By The week before. Seven days until the anniversary. Seven days until Valentine's Day. Seven days until I stand in the kitchen and cook the dinner that was interrupted by death.
I've been preparing. Not just the food — myself. I've been going through the house, touching things. Earl's recliner — I still haven't moved it. His shoes by the back door — still there. His jacket on the hook — still there. His reading glasses on the nightstand — still there. I don't move them. I won't move them. They mark the space where a man lived, the same way a gravestone marks the ground where he rests. The house is a museum of Earl, and I am its only curator.
Kayla came over Tuesday and we talked. Really talked. Not about cooking or the hospital or the family — about grief. About what it does to you. About how it changes shape but never size. About how there are days when I forget he's gone for a full minute and then the remembering hits like a truck. She listened. She didn't offer solutions. She didn't say "it gets better" or "he's in a better place." She said, "I know, Granny. I know." Because she does. She lost her father at two. She grew up in the shadow of Michael's absence. She knows grief the way I know cooking — in her hands, in her bones, in the daily practice of living with what's missing.
I ordered the flowers. Pink carnations. From Doris on Habersham. Same florist, same flowers. I told Doris, "This is the last time I'll order carnations for Valentine's Day." She was quiet. Then she said, "Dot, they'll be the most beautiful ones I've ever made." I believe her. Doris has been making our carnations for forty years. She knows what these flowers mean. She knows they're not just flowers this year. They're a goodbye.
Made fried okra from the freezer tonight. The last bag from last summer's garden. When it's gone, it's gone until July. Some things can't be preserved forever. Some things are seasonal. Even love is seasonal — it has its summers and its winters. This is the winter. But spring is coming, baby. Spring is always coming.
Now go on and feed somebody.
The fried okra I mentioned — that was the last bag, and I fried it up without ceremony because Earl would’ve wanted it used, not mourned over. But it made me think of the other things we put up from that garden, the beets especially, the ones we’d pull in late summer and I’d cook down in that sweet, tangy glaze he loved over rice. Harvard Beets were never fancy, but Earl always said they tasted like something worth growing for. Tonight, with the okra gone until July and the anniversary coming, this feels like the right recipe to share — one more gift from the ground he tended.
Harvard Beets
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 20 minutes | Total Time: 30 minutes | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 1 can (15 oz) sliced beets, drained, liquid reserved
- 1/3 cup granulated sugar
- 1 tablespoon cornstarch
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 1/3 cup white vinegar
- 2 tablespoons unsalted butter
Instructions
- Reserve the liquid. Drain the beets, setting aside 1/4 cup of the canning liquid. If using fresh-cooked beets, use water in its place.
- Make the glaze. In a small saucepan over medium heat, whisk together the sugar, cornstarch, and salt. Slowly stir in the vinegar and reserved beet liquid until smooth.
- Cook until thickened. Bring the mixture to a gentle boil, stirring constantly, and cook for 3–5 minutes until the sauce is glossy and thick enough to coat a spoon.
- Add the beets. Stir in the sliced beets and butter. Reduce heat to low and simmer for 8–10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the beets are heated through and well coated.
- Serve warm. Spoon into a bowl and serve alongside rice, roasted chicken, or whatever needs feeding that evening.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 140 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 6g | Carbs: 22g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 220mg