Nourishment:

The metallic salt of a thick rib eye; earthy steam of a new potato. The crisp sweetness of roasted carrots. I've started tasting food again.

I'm not here to tell you about a new diet, or spew some half-remembered advice from my Naturopath. I simply want to tell you about how I lost my appetite, and how it's rediscovery has led me back to a healthier state of existence.

I didn't have an "A-ha!" moment, can't pinpoint a specific decision that stopped me from nourishing myself & pushed me towards fast fuel. I don't know when I stopped noticing the texture or consistency of what I consumed. When I stopped inhaling the fragrant steam & sinuous textures that filled my belly & warmed my soul. I think it was a gradual severing, a slow fraying of awareness which led me to a bodily disconnect so pervasive I habitually confused hunger pangs with anxiety symptoms.

All I know is one moment I was a massage therapy student flitting between clinic hours and my retail job and the next I was building a practice & coping with my Auntie's terminal cancer diagnosis.

It was somewhere in there that I began to chug electrolyte powder mixed with water, found myself choking down vegan protein bars to curb the annoying stomach pain. Anything to get through the day.

Function over form became my norm.

Forget about taste-food was simply a means to fuel my body as it moved from task to task.

Bunnie was diagnosed in late 2015. Cancer with a capital "C". The type where they say, "We can get you some more time" and you say, "How long?"

For my Aunt Bunnie that was about 18 months. 4 of them were good. 12 of them were manageable. 2 of them were terrible. And she did everything to lessen that burden to us. Because she was selfless and full of love, right till the end.

It was & continues to be difficult information to digest. In moments of turmoil it's common to look for things to deaden that pain. For me that was demanding work hours & wine induced sleep. Something my grief counsellor referred to as "numbing out."

Not my finest hour, but one I have thankfully overcome the need for. It's been three and a half years since she left this world. Some days I still pause & think how surreal it is that she is gone. It never feels really, truly, real.

The last summer she was alive, I remember having one of our long phone conversations. I had a car, but lived nearly 4 hours away from her & rarely had more than 24 hours off of work. Our phone conversations had become more frequent. Especially when writing letters-an activity we engaged in several times a year- became less a joy & more a chore for her.

As I sat on the kitchen floor with my back pressed to the cupboard doors I recounted the process of bed bug extermination with her. It was a hellish process & a true Torontonian rite of passage. She told me about the time her apartment was infested with Mediterranean Flour Moths. It sounded just as harrowing, if not more so, than what we were living with.

Bed bugs absolutely suck. They are fast, insidious little buggers that slip out of every nook & cranny to feast on you before scuttling unseen into their decrepit dens.

But, at least they don't fly.

I was clutching a dry white wine, the glass sweating between my fingers. She heard me take a sip and asked what I was doing. I answered: "sitting on my kitchen floor drinking wine." She sighed, then muttered "I wish I could drink wine right now." Alcohol was on the list of forbidden foods supplied by her oncologist. I remained silent while I mulled over her statement.

I've been curvy and solid my entire life. I have a body I now lovingly refer to as "peasant strong," but at that point in my life I had deemed "stocky."

I was working at an upscale yoga studio in Midtown, body conscious and insecure as I piloted my broad-shouldered frame among the willowy yogis. I routinely agonized over my soft curves, longing for the sharp relief & brutal elegance of the honed silhouettes which balanced & folded on the mats around me.

It was a useless fascination which afforded me nothing but angst every time I ate something that wasn't "healthy" by my skewed standards. That included the empty calories of the white wine I was holding. Guilt reared it's ugly head with each swig.

It seemed such a trivial thing, Bunnie's wistful longing for a glass of wine. But it shifted something inside me, something small & fundamental. A change in perspective. The recognition of the privilege I held, the luxury of being able to consume whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, unburdened by poor physical health or dietary restriction.

The next sip I took I swirled around my mouth, relishing the faint crisp notes of apple & pear. I waited for the familiar pang of guilt as I indulged in a food I knew didn't "serve" me; it didn't come.

As Bunnie's health declined, my other Aunt did her best to nourish her frail body with home cooked meals. Roasted vegetables, buttered rice, savory bone broth-simple, easy food designed to support a body intent on failing.

Aunt Kelly is adept at creating nutrient dense kitchen cures. Recipes to settle a stomach roiling with the aftershocks of chemo, food combos comprised of equal parts comfort & support. It was a labor of love, but she wasn't alone in her efforts.

My Nanny would bake, poach, & broil endlessly. Anything that might perk Bunnie up, might jump start her fledging appetite. It changed daily, as subject to her body's fluctuations as she was. The days when she could eat a few bites, enjoy a few sips & say "that's just the thing I needed" were the days worth celebrating.

The night Bunnie died, we were all around her. Nanny called her pastor & I settled her in the kitchen. Grandpa & my Uncle made phone calls in the dining room, my Mother & Aunt helped the nurse in Bunnie's room.

The Pastor was a lovely man. He & his wife were reserved & unashamedly sympathetic towards my Nanny. He did his best to comfort her with God; I stuck to my strengths & boiled water for tea.

