I was sitting in the break room at the winery, having just finished my lunch. It was a chilly, sunny day, and the break room has a really nice window that looks out on the terrace, the waterfall feature on the grounds, and beyond that over the valley.
I was debating how to best pull off the rest of the week, crank out a new bread recipe for my chef’s latest special, and what kind of desserts I should do for the seasonal menu change. I was grateful for the distraction. The toxicity of social media around the Israel-Hamas War was still trickling through despite me pulling back. When that many lives and that much culture is on the line and the generational trauma of two entire peoples is simultaneously triggered, there’s too much at stake for it to be managed through TikTok videos, memes, and idiotic flame wars- but here we are.
It made my heart hurt, and my mental health required me backing off, so I’d resolved to do what I’d always done when feeling pained and powerless- feed people, and put good things into the world that weren’t there before.
Then my phone rang. It was my wife, nearly in tears. Life was about to provide an object lesson in Pain, Powerlessness, what we do in the face of it, and the things that mean more than posting “the right things” on social media.
24 hours later, we were on a plane to South Carolina with tickets we really couldn’t afford and having leaned on those around us than we’d possibly ever had to.
Em’s mom- a two-time cancer survivor, her hero and role model- had had a heart attack. She was alive, but unconscious and on life support, and the doctors said that the next 48 hours would decide if she lived on died. Her family was descending on her house in South Carolina where her step-father- who had performed CPR for 20 minutes while waiting for the EMTs- was trying to hold it all together.
When she told me all this, the menu didn’t matter. Prepping for the rest of the week and Thanksgiving didn’t matter. All the shit that had been hurting my heart and tearing me down over the last few weeks, the pain the rest of the world was dealing with didn’t matter. And whatever the latest snarky fuckwit “activist” was posting about Israel or Gaza DEFINITELY didn’t matter.
I made my excuses to my chefs, gave instructions to my assistant Marisah, and burned rubber home because the only thing that mattered was getting to my wife. I got home, we held each other, I cried, and we started calling in favors from family and friends. Cat care, coverage for work, and money for plane tickets because the only thing that mattered was “get my wife surround by her family.” I’d figure out “what else” and “what next” later. “Focus on doing the Next Good Thing,” I told myself. I couldn’t fix the situation or make it not so, but I could be there, and my only mission was to surround Emily with the people who love her.
Our friends showed up for us. Our housemates immediately made plans to look after Cleo for our absence and made themselves available for rides. My chef told me “not to worry” about work. They’d figure it out. My parents sponsored the plane tickets and my father volunteered to talk Em through the medical lingo they were likely to encounter.
Emily and I packed hastily. I bought more cat food, cleaned the apartment quickly, and we both pulled our best-fitting black attire. We hoped for the best of course, but there was every likelihood we’d get off the airplane in time for a funeral. Even that was secondary to just getting there.
Landing in South Carolina, thankfully, came with good news. Em’s mom had woken up. Her heart was in bad shape though, and the hypoxia had left her with dodgy memory. She was already getting better, but it was an open question if she’d be the same person afterward. At the house, there was a family meeting and updates. Emily had been delivered to her stepfather, her cousin, and her aunt and uncle. “Mission Complete”… but what now?
I was pleased to be there and to see her family, and what remained of my medical knowledge from being an EMT and a Nurse’s Aide answered a couple questions… but that was it. I could Be There and sit with the family in there fear and pain- that’s not nothing. I still felt powerless though. What could I do besides be in the way?
We’d arrived late at night. Em’s aunt had ordered a pizza to feed the family on short notice, and we were polishing it off. Em’s mom and stepfather hadn’t exactly expected to suddenly feed or house five extra people for a week, and there were too many things to deal with- transport, legal decisions, financial issues, powers of attorney and health care proxies.
I couldn’t do any of that… but I could cook.
“Tomorrow, I’ll go through the pantries and fridge and see what food is available. Leave the cooking to me.” It felt silly and besides-the-point to say, but they all thanked me and agreed. I couldn’t fix anything or make Em’s mom better, but now I had another mission: Feed everyone. One way or another, this family would have a hot meals. I would not let them face this hungry.
That’s what I did for a week. Digging through the pantries and refrigerators of a couple of retirees is more like coal mining than treasure hunting. There were lots of convenience products, frozen bread and meat, and entirely TOO MUCH crackers, cheese, and snacks. The fresh veggies that were present were on their last legs, and canned veggies were earmarked for dog food. I’d done more with less though, and there was a Walmart a brisk walk down the highway. It’s what I could do to help, and it’s what I do well.
As we took turns sitting with Em’s mom in the hospital, gratefully watching her improve daily, I made sure there was fresh food to eat. Pancakes and bacon in the morning. Scratch-made pizza and pasta with meatballs in the afternoon. Shrimp scampi and chef’s salad in the evenings, using what could be found or acquired. When I wasn’t cooking, I stayed out of the way, cleaned, and helped diminish the house’s beer and liquor supply (Em’s step-dad is a dark beer and whiskey guy like myself.) They had to remind me that the idea was to empty the fridge and eat leftovers rather than create them.
I still felt silly and useless and in the way, but Em’s mom was getting better. The family was happy and fed, so I was content with that.
One week later, we were on a plane back to Portland.
Em’s mom’s memory was recovering. There was a plan of care in place, and we got to spend time with her in the hospital. I got to see my wife talk with her mom, look after her for a change, and we watched the news and Antique Roadshow on the TV. The short term memory was still shaky, but she knew her family. She knew my wife, and was able to tell her how much she loved her.
Em had spent the week with her stepfather piecing to together financials and legalities, making sure paperwork was in order and that bills would be paid. Em has always been great at this kind of organizing. Finally, with care in place and the family working out their way forward, there was little left for me and Emily to do but worry and wait- and we could do that at home.
I came back to work. I had been missed, and it was good to “have the master back” as one of the prep cooks said. The chef didn’t miss a beat, peppering me with ideas and questions for the new menu. One of the cooks said the kitchen was quiet and lonely-feeling while I was gone.
I was back, doing what I know how to do best and doing it as well as I know how, because looking after people matters- however you do it.
Assholes on social media don’t matter. Towing the party line and saying the right things so you can keep belonging to a group of strangers at the cost of being cruel to others doesn’t matter.
Showing up for loved ones, no matter how small, matters.
Asking for and offering help matters.
BEING THERE matters.
PEOPLE MATTER.
Showing up as your true, authentic, loving, vulnerable self when people are in pain matters more than ANY snarky internet meme.
And when all else fails, looking after people matters. That’s a power I DO have, and I do it damn well.
Stay Classy,
The Black Hat Baker 