A Bowl of Solace: Emanuel "Red" Conason, 1912 - 2008

Even when the death of a beloved parent is expected, it comes hard.  Or so it has come to us, in any case.  

My father was diagnosed with a terminal prognosis more than seven months ago; at the time, he was given three months to live. 

Somehow or other, the fact that he outlived his diagnosis for so long lulled us into thinking that he wasn't really going anywhere -- especially since, thanks to the excellent care he got, he was lucid and out of pain enough to be his cantankerous but much beloved self up until his last day or so.

Last week we were up at his home for one of our three or four weekly visits, and I said to G, "Something's different.  Something's changed, and I can't quite put my finger on it.  He's less responsive."   He seemed to me to be going inside himself, retreating from all of us.   By Thanksgiving day, he had stopped responding, although he was not unconscious.  He simply would not open his eyes, and batted away any form of help or inquiry, refusing even to take water.  During the phone call I made to ask for counsel, one of my wise and beloved cousins (who is also a gerontologist) said, upon hearing my description of his behavior, "He's trying to leave, sweetie," confirming what I had both suspected and feared.

"What do I do?" I said, beside myself.  Then came the words that might be the hardest to hear:  "Nothing.  There's nothing left to do, except to make him comfortable." 

We dragged the half-cooked Thanksgiving dinner I had planned for us, for him and for his wonderful caregiver up to his house, and ended up dragging it home again when we finally left to get some sleep, since it seemed we might come back in the morning to continue our vigil with him.  During our time with him, we both succumbed to tears at various moments.  I wondered a bit at my usually stoic, somewhat misanthropic husband's deep sadness.  "You love Red so much," I said wonderingly.  "You've only known him in these past few years, and he isn't exactly the easiest person to have a relationship with, and yet he loves you, and you love him too."  "How could I not love him? He gave me you," he said without even thinking as he sobbed and grabbed me and held me close.

As is so often the case with the dying, Red apparently wanted his privacy, and not an hour after we got home, we got the call from his caregiver Noralene.  "He's not breathing so good," she told my husband.  "What exactly does that mean?" my husband asked her gently.  "Is he breathing at all?"  "Umm, not really," she said, with the intention of breaking it to us gently, I suppose. Even in that most extreme moment, it was good to have a reason for a big belly laugh -- just the kind of joke that Red would have most enjoyed. 

We went back up to his house, and took care of things.  Then we went home, to a few days of little sleep, less food and intermittent storm-tossed bouts of grief.  I've finally gotten some sleep, and I've managed some bites of meals now and again, like the other night when the above-mentioned beloved cousin put a plate of Thai food in front of me and I didn't have to choose or prepare or think about it -- or like today, when more beloved cousins took us to the Members' Dining Room at the Met, and we ate and drank in company.  Even then I could only eat half of the lovely brunch set in front of me. 

But although I don't feel at all like cooking, and it will probably be a long time before I can look at a Thanksgiving meal with any real enthusiasm, I couldn't waste an entire turkey.  We gave quite a lot of the meal away, and tried to eat some last night.  I ate a few bites, but the only thing I could handle was the plain baked sweet potato.    The turkey frame called to me, however.  To throw it out would be sacrilege in our family.  There was simply no way I could not make a turkey soup, no matter how melancholy I felt.

It's about the best turkey rice soup ever made, with a broth that, while it doesn't exactly cure, provides a lot of comfort for what ails us at the moment.  And when I don't want to eat anything, a bowl of this soup goes down pretty easy.  Nothing comes without tears these days, though.  While making the soup, the thought came unbidden as it always does these past several months -- and years, too, really: "Perhaps Red will eat some of this soup if I don't make it too spicy."

But although there is no more soup for him, there is soup for us; soup that sustains us in bitter moments and in funny laughing memory moments, and somehow or other just helps us get through.  We already have lots of invitations for next years' Thanksgiving, and maybe I'll be able to face the traditional meal by then.  Wherever we go, though, I might  have to roast a turkey if only for the frame, so that I can make a batch of Turkey Rice Soup in tribute to my dad -- and even more because it's just that good. 

Turkey Rice Soup
Of course, the modus operandi here is to use what you've got leftover -- this was simply my general recipe.

