Five Plates

A journey through grief

Five Plates - Five Napkins

I did pretty well with the meal planning for this past week.

Let me pause there because it’s harder to type with only one hand… the other I’m using to pat myself on the back. And rightfully so. Cooking has never been my thing. It was Peter’s. He cooked the majority of the meals that our family has eaten over the years.

Sure, I could occasionally put together a meat crust pizza or throw some burgers on the grill. But when it came to actually preparing a meal… that was a skill I did not possess.

And actually, as a result of my inability to cook, there became a bit of a running joke in the family, especially with the boys. Peter would ask them what Pop (that’s me) would make when it was my turn to cook. And with laughter vibrating from their lips they would proclaim; “A phone call!”

Yes, more often than not, when it was my turn to make something for dinner, I made a phone call… and then went out to pick up what was then to be our dinner.

I didn’t learn to cook when I was younger. How could I? My mother made the same four or five dishes… sorry, “casseroles” over and over again. None of which were going to get her a blue ribbon at the county fair.

Well, except perhaps her “Peekaboo Peas.” Stay with me, this one’s funny.

My mother would make this dish quite often. And upon hearing how it’s made, I’m guessing many will immediately think of something very similar.

My mother would brown some ground beef (no seasoning), and put that in the bottom of a pot. She’d then cover the cooked beef with canned peas which were then smothered in mashed potatoes… which, I’ll give her credit, were actual potatoes not something rehydrated from a box (which is what I now do).

Ground beef, peas and mashed potatoes equals…“Peekaboo Peas.” A name that came from the experience time to time, when one of the peas would mysteriously make its way up through the mashed potatoes to the top. Hence, “Peekaboo.”

Now, some might think that this sounds very similar to another dish known as “Shepherd’s Pie.” And they would be correct. Clearly my mother had never heard of it.

In fact, one time when, for whatever reason, my mother decided to use canned corn instead of canned peas, she thought she had created something new, something spectacular that no one else had ever considered.

It wasn’t until many years later that I learned of Shepherd’s Pie and subsequently became quite angry with my mother. She really had no reason for feeding me those mushy canned peas all of those years. And I may never forgive her for it.

Since Peter’s death, feeding our children has become my responsibility. And in all honesty, it has been quite stressful. Though not at first. At first, I had so many incredible people providing us with meals, many of which I just had to reheat… something I could actually do.

But overall, the process of coming up with ideas for meals, doing the shopping and then executing whatever is necessary to get those meals onto our table is one that I am not thrilled to have to undertake.

I mean, just coming up with an idea for dinner was one of the most common, most annoying conversations that Peter and I would have. “What do you want for dinner?” I dreaded hearing those six words come from his mouth.

I didn’t want to suggest we have something that he really didn’t want to make. So I would most often suggest something I knew to be easy… because I wasn’t the one doing it.

And now I am.

I began by claiming that I actually did quite well with this past week’s meal planning. I had set a bit of a goal for this week to not obtain any of our meals from outside the home. I was going to work at having things prepared so that we didn’t have to go out for fast food at the last minute.

And I succeeded.

I spent the first day of the week, Sunday, doing food prep. I have come to really appreciate the Instant Pot and spent some time that day cooking up a bunch of chicken thighs (with seasonings) which I then shredded and set aside for two or three of the recipes I had chosen for the week.

I also cut up a bunch of the vegetables that I would be using in those, and other recipes as well.

And with this preparation complete, the only thing I then had to do was actually cook the recipes I had chosen, the ones for which these various ingredients were prepared. And wouldn’t you know it… I actually did.

Each night we were able to sit down at the dining room table and enjoy a meal that I cooked. Well, mostly enjoy. I have learned very quickly how to determine if our boys like the food I have prepared or not. If they don’t ask for seconds, it’s probably a recipe I can shred. Because these teenagers rarely go without seconds or thirds at dinner. So I know very quickly what they like and don’t like.

For instance, the pot roast I cooked that first night? Not a winner. Won’t do that again. But the baked chicken chimichangas? Huge hit! Had them two nights in a row and probably could have gone for three.

On our second night of chimichangas, I was gathering up things we would need for the meal. Most nights, the boys would set the table. This night, they were all occupied in some way that I didn’t want or need to have to have them stop early to get the dishes out. So I did.

I opened the cupboard and grabbed a stack of Peter’s Fiestaware plates. I then grabbed paper towels off of the roll and set them on top of the plates on the counter. It wasn’t until I went to get silverware out of the drawer that I realized my error.

I had grabbed five plates out of the cupboard and five paper towels off of the roll. I had grabbed five as if Peter were still here. And it wasn’t until I was counting out forks that I realized my mistake.

I froze. Here I was in the midst of my new responsibility, filling in the gap that occurred the day Peter died, subconsciously still thinking he was alive. And he’s not.

Perhaps this was just a silly mistake. I know Peter’s not going to be sitting at the dinner table with us, so why grab a plate for him?

Perhaps it was just muscle memory. For so many years, I have grabbed a stack of five Fiestaware plates from the cupboard. Maybe my hand forgot temporarily that it had been flexing differently since Peter’s death.

Perhaps it was my heart, or my mind in some absurdly unrealistic way wishing that all that we have lived through these past five months has been a horrible dream. Perhaps if I set the table for all five of us, Peter would miraculously appear and we would all celebrate the end to this horrible joke.

Or perhaps I just grabbed five plates and five napkins for no other reason than that is what I have done so many times before. My son usually gets the plates for the table. Being a bit out of practice, it just makes sense that I would grab the wrong amount.

Whatever the reason, whatever it was that caused me to do it, the whole act of picking five and not four caused me to pause. I stood there at the silverware drawer, counting out the forks once again; one, two, three, four… Four. I only need four.

I held four forks in my right hand while the other one reached for my front left pocket where Peter’s prayer card is placed each day.

My breath shifted a bit, though not as it had so many other times before. This wasn’t the same. This was a noticing of something different, a remembering, and not a visceral response to it. My breath slowed. My body still. And I spent that curious moment both remembering Peter and a time when we needed five plates as well as longing for that time once again.

And in some small way I was happy to have that moment, because it caused me to not only remember Peter again but to truly give thanks for the incredible ways he took care of our family over the years.

I was so lucky to have him in my life. Meeting him was the best thing to ever happen to me. It’s no surprise that I miss him as much as I do.

I miss seeing him each day.

I miss looking at him across the table at every meal.

And if I’m going to be completely honest, I miss his cooking. Our boys probably do, too.

I miss having him to lean on, to joke with, to sit next to.

I miss him as a co-parent, as a husband, as a best friend.

I miss him.

So I guess it’s no surprise that my body, my heart and my mind miss him as well… all longing for that time when five plates sat on the counter in preparation for every meal.

I actually hope the muscles of my hand never fully learn and rely upon what it is to only grab four.