Bunnie took her tea weak, straining the water mere moments after setting the boiling liquid atop the leaves. Nanny and I liked it over-steeped. Once when I was a child she said "I like it so thick a spoon will stand up straight in it." Then, a thick dollop of heavy cream to get it to the appropriate tawny shade.

Good tea needs no sugar.

I made Nanny's tea from memory, not bothering to ask if anyone wanted decaf. We had a long night ahead of us despite the late hour. None of us would be sleeping much; the caffeine would sharpen our frazzled brains.

Our bodies, our souls, could not be nourished that night. Nothing could touch it-we ran shaky but steady on fumes, wrung out & wired. But hot tea the perfect shade of tawny was a small comfort on a night that suddenly seemed much too dark & cold.

Bunnie & me were always close. Many members of my family would often point out I looked more like her than I did my own mother. Both of medium build, the same blonde hair, pale skin.

I see the shape of her in my brows, the straight slope of my nose. But her eyes were bright blue; mine are hazel & grey. I've personally never found our physical similarities to be the basis of our bond. It was our similar temperament, philosophies & fascination with science & knowledge that drew us together.

These commonalities led to excursions, Sunday teas & kitchen experiments. I can still recall the feeling of sticky dough coating my hands as I stood in Bunnie's kitchen, covered in flour as I clutched Buster (my favourite stuffed animal) to my chest.

She was legendary in her culinary creations.

Flakey, buttery yorkshire puddings. Herbaceous gravy. Cakes, pies, ice cream. Birthday & graduation feasts all laid on her Lily of the Valley bone china, which sits in my great-grandmother's cabinet next to me as I type this.

It is a thoughtful & overwhelming bequeathment that came with a Kitchen-Aide mixer and a book shelf's worth of cookbooks. They may have all found places in my home, but it took quite some time for them to feel like they belonged.

Foggy and lethargic in my grief, I ignored it all for several months. But one day I looked up & realized the bananas atop the microwave had turned brown. They sat next to the blue and yellow tin containing Bunnie's hand written recipes. The one's I hadn't been able to look through, fearing the familiar curve of her handwriting would snake into my chest & strike my heart as quick as an adder.

I didn't allow myself to pause as I flipped the lid and thumbed through the B's, determined to fold that floundering fruit into a dense banana bread.

I cried while the mixer blended everything together, leaning back to prevent my tears from falling into the mixture; I had already added the pinch of salt.

That first loaf of bread seemed to open the floodgates inside & before I knew it I was regularly thumbing through her books & reaching for her china on Sundays. It turns out, the first cut truly is the deepest. Each time I reached for that tin, or fanned the pages of a well worn church cookbook, it hurt a little less.

Or rather, I was slowly getting used to the sting.

I often wonder if she knew leaving me these would help me through the grief of losing her. If somehow she knew giving my hands something to do-chopping, mixing, scrubbing-would help my mind process the complex emotions I would rather numb out.

I know she believed I would be okay; but I wonder if she knows it.

I have always wanted to be an organized, clean, timely, reliable person.

Naturally, I am none of these things.

I spread out the moment I enter a space. Bag left by the door, my boots slumped in the entrance way. Gloves tossed on a bench. Coat draped on the back of the first chair I pass as I walk in. I seldom have any clue as to where my phone is, let alone my glasses (which are usually either perched on my head, or tossed onto the passenger side seat of my car).

My partner finds it endearing, but I find it endlessly frustrating to always be searching for missing keys when I am already running 10 minutes behind schedule.

Rediscovering my love of food has helped me remedy these things.

There is a natural rhythm that comes with food preparation. Dishes need to be cleaned, surfaces wiped. Vegetables require washing, meat needs trimming. Schedules are set to accommodate thawing chicken, preparation times, market trips.

When life centers around mealtimes, rushing from one event to the other seems less stressful. Somehow the day seems less taxing when you come home to a hot meal simmering in the crock pot. Or when you get to take your irritation out on sharpening your butcher's knife; or pounding a chicken breast so thin it becomes translucent.

Cooking has brought my own wellness into perspective. It has helped me realize I function best with not just fuel but comfort & memories running through my veins. Vegan protein bars & electrolyte powder are still found in my cupboards. But so are all the ingredients for my favorite dishes, recipes to call forth my most cherished memories.

Scallops cooked in white wine & broth remind me of swimming in the ocean, how the salty air hung in my nostrils well after my vacation had ended.

Potato salad contains fireworks & backyard barbeques enjoyed under the blazing heat of a July sun. Delicate almond crescents dusted with powdered sugar sing Christmas carols year round.

I can make these whenever I want, whenever I need. Medicine at my fingertips.

They are more nourishing to me than any dish prepared in a restaurant. The legacy left to me by my dear Aunt is ultimately a simple one.

Create. Nourish. Thrive.

I try every day to do exactly that.

Slowing down for savory experience in a world centered around convenience & fast food is a radical act of rebellion; a way to honor yourself. To remind yourself that you are in fact loved, even if it's just by you.

I'm not perfect at it.

But, I will endure.

I will practice.

And I will take pride in every bite.