I add a teaspoon of chilli powder to the pot of sautéing onions and garlic, the sweet and spicy fragrance warms the space around me. My husband Bob will be arriving home soon from the hospital. The refrigerator hums a continuous low note. Background music to the shush-shush of my wooden spoon that moves in the bottom of the pot. February 29, 2020, was the last time I made this meal for a large gathering of twenty-five friends. We were hosting a house concert featuring Canadian musician, Ken Yates.
Laughter and staccato high-pitched voices fill the room. Energy vibrates on the tongue. For most of us, this will be our first house concert. Ken Yates performed at Petit Campus in Montreal the previous night and agrees to a country pitstop as he travels west to his home in Toronto. People stand around the kitchen island that spills into the open-concept living room. Unheard conversations remind me of pantomime buskers, a different story on each street corner. I turn the stove elements down to simmer the pots of chilli. Bob greets people with exchanges of hugs and kisses before they weave their way towards me, a bottle of wine or food held high above their heads to avoid collisions with animated hands. The dining room table is cramped with various communal food.
March 9, 2020: First reported death from COVID-19 in Canada
March 20, 2020: Over 1,000 deaths
May 12, 2020: Over 5,000 deaths
The click of the can opener tells me a hole punctures the tin and clings with a vice-like grip. I rotate the side butterfly handle and watch the mechanical blade slice around the circumference of the can. I pour the contents of the kidney beans into a strainer and rinse well under tap water. Tonight, one can will be enough for our table set for two. Bob is an ER physician who works the “COVID” shift today, seeing anyone who registers with suspicious symptoms. During the height of the pandemic, he receives daily emails with news of how many COVID-19 patients were hospitalized, in the Intensive Care Unit and where there are outbreaks in the community. More emails fill the inbox about safety protocols. For each new patient, he follows strict rules to don and doff his personal protective equipment. His glasses fog up and sores develop behind his ears. Innovation blossoms in the department as staff wear headbands with sewn buttons on the fabric to wrap their ear loops around. As barriers arise, new routes are created.
Many of Bob’s colleagues work in both western Quebec and eastern Ontario hospitals because of the short commute between provinces. Hospital administration provides them with a letter deeming them essential workers in case police pull them over to question the necessity of travel during the lockdown. One email recommends physicians wash their work clothes in hot, soapy water upon finishing a shift. I post a sticky note on the outside of the door that leads from the garage into the house:
Strip—Big Boy!
This message would have had a very different meaning twelve months earlier. Now, it’s a reminder for a husband who might be distracted after a shift. Perhaps thinking about the deaths in his other role as a coroner. His work clothing has had many hot water washes with probably too much soap for my tired washing machine. I pretend not to notice the faded colours and the pant length that now stops around his ankles. I’m sure I read somewhere that men’s cropped trousers are the new look this upcoming season.
Tonight’s concert is family-style, the way we like it. People ladle chilli into bowls from the stove–containers of sour cream, sliced green onion, grated cheddar cheese, and chopped cilantro are on the table for people who want additional toppings. Wine sits atop the kitchen island and a cooler on the floor holds beer, soft drinks and water. Ken Yates arrives and begins to set up his sound system. Living room furniture has been pushed to the walls and the couch turned to face the little make-shift stage Bob constructed out of wood and scrap carpet. I watch as Ken jumps up and down on the platform, gives Bob a nod and says something that makes both of them laugh. Friends eat and stand in clusters or arrange themselves in different locations on the floor, edges of furniture, chairs or against a wall.
October 27, 2020: Over 10,000 deaths
The lid pops as I break the seal on the mason jar filled with my roasted tomatoes. From my garden! An invisible hand pats me on the back at this remarkable feat for someone who kills anything with leaves. In late spring, Bob builds two raised garden beds for vegetables. I plant a mix of tomatoes—red, yellow, big and small. At the time, I didn’t pay attention to the variety. My inexperience declares itself over the summer as the plants grow larger with no personal space, each leaf fighting for sunlight. I realize my plants need to follow some social distancing guidelines as well. Too late to change their location in the soil, I support the main stalk with a bamboo stick and string. After one windy day, plants lean and intertwine as though leaving a pub at 2 a.m. I move to plan B and purchase fan-shaped trellises to help prop up the plants and keep the fruit off the ground. Hang on and ripen, I plead. I believe my Lebanese grandmother would have been proud. Her backyard was a large vegetable plot from which she fed twelve children and a husband. We follow Sitto along the straight rows like little ducklings with open beaks–a carrot here, a string bean there, dusted off and rinsed with water from the hose. I’m ready for a third garden bed.
Lights dimmed and our bellies full, we listen as Ken sings. Heads nod in approval as his lyrics reminisce about youthful, carefree days. The room stills during sombre numbers about support for friends struggling with addiction and mental health. I lean forward in my chair as he croons, the living room and audience fading away, feeling the words that no one knew would foretell a future reality.
January 31, 2021: Over 20,000 deaths
I add a teaspoon of cumin and a dash of cayenne to bring more earthy notes and heat to the mixture. I’ve been trying to duplicate recipes from Jamie Oliver and Rachel Ray that I watch on TV while exercising. I’m particularly interested in recipes that will use up the jars of roasted tomatoes in my deep freezer. Chana Masala. Puttanesca sauce. Tomato-basil soup. Cooking becomes a new passion for me while Bob immerses himself in his medical jobs as a front-line worker.
The coroner’s motto is, We speak for the dead to protect the living. When Bob puts on his black winter coat and sticks a Velcro light-reflective CORONER label on his back, grief hangs in the air, a heavy weight on the chest. I want to scream, Be careful! Don’t forget to wear a mask! Instead the commands stick in my throat by hooks and loops. I swallow my words, blow a kiss goodbye, and pet the dog with absent-minded enthusiasm. This past year has been a year of statistics with each data point representing someone who likely never thought of closeness as a threat, touch a taboo, or congregation a crime. Perhaps, the voices of the dead teach us to rethink how we gather, a train switching tracks, moving forward to a parallel destination.
Conversations shift. People move closer, words and emotion bubble up to the surface. “Surviving is easy, living is hard,” a friend recites from one of Ken’s songs. I nod and smile. As people depart, we make plans to gather again soon.
March 10, 2021: 3,881,064 vaccine doses have been distributed in Canada
An unheard rumble of Bob’s truck engine drives into the garage and sets off the dog alarm. The black mutt’s tail wags in circles as she waits by the door. The terrier’s high-pitched yap reverberates off the walls. It’s been quiet these several months. No guests except for the Purolator or Canada Post delivery person who places parcels outside our front door. Bob enters. He’s naked and my stomach flutters. Clothes are clutched in front of him. He veers off into the laundry room and I hear the beep of the start button on the washing machine. When he reappears, I can’t help but say, “Nice ass.” He smirks and exaggerates a slow, sexy, hip-walk towards the bathroom. We call it the Bugs Bunny walk.
The sound of the shower reminds me of the weather—fluctuations of snow to rain on days where the temperature rises above zero. These extra hours of sunlight bring freshness and promises of patio dinners and laughter that floats on a warm breeze. Steam rises from the two bowls I’ve filled and placed on the kitchen island. I top it with cilantro from the pot of herbs that now grow in my window. I open a craft ale for both of us. Bob joins me and places his laptop between us. Ken Yates looks back from a live stream. The chat box explodes with over a hundred hellos. His fingers strum his guitar for ten seconds. He stops. Smiles. He reaches forward and his head fills the screen. Hits the unmute button then begins to play again.