Food the Soul

Bangers and mash. Ready in four minutes. Simply heat and eat. 

That’s what it says on the box. But looking at the single shrivelled sausage and grey pile of mush on the plate before me, I have to admit, I’m hesitant. I’m not the only one. I cast a glance across the table towards my youngest daughter, Sally. She’s busy pushing the pieces of cut-up sausage across her pink plastic plate. Her older sister, Jessica is just frowning at hers, looking confused.

I turn my attention back to my own meal. Suppressing a sigh, I pick up my cutlery and cut into the leathery sausage, bringing a piece to my mouth. I do have to give it some credit. It isn’t the worst meal I’ve had lately. The carbonara from last week, with its watery sauce and uncannily perfect cubes of bacon, had to have been some kind of food crime. 

Feigning a smile, I point my fork towards Sally’s plate. “It’s not bad. Try it.”

She looks down, a small frown on her face. Then, she pushes it away. “I miss Daddy’s cooking.”

My breath hitches in my throat, and I struggle to swallow the mashed potato I’d just shovelled into my mouth.

“Same here,” says Jessica, pushing her own plate away. Her lower lip is trembling. 

I have to admit, I miss it too. David, their father, had always been the real cook in the family. I’d never had the time. And when I’d been promoted to Managing Director at work, it had just made sense for him to stay at home and look after the kids. A fortunate agreement, since he’d always been a far better cook than me. But it had been almost a month — twenty-seven days to be exact — since we’d sat down to one of his home-cooked dinners. Twenty-seven days since he was taken away. It was during a hiking trip with his mates. It was supposed to have been an easy one. But something had gone wrong. There’d been an accident. Something about the rain from the previous day altering the terrain or something. I don’t know. I hadn’t been able to process the words going into my brain at the time. All I could focus on was the knowledge that one day he’d been here, then gone the next. 

I look back down at the sorry excuse for dinner on my plate. I don’t blame my daughters for not wanting to eat it. We’d mostly been eating takeaway or microwave meals over the past month. I knew they deserved better. But I just hadn’t been able to will myself back into the kitchen. It wasn’t that I hated cooking, or didn’t know how. I could rustle up something if I had to. It was more the fact the kitchen had been David’s domain. The first time I’d tried to cook something after his death, I’d opened the pantry and seen the jars, neatly organised and labelled with David’s neat handwriting, and I just… couldn’t do it. I ordered pizza that night.

But looking at the two small lives in front of me — the two girls who had done nothing to deserve any of it — I know I have to find a way. I’ve been letting them down for too long now.

I push my own plate away, and rise from the table, walking over to where they sit.

“Come here,” I say, holding my arms out wide. They wiggle from their seats and fold themselves into me, wrapping their tiny limbs as far as they can around my waist. 

“Tell you what.” I stroke their hair as I speak. “I’ll order us some takeaway tonight. Your choice. Then tomorrow, I’ll cook us something nice. Daddy style. How does that sound?” 

A muffled “Mhm.” floats up from Sally, her face buried in my shirt.

Jessica manages a feeble smile. “I’d like that.”

Cottage pie had always been a favourite in the family. I’d never made it on my own, but it seemed simple enough. But as I’d been wandering the isles of the grocery store, I quickly realised that beyond the obvious — minced beef and mashed potato — I actually have no idea what goes into making it. So, recalling the countless times I’d eaten it before, I’d tried my best to guess at the rest.

Now, I stare at the assortment of ingredients on the bench before me, hoping they’ll somehow arrange into something edible. How did David manage this every night? I’m already feeling overwhelmed, and I haven't even started yet. Did I pick the right vegetables? Will the girls like them? Do they still think vegetables are gross simply because they’re vegetables? Or have they outgrown that? Did they have favourites? And least favourites? Are there any they refuse to eat? I slump against the kitchen counter. David would know. He’d know all these things. I’d definitely taken him for granted. I can see that now. All the meals he’d cooked had been so much more than just food on the plate. He’d poured himself into everything he’d done for us. And now, somehow, I have to be that person – for them. I’ll probably never live up to his cooking — never make it taste the same, but I still have to try.

I don’t know how, but somehow I manage to produce something resembling a home-cooked meal. It’s missing the crispy golden peaks of potato that David’s had always had — but it’s something. I can already tell, based on the smell alone, it’s going to be far better than anything we’ve had in weeks. The girls are already at the table, cutlery in hand. I place their servings in front of them and Sally licks her lips theatrically. 

“This looks yummy, Mummy,” says Jessica as she prods the potato with her fork. 

“I hope it tastes as good as it looks then.” I also hope they don’t notice the lumpy potato and how wildly unevenly I’d diced the vegetables. 

