Meals on Wheels

As I wrote previously, my friend, Barb, lost her mother last week. It would seem that my reaction to most events, be it happy or sad, is always with flowers, food, or both. I might be feeling good about life, so instead of sporting a “Life is good” t-shirt, I go to Stella’s, the local florist, and “Life is orchids.” When Nathan is bummed out about something, it’s “Life sucks, and then I bake you brownies.”

On Saturday morning, I went by Barb’s parents’ house, knocked on the door, feeling somewhat the same irritation Rover must have felt when she wanted to get in most mornings but was at a loss without the power of a hand and a knock, and Rob answered. I asked, “If I was going to send Barb flowers, what address would I sent them to?” Previously, I had only ever had a post office box for her.

He said, “Well, you can send it here.” I said, “I’d rather send it to your house.” He said, “Well, we’re going to have a place to donate to like an animal shelter.”

I said, “I’ll contribute to that, too.” He seemed baffled. So, then I said, “I really want to send Barb flowers.”

He gave me the address. I thanked him, and I waddled home just like Rover did a million times before me. I thought he must think me crazy, donating to charity and sending Barb flowers; however, in matters of the heart, especially where grief is concerned, you must always respect the way in which someone needs to grieve for you, because more often than not, they grieve for you and also for themselves, even if that grief is from years past.

I went home. I got on the Internet. And, I ordered a dozen red roses for Barb with a card that said, “Thinking of you. Love, Jean and Rover.”

Over the course of the weekend, the food volunteering came. I signed up to bring food to the service, which was tentatively being held at their house this Saturday. The food offer extended to bringing dinner over for Harold, her Dad.

Barb called me the other night to confirm that Eileen’s service was at 11am this Saturday. She then said that the dinner offer for her Dad was most appreciated. She said, “He’s on a low starch, low salt, low sugar diet.”

I stammered. Barb said, “Oh, you’re working now, so if it’s a problem….” I said, “No. It’s no problem. I just don’t know if I can accommodate that diet.” Barb quickly said, “Oh, don’t worry about it. We’re not that strict.”

Phew. Because I had issues getting a “meal” on the table by 6:30 every night for my family, let alone wondering if it was “good” for them! I asked Barb what he liked; it was settled that Wednesday night would be spaghetti and meatballs and Friday night would be haddock.

Pasta and fish were good for me. I had what my friend, Tom, liked to call a “recipe vault.” I could make about twelve things well, but everything else I needed a recipe for; pasta and fish were in the vault.

Though, given that I was busy at work and totally in single-parent mode, I panicked a bit after I hung up the phone. Older people liked to eat early. How would I get dinner on the table before 6pm?!

I made a good faux marinara sauce; however, I had never made meatballs. I emailed my friend, Nancy, and asked her if she had a quick and dirty recipe; she called me immediately with her secret ingredient – meatloaf mix. After I talked to her, I thought about all I hoped to accomplish today, and I knew that I had to cave and buy meatballs.

So, yesterday, I went to the local supermarket in hopes of finding the perfect meatball. I had bought meatballs before, and they had been horrible. I perused the prepared food aisle, and there I saw on a might-as-well-be neon food sticker “Italian meatballs!”

Sold! I grabbed the container along with the spicy tuna sushi I loved, and I headed to the cash register. Once out in the car, my tummy grumbled, and I thought, “What better time to try a meatball?”

I rummaged through my bags; I pulled out the container, and then I plucked out one cold meatball. I examined it – round, covered in tomato sauce, and sprinkled with cheese. It looked like a meatball, but did it taste like a meatball?

I bit into it; I chewed it. Jeez, it was pretty damn good. Sold again!

Today, I left work early in preparation for Harold's dinner. I fetched Nate and then Iz. Iz, happy meal? Cool. Nate, you’re not hungry and you won’t be ‘til tomorrow cuz you feel like you’re gonna puke post-soccer practice? Cool.

When I arrived home, I immediately went into to Harold-dinner mode. He would be having a salad, garlic bread, and pasta. I made my sauce, added the meatballs, boiled the spaghetti, cooked the bread, cut up the tomatoes, peeled the cucumbers, put parmesean cheese into a container, grabbed a bottle of Italian dressing, and by 5:45, I had a meal wrapped up in five dishes that were covered in tin foil and saran wrap.

I said to Iz, “Get the wagon!” She ventured outside, and then she screamed, “Mom, there are leaves and water in it.” I said, “Just dump them out. We’ll put a towel down over the wagon bed.”

Two minutes later, Iz screamed, “The handle is gone.” I peered out the bay window into the backyard. It looked as though the handle was gone; so, I said, “Forget it. I think we can carry it all over.”

Iz came back inside. I handed her the bread, the salad, and the salad dressing; she seemed to balance it all well. I took the rest.

We walked over to the Harold and Eileen's retracing Rover’s every step; we crossed the street, went up the driveway, and we waited to be let in. The nurse let us in, and I then explained dinner to her as if I were Rachel Rhea. She thanked me profusely, and then I realized I forgot to include her.

I said, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I should have brought more for you!” She said, “Don’t worry.” I said, “No. On Friday, I’ll make enough fish, couscous, and carrots for you too. Do you like that?” She answered, “Yes, thanks.”

Iz and I left traveling down the path Rover had made between the two homes long ago. It seemed like it was a well-trodden dirt path we were destined to walk over many times; however, in reality, I knew we had paved Friendship Road long ago. And, though, our meal tonight didn't qualify as low starch, low salt, or low sugar, it was full of love. ♥

P.S. As it turns out, the handle to the wagon wasn’t broken. It was under the wagon. When I discovered it, Iz said, “I’m sorry!” I said, “Iz, it’s okay. It doesn’t matter how the love gets delivered as long as the love gets delivered.”