Not to be too Miranda-July-quirky-girl-cries-over-silly-thing about it, but I recently spent an afternoon sobbing over a very big bag of squid.
The squid arrived around 3pm. A gift from my dad. I had had a small hospital procedure that morning and sought comfort in the shape of omegas.
It was short and relatively painless. One I’d had before and would likely have again.
But still.
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But still.
The doctors had removed a piece of my lovely body. Isn’t that a little sad? To end the day with less of yourself than you began with. So, I thought to replace that inch of flesh with, well, the flesh of another.
On Christmas Day, when everyone else is sitting down to their turkey and ham, my brother fries up for me in the pan with butter and sliced garlic, four scallops. Not eating meat, it’s my treat, and yes, I do accompany it with roasties and bread sauce.
But this year, the shops were all out of scallops. I wasn’t heartbroken, but my dear dad was, and spent close to a full day trying to find somewhere in north Dublin that was selling the marine mollusc.
So, since I missed my Christmas treat, and was now minorly invalided after surgery, my dad had a lovely thought. Except, yes, you can see where this is going.
Easy semantic mistake.
So, I had in my possession now, four new stitches and a 300g bag of squid.
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“I couldn’t believe my luck,” my dad told me, “when the fishmonger said they were on offer. They were much cheaper than I expected so I just kept telling her to add more.”
And, as he repeated the word “more” once more, I felt myself mutate into poor Bruce in front of his chocolate cake. A slew of young people chanting, as I was forced to eat this sagging bag of squid.
One of my favourite newsletters, Vittles, recently published a piece about food at the end of life written by Robin Craig. In it, Craig discusses the social and symbolic role food maintains when your appetite has become diminished by the lugubrious shadow of death.
In a tender moment, the author reflects on discovering her dying father’s desire to learn to bake. How surprised he is to learn of this secret ambition. How touched to find a notebook inscribed with recipes and desired dishes.
For many people who live with illness or disability, identity is not chosen but put upon us. People see a sick body and decide for themselves what our interests are, or more worryingly, are not. We fail to see that a man, who subsists now on a liquid-only diet, is dreaming of baking a clementine cake.
How lovely that, in death, we maintain an ability to remain so alive.
I always respected, when I worked in elder care, the clients who were considered “fussy”. Who complained when there were lumps in their mash, not enough milk in their tea, or that their meat was not appropriately seasoned. Food plays an important role in identity, and asserting your taste becomes a means of asserting who you are.
My dad told me recently about an interaction he had with a woman in the supermarket. They got chatting by the premade meals section when the woman told him that, due to illness, she could no longer easily prepare her dinner. This was compounded by the fact her partner, who had been supportive in the kitchen, had died recently.
The lady was sad but accepting, my dad told me. But the story left an ache in my stomach. How symbolic was this story of the many micro-hurts of illness. And how much did this story speak to the radiating effects of grief. How illness robs us of parts of ourselves, and death robs us of the people who knew and understood these robbed parts. Who endeavoured on our behalf to preserve them or fought to win them back.
I always find myself thinking of Eve Babitz’s essay that recounts a near-death experience when I meet someone new on a bad migraine day.
“I used to be charming,” I too want to say.
I sometimes still am.
I found myself thinking of this woman as I held the bag of squid in my hand, too much nausea and not enough energy to know what to do with it. I never anticipated the treat of scallops for dinner, so I couldn’t rue that loss, nor could I, however, face to waste a perfectly fresh bag of squid, even if my emetic responses alighted at the sight.
So I cried.
About these intestinal-looking rings of seafood and the tiny chunk taken out of my belly. About the precious pieces illness has stolen from me, and the scars it leaves in their place. Then, I walked to the shop, bought a sprig of rosemary, and made a Spanish-style stew.
Because when life gives you squid...
So yes, the squid was a damp squib. But, if it left me with a disappointing dinner, it left me also with something to write about, and that fulfils an appetite of different sorts.
So, if I didn’t say it already, thanks Dad.