by Jenna Weber
In May, one month after John’s death, at the urging of my friend Christie, I took a spontaneous weekend trip to the South Carolina Lowcountry. I needed to get far away from Tampa. When, after six hours of driving nonstop, I finally entered the Charleston county lines, the sense of relief was so great that I started to cry. I rolled down the windows and took deep inhales of the salt and marsh and sea, and for the first time in a long time, I felt lighter.
When I was very young, we lived on the South Carolina coast for a short time. My brother was born on Hilton Head Island in the early nineties, and there was just something about the Lowcountry that had gotten into my soul and had never left. No matter what stage of life I’m in, that drive on Highway 17 from Beaufort to Charleston always feels like coming home.
As I drove on through West Ashley and approached downtown, I could see the Cooper River Bridge in the distance and the stately antebellum buildings of College of Charleston rise up in the sky. The scents of the ocean were replaced with aromas of roast oysters, shrimp, and incense. When I pulled my old black Honda into Christie’s driveway on Vanderhorst Street, across the street from the college library where I had spent so many hours memorizing Shakespeare and studying Victorian literature, she came running out and gave me a long, comforting hug.
That weekend we soaked up Charleston culture, beaching ourselves on the warm sands of Folly, eating benne wafers at the French Market, and drinking far too much red wine at my favorite wine bar next door to my old apartment on King Street. We went shopping, ate frozen yogurt, and traded hysterical stories about high school and our tiny hometown that seemed a million miles away. At one point, I thought to myself, Is it okay to laugh? Laughing felt foreign and forced; it was as if deep, permanent lines of sadness had been etched into my once bright disposition. And when I stared at myself in the mirror in Christie’s bathroom, I had no idea who the girl looking back at me was. I felt as if I had aged ten years in the past four weeks.
I mentioned this to Christie, and that night we both plastered our faces with mineral clay. Sitting on the bed with my best friend, I felt the strange, light feeling come over me again and started to giggle. Cracks appeared in the mud around my mouth, and all at once, I knew it was going to be all right. Maybe not right now or in the next few days, but someday things would be okay again. I could still laugh. Under the layers of grief and sorrow, I could find glimpses of the life I once lived. We washed off our masks with warm water, got dressed in sundresses and sandals, and headed out for dinner and drinks at a hole-in-the-wall French restaurant on Broad Street, the type of place that the snowbirds would never find, where only locals could appreciate the $4.50 glasses of house red wine.
“You know, you seem to be doing all right,” Christie said as we clinked glasses and shared our favorite appetizer of escargot, the garlicky, buttery snails oozing on our forks.
“Some days I am . . . some moments I forget he’s gone. It’s like I’ll totally forget what happened and order a pizza, half pepperoni, half cheese, the way he would like it, and then I remember and it’s as if someone has punched me in the stomach.” I stared at the couple sitting across from us, holding hands and talking in hushed Southern voices.
“Sometimes I still feel guilty; I wish I could have been a better sister; I wish we hadn’t fought so much.” Memories of the final day began to surface: my yelling at John to get a life and John slamming the door behind . . . for the last time. I was supposed to help him write his college admissions essay; the document was still sitting unedited on my laptop, breaking mid-sentence. I caught my breath and pushed a strand of hair behind my ear, tucking it neatly and out of sight. Christie took a sip of wine and looked at me.
“Jenna, you were a great sister. Brothers and sisters fight all the time, you know that. John knew how much you loved him.”
I looked down at my wrist. Two weeks after his death, I’d gone with my family to get tattoos, a very atypical bonding experience for us all. John had wanted to get a tattoo for his nineteenth birthday, a cross on his back saying “give me strength” across it. His death was only a week and a half after his birthday, and he’d never gotten around to getting inked. So we found it fitting to do it in his place. Until the tattoo, I was relatively numb, but as that needle dug in over and over into the soft flesh of my wrist, I felt a sense of satisfaction in the pain. I rubbed the blue cross now as Christie spoke, as if to wear it in farther.
