Grace Under Pressure
And a recipe for my go-to chickpea curry
When I got the news that my mom passed away unexpectedly, I stopped cooking for a month. I could–and can–barely envision what I want to eat or what might feel good, and cooking felt like an impossibility.
We held her memorial a month after she passed on a chilly Saturday afternoon in an old church-turned-performance arts center where she volunteered for years (if you’re ever in the area, check out the annual West Kortright Center garden tour) five minutes from our house. I had been dreading the day all month. The anticipation of having to face so many people. The prospect of public speaking, something I can do but admittedly don’t love doing, especially not when I’m steeped in grief. The acknowledgement of what that passing of time meant. Yes, time will supposedly dull the edges of pain, but it also means it’s been that much time since I last talked to and saw my mother.
My mom’s Williamsburg garden was featured in a design book in 1988. The article to go along with the spread of photos was titled Grace Under Pressure, something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. The morning of the service a friend who had lost a parent the same week as me texted to remind me that we can do the hard things. The hard things—grieving a parent. Forcing yourself to get out of bed every day when it feels like the world might swallow you whole. Adjusting to your life being turned upside down. Being pregnant while going through the tsunami of grief.
There must have been at least 200 people packed into the church. I had tried to avoid eye contact when I snuck in right before the service started, but there I was, in a silk dress that showed my 28 week pregnant belly to a sea of people who cared deeply for my mother.
Grace under pressure I repeated in my head. I started reading, relishing my own words as my memories filled the old church. I wanted to capture her essence as a person and a mother. I shared about the magic she created at every turn, how she was admirably free from convention, about all her accomplishments and adventures. I shared about the parts that most people didn’t see that were my favorite. How she had no greater joy than pranking us. How she insisted on taking the dogs on a drive every night at dusk to look for deer. How she thought the appropriate amount of oysters for two was three dozen. How she bought a lotto ticket every week for my entire life, and genuinely seemed to think she might win.
In the weeks leading up to the service, I felt obsessed with creating a service that would do her justice. To make sure the programs were just right. That the flower arrangements I made for the stage were proportional (something she often rattled on about: proportion, proportion, proportion). I anguished over the right order of speakers, a mix of family and friends, wanting to ensure that all points of her life were covered. That there were moments of levity punctuated by the tears.
One of her old friends sent me a message after saying, “That was the first ‘in memory of’ service where I felt a body, mind, and spirit brought to life. Isn’t it remarkable where and how we truly exist? Your mom simply shape shifted.” I think she would have been proud. After all, don’t we all just want to make a lasting impression? To inspire someone on a cellular level to consider how they’re living their life?
As we drove home, I felt a sense of relief. The entire service was beautiful. I was overwhelmed by seeing all the people whose lives she had touched over the years. There was such an outpouring of support for Ryan and I and our future baby. I felt buoyed by how our loved ones had gone above and beyond to support us, and my mom, to ensure the day was exactly as we had hoped.
The next day, I woke up and for the first time in a month, I felt like cooking. I started with granola–the batch I’d made in preparation for her homecoming had finally run out. I poured the oats into a bowl along with slivered almonds, salt, cardamom, and cinnamon. Usually there would be coconut flakes too, but I hadn’t stepped foot in a grocery store in a month. I watched the olive oil and maple syrup pool in the oats and thought about how my mom always preferred her granola a little bit burnt. I poured the oats onto a sheet pan, spreading them in an even layer, just as I’d done a million times before. I left the granola in for a few extra minutes that day, just for my mom.
Then, I moved on to chickpea curry, a dish my mom made for me growing up and something I included in Nights and Weekends. I sauteed the shallots, garlic, and ginger until aromatic and it felt like a relief to have the kitchen perfumed by familiar smells once again. In a trance I added a big pinch of salt, curry powder, cumin, paprika, and turmeric, eyeballing each. Then went in the chickpeas which got toasted with the spices. As soon as I added in the coconut milk I realized I forgot tomato paste. The lack of tomato paste also reminded me that I’d forgotten the canned tomatoes. I added a large can of those too. It felt good to do something familiar, even if I had jumbled up the steps a bit. My enthusiasm for cooking hasn’t come back in full force, but tip-toeing in to the kitchen with the old standbys (as she called them) feels like a start. I’m sharing the recipe for the curry below for paid subscribers. I hope this dish offers you comfort in the same way it does for me.
Chickpea Curry from Nights and Weekends
