incense and old stone in a big church in Oakland, and I can hear their cousin Alice Marie (who was about seventy at the time) telling me a joke my dad wished she hadn’t (Punchline: “If the foo shits, wear it.”).
I wept privately when my grandmother died, hoping she might find the happiness in death that eluded her in life, and when Grandpa Joe joined her a few years later, I stood with my sister and cousin at his coffin after everyone had left the chapel, none of us wanting to leave him in that room, all alone.
I scanned those memories in search of Pyrex casseroles and Tupperware bowls and the lovingly-made offerings within them. I saw Moore Casserole, a recipe that appeared in Sunset magazine but is believed by some relatives (to this day) to be a family recipe. I saw Marguerite’s potato salad and Peggy’s soda bread, a Descoware pot filled with meatballs, a platter of turkey, perfectly-carved by Mike . . .
. . . Pound cakes, Jell-O salads, lasagne, rhubarb pie, and, of course, multiple pots of tea. I have never once bemoaned or dreaded cooking for a funeral— I always thought it a privilege. With that in mind, I started a thread in the forums at Serious Eats on the subject of funeral food.
Others shared their memories of funerals, and of the foods that comforted and sustained their families and friends. It’s such a common thing to do—bring food to someone who is sick, hurt, or grieving. All cultures, all religions, all people do this in one way or another, and I liked feeling that connection to strangers.
There were a few comments left by people who were shocked by my casually speaking of potato salad, chicken casseroles and sweet tea while my aunt was lying in bed on a morphine drip. My immediate response was to feel defensive, as if I had to justify my behavior, but I stopped myself.
Firstly, we all deal with life and death differently and we all assume that ours is the correct way, and secondly, for me to defend myself I would have to say things having nothing at all to do with the topic of food.
To be blunt, for the first 25 years (more or less) of my life, our relationship might have been called cordial, at best. She was a woman who had clearly defined how a person should live, behave, and speak. Anyone who did not conform to that was, in her eyes, flawed. Even as a child I did not behave “right.”
She was very well-versed in back-handed compliments, and deserves an honorable mention for her work in the area of passive-aggressive, as well. One of the only people—other than my mother—who could insult me in such a brilliantly-clever way that I ended up apologizing for doing nothing at all.
I was resigned to that relationship, but two events changed things dramatically: the deaths of her daughter, Susan, and her mother, within a year and a half of one another. Shortly before Grandma died she expressed her fear that the family would fall apart, especially now that Susan, who excelled at planning family gatherings and holidays, was gone. I told her I would see to it that it never happened.
And I did. I worked hard to keep family traditions and recipes alive, and encouraged the forming of new ones. And it changed the way my aunt saw me; she had long before cast the role of who I was in our family—I was the pedantic, profane, irreverent smart-ass (various family members share these qualities, but I’m sort of a package deal, having all of them).
But I was recast in the role of an ally. The first thanksgiving after Grandma died, I made the dressing (stuffing, if you prefer) and when she tasted it, she turned to me and said “You have a job for life.” It was the nicest compliment I had ever received from her and left me speechless, which—in case you haven’t been counting words—is highly unusual.
I’m not going to romanticize things and say we became best friends after that, but we grew to appreciate one another in ways we hadn’t before. She appreciated the efforts I put into our gatherings and I appreciated how much work it had all been for her when she was doing most of it.
Later when she developed Parkinson’s Disease, she was grateful for the times I sent meals to her or cut her food at a family dinner; and I grew to appreciate that a woman I never really saw as being funny had maintained not only strength but a great deal of humor as her disease slowly progressed. It became a relationship I did not merely have to resign myself to, but one that I could embrace.
One of the negative (but I am quite sure, earnest) comments left in response to my “funeral food” chat suggested that rather than waste my time looking through cookbooks and talking with strangers online I should be with my aunt every moment I could until her death took her.
Had I sat by her bed, held her hand and said soothing things to this woman—things neither of us had ever done for the other before now, I think she would have been confused by my behavior. That is not who we were, and I don’t think that is what she expected of me.
She expects me to remember which granddaughter likes broccoli but hates mushrooms, who doesn’t like whipped cream frosting, which one has spent years picking caraway seeds out of slices of rye bread, and that her husband (for reasons she could not fathom) likes his fish cooked beyond the point of well-done.