Our food came then, plates of delicious fish fresh from coastal waters and vegetables dotted with butter and sea salt. We each ordered more wine, and our conversation became quicker and more light-hearted as we shifted topics, starting to discuss what our high school classmates were doing with their lives six years later. Christie told me how our friend Mary was already pregnant with her third child, and my high school boyfriend was thinking about getting engaged to a girl he had met in college.
Other than eating, we spent our time over the next few days taking incredibly long walks all around the city and down near the water, admiring the magnificent hundred-year-old Charleston homes. I loved the feel of my sandals on the cobblestones and the sunshine on my face.
Christie, recently having graduated from law school, was in the midst of studying for the bar exam, so one day while she studied, I made my way to my old yoga studio to see if a class might finally bring me some peace. The studio was so comfortably familiar, and as I looked in the mirrors that lined the walls, I could see for the first time how my grief was affecting my physical self. Over the past five weeks, I had lost about ten pounds. I had always been slender and the loss was not flattering on my frame; my collarbone and backbone protruded sharply. There’s no real way to explain my weight loss other than grief. I had eaten my fair share of cookies and cakes brought over by the church and neighbors, finding solace in the sweet crumbs and icing. Despite all I ate, though, I continued to lose weight. It was as if my sadness and grief took the place of the gym in burning calories. I took this as a sign to eat all the delicious Southern food I wanted on my little vacation, and eat I did.
My absolute favorite Charlestonian dish is shrimp and grits. A standard on the menu of pretty much every Charleston restaurant, this comforting one-pot meal is said to have nourished shrimpers and sailors as a hearty early-morning breakfast before they headed out to sea. I like mine for dinner, with plenty of hot sauce on the side.
Lowcountry Shrimp and Grits
Serves 4
Although this dish was traditionally served for breakast to shrimpers coming into shore after long weeks out at sea, it’s one of my favorite comfort foods for dinners. Look for applewood-smoked bacon, or ask your butcher to cut your bacon extra thick.
¾ cup stone-ground grits (dry)
12 slices bacon (preferably applewood smoked)
2 tablespoons diced leeks
½ onion, chopped
1 green pepper, diced
1½ pounds medium to large shrimp, peeled and deveined
¼ cup white wine
2 cups half-and-half
Salt and pepper to taste
Chopped green onion for garnish
Hot sauce
Cook the grits according to package directions. Remove from heat but keep covered on the stove while you prepare other ingredients.
In a cast-iron skillet over medium heat, fry the bacon. When bacon is crispy, remove from skillet and crumble onto a small plate. Add leeks, onion, and green pepper to the hot bacon grease and cook over medium high heat until soft and translucent. Add shrimp and sauté for about a minute or so, until they turn pink (be careful not to overcook!).
Remove shrimp from skillet. Add white wine to deglaze, then stir in half-and-half and bring mixture to a simmer. Continue to simmer sauce until it starts to thicken, about 2 minutes. Add shrimp to sauce and season with salt and pepper.
Divide cooked grits among four bowls. Ladle shrimp and sauce over grits. Sprinkle with chopped green onions to garnish and serve with plenty of hot sauce.
Benne Seed Sug
ar Cookies
Makes about 2 dozen cookies
A Charleston classic, these sesame seed cookies are both simple and elegant. They are perfect for an afternoon snack with a cup of herbal tea.
½ cup sesame seeds
1 stick (8 tablespoons) butter, softened
1 cup packed dark brown sugar
2 eggs
1½ cups flour
¼ teaspoons baking powder
Preheat the oven to 350° F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.
Toast sesame seeds on a baking sheet for about 5 minutes, shaking occasionally, until golden.
In a bowl, cream together butter and brown sugar. Add eggs, one at a time, and then add flour and baking powder. Fold in sesame seeds.
Using an ice cream scoop or spoon, scoop out large balls of dough onto lined baking sheets.