The broth:

1 roast turkey frame, picked over
Leftover bits of skin and turkey stock
Other leftover broths,
and/or a few spoons of organic chicken "Better Than Bouillon" concentrate
A big splash of manzanilla or other dry sherry
1 onion, chunked
2 carrots, chunked
2 stalks of celery plus some leaves
Bouquet garni, whatever fresh herbs you have
(I used sage, thyme, rosemary, fresh bay leaf and parsley)
5 cloves of garlic
salt, pepper, other condiments to taste

Cover the frame and the other ingredients with broth and/or filtered water -- at least three quarts, and add more as it boils away.  Bring to a boil, and cook covered at a gentle simmer until the remaining meat falls off the bone and the vegetables are mushy -- several hours at least.  Pick out the frame, and let it cool.  Strain the broth, and push the vegetables against the strainer to extract as much liquid back into the broth as possible.  Pick bits of meat from the frame, and reserve.  Discard the frame and the vegetables.

Finishing the soup: 

Turkey broth as above
2 fat leeks, cleaned and sliced, white and pale green parts
5 carrots, sliced into half moons
3 celery stalks, chopped
1/2 cup of jasmine rice
2 Tbsp. of flour (optional)
Any leftover gravy and turkey pan drippings/juices
condiments:  more garlic, chili-garlic sauce, tamari soy sauce, strong brewed coffee
bits of meat from the frame, plus about 3 cups of turkey meat in small chunks, or whatever you've got
More salt and pepper to taste

If your oven is going for another reason, you can roast the vegetables in a bit of olive oil or butter or leftover turkey fat, for that matter.  If not, saute them a little, and add them to the broth.  Let them cook for about 20 minutes.  Add the jasmine rice, and let it cook till done. If you want your broth with a little more body, make a slurry with the flour and two or three tablespoons of water.  Introduce broth into it until you have a lump-free liquid, and then pour it all into the broth.  It should add just enough body so that the soup isn't too thin, but it's still a broth. 

Season your soup.  I added all the above things, experimenting with the coffee, which I always like since it seems to add quite a lot of umami to soups and chili and stews, strengthening their stocks and making them always seem more "meaty."  Use it spoon by spoon, though, since you don't want to overdo.  If you season carefully, the resulting soup tastes more and more of good roast turkey, which is a very good thing. 

At the very end, add your turkey meat -- you don't want to cook it any longer.  Season once more, and eat right away, and serve to loved ones, and save some for another day, when you're feeling blue and you don't know what to eat.  It will taste even better then.

with much love to all our family and friends, and especial love and thanks on our behalf and on Red's to Wally and Celia Gilbert, Dr. Diane Meier, Noralene and Carolyn Beckford, and Rosetta McKenis. 

 

 

Comments

[sarah]

What a wonderful and loving posting. Thank you. My father died last Christmas at the age of 90 and so your post struck a very personal chord with me. Thank you for sharing your insights and your thoughts. Your dad was--and still is--blessed to have you as his legacy.

Sarah

[Jessica]

I don't know you and you don't know me, but now I will be thinking of you as I make turkey broth this week. I'm glad. Thank you for sharing this story.

[Cindy]

So sorry to hear of his passing. I know we haven't heard as much from you in the past few months, and I'm glad that he is finally at peace.

[Jenny Schwartzberg]

I miss Uncle Red so much already! This post is beautiful and I will forward it to Mom. Lots of hugs and kisses coming your way from Chicago.

Love,
Jenny

[Yvo]

Julie, I am so sorry to hear this. I actually thought about you a bit this past weekend as I was making stock from my turkey frame - you inspired me to do so, always - and this soup sounds lovely for my resulting stock. I send my deepest condolences... I lost my own father 8 years ago on Halloween. It doesn't get easier; it just becomes less hard, if that's any consolation.
Hugs.

[DB]

Sorry for your loss. My grandmother passed away a couple days after T-Day last year. She too was fighting cancer and it was a hard last couple of days.

[Julie]

I'm so sorry to hear this. I understand exactly what you mean about an expected death still being unexpected.

[Robyn]

Julie, like others I am sorry to hear of your fathers passing. May this and other familiar memories, help give you peace in this difficult time. What a great recipe, I'll have to make it.

[AIMAI]

Julie,
A beautiful tribute. I laughed reading your account of the caregiver "breaking it to you gently." Red, and Ellie, would have made an even better story of it. What is the Yiddish version, do you think? How we would all laugh, when you and Red and Ellie came to visit. It was non stop. The smell of Ellies perfume, Red's towering presence--he always looked like a Cossack, to me--those are such wonderful memories. Come to thanksgiving next year--I think I'm going to bag the turkey altogether and make rack of lamb and we'll start a new tradition.

hugs
aimai

[Karalyn]

Julie,
I followed a TWITTER link to your blog. I am so sorry to hear about your father. Losing a parent is the most difficult part of life, I think. I felt like an orphan after my father died. Yes, he was trying to leave and it was hard on him because he knew you needed him. I remember my son (18 at the time) telling me I needed to let Grandpa go --- that Grandpa was afraid to leave me alone. I stood by his bed and told him it was OK to leave, that we would be OK --- he passed an hour or so later.

