It wasn’t a nice weekend, just now.
Adrian died and also another friend, Tessa.
Tessa was a little older than Adrian, she has grown-up children. I am so sad not to see them both again. I am so sad for their families.
When you are not family and not very very close friends, but still friends, it’s hard to know what to do when someone dies.
You do not want to inundate the family with sentimental tosh; they are close to tears at all times, just barely holding it together, you don’t want to Greek chorus them into the third sob of the day. Neither do you want to put them in a position where they have to bloody comfort you. And you do not want to nag them to give you a role, to give you a task so you can “help”. That’s just annoying.
The kicker, post-mortem, is always the stupendous amount of administration left to the bereaved. The decisions! This form and that form, registering the death. Funeral? Where? Close family and then a memorial later, or what? What on the gravestone? Made of? Positioned…? And then there’s all the clothes, the stuff, the things, just the admin. You do not, as a friend, want to be the extra admin.
My husband is often critical of my occasionally stone-cold front. I don’t really cry much. He values crying quite highly. And shouting. Crying and shouting = emotion.
Do you know what I think equals emotion? Cooking. Putting down what I am doing and getting my damn apron on is how I show I care.
And I think the most useful thing you can do for a grieving family is take them stacks of food. One person in the house will not be hungry or feel like cooking – but others will. And takeaways are only interesting for so long.
This has the added bonus of making you, the satellite griever, feel useful – and the act of cooking will take your mind off the whole thing.
This is a very simple, seasonally-appropriate and highly delicious lamb stew, which I have been making for my family and others. I recommend it to you.
Lamb stew
for 4 people
3 x lamb neck fillets, diced (try not to think too hard about it. I’ve really gone off meat recently)
2 medium carrots
2 sticks celery (not essential)
3 big handfuls of barley
1.5 pints stock – from a cube or whatever
1 glass leftover red wine (if you have it)
salt and pepper
Preheat your oven to 150C
1 Brown the meat in a casserole, which has a lid, in peanut oil or goose fat – not olive oil please. Just turn it all over until brown, then remove to a plate or a dish.
2 Chop up your veg and then cook in the casserole dish on a medium heat for about three minutes, turning so it doesn’t catch. Turn all this out onto a dish with the lamb
3 Pour the red wine into the casserole and cook it over a high heat, scraping the brown bits off the bottom of the pan until it has reduced and thickened. If you haven’t got wine, a glug of water from the kettle will do – you just want to get all the brown sticky stuff off the bottom of the casserole.
4 Now put the lamb and veg back into the dish, pour over the stock, a large pinch of salt and a few turns of the pepper grinder. Sprinkle over the barley.
5 Cook on the hob until the whole thing starts to simmer and then put in the oven for about 1.5hrs. Check half way through cooking that it doesn’t need a top-up of stock. Barley grains aren’t half thirsty little bastards.
Portion off into those foil takeaway containers (you can get them on Ocado), seal well (do not overfill) and write on top what it is. Put in a bag for delivery and try not to burst into tears, even though you said you’re not a crier.
Tessa
Esther, this is perfect advice, all of it. We lost my father and father in law in the last 20 months and my memories of being cared for at those time mostly involve being fed without having to ask. I’d add that if you want to help in this way but feel you can’t cook or don’t have time to cook, buy a loaf of bread, some ham and cheese and take a plate of sandwiches. A small sandwich can be snuck on a saucer next to a cup of tea and the widow might eat it without even really noticing or a handful of them can save the day when you realise 3 or 4 confused, hungry children are staring up at you at 3pm and you’ve no idea when/ what they were last fed and their parents are dealing with said admin.
I’m really sorry for your loss, to lose two dear friends at the same time seems very cruel. Elaine x
Oh Esther, what a sad time. When our friend died this summer, one of her very, very close friends organised a Whatsapp group & rota so we that loved her could take lunch & supper to her husband & children. I was so grateful for that.