Bake for 15 minutes, or until bottoms of cookies are golden.
20
UNEXPECTED TRAVELS
I WAS NOT READY TO LEAVE CHARLESTON. GOING HOME AND once again facing my brother’s empty room was almost too great a burden to bear. On my short trip, I found that I really didn’t miss anything at home. I was ready to get away for good, to spread my wings and start over. But of course I couldn’t hide out in Charleston forever, and so I cried as I crossed the bridge leading back over to West Ashley and away from the marsh and salt air that my body craved. I made my way back down through the Lowcountry, through Georgia and the Florida panhandle, watching through oversized sunglasses as the black asphalt spun beneath the car, bringing me closer to home. I debated listening to the audio book that I had purchased for the returning leg of my journey but decided instead to drive mostly in silence with my own thoughts. I already missed Charleston and kept feeling the urge to pull a U-turn in the middle of the highway and head back north.
I finally made it to Tampa later that evening and headed to Rob’s apartment, where I had been staying since the accident.
“How was it?” he asked over a glass of wine as I unpacked my suitcase, sand from the beach falling out of it and onto the wood floor.
“Great,” I responded. “So good to get away and be with Christie again . . . it felt like going home.” I winced after I said this, because with him, in Tampa, was supposed to be my home. The home I had been planning on coming back to for years, while I was away in college, in France, and at culinary school. How is it that nothing ever feels the way you expect it to feel? Sometimes, the anticipation of a place is better than the reality. When I looked up, I realized Rob was staring at me and once again, I had been lost in my own deep thoughts.
“Sorry I’m not more talkative, I’m just exhausted right now. Christie and I stayed up late last night, and then driving all day today . . . ”
“You and Christie are quite the pair! I hope y’all didn’t get in too much trouble together,” Rob said with a smile.
I leaned over and kissed his cheek and told him I was going to go take a bath and write for a little while in bed. I closed the bathroom door gently and immediately started to cry on the other side, pressing a cool washcloth to my face in an effort to hide the splotches that soon appeared on my cheeks. Soon, however, the tears became more of a silent heaving sob and I ran water in the tub, sat down in it, and drew my knees up close to my chest as I cried. Thoughts of my brother’s death led to more dark thoughts; I just missed him so much.
“Jenna? Are you okay?” Rob’s voice appeared on the other side of the door, and I realized I had been sitting in the bathtub for an hour. The water was now cool, my fingers wrinkled and pruned. I stood up and let the water fall off me, making little puddles on the floor.
“Yep, I’m fine! I must have fallen asleep in the bath. Hang on a sec.” I wrapped a towel tightly around me, wiped my face, and opened the door.
“I thought I heard you crying. Were you crying in there?” he asked, his face showing concern.
“Oh, no. I’m fine. I’m really just exhausted right now, so I think I’m going to head to bed. Good night.” I got in bed, fell asleep quickly, and, for the first time in a long time, did not dream.
The next day Rob emailed me from work, telling me about an amazing job listing he’d seen. At the moment I got the email, I was sitting in the condo and wondering how in the world I was going to make a living. The days were getting longer and I spent them cooking at home, answering blog emails, and sitting in front of my laptop, on Monster.com, just waiting for something to happen.
The dream job was for a position blogging about wine out in Sonoma County—it might as well have been a different country. I’d never been to California before, and the distance and foreignness of the state allured me more than anything else. I knew I needed a change, something totally different. I was flailing in Tampa; everything about home reminded me of my brother. I would have dreams that he was drowning in the pool and I couldn’t save him. I tortured myself with memories and ate way too much banana bread in the process. The sound of sirens set off panic attacks in the middle of the night.
So, when Rob’s email came in that Tuesday morning in May, I stared at the computer screen for a few minutes and then headed over to my parents’ house to have my mom record my video application. Later I would look back and cringe that I hadn’t spent more time thinking about my application before making it, but when I set my mind to something there’s no stopping me.
