After the last episode of The Kitchen Widow, my daughter came to me with an idea and a request. She wanted to honor her dad and share HER wisdom. Cooking is her way of remembering and she has some advice for other grieving kids.
Together, we brainstormed and she decided to invite one of her dad’s friends over to make something very Sicilian and very yummy! Cooking sparked a touching conversation between the chef’s daughter and friend. They covered lessons of love, loss and, of course, the importance of proper salting. 🙂
I love this episode for many reasons, not the least of which is that it reminds us of the important role family and friends can play in a child’s life after loss.
At 31, I had two major roles. On-screen, I worked as a TV actor and, off-screen, I was wife to a brilliant, Sicilian-born chef, my husband Saro. It was an ideal life for the girl who had always dreamed of a life in the arts and who begged the last bite at the end of a delicious meal.In the restaurant business, a chef’s wife is known as a “kitchen widow” because their partners are lost to the demands of the restaurant business.
Yet the paths life puts before us are often marked with unexpected turns. Without any warning, Saro was diagnosed with a rare, life threatening bone cancer, leiomyosarcoma. The floor fell out from underneath us and a new life rose up to meet us. His career as a professional chef was over in a flash. In the course of a single afternoon, I took on a role familiar to millions of Americans, I became a primary caregiver.
We did what many people do when cancer hits, we put our noses down and prepared to fight the good fight. Initially, I thought we could merely will ourselves back into our old life with diet, meditation, love, and laughter. If we did all the “right” things, we’d find our way into a lifetime of tomorrows. Cancer would be a part of our narrative, but it wouldn’t define it.
I was partially right. Love and laughter are essential ingredients to a life under assault. Eating strategically makes significant differences. With grace, luck, dedicated doctors, brilliant nurses and practitioners, numerous clinical trials, personal and emotional tenacity, my husband defied the odds.
In the end, our “lifetime” lasted ten miraculous years. Looking back, we had that time to learn about deep, soulful living in times of crisis.
Long-term caregiving means to witness, assist and love someone through a difficult journey. To do that I had to learn how to build a network of friends and family who could go the distance. I had to learn how to ask those people for help. I had to learn to be honest about my own fears, vulnerability, my burnout and even resentment. (Yes, caregivers have all that.)
Often long-term caregiving ends in loss. Grief doesn’t move in a straight line. Each person’s grief journey will be unique to their life experience, personality and relationship to the person who has passed away. Saro passed away before I learned how to make a perfect risotto, before we could celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary, before our daughter could make him tiramisu. But not before we got a chance to say what we wanted to say to each other. Not before he made me promise to continue to live fully and openly, when I felt ready.
Today, I am a widow (I always stumble when I say that) and a mother (that always makes me smile). The chef’s daughter is a gregarious, wise, funny, soulful human being with tremendous compassion. The chef’s widow is moving forward in the role of kitchen widow with a mission to give back, one flavor at a time.