Food for thought

I’m standing in the dairy section. Staring at cheese. I’ve automatically placed 3 different types in the basket and reluctantly put them back again.
The list was simple, only 8 items to buy. But each one requires extra thinking. Cheese used to include a mature cheddar for snaking, feta for salads, grated to sprinkle on scrambled eggs. The need for calories in my house has dramatically decreased. I spend another 10 minutes conflicted about the carb content of the cinnamon and raisin bagels I fancied. I leave without them. They looked less appetising than I thought they would.

Food, like many other things on an extended cancer adventure, becomes a weapon. Ben’s low carb, high fat arsenal served him well. It became such a way of life that I have to actively stop thinking about it. 

The first time I ventured to a supermarket after he died, it took me 2 hours just to get out of the house. Crying on my Mum’s shoulder I wondered how I would ever manage to cook a meal again. The list seemed sparse. It was missing things. It was missing Ben.  I forced myself around, leaning on the trolley for support. Deciding what I wanted. Choosing salmon. Yogurt with fruit in the bottom. Cookie dough ice-cream. I filled the fridge with things he didn’t eat. I didn’t want to eat them either. I cried more.

I decide I don’t like broad beans either. I swap them for sugar snaps. Now I’m relaxing again. I allow myself to wander along the biscuits. Enthusiastically heaping jaffa cakes and chocolate Hob Nobs on top of the carrots. These were not on my list. My eyes scan the shelves for new and exciting adventures.

The feeling of liberation comes and goes. Having given up my own choices in favour of his for so long I don’t know what I want anymore. I curse the days when cauliflower rice covered the kitchen. I have vowed never to make it again. But we would have it every night if it meant I could place it under his smiling face. His hand reaching out to squeeze mine in gratitude.

It’s taken almost 2 hours to finish my list. I wrestle through the door with the bags, realise I forgot rabbit food.

As the smell of toasted crumpet drifts through the kitchen I check my phone. “Twice toasted, loads of butter”. As if I didn’t know how to make crumpets. How he liked them. On those days where the only comfort was the crunch through the hot melting butter, it had to be just right. I was the only one who could. And I didn’t want anyone else to know. My love was poured out through food. Courgette pizza bases. Yogurt with fresh fruit and chopped nuts. Broccoli with chilli salt. Sometimes it was all I could do. I steady myself on the kitchen wall. I defiantly spread jam. It’s hot. And sticky. And delicious.

In Ben’s final days eating stopped. I still shopped for him. He asked for ice cream. I delivered it in a children’s bowl with a small spoon. “Sauce?” barely a whisper. I laugh, triumphantly running back from the kitchen and squeezing the bottle with delight. I made 3 bowls that day. All of them melted, uneaten, but the taste on his lips made him smile. A grin so wide I lost myself in it.

Like so many if the everyday things, shipping is something I must do. The ache lessens each time. There, in the aisles of the supermarket, I am discovering myself. I may have replaced chicken soup for minestrone, but I will always toast my crumpets twice.