This week a friend asked me what I liked about cooking. I gave her a predictably long-winded response that ranged from my fascination with the beautiful chemistry of roasting cauliflower to the frivolous delight of picking out seasonally-appropriate paper napkins – the latter a habit that my daughter would call “bougie,” and, well, she’s not wrong. I tried to capture the specific brand of joy that cooking brings me in a previous post, but this past week, my friend’s question felt especially relevant as I returned to cooking in my kitchen after an eight week unplanned hiatus. My real answer is the same as it was years ago: for me, cooking is a reflexive act. It gives me a structured (and mercifully, time-limited) space to let my mind wander without my usual judgment and pragmatic attempts at redirection. As I chop and stir and taste, and occasionally wave tea towels at the smoke detector while it blares the now familiar soundtrack to my culinary experiments, I find I am able to sort through a surprising amount of internal gunk. My kitchen is the place where I can sit comfortably and think about the people and things that need my attention without dissolving into a full-scale panic. All things that seem frightening and impossible in the 3 a.m. darkness somehow feel manageable as I wield my knife on the butcher board and listen to the sounds of my family pretending to do homework between touchdowns. While I can’t say I’ve found a recipe for world peace in my soup pot, I have managed to work through some thorny emotional issues while slicing and dicing. The kitchen is where I find my centre of gravity; the place where I take stock of things when the world feels like it’s closing in.
In mid-August, I broke my ankle. The circumstances will not surprise anyone who knows me: I slipped on the grass hill at my church, moments after enjoying a lovely summer evening concert. The churchwarden in me delights in reporting that I was carrying the donation box when I fell, sliding rather inelegantly down the small incline that leads to the parking lot. I have a slightly hazy but mortifying memory of shiny toonies rolling around me as I landed on the asphalt. I watched as twenty-dollar bills floated gently around me like manna from the sky as I tried unsuccessfully to maneuver my foot from its alarming position under my tush. It was, as they say, a scene.
Flash forward eight weeks. My daughter leaps from the couch to give me an “up top” high five and bear hug as I descend the stairs for the first time without my walking boot. My son is characteristically more restrained, but in his outstretched hand and quiet “Dap me up, mum,” (what that mean anyway?) I sense both pride and deep relief. His gentle eyes cheer me on as I make my way to the kitchen and begin, ever so slowly, to take stock. I open the fridge and announce, to no one in particular, that it’s time to get cooking.
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Words feel inadequate to describe the last eight weeks. I still swing wildly from the feeling that my injury has radically shifted my perspective on All The Things to the sense that nothing at all has changed. It has been humbling to realize that while I wax poetic about the meaning of my broken foot, my middle aged bones have have quietly gotten on with the work of fusing together, albeit with the some help from a talented surgeon and some high grade titanium hardware. As expected, I’ve had the full gamut of emotions since that night. I’ve felt profound relief that the surgery went well and have been thankful for the excellent medical care that I have received at every step. These feelings have existed alongside my recurring bouts of anger, frustration and sadness as I navigate the daily challenges of my recovery. Some days have been worse than others: one night my kids texted me a photo of the 40 yard line as they cheered from our usual seats at the Argos game. That sparked a crying jag that lasted the entire fourth quarter (thankfully, the Argos still crushed it).
Some emotions have been harder to understand. I admit to feeling twinges of awkwardness when well-meaning friends and family remark on my progress. I’m not exactly sure why, but I think it’s rooted in a sense that my healing has occurred not because of me, but in spite of me. To be clear, I’m proud of the way I’ve stuck with my challenging (read: tortuous) physio exercises and I believe my husband when he reminds me that I’m pretty damn good at doing hard things. Yet when I think back on the last two months, I can’t help but feel that the work of recovery was not really just mine. I think of those tender days immediately after my surgery when, ensconced in my basement, I sat while loved ones brought a steady supply of food, flowers, treats, cards, puzzles and other delights to lighten my load and keep me laughing. I know with certainty that my healing was made possible by a string of ordinary kindnesses that stretched from my basement couch to my back door. My recovery was the collective work of a motley but beautiful crew of saints and sinners who showed up day after day, loving me back to my own two feet, and caring for me in a thousand different ways. It was the work of my doctor friend in my congregation who helped get me off the hill that night and into my car. It was the work of the many nurses, technicians and doctors who would come after her to mend the ugly broken bits and sew up seeds of hope along with my stitches. It was the work of beloved friends and family who showed up with birthday cake and dice games, and who cheerily drove me to my pre-op appointment (and importantly, enthusiastically supported request to stop on the way home for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese). It was the work of my beautiful husband and two teenagers who never once complained about my relentless demands for coffee and lime bubly, and who kept my spirits and my body upright when I needed it the most. It was the work of a whole community of people who prayed with me and for me, reminding me that God was with me in the basement and in my mess, not to mention all the places in between.
Last night, on the eight week anniversary of my injury, it made my way up the church hill on my own for the first time. I joined twenty others for our weekly Campfire Compline. In the Christian tradition, Compline is the office of evening prayer. Its name comes from a Latin word meaning “completion,” and it’s a beautiful and reflective way to close out the day. One might think of it as a liturgy of taking stock, and giving ourselves and the concerns of our day over to God as we welcome in the darkness. Needless to say, it’s my favourite form of prayer.
As I slowly and tentatively made my way up the stone steps to the hill, I felt my fear give way to gratitude. No doubt, part of it was the sheer thrill of being able to finally walk up the steps on my own, but there was much more to it. As I watched the group assemble quietly around the fire, I was overcome with awareness of the boundless well of love and support that has surrounded me these past eight weeks. I stood for a moment to take it all in, trying to remember the words of the Prayer of St. Patrick, which I learned as a child. I could only remember the first few lines..Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me, Christ before me but somehow, it felt like the exactly the right prayer for that moment. After a while, I made my way into the circle, warming my hands around the blazing fire that my daughter helped to build, and beaming at Gus the dog, who had sauntered up for an ear scratch.
A little later, as I listened to the Psalmists heed their ancient prescriptions for living well, I took some quiet comfort in the knowledge that even the strongest trees that are planted by water sometimes need help. While I can’t say I am grateful for my broken ankle, I am grateful for the ways that this experience has helped me to take stock, and see the breathless beauty around me, even amidst the broken parts. It’s a pretty nice view, and even better from the kitchen.
