Comfort Food

When Libby announced, at the age of 11, that she’d no longer be eating meat, thank you very much, her mother, Karen wasn’t the least bit surprised. She’d given her the name Liberty after all and had witnessed how the name had manifested itself in a variety of ways, from her refusal to wear matching clothes or any pink, and to having tea parties with plants instead of dolls.

That day in school, Mr. Harmon had showed his 6^th grade science class a video highlighting the effects of human development on the planet. In one scene, a nest of baby ducklings was crushed to death under the smooth wheel of a bulldozer. Libby was horrified and choked on her sobs, despite the sniggers she heard around the classroom. Mr. Harmon opened his class discussion by asking if the students thought it was fair animals lost their habitats to make way for shopping malls.

“They’re just birds” said one boy in the back. “Like chickens. And we kill them for KFC. Umm. Finger licking good!” As the class laughed and continued their discussion, Libby sat in silence. It never occurred to her before that animals had to be killed for her to get a Happy Meal or chicken fingers. From the time the video stopped to when Karen arrived home after work, Libby calmly weighed the pros and cons of eating meat and decided that for the rest of her life, she’d play no part in an animal’s death.

Karen sighed upon hearing the news. She’d put a roast in the crockpot that morning and had looked forward to a meal that required her to do nothing more than ladle out chunks of meat and vegetables.

“How about a grilled cheese, then?” she smiled. Libby having feared a battle or refusal, grabbed Karen around the waist tightly and cried. “Thank you Mommy.”

“Libs, I’ll probably still eat meat, but we’ll make it work together. Always, always stay true to what you believe but don’t force it on other people. Promise?”

So began the Friday ritual of “Grilled Cheese Night”. After a few weeks of single wrapped cheese and white bread, they began experimenting, both loving emmental on rye and hating roquefort. Karen was surprised that she liked brie and fontina and was especially fond of haloumi, which wasn’t too far off from a fried cutlet texture-wise. They added pickles, roasted veggies, pesto, and even fruit and jam. Mushrooms, onions, dill pickle, and cheddar became known as The Libber and their favourite.

But it wasn’t the endless combos that made the night a treasured part of the week. While they chopped, smeared, grilled, and assembled, they talked without restraint. No TV, no pressure of sitting face to face. Side by side, hands busy, they were freed. They gossiped about workmates and classmates; they ridiculed and speculated about the aunts, uncles, and cousins. They talked about Libby’s future, her crushes, and the thoughts that crushed her. And sometimes they even talked about her absent father.

 In high school, they made room around dances, theatre, and sleepovers for Grilled Cheese Night, and more than once Karen thought how cheese was the oozy glue that held them together. She kept waiting for Libby to hate her, to shun her very existence. They had battles over make-up, grades, and curfew, but she couldn’t help but marvel that Libby was “a damn good kid.”

During her first semester of college, Libby came home every weekend for laundry, her own bed, and snuggles with her cat. She was full of chatter about what she was learning at school, especially her Environmental Studies class, most of which was over Karen’s head. But her thirst was contagious and Karen found herself reading more during those days when Libby’s absence made the silence of the house hum so loudly.

The changes in Libby were so gradual that Karen didn’t really notice until one day she came home to a scowling Libby and her counters covered with the contents of her fridge and cupboards.

“How can you eat all this crap, Mom? Processed lunch meat? Hamburger Helper? There isn’t one thing that hasn’t been made in a factory!”

“Well, I haven’t done the shopping yet, for starters. And this is my food, remember? I thought we always agreed you wouldn’t shove your beliefs down anyone’s throat. Especially mine.”

“Mom,” she began as though talking to a child, “you just have no idea how these food corporations are slowly killing us and the planet.”

“All right. Well, let’s go to the deli and bakery and get some good stuff for grilled cheese.”

Libby gave a frustrated groan.

“I’m vegan now, remember? The dairy industry is horrific. Dairy cows are forced to live in tiny stalls and be constantly pregnant. Their babies are taken away from them immediately. It’s so cruel.”

Karen looked at the stranger before her who was a thinner, angrier version of her daughter. “We could make a salad?”

“With overpriced lettuce that thousands of gallons of petrol were used to transport? That come in non-biodegradable plastic bags? No thanks. I’ve got to go.”

And she left, her disgust lingering in the air for days. Karen ate ham sandwiches and TV dinners in silence, feeling both devastated and relieved when the phone rang. She didn’t know the person on the other line. This other person was passionate. Articulate. Grown up. This other person quoted statistics and said things like, “Karen, I can’t gossip and joke with you knowing what is happening in the world. Your first world privilege has blinded you to the reality of suffering.”

One night a pale, dishevelled Libby arrived looking as though she hadn’t showered in days.

