Eggs seem to be the healing salve between hurt and hope. Egg salad. Egg casserole. Deviled eggs—especially deviled eggs which have a way of shifting the too-gray conversation to something much lighter, like whether or not the recipe calls for whipped or low-fat mayonnaise. And is paprika necessary? Having weaved in and out of heartache that comes with the territory of living, I can fully attest that, in many ways, analyzing the texture of an egg salad sandwich bridged me from dark uncertainty to a brighter and much-needed respite.
In the mercurial rotation of life, food is the pre-eminent stabilizer. The circumstances of both my children’s births reinforced the power of comfort food. Stumbling in late each night after visiting our premature son in a teaching hospital 45 minutes away, my husband and I were greeted by a warm meal sitting on our kitchen counter. Friends and family made sure dinner was waiting so we’d have one less thing to think about. When I found myself on three-months of bed rest while pregnant with my daughter, the food patrol arrived, once again, often staying to sit awhile, helping me pass the time over a bowl of homemade soup.
Recently, a close friend suffered both a personal loss and an unexpected health crisis. As I walked through her kitchen, foil-covered casseroles and sealed desserts were neatly stacked on the table, reminding me of the beauty of community. My friend was struck by this generosity, too. Through the fog of fatigue and sadness, she smiled and said, “I have arrived — I have my own food coordinator!”
A pot of green beans can’t erase the raw reality, but can anesthetize the pain as if to say, “We’re in this together.”
Comfort food’s unspoken code reinforces fellowship’s selfless gesture. I’ve learned the value of preparing meals in disposable dishes and remembering little ones by making kid-friendly dinners as well (when in doubt, do pizza.) Plus, there’s no harm tossing a mindless magazine or two into the food basket (permission is granted to dwell on the mundane matters of a fading pop-star celebrity). And, perhaps most importantly, it is understood that gratitude doesn’t require formal correspondence. When bringing me dinner one night, a friend said, “Do not write me a thank you note. I know you appreciate this and I appreciate being able to do this for you.”
The gift of emotional nourishment is a two-way street, providing edible compassion to someone who’s hurting while making the rest of us feel like we’re doing something of modest help. Who knew the healing powers of pound cake? When nothing else can be said or done, a slice of cake is often the most reassuring antidote for both the giver and receiver.
Memories fade in and out on the day my nephew died. One clear image reappears—that of two friends walking through my door carrying coolers of iced bottled water, paper plates, and some fried chicken with deviled eggs. They shuffled about in my kitchen, unpacking their goods while I sat on the back porch surveying a plate of food in front of me. The eggs were dusted with paprika.
For a moment, I felt like I could breathe again
