Food for mourners

My sister passed away this week. The family is devastated. I won't dwell on the details - the purpose of this post on my blog is to give me a break from the relentlessness of mourning and from the explosions of overwhelming grief in my head, heart and stomach. And being a mourner, for the first time in my life, has opened my eyes to some revelations of human behaviour.  This set of observations is about the food that visitors bring to a house of mourning. I was raised with the instructions that if you visited a house of mourning, you brought with you maxipacks of Tetleys Tea bags. This was because hordes of visitors would come by, expecting sustenance while they sat with the mourners. If not teabags then a pack of sugar, or economy size digestives, or nasty prepacked kosher cakes. And for years I have, without much thought, carried out these instructions, pleased that I was doing my bit to save the mourning family from bankruptcy caused by endless provision of tea to their visitors. Being a mourner myself for the first time has put a different complexion on the affair. I have discovered for instance, that far from being so upset that I cannot eat, I find I crave comfort food, pretty much all the time. And prepacked kosher cakes are a stomach churning put off. What I find I need, is hearty soups, generous casseroles, large succulent chunks of chicken, and loads of carbs. And I have been touched and deeply gratified by those of our visitors who have understood this. As mourners we are not permitted to prepare our own food, which is just as well as these days it is all I can do to get myself out of bed and dressed, something it would appear our sages understood thoroughly, hence the rules - frankly, if you left it to me, right now I could not trust myself to set the kitchen on fire inadvertently in an attempt to make a bowl of pasta. I can't make it to the end of my street without tripping over the kerb because I forgot to do my laces up, I am a menace in my car because I have forgotten to do basic things like check my mirror or signal before making a turn, and I have attempted to visit a bank past closing hours and sit out in the freezing cold with only a t shirt on. See what I mean? The sages had it right. Do not make your food while mourning. So this leaves you at the mercy of people like me who used to pitch up with a vat of teabags. This makes our family dinners an unpredictable experience and gives huge insights into the catering skills and personal culinary foibles of our friends and relatives. Fabulous chicken and spicy rice with olives and peppers from a family friend with a catering business. I really hope she comes back one more time before mourning is over. Thick, protein rich soups from my working Mum friends who understand only too well the value of comfort food. Salmon baked in coconut milk made by a friend so sensitive to the need for tastebud variety, that eating it makes me weep with gratitude (most things make me weep at the moment of course - the postman delivering letters, a dog chasing a ball, even the arrival of the school bus). Breads of all varieties - homemade, posh shop bought, bakery ritual rolls. These are brought by people who have either had the misfortune to go through the same process I am now experiencing for the first time, or they are possessed with an innate understanding of basic human need in time of extreme distress and sorrow. An instinct I have quite clearly grown up without, but which has been a fundamental part of my education, and which I aim to remedy starting right now. Food for the grief stricken. It is about keeping your strength up; nurturing your wounded souls; eating  something enjoyable as a family that restores, for a few precious seconds, the balance that was whipped out from beneath your feet the minute your loved one slipped out of your life. That's it. No. More. Teabags.