Comfort Food

Comfort Food

Noel Laflin

May 2, 2015

John came to spend his last days with us as he could no longer care for himself. This was quite awhile ago, late in the summer of 1989. It was at the height of the AIDS epidemic and my childhood friend had more than an inkling that he might not make it to see the dawning of a new decade. 

He was right unfortunately. 

We tried to make John as comfortable as possible. I painted the spare room a soothing light blue/gray color just days prior to his arrival and told him to decorate in any fashion he preferred. He chose to mount several beautiful antique cameras on the wall above the bed. It was a simple nod to his love for photography and was quite striking in look.  The old Kodak’s, with their leather bellows extended and locked into place, looked as if they were ready to capture the likeness of all who stood at the foot of the bed in fine old black and white remembrance. 

He was then quick to change out all of the plain, cheap bathroom fixtures with warm wood and brass. His towels were of a Native American design pattern - white and tan in color. 

Exhausted, John then crawled into bed, picked up the phone and scheduled interviews with home health agencies. 

When some learned what ailed him, which was just about every AIDS-related disease possible at that point, they declined to work with us. 

Other nurses did eventually take the case. Most did not last beyond a day or two as John was a tough customer. But what he secretly longed for in his caregiver, was a great cook. 

And then Mil Haley showed up one day - and stayed. What secured her the job, other than her excellent nursing skills, was her fried chicken. 

Despite all of the indignities being visited upon John's ragged body, lack of appetite was not one - well, not some of the time anyway. And, as a fine meal was truly one of his only remaining pleasures, John took advantage when it came his way. Mil's fried chicken came our way early in her deployment. We all begged for an encore. 

So, with autumn nearly at an end, Mil acquiesced and promised a Thanksgiving feast. 

She clattered about our small kitchen for hours that Sunday as I dusted off and laid out the good china and dinnerware. Flour flew. Oil sizzled. Fluffy biscuits rose. Gravy was thickened. Potatoes were mashed.  Salads were tossed. Wine was uncorked. The smell of mouth watering chicken filled the house. The greatest comfort food ever devised by our mild-mannered cook, disguised as a nurse, was about to hit the finely laid out table. 

Friends and family assembled.  The guest of honor, fresh off a blood transfusion, looked well that day too - his appetite, like ours, finely honed. 

A festive group gathered late that afternoon and ate like there was no tomorrow - and for our young friend, John, that was pretty much the case as he left us three weeks later. 

The antique cameras were boxed and placed in the care of his sister.  But I have always left the nice wood and brass upgrades to the bathroom. Occasionally a faded old tan and white towel still hits the laundry basket. 

I used to get the occasional call from Mil, who eventually moved to North Carolina. I always praised her fried chicken recipe at least once before saying goodbye. We would both recall, and then remark upon, a lovely day and gathering back in the late fall of 1989. 

It's said that a way to a man's heart is through his stomach. 

Whoever first coined that observation must have once known a fine cook, perhaps disguised as a nurse.