“Mommy, he broke up with me.” Karen didn’t know who “he” was, but she pulled her daughter to her as a life’s worth of tears spilled out, her head resting on Karen’s chest as it had since she was born.

“Can you make me a sandwich?”

“I’ll hold the cheese.”

 

A Tiger's Stripes

The street awakens at dawn. Those who continue to sleep think it’s the roosters who start it all, but actually women unfold the day as they light fires, fill buckets, soak rice, mop floors, hang wash, and chop vegetables. So it seemed to Tom who was walking through the winding streets having finished his fourteenth beer a half an hour earlier. He still wore the uniform of the English teacher—khakis and a polo shirt—but he’d long lost the scent of a shower. He had a class in three hours but was in no hurry. Strong coffee and a steamed bun would get him through the two hours of basic conversation and he’d go back to his unfurnished apartment and collapse onto the mattress on the floor. He found that he actually taught better hungover or slightly drunk, his brain and mouth working more slowly and limited in a way that was easier for the students to understand. No witty asides or tangents today.

As he neared the 7-Eleven, he saw a man lying on the curb of the street. Blood was seeping from a gash on his forehead. Tom stopped and stared. The man was in plain sight, yet no one seemed concerned. Motorbikes, people young and old, and the soi dogs all went around him careful not to hit him, but not bothering to stop. Tom caught the eye of a woman who was washing some dishes in a plastic bucket nearby. He pantomimed dying and pointed to the man. She pantomimed drinking and pointed to him, “Same same you!” and cackled as she dumped out the water.

The water ran down the street and pooled around the man’s feet. Tom, still drunk and unsure of the cultural etiquette this situation called for, went on to the 7-Eleven and headed home for a long shower and leisurely breakfast.

At the school, he told the story to his colleague, Jam, who was much revered for his kindness and philanthropy. Jam would teach all day and then spend the evening volunteering at an orphanage, making merit at temples, or giving students extra help for free. But despite Tom’s impassioned plea that they had to help the man, he scoffed and made a brushing away motion with his large bony hand,

“He’s a loster.”

“What? He’s lost or he’s a loser?”

“Both, Tom. A loster. Some people like him we cannot help. Everyone—his brothers, the monks, the shop owners tried every time. But he always choose the wrong way.”

After class, rather than go home, Tom stopped at a few shops for supplies and went to search for the man. He was in the same spot but sitting up, smoking a cigarette, and watching the people go by. The blood was a thick brown crust covering his right cheek. Again, people swerved around him but didn’t stop or look. He had open sores on his legs and his feet were bare.

Sitting down, Tom pulled out two cans of Leo and offered one to the man who grabbed it with a toothless laugh. Tom pointed at himself and said, “Tom” and pointed at the man. The man pointed at himself and said, “Tom”. He tried again but with the same result. Tom gave up and set about cleaning and dressing the wound which wasn’t as bad as it looked. The man stared straight ahead and Tom could hear the sound as he drank the beer in long gulps.

The people on the street stopped and stared at the foreigner playing doctor to the drunk. Some pointed and laughed and more than a few shouted angrily at him. He figured they were calling him an enabler, but he didn’t care. When they’d finished their beers, Tom stood up and shook the man’s limp hand and turned to leave, but the man followed him. He mimed that he was going to sleep but the man just laughed and copied the motion. He wanted to run, or at the very least, start walking quickly, but the cruelty of it made him feel more nauseous than he already was. But when he realised that he could drink all day and do a random act of kindness, he laughed and draped an arm over the man’s bony shoulders.

They sat at a concrete table on the beach making a pyramid of the empty Leo cans and putting their cigarettes out in a Styrofoam container that once held some barbecued pork. With the help of pen and paper in his bag, Tom discovered many things about the man, who drew quite well, despite his shaking hands. His name was “Ton”, which means “tree”. Earlier he hadn’t been just repeating what Tom said. His parents were farmers. He was too. He liked Manchester United and hated frogs. He’d had a family but they died. The man drew tears but his eyes were dry.

Eventually, he stood up and curled up under the shade of a tree and immediately fell asleep. For a moment, Tom envied sleeping with the feeling of the wind and the sound of the surf until he remembered the ants and flying cockroaches and small children who would love nothing more than to poke and prod a slumbering foreigner.

The next day at school, Tom told Jam about his afternoon with Ton. He felt sure he could convince Jam to help him.

“He’s not a bad man. He’s had bad luck. His family died and he’s all alone. Isn’t there any way to help him?”

“Did he tell you the story about how his family died?”

“No, but I’m guessing it was some kind of accident or illness.”

“His family died, yes. But because he was drunk and driving. And after that, he didn’t stop. He’ll never stop. Some tigers cannot change their stripes.”

Tom suddenly could smell the 36 hour drinking session on his breath and radiating from his skin, despite his shower. Jam looked at him carefully.

“But Tom, you can.”