In times of loss, the gift of food meets many needs
When I was a kid I remember a running joke about an unofficial southern cookbook for what we called “funeral food.” Instead of organizing its chapters by dish or meal, we speculated that it would be arranged by types of friendship, illness, and situation, with a final chapter on etiquette regarding the return of Tupperware and even what to say when delivering the food.
My memories on this are hazy, but I remember casseroles, lasagna, or chicken pie being suggested for a surviving spouse, while sandwich trays of cold cuts were an option for the houses that we knew would have a revolving door of visitors stopping by. Cookies were brought for kids, always chocolate chip and never oatmeal raisin, although brownies might also work. If you were bringing something by a work friend’s house or someone you didn’t know quite well, you might bring a side dish like deviled eggs or a nice mac-n-cheese. Others might bring a signature cake or pie, always saying “Don’t worry about the container . . . don’t need it back.”
Then there were those in the breakfast bereavement camp who preferred to bring muffins or biscuits with a side of sliced country ham and fruit, because mornings are especially hard after the passing of a loved one. I even remember a dish called Funeral Potatoes that is reminiscent of Cracker Barrel’s hashbrown casserole.
Rather than bring a covered dish, my mother chose instead to offer disposable plates, cups, napkins, and utensils. Grieving families are bombarded with food in the week following their loved one’s passing, she once explained—who needs the hassle of having to do the dishes while planning a funeral and trying to navigate probate? Appreciating my mother for the genius she was, I have carried on this tradition myself.
Until recently I thought of funeral food as being unique to the South, and a tradition performed purely by women. When my southern grandmother died there were several pearl-clutched whispers among the gossips regarding the amount of time my father spent in the kitchen making enough spaghetti sauce to feed a small army. (Although, now that I think of it, it could have been the fact that he and the sauce shared two bottles of wine between them.) While gendered foodways are not unique to the south, I grew up learning that southern women cooked while southern men grilled, and grilled foods are not appropriate for funerals.
While writing this piece I was pleasantly surprised to learn that many cultures have funeral food, and, unlike the South, these cultures prepare very specific dishes for those in mourning. Even more surprising to me was the existence of actual bereavement cookbooks, and I have already requested two from Interlibrary Loan—because how could I not?
What strikes me about this particular tradition is that the food itself is meant to provide compassion as much as help to those who are grieving. The dishes are usually carb heavy and high in calories, often the type of serotonin boosting foods one would eat when in need of emotional support and, well, comfort. Friends and acquaintances often bring tried-and-true dishes that are special to them, as if to say “Here is a piece of my family to comfort yours as you grieve,” subtly telling them that they are not alone.
The bringing of this food usually occurs in the days immediately following a death, as one’s community instantly rallies around them in an effort to make sure they are fed while the rest of their world turns upside down. By the end of that week the bereaved have run out of both fridge and freezer space and have begun passing dishes and covered plates on to mail delivery people, Amazon drivers, and anyone who drops by unexpectedly. What inadvertently results is additional yet purely unintentional comfort for the bereaved, who now feel useful and hospitable instead of numb and lost. This small social act of focusing on someone else’s needs instead of trying to figure out your own feels like a gift in itself, as a facsimile of normalcy begins to establish itself alongside your grief.
Two weeks after my mother died, my father and I emerged from the blur of our bereavement wanting to bring something to her caregivers at her memory care facility, not only to say thank you but to acknowledge that they were also in mourning after her passing. My father originally wanted to give them care packages of spaghetti sauce, and I thought that perhaps we could add a box of pasta and some garlic bread so that they would have a meal to bring home to their families after a long day at work. It would have been the perfect mixture of my parents’ traditions—showing love through food during a time of grief. But our own grief needed a simpler gesture of appreciation.
We ultimately settled for an uncomplicated and unassuming sheet cake that could be shared by both the memory care staff and residents after lunch. My dad called a local bakery and asked for the cake to be decorated in bright colors with the words “Thank you” piped on top. Ever my mother’s daughter, I also bought disposable plates, napkins, and utensils in corresponding colors.
As we drove to the memory care facility in silence, our cake carefully sitting in the rear passenger floorboard, I wondered what the southern bereavement cookbook would say about what to bring the unseen and often forgotten caretakers who also feel our loved one’s absence. They missed her too, which was apparent when we all shared our favorite “Laurie Stories” over coffee and cake. After they promised to save some cake for the nurses who were off that day, we hugged tearful goodbyes and drove home to the lasagna thawing on the counter.Â
Colleen Vasconcellos is Professor of Atlantic History at the University of West Georgia. She is the author of Slavery, Childhood, and Abolition in Jamaica, 1788-1838 (Georgia, 2015) and the co-editor, with Jennifer Hillman Helgren, of Girlhood: A Global History (Rutgers, 2010).
Image: Immanuel Lutheran Church, Dixon, Illinois