“Nothing I prepared tasted like Eppie’s cooking, but the act of doing it gave me a chance to be with her for a bit.”
“That’s pitiful, Katie. I taught you better than that,” Eppie scolded me on a phone call. She laughed while I explained that Peter, my husband, did all the cooking. I laughed too, but with sadness threaded through.
I wanted to see Eppie, who I’ve called P-Pod since I was a child. She lives in an assisted living home on the other side of the country. Given that she is almost 80, Eppie is particularly vulnerable to the virus’ wrath; no visitors are allowed. I’m not sure when I will be able to see her next.
She is my only living parent, though we are not related by blood. My mom worked demanding hours and traveled often internationally. My time at home was usually spent with Eppie who picked me up from school, took my temperature with the back of her hand when I was sick, and taught me how to love food.
Katie C Reilly
The author (right) pictured with Eppie who lives in an assisted living home on the other side of the country.
When I think about my childhood, I smell onions from Eppie’s homemade chicken noodle soup. I would always sneak bites before it was done. I hear the sizzling of butter cooking fried hot dogs in the morning—my favorite breakfast. I see the salty tomato sauce on her chicken cacciatore, the butter that oozed off her crispy grilled cheese, and the browned gravy that covered the mashed potatoes.
The kitchen was always a place to laugh: not giggle, but laugh until tears streamed down your face. There was no schedule, no time limit, no judgment—just a place to be together.
“Nobody likes a spoiled little girl,” Eppie would remind me as her belly jumped up and down with laughter. At a young age, she let me use sharp knives and handle the skillet as I stood on a stool to reach the counter and stove top.
With the preparation of each dish, I saw Eppie in my childhood kitchen. As I sliced carrots, I was slicing the same ingredients for Eppie as she sang “Purple Rain.”
When I moved out for college, and the physical distance between me and Eppie grew, so did my relationship with cooking. My husband now cooks almost all our meals. Though I fulfill my roles as the family accountant, planner, and shopper, I am now a stranger in the kitchen.
And now, instead of planning a trip to bring my toddler daughter to spend time with Eppie, I am stuck with worries about her health. To combat my anxiety, I decided to cook.
“Katie, you haven’t cooked in years. Do you really think a pie is the best place to start?,” Peter asked after I told him my plan to cook the foods that I once shared with Eppie. It might not have been the most practical plan, but it was what my heart needed.
As I peeled apples, my mind took me to the back porch of my childhood home. She stabbed a piece of apple with her knife, ate off the tip and then passed the next one to me the same way.
With the preparation of each dish, I saw Eppie in my childhood kitchen. As I sliced carrots, I was slicing the same ingredients for Eppie as she sang “Purple Rain.” I saw Eppie throwing each ingredient into a big pan like a caldron. As I chopped, Eppie chopped too. Her fingers were thick and her hands were soft.
As I peeled apples, my mind took me to the back porch of my childhood home. She stabbed a piece of apple with her knife, ate off the tip and then passed the next one to me the same way. She had several rings on—each of which had a story—and long fingernails painted bright red.
“Hmm … this is so delicious!,” she’d say after sampling every dish. She reveled in each mouthful, not afraid to sing her own praises.
Nothing I prepared tasted like Eppie’s cooking, but the act of doing it gave me a chance to be with her for a bit. At a time when things have been taken away, I was able to focus on how much Eppie has given to me.
When I cooked Eppie’s dishes, I forgot parsley for the chicken noodle soup and bought pre-made pie crust for the apple pie, diminishing the flavor that I had longed to find. I stopped periodically throughout each dish to Google words like “sprig,” “dice,” and “springform,” only to realize that I had put in the incorrect amount.
Nothing I prepared tasted like Eppie’s cooking, but the act of doing it gave me a chance to be with her for a bit. At a time when things have been taken away, I was able to focus on how much Eppie has given to me.
Eppie now calls once a day. “I’ve got to go. I convinced Peter to make scrambled eggs,” I said recently, near the end of a call.
“Katie, I thought we talked about how you need to cook more!” she reprimanded me and paused. “Are they any good?”
“They’re soft, perfectly yellow, and he uses lots of butter. I love you P-Pod. Talk tomorrow?”
“Love you too. Enjoy your eggs.”
