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.”