FRIED CHICKEN
The house started to come alive again late in the morning. The girls (Anne, Ellen, MJ and Christine – who jokingly became known as the “Irish Mafia”) checked in. KK had gone home to check in on her family, Charlie and Jen stopped in at about 9, mom and dad were in the middle of their trek home and someone had dropped off bagels for breakfast. I think it was MJ.
Charlie and Jen had not yet seen John John. Like with the others, it was an emotional reunion. As well, the first of our local nieces and nephews, Maggie, arrived at the house. Fourteen total on both sides of the family, there wasn’t a single one of the kids who John thought of as his favorite. They each possess their own unique characteristics and he loved each one of them for who they were. On visits, each was the target of his sarcastic nudging, a trait passed down from his father. Maggie was the oldest cousin on the Kelly side of the family. You always knew when she was in the house because John would yell out “Magoots!!” An old soul, and as crazy about tradition as her Uncle John, she would miss him greatly.
My thoughts were many and fast moving that morning like a swollen river after a storm. There was no turning them off. Oddly top of mind was the number of people who would visit in the weeks to come and the food they would bring. Because that’s what people do when someone dies, they bring food. I wanted to broadcast, ”Come see me, come talk to me, come cry with me, but please, my God please, do not bring me food that will get put in my freezer and greet me like an unwanted reminder of my husband’s death every time I go for ice.” The thought of It made me anxious.
As though a revolving door at Macy’s NYC on the Saturday before Christmas, friends came and went. I am Catholic born and raised and as such decided that the greeting and comforting of friends (them comforting us and us comforting them) must be what it is like to sit Shiva. It went on for days. Most came in disbelief, needing to see for themselves that it was true. To set eyes on us and the rest of the family and to witness the pain assured them that the rumor they heard was true. Everyone struggled with John’s death, the nature of it. He was a big guy with a big heart and a big booming voice. To think that that force of a being was gone from our lives forever was simply unimaginable.
The “Irish mafia” started to spread the word about receiving food, but the first two visitors through the door that day were welcomed lacrosse friends who let me know they would be stopping by with trays for that night. One of them owned a catering business and there wasn’t anything she made that we didn’t like. My dear college friend was also set to visit in the afternoon and was bringing homemade soup for lunch. Aunt Mare (as the kids call her) is a best friend and food blogger. Anything she brought would be welcomed.
For me, comfort food was something I ate when it was “that time of month” or when I was procrastinating on a work project, but that afternoon it took on a whole new meaning. Amidst the visits, I walked into the kitchen to find a very large tray of fried chicken. I questioned the girls about who brought it and they replied that the neighbor across the street (catty corner) dropped it off. I didn’t even know them. They had moved in a few months prior and we hadn’t yet met. But there on my counter was an enormous, incredibly delicious smelling pan of golden fried chicken. It was still warm. Unable to resist, we all took a taste off one piece but held off eating the rest until dinner that night. Comfort food, indeed. The taste warmed my insides and the thought that people truly cared about us and what had happened was a comfort to my heart.
If you are depressed or anxious and are having thoughts of suicide, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255
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