How Will You Eat?

Cooking was not a gift I received at birth, and after eightyfour years I can report it never arrived later. I have no interest, no imagination, and certainly no talent. After spending eleven years trying to feed four perpetually hungry teenagers, I made myself a solemn promise. I would never voluntarily cook again.

That resolution led to one of the more unusual conversations I’ve ever had.

During my second conversation with the man who would become my fourth husband, I asked the practical questions first. How many children did he have, and how old were they? Once I learned they were grown or nearly so, I moved to the truly important subject.

“I should tell you,” I said, “I don’t cook. It’s simply not one of my talents, and it never will be.” Without missing a beat, Jack smiled and said he loved to cook and was good at it.

Well, that hurdle cleared, we could finally discuss whether we even wanted to date. Since honesty seemed to be working, I added one more disclaimer. “I also don’t intend to get married again. I’ve already done that three times.” Jack raised an eyebrow, looked straight at me, and asked, “Who’s asking?” That was the beginning of twenty wonderful years together.

Our marriage ended on Leap Day, February 29, 2004. Three years after his lung transplant, Jack lay in his hospital bed, looked at me, and asked one final question. “How are you going to eat?” I laughed and assured him I would find food. He nodded, closed his eyes, and began the journey from which he never returned.

It has taken me years to understand that question. He wasn’t worried about recipes. He knew I could survive on cereal for breakfast, a bologna and cheese sandwich for lunch, and microwave popcorn for dinner. He often teased I ate like a coyote, and he wasn’t wrong. What he worried about was me.

His last earthly concern wasn’t for himself. It was whether I would be cared for when he no longer could care for me. Twentytwo years later, my meals still wouldn’t impress a nutritionist, much less Jack. But every bowl of cereal and every sandwich reminds me of the man who loved feeding me far more than I ever loved eating.

In the end, his question was never about food. It was simply another way of saying, “Who’s going to take care of you now?”