George

It's easy to see how a person can become addicted to blogging. Yesterday the phone just kept ringing, and I enjoyed every conversation, but I missed sitting down and taking the time to blog. Now that I have started this process I find myself thinking about things to write about. Food is essential; being in the food business lets you participate in the lives of your customers, and you get to see the best and the worst of people. Today I was thinking about George. George was a gentlemen that we had the opportunity to get to know probably the third year that Duck Crossing was open. He was dying of lung cancer and his wife had Alzheimers and diabetes, and the two of them had moved from their home to a care facility. George was a curmudgeon...crabby and cranky and not one good word to say about anything. The staff of the facility had a dickens of a time trying to keep George from smoking while he was connected to his oxygen tank. As George's health failed, the staff arranged for us to bring a fancy dinner for he and his wife. They knew that George had loved good food and wine, and he hated the food at the facility. The staff asked us to bring the dinner on Friday night--they were pretty certain that he wasn't going to make it through the weekend. So we did, I don't remember anymore what we made. George and Marty got to talking, and he took a real shine to her. Well, come Monday morning George had the staff call, he wanted lunch, and he wanted some treats and snacks that he could keep in his room. By the end of the week we were feeding George and his wife three times a day, seven days a week, which we were not really set up to do. A couple of friends pitched in to help with deliveries. It got to the point that George would call on his own to talk to Marty. At Thanksgiving we made plates from our holiday feast, (thank goodness we had one, on more than one occasion Marty sold our turkey to someone that had forgotten to order theirs). Marty took the meal over to George and his wife. He asked for a bottle of wine and sparkling cider, and he had the staff on duty stop in his room for a toast. Something changed that day. George still growled at people, but it didn't seem to bother the staff anymore. George lived until just after New Years. We knew him for six months, but the human connection that we made with him in the process of bringing him food, is still strong after 11 years. I'm under no illusions that my cooking gave George an extra six months, but I do think that the process of connecting about food did help engage him in his life again. He taught me that simple gestures can have a profound effect, and that food is about more than the physical need to fuel your body. So next time you open a bottle of wine, or sparkling cider for that matter, raise a glass to George.