Sour Milk & Rotten Eggs
Morg explores grief and groceries
My initial letter for season two was going to be one touching on some things I’ve learned in the past year. Some (work in progress) insight that bullying myself to be more productive doesn’t work, that it’s hard not to want for our 16 year old bodies - but we are working on it, that really most bad days can be solved with a home cooked meal, good company and a pink noise & eye mask induced sleep.
The past two years were full of a lot of unexpected change, and I feel like I was struggling to keep my head above water, that I kept having to throw a patch on some unexpected wound to survive. My progress felt minuscule. The past few months have felt different, less heavy, but more poignant. My most recent therapy session I was excited to get into the “deep work”, feeling the precipice of change for my upcoming year of life (27 on the 27th!) the excitement for new job prospects, dating not feeling entirely out of reach and dormant creativity slowly resurfacing.
I’d grown tired with the annoyance of things happening in my life and having to give so much of myself to healing things beyond my control. I feel ready to let go of the pattern where having things go wrong is easier than addressing what lies beyond bandaids and treading water. I was pushing forward with a new found vigor and zest for life! No more heartbreak or unexpected illness. No more tragic friendships breakups or unrelenting workplace stress. A fresh lens to start a new year!
Life as per usual had different plans.
Full transparency I’m not sure how to write about grief. I’ve been very lucky to have not lost many people in my life, especially those very close to me, and the people I have lost have lived good long lives (for the most part). I have a grave awareness that grief is subjective, non linear and ever changing. I struggled with the idea of addressing grief at all - but it felt disingenuous to ignore what was currently happening in my life.
On Wednesday May 8th, my grandfather took his last breath. He was 94 years old, and over the past 7ish years has been battling Alzheimer’s. That in and of itself is a very large can of worms to open. You grieve someone who is battling that disease many times - as you lose different parts of them over time. Now I KNOW he is in a better place, I know he is no longer in pain, I know that death is a part of life, and having someone so hard to say goodbye to is a gift.
That being said - it’s still sad. It’s still new. It’s still different.
Under the guise that I know I don’t want this to be a sad article about death or an accidental obituary I will digress into these past two weeks.
Tuesday May 7th
FYW launch meeting is going on, I’m cooking my lunch while chatting with three girls from across the globe. Feeling supported from afar by women in a similar space and time of their lives. All trying to figure it out. Our call ends. I have a missed call from my mother. I call her back. She gives me the hospice news, to prepare myself. 24 hours they think. I email my bosses, letting them know what’s going on, as to prepare for my possible departure and delay in response time. I cry. I text my friends knowing I have the greatest support system in the world. I later call and say my goodbyes on an unresponsive phone line, something suggested by the chaplin. I sing him a song. I say goodbye.
Wednesday May 8th
I get the call. 1:45. I cry, again. I go on a long walk with my dog. One of my best friends comes over and brings dinner. She throws the tennis ball for the dog and pretends to not watch me cry from under my sunglasses as I watch the sunset that feels more permanent than any that has come before it.
The thing about death is life goes on. The dog still needs to be fed, the trash taken out. I still need to shower and get ready for work (the event I was working was a wake instead of a wedding to which I could only laugh). I need to plan how to get home, call my dog walker, get time off approved, move my other travel plans for my best friend’s wedding a week from today - when you’re reading this.
When I arrive in Raleigh the permanence sets in. I have to see my grandmother. I have to go into their house knowing one less physical person will be present though the number of souls in their home will always remain the same. The toothbrush on his sink, his clothes in the closet, his pajamas folded next to the tub waiting for him to come in and put them on.