I too always cook the carcass up for soup. The first year I lived in Denver we had Thanksgiving at my Aunt's. The next day a very red-faced Uncle was at my back door --- with my Dad laughingly pushing him in the door --- he was carrying the turkey carcass and said, "Your Dad says if we toss this you'll never talk to us again."

Amazing how a turkey can fall into the memories of a lifetime. I will try this soup. And I will think of you and your Red when I do it. I love soup and since this is my first winter back in snow (after 18 years in SoCal) I'm eating a LOT of soup.

Bless you in your pain. I can't say it will get better --- only different. And to know this kind of familial love is truly a treasure.

[Wanda]

I'm so sorry to hear about your loss.

[Tea]

Oh, Julie. Just surfacing after the holiday to read this. My heart goes out to you and your family (what your sweetie said brought tears, so sad but beautiful). I'm so sorry to hear the news--sending much warmth your way.

[Melissa]

I am so sorry for your loss. Your post brought tears to my eyes. Thinking of you

[Lea]

I'm so sorry to hear of your loss, Julie. Your dad sounds like a treausre. I'm touched by your beautiful post. I hope you're doing well.

All my love to you and G.

Lea xxx

[Sucar]

I am thinking of you too and wishing you solace through this time of change!

[Cathy]

Hi Julie - I haven't been doing a very good job of keeping up with my blog-reading lately, so I just came across this post about your Dad. I'm so sorry to hear of his passing - I hope you and G are doing OK. Cathy

[Choose a Culinary School]

Its sad to hear your loss. The turkey rice soup its looking amazing. Its very simple and delicious.

Thanks for posting
Sarah

[Jeri]

Julie - I don't know you but intermittently drop by your blog, and wanted to extend my condolences on your loss.

Nine years ago I lost my dad on Thanksgiving day as well, a couple hours after dinner. It was a brutal and painful loss, and while time has eased the ache it will never erase it.

For years my sister and her husband fled from family on the holiday, eating Chinese takeout or hamburgers instead of enduring a get-together that would only remind them of their grief.

In the last few years we've finally been able to get together again on Thanksgiving, and while there's a lump in our throat there is also joy in our memory of him.

I hope, for you, that time and your loved ones help you get to the place where you can hold it together through a toast to absent loved ones. Best wishes through the holidays.

Enjoy your turkey soup. :)

[ulla]

I am so sorry for your loss. A very lovely tribute.

[Luisa]

Oh dear, Julie. I am so behind on my blog reading, it's embarrassing. I am so sorry to hear about your dad dying and I'm sending you lots of overdue hugs and good wishes. It sounds like he had a good life and a good death, which can sometimes be a comfort. xoxoxo.

[australian food]

Sad news we send our hugs. In the last few years we've finally been able to get together again on Thanksgiving, and while there's a lump in our throat there is also joy in our memory of him.

I hope, for you, that time and your loved ones help you get to the place where you can hold it together through a toast to absent loved ones. Best wishes for 2009

[Melissa]

Oh Julie, I'm late, but I want to send you a big hug. I'm so, so sorry to hear about your dad. You were lucky to have him for so long, and he you.

[barbara]

Hi Julie thanks for dropping by my blog and leaving your lovely comment. I'm so sorry to hear about your father. I remember my own father, when he had cancer and living with a lot of pain, phoning me and saying "I've had enough, I'm going". I said "Can you wait until I get there"? I jumped on a plane as soon as I could but he died while in the air. I've often thought how I'll handle it when my time comes. I do know this is the last time I'll do chemo. I guess when my quality of life is not good I'll make the same decision. Hopefully the latest chemo drugs will do the trick and I won't have to think about it for some years.

I'm sorry I'm so late in replying to your comment but I wanted the time to write something more than "thank you and I'm sorry".

I send you good wishes and sunny hugs from Australia.
xxoo
Barbara

[kathy]

I went through the same loss in June 2004, and yet, the pain feels like yesterday. Your photo of Turkey soup looks comforting and nourishing, just what you should have right now for your soul. Loss is devastating at any age, especially the loss of a parent. Just know he would not want you to live your life in sadness; that would not be honoring him. Think of him smiling, and without pain. That should provide abit of comfort for you.

[Egy Azziera]

"How could I not love him? He gave me you," is this very very touching line, Julie I must say that you love your father sooo much even today.