I was back home in Columbus on my own for the first time in years. The tempo of those few summer days in 2018 was determined entirely by my retired parents. We had breakfast at the corner diner. We watched the daily news until Jeopardy came on. I assumed kitchen duty, as well as the morning cat shift, to earn my keep. Mom casually mentioned how nice it was to have someone else around to help with things. She was slowly losing interest in cooking and, to some extent, food since her restaurant closed, which was understandable. The whole endeavor of buying Benevolence and its evolution from a known brand in a freestanding location to increasingly smaller stalls at the North Market with a different name was peppered with malevolence and the nasty politics of a small metropolis food scene. Mom is a sweet lady with Flower Child values, so the whole mean mess significantly eroded her worldview.
Mom officially announced the end of her tenure as family head chef the first winter after the restaurant drama concluded. I was cleaning up after breakfast one morning, when she and Dad sort of manifested in the kitchen; standing next to each other in that way couples do when they have something life shattering to say. The memory of my parents’ black stove shining under the quartet of recessed lights and the smell of Ms. Meyers is keen here because I was on high alert. Instead of “Dad has cancer” or “You’re actually adopted,” it was just “I don’t really cook anymore.” The phrase didn’t match the guilt in her tone and body language though. We talked a bit about why and soothing words and assurances were exchanged. She had not only cooked for the masses professionally, but also sustained our family for decades after all. Dad could pick up the mantle now that he wasn’t working full time.
But back to the summer of 2018. That afternoon’s rain shower had Mom feeling some sort of way, and she asked if she could make me something. As is customary in the Midwest, I told her it wasn’t necessary; that I could make something. She performed her part of the duet without missing a beat and insisted. My brain coughed up a pumpernickel and swiss grilled cheese with horseradish cream on it. Mom threw it together one afternoon during my childhood while we oversaw the annual garage sale, and it was still with me. Mom’s present day kitchen lacked most of the ingredients for that particular item, but her cheese drawer – often filled with redundant packets of swiss and cheddar in various stages of decay – still yielded an epic sandwich. She puttered and I sang the praises of simple food done well. We reminisced about garage sales and her variations of grilled cheese over the years. Her advice was to use a lot of butter. Despite the happy chat, my brain let me know that this was likely the last thing Mom would cook for me.
Instinct is a funny thing. That message interrupted a quiet moment of connection free from the menfolk’s incessant need for attention. These instances were becoming increasingly rare during trips back home, so I was vexed with my stupid brain for its inability to just be happy and in the moment for once. Adding to this was the fact that prior attempts to facilitate girl time were often confounded by the sense that she was withdrawing from life or being overridden by some kind of static. Was her hearing getting worse? Would she perhaps benefit from talking to a professional about the restaurant closing? Was it the disappointment of their retirement years not turning out as planned? Every time I asked, everything was fine. However, everything is always fine in the Midwest. If my brother or I tried to push the question, Dad quickly shut it down.
Everything.Was.Fine.
As it turned out, my instinct was correct. That grilled swiss on rye with mustard was indeed the last meal Mom would ever cook for me. Her archival cheese drawer, which my brother had questioned years earlier as a possible red flag, and her resignation from the kitchen were actually early signs of Alzheimer’s. It would take the pandemic to pin down her diagnosis, but I’m glad that I was able to understand the end while it was happening.