I make granola for people. I make it for nieces and nephews at sports camps. That’s how I know to weasel in all the extra calories in peanut butter and honey and corn syrup and butter. I’ve made it for kids studying for exams – that’s why I put in m&m’s. I’ve sent it across Canada in a canoe. Up the side of a mountain.
It’s gone to palliative care a few times. It’s the perfect food to leave in a hospital room. You can grab a handful and get a healthy dose of calories and sweet. It keeps forever. At 3 in the morning, when you feel alone, it solid proof that I care about you. Here’s love, three hundred calories at a time.
It’s maybe the one thing that I try and make intentionally. I try and hold you in my heart as I mix and measure. I try and send comfort and good wishes in the bag.
This will be the first time I have made it for someone who is dying.
I don’t know her, not really. I’ve met her a few times. She’s nice old lady.
What I know is her greatest achievement. I know her grandson.
I’m watching him navigate this. I’m watching him on the phone, taking notes. I’m watching him pivot and spin and he’s doing it with a lot of grace and composure. I stop every so often and put my hand on his shoulder and tell him how very proud of him I am. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him into me. This is how we grow. I know that. He’s a bit like a younger brother and he’s growing in leaps and bounds and this is how we do it as adults, but holy hell, it’s hard to see this.
I asked what I could do. It’s going to be fast and hard and very, very ugly. It’s coming quickly.
He asked for granola.
Because food for a journey.
I can do that.