I’m greeted by my sweet mother, an only child whose grieving process includes a lot of todo lists. A grasp for control in an unfamiliar world. One of these includes a long list of homemade meals for us to share. Sunday was the day we would cook, Monday will be the memorial. Spending that time together is healing in and of itself. We spend most of our time stepping on eachother in a kitchen with not quite enough space for or three women who all think they’re in charge. I had been sleeping at my grandmothers, with my mom, the three of us in the king sized bed, both laughing and crying into the morning hours. 3 generations of women holding each other close each experiencing a different loss. Watching home videos, looking at albums, drinking an impressive amount of wine, laughing, crying. Sunday morning arrives, my grandma has made me a bowl of grape nuts - embarrassingly my favorite cereal. And poured some milk & orange juice for me.
My cereal tastes sour.
I chalk it up to maybe having too much wine the night before, or not drinking much cows milk these days and finish my breakfast. The cooking marathon soon commences. We’re making cinnamon rolls, breakfast casserole, homemade lasagna, garlic bread, fruit salad, and my grandpas favorite - angel food cake with strawberries and homemade whipped cream. As we start the cinnamon roll dough, mom opens the milk and snarls immediately at the scent - claiming it rancid. My sour cereal now makes sense. Someone needs to go to the grocery store to pick up new milk before we can continue. I start the cake.
As I crack and separate the eggs (10!!!!) for the famously light and fluffy Angel food cake, I reach my 8th egg, crack it open and immediately retch. The reeking scent and grey green egg yolk hit me in the face as the rotten murky egg white fills the bowl of my perfectly separated egg whites. A rotten egg! A real rotten egg!! Until this moment I thought rotten eggs were just a made up Bernie bots everyflavored bean! I have to go back to the grocery store again to buy more eggs for the cake. I have to start over.
I tear up in frustration and exhaustion and begin to laugh at the silliness of it all - it’s just sour milk and rotten eggs.
What is life if not one big metaphor.
Here I am processing something entirely new in a way I couldn’t have a year or two ago, my progress isn’t jilted. My ability to see that multiples truths can exist at once is proof of the progress in question. I can be grieving and growing. Propelling and processing. Hurting and healing.
Sometimes you can plan everything the human eye can see, or follow the exact steps you think you need to take to achieve the desired results - but there will always be disruptions. Hidden challenges that reveal themselves only when the universe deems the time is right.
You might feel behind schedule, thrown off kilter, jolted of the perfectly timed out track of your life… but who’s really in charge of our timeline anyway. The older I get the more I believe it’s not us at all, no matter how hard we try, it never has been.
Sometimes life gives you lemons. Sometimes life gives you sour milk and rotten eggs.
We might not always know what to make of it, but I’m learning we don’t always have to hold onto the things we’ve been given. Screw always having to make lemonade. We can just go to the grocery store and get what we need.
Current grocery list
time with dear friend
a hobby that reminds you of childhood
a good book
a group of girls stretched across continents cheering you on
a cup of your favorite coffee (Blue Bottle Iced Oat Latte)
a long walk - preferably without a phone
a sticky note affirmation
a good cathartic cry
a deep breath (multiple deep breaths)
a brain dump journal
a new perspective
a greater appreciation for the life we’ve been given.
with love,
M🩵
for my papa - who was always good for ice cream and a hand to hold.
READING, LISTENING, WATCHING (COOKING?)
Most of my content these days is strictly for pleasure. I’ve taken a breather from self help podcasts, documentaries and books that will supposedly make me more productive. Trying to enjoy things just for joy.
Listening 🎧 The Midnight Library (audiobook was phenomenal, my first audiobook), Holly Humberstone, Myles Smith, Chappell (obvi), BNCMAP (was an off and on listener till Em brought them back to my attention) My feel good playlist.
Reading 📚 I Hope This Finds You Well, The Seven Year Slip, The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store (my friend has convinced me to join a book club!)
Watching 📺 Bridgerton, The Challengers (I berated Emily that if you didn’t watch the Newsies Broadway.com vlogs (time stamp 2:22) you’re not a real fan)
Cooking 👩🏼🍳 Bah Mi Bowls, Angel Food Cake - trying to fall in love with cooking again (my small apartment kitchen is the bane of my existence)
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