Last Sunday morning my mum called to tell me that my grandma wasn’t well and was in hospital. It was her worried but staying calm voice - surely all mothers have one of these - and so when she said she was going up there, I said, ok, I’ll come too.
So you know: hospital food still fucking sucks. Surely if Jamie Oliver can go nuts over school meals - there’s something to be done about hospital canteens.
When I left on Tuesday she still wasn’t doing too well, and I found myself wanting comforting and soothing food. Rice pudding at my aunt’s on Monday night hit the spot (served alongside her prize-winning strawberry jam). When I got back on Tuesday, my girlfriend greeted me with a Thai green curry. Porridge on Wednesday morning, half and half with milk and water.
Until I was 16 I was the youngest in my extended family - with six aunts and uncles that’s the youngest of quite a few. So when sad events happen within the family I often find myself reverting to type, feeling like a child in a swarm of adults. Maybe that has something to do with the infantilisation of the food I wanted to eat - soft, creamy, not too much bite.
Grandma died last night. Today all I’ve eaten is sponge cake.