I pick up a forkful and lift it to my mouth, hesitating. When was the last time I ate cottage pie? I wish I’d known to savour it back then. It would probably be a while before I’d have another one just as good. My cooking skills are certainly rusty — not that they’ve ever been great to begin with though. 

Finally, I put the fork in my mouth. I sag in relief. It tastes good. Sure, it’s missing things, and the potatoes are far lumpier than I’d thought. But it’s passable. It’s the best meal I’ve had in weeks — and the girls seem to agree. Sally is chewing with her eyes closed, wiggling happily in her chair. Jessica is eating faster than I’ve ever seen her dig into anything before. Maybe a little too fast. My eyes narrow. Any other time, I’d tell her to slow down. But, right now, I don’t want to ruin this moment. 

We all go back for seconds, and with none left for thirds, we sit at the table, satisfied.

“What did you think?” I ask them. 

“It was soooo tasty!” says Sally, nodding enthusiastically.

“Hmmm,” says Jessica, resting her chin on her tiny fist. “It was really good. But…” she trails off and looks away. 

“Go on,” I say gently. 

She looks to her sister for help. 

Sally nods. “Did you add the secret ingredient?” 

My eyebrows shoot up. “What secret ingredient?” 

“Ummm… What was it?” Sally looks back to Jessica. 

“Uh…” Jessica screws up her face in concentration. “I know! Daddy’s book.”

“Yes! Daddy’s book.” Sally scrambles off her chair and runs to the kitchen. Jessica follows close behind her. 

Curious, I follow the sounds of rustling and slamming drawers floating out from the kitchen. This is the first I’ve ever heard of a secret book. When I walk in, Sally is shuffling through the contents of one of the bottom drawers and Jessica is rummaging around in the pantry. 

“Found it!” cries Jessica. Sally whips around, abandoning the contents of the draw she’s left strewn on the floor around her. That won’t be fun to clean up later. 

“Yes, that’s it.”

Still standing in the pantry, Jessica is holding a large, battered book in two hands. She holds it out to me, proudly.

Food for the Soul is emblazoned across the top in dark red lettering. Underneath is a yellowing image of a woman sitting at a dining table, laughing at something off-camera. A recipe book. Of course. I turn it over in my hands, taking in the softened edges of the pages and the cracked spine. How old is this thing? I open the book and flick to the first recipe. It’s for some kind of beef stew. The pages are covered with various splashes of oil and sauce. My eyes are drawn to a spot just below the ingredients list where someone has written in an extra ingredient.

+ lots of mushrooms.

It’s David's handwriting. I swallow, brushing my fingers over the letters. Mushrooms had always been one of my favourite ingredients. I’d wanted them in just about everything. He’d always added them in for me, even when they’d obviously had no place in the recipe.

Hands shaking, I turn to the next recipe. This one is a creamy chicken pasta. There are additions to this one too. Extra ingredients and amended quantities. The next recipe is the same. And the next. I walk slowly back towards the dining table, flipping through the book as I do. All these recipes are meals I’ve had many times before, and all of them have been amended in some way. 

Leave some pasta plain for Sally. 

Extra tomatoes – Jess.

My eyes are stinging, and my vision is going blurry. How had I never seen this book before? Tenderly, I turn the page to the next recipe — cottage pie. I wince. Time to see what I did wrong. As it turns out, there was a lot. I managed to get the basics right, but I’d missed so much. Tomato paste, thyme, Worcestershire sauce, the sprinkle of parmesan cheese on top. All missing. No wonder mine had tasted so bland. 

A tiny finger points to the space just below the ingredients, to the single handwritten note. I hadn’t even noticed the girls standing beside me.

“There, the secret ingredient,” says Sally. 

Gravy powder (to thicken - just a sprinkle)

“That must be why yours didn’t taste like Daddy’s.” 

I nod my head and ruffle her hair gently. “Mhmm, must be it, kiddo.” 

I trace my fingers over the words, before closing the book. I wrap my arms around it and hold it to my chest. To think, I’d been worried about not being able to recreate David’s cooking. I’d thought I’d never be able to make it taste the same. But it was never about that. It was never about how well I could cook or the quality of the meal. The girls had made that clear. My cottage pie had paled in comparison to David’s, but that hadn’t stopped them polishing off two servings each. What it possessed that the microwave meals had lacked was soul. A meal, cooked from the heart, for someone else.

I smile to myself as I place the book down and re-read the title — Food for the Soul. Such a cliched title, but I suppose it had some truth. I vow to never let it go, because I think, as long as I have it, things will be ok.