How Food Became My Mom’s Best Medicine, and Cooking Became Mine
March 18, 2024
Writer: Maddie Tarica
Editor: Carlie Pavell
The day my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer started out like any other day– I drove to school with my brother, we sang along to our favorite playlist of songs, and went to our normal rotation of classes. I chose a recipe to cook for dinner, picked up the ingredients at the market, and headed home that night. As my brother and I walked through our house, an unexplainable uneasiness settled. We entered the kitchen, and a few moments later, my parents walked in, their faces red and eyes brimming with tears. The words floated from their mouths as if silently, and I sat there, outside my body, motionless, observing their lips moving but not absorbing the message. I couldn’t find any words or any thoughts.
I convinced myself right then and there that it didn't matter; I had to believe that my mom was going to be okay. I knew she could take care of herself. I was wrong. Just because she assured us that she wasn’t going to die didn’t mean she was going to be okay. Witnessing my mom being sick was seeing someone unrecognizable: Wake up. Go to the hospital. Come home. Exhausted. Go to bed. Wake up. Back to the hospital…
Cooking has always been my way to care for myself and the people I love. From a very young age, I turned to the evening meal as an opportunity to experiment, developing and testing new recipes as a way to alleviate the stress from my parent's shoulders. Cooking became a ritual for me—there was no safer space than the kitchen. It was where my thoughts ran free, my creativity thrived, and my ADHD calmed. Cooking has taught me to trust my intuition, the value of patience, the importance of flexibility, and how to surrender to mess.
While my mom was undergoing chemotherapy, I coped with my own stress by spending all of my time in the kitchen, making sure a meal was on the stove ready for when she arrived home from the hospital. The daily ritual of preparing a meal for my mom became a silent declaration of my love.
Amidst the endless doctor's appointments and weekly chemo treatments, my mom only got more frail, more fatigued, and more sick. As time went on, it was hard to imagine a light at the end of the tunnel. But slowly, one meal after the other, I began seeing glimmers of her old self returning.
Family dinners have always been my family’s most beloved tradition, but they gained even greater significance when my mom was sick. One evening, I prepared my family's most beloved meal: pasta with peas. This simple dish is what made me fall in love with cooking for my loved ones. After the fragrant aroma of the veggies and herbs reached every corner of my house, and I made my final garnishes of parmesan and a touch of olive oil, we sat down at the dinner table. Amongst the chatter and the devouring of the meal, my mind centered and I realized how long it had been since we had all sat down at the dinner table together. As I watched my mom laughing and engaged in conversation, I was overwhelmed with solace. Despite enduring such hardship, we were still able to savor a meal and moments of delight. It was a clear reminder that even in the darkest of days, there is always light to be found.
It was at that moment that I knew that cooking had become more than just a way to nourish my mom’s body. It had become a way to feed her spirit and deliver happiness to my family in the most difficult of days. We all moved on with our evening, but I found myself returning to the delicious memory of our meal. My mom finally finished treatment, and with each bowl of pasta with peas, her depleted body was slowly restored with energy and vitality. The shadow of uncertainty and fear slowly lifted from our home and was replaced with a renewed sense of hope.
I enter the kitchen now with a greater sense of purpose. Every familiar smell or observation is a reminder of the gift of cooking – it is so much more than a skill or a hobby. Cooking with love, patience, and attention to ingredients is a transfer of care, nurturing people physically and emotionally. More than anything, a meal is a delivery system for human connection and healing, even across seemingly obstinate cultures and beliefs; For me, it is a means to care for myself and my family.