The Charcuterie Board:

a followup to The Package.

Winter’s reticence seemed to mirror David’s grief process. Neither wanted to proceed in full force. Both held back: snow and tears, winds and fears – as though the encounter with the future that had to be passed through could be postponed indefinitely.

It had been only two months since Rolly had died. David journeyed through the first Christmas without his beloved, keeping activities and commitments to a minimum as a means of survival. But as the second week of the new year came, and with it a slightly steadier sprinkling of snow, David thought about the commitments Rolly had asked of him, for what “life after me” would look like.

“You must continue to have our friends over.” Rolly said, “It will be an essential part of your support network and your engagement with life once I am gone.”

“Please don’t go all therapist on me, babe.” David replied. He hated when Rolly pulled out the professional hat.

“Ok,” Rolly rallied in reply, “Tell me: what do you enjoy the most about the little gatherings we have here at home?”

“Probably the fact that you do all the prep work.” David was digging his heels in, he knew it, but, after all, why did Rolly feel like he could manage their life even after he was gone? The running joke during this time of palliative care had been the Kübler-Ross Stages of Grief, and he had gotten into the habit of categorizing his feelings. Anger. This is anger.

“You are bargaining with my death, using your enjoyment as the chips.”

Rolly came back, at him, raising him one Kubler-Ross stage for another. “You think if you do not prepare yourself to enjoy life after I am gone, you will somehow forestall my departure. It doesn’t work that way honey. And nobody else is going to talk to you about this or push you. So kick your bargaining up a notch. Tell me: what do you enjoy most about the little gatherings we have here at home?”

David’s eyes went to those nights when friends would gather around their kitchen island, glasses of wine or scotch, little plates, bowls and platters of finger foods, in orbit around Rolly’s masterpiece: the grand charcuterie board.

“Well, I like those little meat balls in sauce that we pick at with the toothpicks.”

“Those are dead easy: M&M meat shops and Diana sauce in the crockpot. All you have to do is let them simmer for a while and gloop them out into a nice serving dish. What else?”

“They are especially good in the winter. You’ll probably be gone before Christmas. Do we have to keep talking about this?” David felt his heels digging in again: denial.

“Tell me one more thing you love, and I’ll let you rest.” Rolly was getting tired too. That last dose of morphine was kicking in.

“The grand charcuterie board. Obviously. It is always the centrepiece.” David said, resignedly adding, “I can never make that up. It isn’t just food … it’s a work of art.”

“When I wake up, I want you to have a pen and paper ready. I’m going to make you a list. There’s a lovely server at Zehr’s, young girl named Charlie, she’ll help you.” Rolly painfully turned in the hospital bed that was in their dining room, with David’s help. And he went to sleep.

The list had been made.

The death had come.

Rolly was physically reduced to ashes in a jar he had selected himself.

And something about the sun, finally peeking out and shining off the sparse snow fall made David feel like today might be the day. He bundled himself out and got himself to Zehr’s figuring he would start small. Inviting one couple who had been with them right through all the final stage. Making a mini-grand board. And those gloopy meatballs to begin. As he drove out, the snowfall began in earnest. Winter was here. Would grief arrive with it?

Charlie was back at work after the Christmas chaos at the deli counter. Her mind was preoccupied with The Package she had received Christmas eve, as she awaited response to the short note she had written to her half-sister: the Christmas gift she had learned about in The Package, the other Charlie.

January was always a quiet month at the deli counter. Charlie had been working here three years now, so she knew: festive seasons brought on the hordes of people. January was resolution season, and it was the fresh fruit and veggie trays that best suited all the diets and well-intentioned plans for better health in the new year. Most of her January request were for low-fat, low-sodium turkey or chicken breast. The occasional ham. But the richer, more flavourful salamis and prosciuttos waited like stray dogs in the window of the counter, hoping to be adopted home.

Mid-week, mid-morning – the slow time in grocery stores, and a face that was somehow vaguely familiar showed up at the deli counter. The man strained a bit to read her name-tag.

“Charlie, my husband Rolly told me about you.” David said, pulling out a photo of the two of them together, taken maybe 10 months ago, when Rolly could still get out and about.

“Oh yes, I remember him, never knew him by name, but he was always very patient and thoughtful in his selections. He never rushed me - always pleasant to talk with. Where is he today?” Charlie asked, looking around thinking maybe this Rolly was picking up something in the fresh produce section, remembering a chit-chat they had about tiny tomatoes bringing colour to the board. These were her favourite kinds of days, when she had time to talk without rushing to serve the next person in line.

David’s eyes filled with tears and his face crumpled like a used Kleenex into a wet bunching of sorrow. Only two words could make their way around his crying.

“He’s gone.”

Charlie gestured to her colleague to man the counter, then came from behind the counter and took David aside, putting her arm around his shoulder, drawing him gently close.

There were round bistro tables in an eating area near the deli, and she walked David over there.

“Let’s sit.”

He cried for a while. Winter snow finally coming down along with his tears.

“He made the best charcuterie boards. Everyone loved them. He told me to come find you when I was ready. He said you would help me.” There was a pause for some wet, jagged, sobbing.

“I will help you.” Charlie said, thinking of how her Christmas Package had impacted her life.

“You are not alone.”

Photo by Ana Maltez on Unsplash