Thank you for this post. It’s come at a good time. And I so understand the position about friendship
Trying to think of ways that people can help you when they ask what they can do is exhausting- and sometimes, despite my best intentions, I resent it. We lost my daughter’s father this summer, and two weeks ago, my grandmother. I am the sole executor and it’s also Christmas.
A pot of this stew left on my stoop would be most welcome.
Thank you.
Adding my agree. Last year my father died and a close friend brought me a large Victoria sandwich cake. It wasn’t just the fact it was delicious and went down well with the family who could eat, it was the fact that I knew someone had thought and cared enough to go to the trouble of baking it. It was much appreciated and I found it very touching. Much more empathic than buying a card.
So sorry. So true. I lost a baby 4 years ago and my friends organised a rota for two weeks of dinners. It was wonderful. Without sounding ridiculous – like being fed love and friendship.
I was asked to a friend’s house after her 34 year old husband committed suicide. They had a 4 month old baby. She wanted a cheeseburger from McDonald’s, which I duly fetched (good opportunity to cry without her seeing too).
Cooking is absolutely the best thing to do. My wonderful step-son died recently and my daughter in law and her two tiny children have been receiving supper left on the door step, every single evening from one of her fabulous circle of friends. It has made such a difference, and it makes the cook involved feel like they are doing something positive and really really helpful.
Grieving is very much dictated by your own needs; comfort by the needs of others. You sound like you have it right. Sending you virtual lamb stew xxx
My mum died seven weeks ago of a similar disease to Adrian, and the hardest thing was (is) other people’s grief, disbelief and intrusion. This is all wonderful advice. Food is the best gift. I’m so sorry for your losses.
You are a love.
Sadness. I am sorry for two losses and at Christmas too. It is painful, and can bring even the most focussed non-crier to hopeless tears.
I have had a truly shit week and, too, have turned to cooking. Chicken soup (cliché), casseroles and, weirdly, a birthday cake because, apparently, life still goes on and my children want their daddy to have a birthday cake in amidst this mayhem. So I cook and cry into cake mix because I’m not a crier and it doesn’t help anyone to see you cry. Grief doesn’t make a cake sink. You would think they’d flatten just with the power of your feelings, but they still rise. In fact, I may have just cooked my best ever cake this week which is testament to the weirdness of the universe, or the power of my oven.
Thank you for a good casserole recipe and salutes from Somerset for not saying (“what can I do to help”) but just doing. You are a brick, as they would say in Enid Blyton stories.
Such a thoughtful, heartfelt post, Esther.
We lost our 18 yr old son 5 years ago this Friday. Sudden, Christmas time, snow, it was unbearably awful.
BUT I still remember the chocolate brownie tray bake that appeared on our doorstep with a simple card from an American family, not that we’ll known to us but through our younger son’s school. It brings tears to my eyes thinking about it after reading your post.
Food is so comforting at a time when you end up eating out (a little away from home where no one is likely to approach you), eating so so sandwiches from the local deli, fast easy food from the fridge.
Some lovely responses here of friends on a rota to cook. Heartwarming x
HI, Esther – A work colleague’s husband just died (kids in high school and college) and her father died a few months ago. So much grief in such a short time for her. I couldn’t go to either funeral (travel) but after reading your column, I baked up a tin of cookies my grandmother was famous for and express mailed them to her. Food is one of the primal pleasures and death is one of the primal experiences. Have to believe the one can make the other easier to bear. Thanks for another lovely column. Writing to you from Washington DC.
I’m so sorry for your loss Esther. It really is the endless admin.
You are absolutely spot on – it’s a small caring gesture that makes a massive difference. X
So sorry for your loss, sometimes life is too cruel. It will be ten years in February since my best friend died. I miss him every day.
I remember my best childhood friend turning up the very morning my Dad died with a plate of freshly baked scones and us sitting together in the kitchen, weeping silently and eating them with my 6 month old on my knee. Such wise advice, I’m sorry for your loss xxx
Am so sorry for your losses. Sending hugs xxx