If he dies before me

Share skill to share spirit

I have a new recurring morbid thought. If my husband died suddenly, not only would I grieve the loss of his company, be saddled with discovering whether or not we actually set up all those beneficiary things correctly, but I’d also have a horrible diet¹.

My family jokes with me that I really lucked out with Joe. I did. He’s great. But the reason we laugh is because I’m terrible in the kitchen. I’m culinarily uninspired². My husband, on the other hand, should sign up for some amateur chef show (which I don’t even know the names for because it’s all just so uninteresting to me) or open a shadow DoorDash restaurant. He’s a self-taught virtuoso of cuisine.

So this dark vision I’ve been haunted by is of me, deep in grief, trying to emulate him to keep him alive in spirit, but as I’d never appropriately studied his craft, I fail miserably. I curdle a bechamel, and it brings me to my knees. I’m a sudden widow with the stress of single parenting through devastation and the solitude of lacking my spiritual companion, but on top of it all, my taste buds are left destitute after a lifetime of privilege from being the partner of a highly practiced meal preparer.

I’m not one to wallow in anxious thought, nor walk away from a (warning) sign — they’re both the potential for enlightenment³. So with this specific fixation, I’m determined to take action. I plan to learn from him.

Credit to Ghost (the first film I sobbed to) and Canva

I will study my husband’s bolognese, his carbonara, his chicken and leek pie, his jammy steamed pudding, his puff pastry, his rough pastry, his shortbread, and, of course, the art of the baked potato with accompaniments. So that I can inherit a bit of Joe in my mind.

Before him, I compiled, not cooked. I was girl dinner incarnate (no shame, it’s great, but nothing cold can compare to a hot meal to end a long day, especially the tough ones). I really did luck out — in all the cliché ways — Joe completes me. And I don’t want to be him. I’m really, truly satisfied to set the table with my various collections of printed cotton napkins⁴, pour everyone a drink, and sit down (on time) to consume his dinner. I’d do that for the rest of my life. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to.

If my husband dies first, his face will live on in our kids, his voice on video, his ideas in his work, but even though I bought him a recipe box and note cards, he doesn’t write them down. He doesn’t need to. But I do.

If he’s gone, and I can’t savor him, I want to at least be able to savor his bechamel. To close my eyes and imagine he was across from me. To taste, and be back to these days in our tiny apartment with our tiny children who love “cheesy” cauliflower.

So I’ll become his apprentice. I’ll write out what he teaches me. I’ll study it with repetition. To let the part of him that keeps five brands of butter⁵ live on inside of me⁶.

It sounds romantic, but it’ll be a slog. Cookery fills me with childhood ‘Abby-just-isn’t-a-chef’ anxiety. And even though my palate appreciates fine tastes, I find the art of creating them tiresome. I can find beauty in the bore if I do the ‘inner-work’ and the actual work, so I remind myself it’s better now than later.

Because then, if Joe does die before me, instead of every meal being a routine reminder that he’s gone, the chore of cooking will instead be a way to see him again.

And if I die first, at least I’ll know I enjoyed him as much as I could while I was here.

I’m glad you’re here, too.

Tell me… How do you memento mori?

1. I’m not this shallow. I’m just so well practiced in grief that I know comedy softens the sting of loss, which is more than presence, company, and chat; it’s the devastation of an entire life’s foundation.

2. There are many versions of creativity. We can, of course, improve our skills in all. But many believe (as I’ve practiced in life so far) that you’re better off investing in enhancing the ones you have a natural aptitude or interest in.

3. The last time a morbid thought followed me around, I wrote about it (it’s this piece about eye contact), and it was one of the cornerstone pieces that confirmed (to myself, lol) I ought to start Happy Endings. The last time before that, I went down a rabbit hole of death research (I lost my mom young, so pardon my obsession!) that transformed my entire outlook on the inescapable phenomenon.

4. We’re a divide-and-conquer partnership in all functional things, so that we can be an in-this-together team for all the unnecessary things, like the walk to drop our kids off in the mornings and grocery shopping.

5. I know which we use to spread on toast because we set it out in its packaging, but I don’t know about the others. Which does he use to make the compounds? What else does he put in those?

6. His culinary creativity, as well as his culinary creations. Is this all a cope because he won’t cum in me anymore? Perhaps.