In an incident that could easily fit into a Miranda-July-esque narrative of offbeat life, I recently found myself in tears over a rather large packet of squid that arrived on my doorstep at around 3pm – a gift from my father. Prior to this, I had undergone a somewhat minor procedure at the hospital, and the idea of replenishing my body with some much-needed omega fats seemed comforting.
The ordeal was brief and didn’t cause much pain – nothing that I hadn’t endured before, and presumably, something that I’ll encounter again in the future. But, nevertheless, it was distressing.
You see, I realised that the surgeons had removed a part of my body that I quite liked. Nothing major, but enough to make me feel a little desolate. I was ending the day with less of me than I had started with, a melancholic thought indeed. And to deal with it, I decided that I could replace my lost bit with the flesh of another creature.
On Christmas day, as everyone around me tucks into their turkey and ham, my brother usually whips up something special for me – a tasty treat of four scallops cooked up with butter and garlic slices. An arrangement dictated by my vegetarian choice. However, this year, there was a glaring absence of scallops in all the local stores. I wasn’t too upset about it, but my dear old dad was. He tirelessly spent an entire day scouring North Dublin for a shop that had the beloved mollusc in stock.
Seeing the persistence and disappointment, the thoughtful papa decided to lift my spirits, given the fact that I had just undergone surgery and had missed out on my annual Christmas treat. And that’s how I ended up with a gigantic bag of squid.
My father could scarcely contain his joy, “I was over the moon when the fishmonger announced a sale! The squid was priced so low that I just couldn’t resist throwing in a few more,” he excitedly told me. Meanwhile, I had an unusual addition to my life – four surgical stitches and a 300g bag of squid.
Recalling and vividly painting the moment he once morphed into the character Bruce from the famous cake devouring scene, the author speaks to the young audience that witnessed him eating a bag of mushy calamari — a surreal experience.
I recently enjoyed a well-crafted write-up on food and end-of-life realities in one of my most favoured newsletter, Vittles. The article, a creation by Robin Craig, explores the symbolic and societal power that food continues to hold in moments where the prospect of dying looms heavily, thereby causing a drastic reduction in one’s appetite.
Robin’s piece becomes heartfelt as it narrates the story of discovering her dying father’s newfound interest in baking. It is surprising how he discovers a secret longing, deeply moved by a diary filled with food recipes he hoped to try.
People diagnosed with long-term illness or living with disabilities often find their identity thrust upon them by society. Observing their sickness, others tend to determine their likes, dislikes or things they may be incapable of doing, forgetting, for instance, that a man now living on a liquid diet, could be secretly yearning to bake a clementine cake.
Death shows us that life sparks can still flicker within us, an endearing quality indeed.
During my days in elder care, I admired the elderly patrons who were particular about their meals. Their complaints about lumpy mash, tea with inadequate milk, or poorly seasoned meat, were an assertion of their identity and distinct tastes.
My father shared an incident about a woman he chanced upon in the supermarket. They engaged in a conversation around the frozen foods section, during which she revealed her inability to cook her meals due to illness, a situation made worse by the recent death of her partner who assisted her significantly.
My father described the woman as sorrowful but resigned. The encounter, however, left a profound impact on me, symbolising the numerous tiny heartaches associated with illness. It painted a picture of the collateral damages caused by grief – how being unwell strips us of certain parts of our identity, and death takes away the ones who understood and empathised with our losses. They might have even struggled to retain or reclaim them on our behalf.
Often, I’m trapped within a physical existence where my suffering bears no significance, acting merely as a system error. My mind drifts towards Eve Babitz’s narrative about her close brush with death whenever I encounter new individuals while battling a severe migraine. I too yearn to express, “I was once captivating”, and occasionally, I still am.
One such time was when I found myself holding a plastic bag of squid, unsettled by intense nausea and utterly drained, unsure of what to do next. Admittedly, I had no initial expectations of enjoying scallops for my evening meal, hence, I didn’t lament the absence. However, the thought of squandering a perfectly good bag of fresh squid, even as my gag reflex protested at the sight, was unbearable.
And I wept.
Over the eerie resemblance these marine creatures held to bodily organs and the miniature piece of flesh that had been carved out of me. Over the numerous treasures that this ailment had ruthlessly claimed from me, leaving conspicuous scars in their wake. After, I took a trip to the local store, purchased a stalk of rosemary, and crafted a Spanish-inspired soup.
After all, when one stumbles upon squid…
Indeed, the squid turned out to be an underwhelming affair. Nonetheless, along with a rather disappointing meal, it provided me with valuable writing material, satisfying a different kind of hunger.
If I haven’t mentioned it yet, cheers, Dad.