By Pam Stone

How do I say this without sounding macabre?

 

I think I’ll just plunge in.

 

If our family must endure an extraordinarily long spell of hospice and steel ourselves each morning to see what each day brings, can I just say how very grateful I am, we are, to be an Episcopalian? Because of our priest, you might ask? Because of sympathetic fellowship?

 

Oh, yes! Absolutely! And, also, um, because of the, er, food. Oh, Law, Law, the FOOD!

 

Those that serve on our in-reach committee have lovingly taken upon themselves to make sure that Paul and I, both vegetarians, don’t even have to think about going grocery shopping or preparing a meal, and have delivered to our doorstep containers of Mediterranean tabouli and Greek salads, scattered with tomatoes, olives, and chunks of feta, a freshly made tub of hummus with roasted red pepper, pita bread, chopped pineapple and cantaloupe, black bean salad, not to mention a couple of bottles of Chardonnay…

 

…which is my other favorite thing about being an Episcopalian. Because I love you Baptists, you know I do, I just don’t know how you make it through the grief period with sweet tea.

 

Even a friend of mine, of the aforementioned denomination, was rather agog at the bounty stuffed within the confines of our refrigerator.

 

“I don’t even know what any of this stuff is,” she mentioned, pulling back the Tupperware lid.

 

“Hummus!” I replied. “You use it as a dip or spread.”

 

“What’s it made of?”

 

“Chick peas.”

 

“Ohhh.”

 

“Would you like some?”

 

“Um, no thanks,” she said, securing the lid carefully. Taking in the tabouli she asked, “So your church brought y’all all of this?”

 

I nodded.

 

“I hadn’t ever seen some of that,” she mused, then offered, “if somebody’s died at our church, we send casseroles. A whole lot of casseroles. And cake.”

 

“Comfort food.” I declared.

 

Her expression brightened as we were now sharing familiar footing and she said, “That’s right, comfort food: Mac and cheese, fried chicken, chocolate cake…” Her voice trailed off and then she said, carefully choosing her words, “Does that hummus comfort?”

 

I leaned against the kitchen island and crossed my arms and thought for a minute, then said, “I wouldn’t say that, no. Although it’s really good – I could eat it every day. But the Chardonnay, now that comforts. A lot.”

 

“We would never carry alcohol over to somebody’s house.”

 

“No, I know.”

 

I thought about all that fried chicken and cake later that evening. Probably fudge brownies as well, not to mention heaps of mashed potatoes and gravy. Because when all is said and done, nobody does comfort food like the Baptists. And nobody steps forward to volunteer for community service like the Baptists. Regardless of if you agree with their beliefs, Baptists walk the walk. And talk the talk. And bake the bake.

 

But y’all, having to drink Tetley’s with my tabouli? That’d just make me cry.