Grief is not an illness but the consequence of love. It is not the end of love, but a start to its biggest lesson. We learn that those sappy songs were right: love is eternal. We learn that the sun has no respect; it continues to shine on our private night of grief until, one day, we rise. We’re up with that sun and we forgive its bad manners. We come to face our grief.
Even so, we can fail to face the the grief of others. We can forget those words, “I’m sorry”. We can forget the sweet condolences of food. We can forget the force of custom so completely, we lose our way to kindness.
We are not unkind by nature. We raise each other, feed each other and have no nature at all but kindness. If you doubt that you are kind, remember a response to another person’s grief. You may have struggled to remember the mitzvah, the blessing, the wake cake ingredients. You did not struggle to see the size of that person’s grief, did you?
Sweet and crumbly, flour helva is a Turkish dessert made and eaten by people in mourning. Source: Murdoch Books
Perhaps you were lost. Perhaps you thought, “this grief is too much”. It was, and will always be too much. But it’s so much more without the strength of custom; of knowing what to do.
My grandmother was a very small woman. Even so, she was equal to the size of grief. Her Irish Catholic family came with Irish Catholic customs so when a loved one was—I’m quoting here—put to bed with a shovel, there were rules and recipes in place.
Now, my memory of food, prayer and song is lost.
When I asked what I should bring to a widow, they said “a very big bottle of brandy.” I said, “But Mrs K has never been a drinker.” They said, “Precisely the point.”
We Skips have been quick to shed our customs—perhaps this explains some of our meanest moods. Perhaps we are cranky to have forgotten those “values” and customs we claim we are keen to protect. Unlike, say, my Greek-Australian neighbours, who somehow find time to remember themselves.
Culture is a constant work. Recipes don’t survive if not cooked then cooked and eaten again. Customs don’t live under glass. A living culture takes work. This work takes commitment. But, this is the kind of work that can take the agony of grief and give it a place to rest. Shiva, Ghusl of Mayyit, food for the dead. Inside these rituals, there’s peace.
Customs, especially those involving food and drink, are a marvellous convenience. Where but in custom and in eating should a very sad human find ease?
The twenty-somethings next door have generations between them and Greek Orthodox faith. Still, they were nourished in their grief by the church’s meal of mercy. When their Pappou died last year, they told me of another, less orthodox food tradition. When I asked what I should bring to a widow, they said “a very big bottle of brandy.” I said, “But Mrs K has never been a drinker.” They said, “Precisely the point.”
Mrs K’s grandson took the first shift and her granddaughter, the second. This was their tradition. A broken-hearted Yaya was supervised and encouraged to drink more cognac in one night than she had in a lifetime. I can’t be sure if this is a custom of bereavement in Greece or if it is ever observed anywhere but Number 12.
I am sure that (a) Yaya’s hangover was bad enough she was forced to feel a sadness for herself she would have otherwise avoided and (b) customs, especially those involving food and drink, are a marvellous convenience. Where but in custom and in eating should a very sad human find ease?
This is our best work, surely. To make culture for our kitchens and our lives? We need months each year away from that other sort of work for this work. We need time to prepare our best meals. We need time to prepare ourselves for the deepest grief. We need time.
Helen Razer is your frugal food enthusiast, guiding you to the good eats, minus the pretension and price tag in her weekly Friday column, Cheap Tart. Don't miss her next instalment, follow her on Twitter @HelenRazer.
