The Kind and the Sage

The Kind and the Sage

‘’Could you pass the pepper, please?’’

‘’O,no! She dared to do it! She honestly thinks the fish needs extra seasoning. Mom, did you hear it?’’

‘’Oh, give it a rest, Charlie. It’s perfectly all right, Clara. Here you are. Charlie, stop messing with your sister.’’

‘’Thanks, mom. So what if I like some extra Indian on my trout? This is what’s wrong and right with the world at the same time. You could learn something from it, Charlie.’’

‘’Like what, how to remove any doubts about my sister being a total nerd?’’

‘’ Charlie, go and get the ice-cream out of the freezer. Grab both the vanilla and the pistacchio.’’

Charlie would of course remember that he hated pistacchio and he would, on his way to the kitchen, reprimand his mother about the so-called ‘’poor choice of nut flavour and a complete presence of nuts in the house’’. He would have never complained about diversity.

Emilia’s kitchen was one of the things she was so well-known in her small community, the other being her excellent pediatric evaluations. It was not only about the kitchen, not even about state-of-the-art oven, Sub-Zero Wolf Freezer Drawers, Chef-Master Meat Tenderizer Tool or even Victoria Arduino Venus Century Espresso Machine. It was her demeanor, her way of washing the vegetables, the elegance with which she put the cream on top of the baked dough, the sort of natural extension of her body when she laid the table, her calculated, seemingly tango-ish strides between the sink and fridge and then back to the table.

 Emilia was hauntingly elegant in the kitchen. She was not an unforgetable presence in her cabinet, although she had great reviews and the children generally loved her. Old friends said she got it all from her mother, who had been famous for throwing the most memorable dinner parties back in Brussels. The kitchen was her battlefield – all the injustice she perceived would be cut and eviscerated along with the salmon, all the frustration over her husband’s extra hours would be melted along with the preparation of ganache, all her enthusiasm for her son’s newly discovered hobby, vinyl, would be poured into her Baked chicken coquelet de Bretagne, whereas her piece de resistance, the reason for which her friends begged her to start her own restaurant, the means to get her daughter to smile, the famous rose veal saltimbocca, would, at last, make her forget about her daughter’s misery.

The thing with the veal saltimbocca was that, in fact, it had been a reinterpretation, a dish re-imagined by Emilia; there was something in the flavoring which was different altogether from everything the others had experienced before, and her friends did have rather special cuisinesque taste buds. Everybody was familiar with the ingredients and Emilia knew just where to get the finest veal, prosciuto and marsala. The equsite after taste did not lay in these, though. Sage was the secret and sage was she for keeping it. And not just any kind: during the many consukts done for chikdren of a multitude of cultures and backgrounds, Emilia came in touch with a Peruvian grandmother who took care of a very sick grandson. She eased his pain and his grandmother thought it was very kind of her to do so and so one day she brought what she thought was most precious – white sage sticks. Her ancestors believed that it drove the evil spirits away and that it had strong healing properties. Emilia took it with all the conviction she had in her. 

She needed a reason to believe that she could do something for her daughter. Clara had become very sick, indeed – bone marrow cancer. All the signs were there: Clara, who had to set up an alarm to drink water had lately been unable to quench her thirst, weakness and fatigue from a former athelete, she started complaining about stomach aches, while losing her appetite. After doing the tests, there it was: The 5-year survival rate of people with osteosarcoma is 60%. This was Clara’s fifth year. This is why Emilia started to take so much timeoff and why she would burst into tears every time she thought more than 3 seconds about the reality in front of her eyes. It was the drama she knew too well, but it was as if she didn’t know anything actually. She was like a blank wall the first years, no knowledge gathered previously being of any help, no miraculous study making a swift appearance, no one to share her sorrow.

This was in part due to the fact that Clara’s symptoms were all buried under one mild term marketed by Emilia: anemia. Everybody around her, except Emilia, thought that Clara had a case of weakness and fatigue because of the anemia. Emilia of course was said to take care of it with the little blue pills. When the things started to worsen, Emilia just administrated more pills. Why didn’t she speak the truth? It was because of the fear that everybody would look at Clara and see only the disease – she had seen it before in sick children and their parents/ The little souls became mere shadows of what they used to be, even when their energy might still have allowed for some physical activitites, they were too scared or told not to by their parents or guardians. The child was no longer there, the disease took over, carrying the child’s name. All the smiles and benevolent attitude were actually just manifestations of the parents’ own limitations and frustrations. Emilia did not want the same fate for Clara. The bright and vivacious little girl, sanguine even in her anemia, should not have to be labelled and mistaken for a charity case. The end was unavoidable, but the way it ended was a matter of choice and so Emilia made the choice for her daughter.

Of course she didn’t know if it was the best choice – it might not have been. But did it really matter? She knew that just like a raisin, her soul would be dried out after the death of her first-born, the mirror of her secret being, so none of it would matter much.

‘’Don’t forget your pills, honey’’

‘’I won’t. Thanks, mom.’’

‘’Why are they blue? Didn’t you say you would change the treatment?’’, Charlie asked

‘’What do you mean?’’

‘’Well, Clara’s been taking the same blue pills for the past 2 years and things must not be going so great since you cooked veal saltimbocca twice in the past 2 weeks and you’ve been telling Clara to up her dosage.’’

‘’So insightful, Charlie’’, his mother said. ‘’It was just a case of great veal, honey and doctors do have the right to adjust their course of treatment/ Clara, how do you feel?’’

‘’Really tired now. The fish was delicious tonight, but I can’t eat anymore. I’m full.’’

‘’It’s ok, honey. Good night.’’

She had barely taken a bite or two. Charlie left and she remained alone. The sage was next to her. It did manage to surprise the people with its delicate taste, it did bring a certain freshness to an otherwise predictable meal but it failed to do what Peruvian ancestors promissed. The evil spirits were all in Emilia’s head, and the disease was obviously still very there. She realised it 2 years ago, but she still used it for her daughter. It’s funny, she thought that the name came from the Latin ‘’salvare’’, , meaning ‘’to be saved’’. What did it actually save? The memories, maybe. All the smiles were deeply engrained in Emilia’s heart, just as all the sorrow of Clara.

Two years before, after a rose veal saltimbocca, when she realised that all her efforts to save her baby were in vain, she decided all she could do was to ease her pain, just like she did with many others. She then concluded that morphine was the only kind way. She started giving her daughter the drug hoping that the pain would stop. It didn’t , but it made things more bearable. 

It would be another year before Clara died and Emilia had stopped living for a long time. She always kept the sage in her house as a reminder that kindness is not always sage nor painless. A strange appearance during her daughter’s funeral – the Peruvian grandmother was the only thing Emilia would remember from that day.

The end