And she expects me to remember that the pink and green glass plates we use on Christmas Eve are in the cabinet next to the stove, and that one of those plates should be filled with smoked oysters whether anyone eats them or not.
The recipe for Grandma’s dressing that I will be making for as long as I am asked to.
Part of a tea set purchased for my aunt by my father in Japan over fifty years ago; she gave it to me a few Christmases ago.
The tea set was always used on Thanksgiving; as a kid I marveled that when you held the cups up to the light, this is what you saw in the bottom.
My aunt circa 1950-something.
I’d like finish this with a some of the comments left in response to the discussion I began on “funeral food.”
“I always went with chicken salad/tuna salad/ham salad/egg salad with lots of fresh bread and condiments. No one wants a fancy meal after a funeral, just comfort food. You could also prepare one of your aunt’s favourite dishes, maybe a dessert or something.”
“The truth is, funeral food is very important. This is going to sound crazy but I consider myself honored to have been told on more than one occasion that my food was the first thing a bereaved person was enticed to eat after the loved one’s death occurred.
A baked dish like ziti and chicken cutlet parmagiana fills two needs – it’s tasty and it SMELLS good. I really believe the olfactory aspect of funeral food has all to do with the return of the bereaved person’s appetite. Comfort food is certainly the order of the day.”
“When my father passed away, the house was filled with casseroles, breads, cookies, spiral-cut hams, donuts, alcohol and even a bucket of chicken. The kids ate the chicken. We ate what we could and donated the excess to a homeless shelter. In fact, we made several trips over there and they were enormously grateful. It made us feel good too, and I know my Dad would have liked it.”
“I’m a great believer, for when I bring food to the home after a death, in avoiding things that need refrigeration. I also like things that are not pre-portioned, so small servings for kids are easy. It’s old-fashioned, but pound cakes work well, no gooey frostings to wipe off, for instance. Homemade bread is excellent; someone will always bring a ham or cold cuts for sandwiches.
I grew up in a small town and automatically think, “What can I bring?” but living in a big city, people are surprised sometimes when I show up at the door.”
“Perhaps you could also honor her memory by preparing a dish or recipe that she was known for?’
“Here in the south we usually show up with casseroles and desserts. King Ranch Chicken is a favorite.”
“What I remember most about the food after my grandmother’s funeral was the cheesy baked onion dip. My cousin and I sat around that damn dip with a bag of potato chips and ate almost the whole thing. It was definitely the heavy, indulgent, comfort food that I think we were both looking for.”
“For my mother-in-law’s funeral, we served turkey over biscuits, lefse, and platters of fresh fruit. She had been part of a circle of women at our church who made lefse for many years. For the funeral lunch her friends got together and made lefse. The family gathered together in my kitchen the night before the service and helped pull the meat off the roasted turkeys for the creamed turkey. My mother-in-law was known for her hospitality and cooking, so we felt our menu was a fitting tribute. Lefse is usually only served at holiday meals, so it was special to serve the Norwegian treat at her funeral.”
“Down here in South Carolina we treat a funeral like a family reunion and make the same covered dishes we would take to a reunion. Fried chicken, squash casserole, country ham biscuits, pole beans and Irish potatoes, speckled butter beans, deviled eggs, creamed corn, collard greens, potato salad, candied yams, cornbread, congealed salad, sliced melon, Eagle Brand lemon pie, and pound cake to name a few.”
“The last funeral I went to was for a professor of mine from grad school. She was an “interesting” woman who spent her last year hiking through Jordan with her daughter (with cancer! I don’t know how she did it).
The family decided that the food at the funeral should represent her so they had all of her favorites. There were sushi rolls, Italian pastries, favorite baked goods from various family members, random olives and cheeses. It was the weirdest spread I’ve ever seen, but it fit so perfectly.”
“after- funeral get togethers have always intrigued me — it’s like that saying “life is for the living” …. a way to remember the lost loved one, but also to partake together in the most basic and fundamental human action.
it’s like smacking death in the face ….”
“During times of grief or loss, I always appreciate the family members who can think clearly, pay attention to practical details, and keep things rolling on time. And hospitality is a hugely practical concern, and is in no way morbid or inappropriate to plan ahead for it.
The families with relatives who will take on this role are truly blessed.”
