I didn’t know him for that long — we’d only met on the beach. But sometimes – in that space where the water, wind and land meet – you come to know one another in a different way. Back then, about six or seven years ago when I was new at windsurfing and still finding my balance — he could rip it up on the waves off the cliffs of Aquinnah. He was always nice to me and encouraging – which I thought was kind considering that we were from two different worlds. I was a thirty-something year-old wife and mother and he was in his free-spirited twenties. He seemed like a happy vagabond-kind-of-a-guy living between places like Maui, the mountains of Montana and here — the island of Martha’s Vineyard. Doing exactly what he wanted to do. And on one of those perfect, hazy-windy summer days – when anybody who windsurfs would have been out – I didn’t see him or his truck. I asked around – his buddies on the beach – salt stains drying on their surf baggies – their arms crossed against suntanned chests. They grew quiet and kind of kicked around barefoot in the sand when they told me that he was sick and couldn’t sail anymore. ‘Cancer’ one of them said with waves reflecting in the lenses of his sunglasses.

Hopelessness is not an emotion I deal well with. It sends me into the kitchen where I can make a lot noise — banging pots and pans is cathartic and makes my curse words unintelligible. But it’s really the alchemy – and invoking the power of the stove that I believe in. How a blue flame under black iron can transform raw, distinct ingredients into a something else completely – a new wholeness vibrating with smell, taste, texture, nurturing and nourishment. If I could do nothing else for him and I couldn’t – at the very least I’d make him some food. Bread and soup.

I baked loaves of whole wheat with oatmeal, maple syrup and flax seeds, to go with a carrot, sweet potato ginger soup – because it’s mild, strengthening, soothing and flexible — it can taste good at any temperature. I had heard some news about how his chemo was going and the hospitals he was traveling to, but I didn’t really know where his stomach or his taste buds were at.

Every step of this cooking process – from choosing the best organic produce to making the chicken stock, and the cleaning and chopping of the vegetables to tending the heat — I tried to do with consciousness and intuition. I didn’t shred the carrots in a food processor, I used a grater and I stirred, mixed and kneaded the bread by hand. No electric mixer. It seemed imperative to me, crucial even, that I take all the time it needed to cook honestly and with him as the focus. This helped me move through my frustration, sadness and grief. But more importantly maybe (just maybe) it was possible that the will and awareness that I put into that bread and soup – could transform it into something more than just a token goodbye gift. Perhaps as that food passed his lips — it would become a distraction – and so a momentary healing as he lay dying. That’s all I could do with my hopelessness — bring him a moment of peace.