We recorded the video, with me reading cue cards and dressed up in a chef’s uniform (don’t ask me what I was thinking), and then ate enormous Greek salads as I called my dad and told him about the position. I stabbed iceberg lettuce and wedges of salty feta on my fork as I explained the details to my dad. And then I basically forgot about the whole thing, writing it off as a one-in-a-million chance that anything would ever actually happen.
You can imagine my surprise when, only a few weeks later, I got an email from the winery, telling me I had a preliminary phone interview. I was so nervous on the phone that I said some things I shouldn’t have—I think I even blurted out that in general I really don’t like California Chardonnay—but for some reason it didn’t throw me out of the running. In fact, to my even further surprise, I went on to make the cut for the top fifty and, later, the final top ten.
When I found out, I was standing in my kitchen and screamed out loud. The first call I made was to my dad; neither of us could believe it. In only a week and a half I would be jetting off to wine country for a weekend-long final interview (which would basically double as a paid vacation). Regardless of whether or not I got the dream job, I knew I was meant to go to California for this interview. Something in me was just one hundred percent certain that the trip was going to change my life. True, I was scared out of my mind, but I was also filled with the excitement of the unknown.
In the days preceding my trip, I practiced a lot of yoga and ate comforting foods to calm my nerves. Whenever I’m stressed, I automatically turn to yoga and baking—especially bread making. Kneading the dough, digging my hands into a raw life force, always gives me comfort and ease. I think that’s why I took to baking in the first place.
And so, still brokenhearted and filled with loss and ache, I kissed Rob good-bye and boarded a plane for San Francisco.
Old-Fashioned Potato Rolls
Makes about 30 rolls
There’s nothing quite as rewarding as making homemade bread, potato rolls especially! These are the fluffiest rolls I’ve ever tried. Serve them warm with honey and butter. They are best eaten the same day they are baked.
1 large russet potato
1 package (¼ ounce) dry yeast
¼ cup warm water (about 100°F)
2 eggs
⅔ cup sugar, divided
4½ cups flour, divided
1 teaspoon salt
1 stick (8 tablespoons) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 egg plus 1 tablespoon warm water for egg wash
Bring a large pot of water to a boil on the stove. Peel potato, cut into uniform chunks, and cook for abo
ut 20 minutes until tender. Drain potato and transfer to a large bowl. Mash with a fork or potato masher.
Dissolve yeast in the warm water. Add eggs and ⅓ cup sugar to the mashed potatoes, then add the yeast/water mixture. Mix well to combine.
Add 2 cups of the flour and the salt to the potato mixture and mix with a wooden spoon until a wet, shaggy dough forms. Place a dishcloth over the bowl and set bowl in a warm spot (I use the top of the dryer) to rise for 1½ hours.
Beat the softened butter and the remaining ⅓ cup sugar in a stand mixer until smooth and creamy. Add risen dough and continue to beat with paddle attachment (or dough hook if you have one), adding the remaining 2½ cups flour slowly, until all flour has been incorporated and dough is pulling away from sides of mixer bowl. Keep mixing on high for 6 more minutes, until dough is no longer sticky to the touch (it will still stick to the sides of the bowl). Spray a large, clean bowl with cooking spray and place dough in it. Cover and let dough rise for another hour, until doubled in size.
Butter a 13- by 9-inch pan. Divide dough into about 30 small balls and place in dish. Cover and let rise (one last time!) for 45 minutes.
Preheat oven to 375°F.
Whisk egg and warm water. Brush rolls with egg wash and bake until golden, 35 minutes.
Simple Greek Salad
Serves 6
Maybe it’s the salty olives or feta cheese, but every so often I just have to make this salad. It’s also delicious with grilled chicken pieces, chopped rotisserie chicken, or grilled shrimp on top!
½ red onion, sliced
½ cup pitted kalamata olives
1 can artichoke hearts
1 large cucumber, peeled and chopped
6 ounces cubed feta cheese
4 large basil leaves, torn
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1 teaspoon dried oregano
