Member-only story
Death and Ratatouille
Coping With The Loss of a Parent
My sister’s phone call felt like a punch in the gut. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I knew my mother had started her hospice care; I just didn’t think the end would come so quickly. Just a few days before, she had come home from the hospital and seemed to be doing better. I even spoke with her for a few minutes before my stepfather came on the line and told me there was no need to rush back to Chicago to say goodbye. He said she was still hanging on and that I had time.
When I was a child, I was terrified of the jar of ratatouille that my mother always kept in the refrigerator. I thought that eggplants were grown from chicken eggs, and the thought of eating them made me sick to my stomach. But my mother loved ratatouille, and she would eat it by the bowlful, no matter if it was hot or cold. I never understood her love for it, but as I got older, I realized that every spoonful was a connection to her Southern French roots.
When I was a professional chef, I would make ratatouille by finely dicing each vegetable and sautéing them separately so that their colors and individual flavors would be preserved. Only when everything was cooked would I combine them together in a bowl. It looked beautiful. I believed I was at the height of my game.
