A Tablespoon of Holiday Grief

Cutlets

I read a beautiful essay this week, "Butter, Sugar and a Tablespoon of Grief". The part that stood out to me most is this:

"The holidays are a time of grief for many people, when losses bubble up and balk at the meager attempts we make at cheer...The thing about grief, big and small, is that it’s ordinary. We carry our losses in our bodies, they say, deep in the tissues of our hips, our shoulders, and each new loss we experience calls up all our previous losses. We can dissolve some of this grief by moving, working it out, stretching it out, talking it out, crying it out, but can’t we also roll it out on a lightly floured countertop, shape it with our hands into something small and delicate and crisp?"

The essay spoke to how the writer's memories of loved ones she's lost around the holidays seize her at this time of year.  I can't claim to know what it feels like to be in her shoes, but the holidays bring up a measure of sadness for me, too - that of being far from family at a time that celebrates familial bonds. This is an ordinary grief in that many of us share it. But the magnitude of what we've given up by moving continents away from home hit me during the pandemic. Here in the U.S., there's been a collective outpouring of grief at the loss of yet another Christmas or Hannukah celebration with family. I look up from reading these mournful pieces realizing that I've now stacked up almost two decades' worth of missed weddings, loud Christmas breakfasts with family, milestone birthdays and anniversaries and so on. I must carry that loss somewhere deep in my tissues.

My family traditions do not involve making anything small or delicate over the holidays. If anything, the flavors are big. In addition to fruitcake, my mother's signature Christmas dishes are meat cutlets, and appam and mutton stew.

There's a comforting rhythm to making cutlets and appams. With the cutlets, you roll a spiced mixture of ground meat and potatoes into discs, dip them in egg white, coat them in breadcrumbs, and slide them into hot oil till they turn golden brown. I set up an assembly line with a large bowl of the meat mixture, followed by a small bowl for the egg whites, a platter with a bed of breadcrumbs, and a frying pan filled with shimmering hot oil. Roll, dip, dunk, and fry.

Every year, before I get into cutlet and appam mode, I'll confirm and reconfirm tips and tricks with my mother. Later, my mother will ask how it all turned out, and I'll text her photographic evidence of the meal. 

Perhaps this ritual is, in part, my way of dissolving the grief of yet another missed Christmas. The cutlets and appams mean so much more than food on a plate.

Appam and Stew