Last night I went and bought a 10 pound ham and took over the kitchen with a fit of frenzy. I prepared the ham in the tradition of my people, which involves pineapple slices and brown sugar.
Unsatisfied that ham alone is the full embodiment of comfort, I peeled, boiled and mashed potatoes with generous additions of butter, cream, salt and pepper.
I got some of those big foil roasting pans and prepared everything to take upstairs to Isaiah's grandmother. She was not home, which ulimately was a good thing as it gave the ham time to cool from third-degree-burn-straight-out-of-the-oven temperature to warm and ready to eat.
I heard the sound of people walking around which meant that someone was home.
When I got to the door, the next door neighbor saw me and just opened the door.
I walked into an apartment full of older women in flowered dresses all scuttling about. Isaiah's grandmother was not there, but one of the ladies helped me carry everything to the kitchen and then I departed. I hope that the ham goes to good use. I know it's hard to think of food when grieving, but I just hope that my love expressed through pork will warm their souls a bit.
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