I have been sequestered in the kitchen in recent days. As the family descends to say goodbye to our grandfather, Pepère, I aim to feed the masses, to make it so no one has to think about what to make, what to eat. It’s an attempt to make my mother’s time easier, for she’s normally the one to organize each meal, to execute each plate and to exhaust herself in the meantime. Judging by her thin frame, this hasn’t been her priority in the last few weeks. While she cares for my grandmother, Memère, I bake a chicken with French herbed butter, I make pâte brisee and file it all into a casserole dish for a chicken pot pie (kale, sweet potatoes, carrots, celery, tarragon). I make salads: tortellini (tomatoes and sunflower seeds), tuna (with balsamic and dill) and egg (aioli and a bit of dijon) for lunches during these busy days, brownies with walnuts for dessert, lentils and barley. I make breakfast rice- jasmine rice with cinnamon, golden raisins, milk and vanilla. I follow up with chicken stock simmering for hours on the stove, pizza with homemade dough and sauce, rocket salad with shaved pecorino. We drink a bit of wine; we soothe our frazzled edges. Tomorrow, Turkish coffee and a coffee grounds reading; my mother and I will awaken to the future in more ways than one.
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