If I Could Feed You...

Two months ago today, on March 8, 2022, my uncle, godfather and friend died. His name is Timothy Traynor and he is one of my favorite people.

I’ve experienced death and grief before, but never like this. It was unexpected. It was random. It was swift. It is unfair. It is unimaginable.

In my efforts to make sense of this loss, I’ve been thinking a lot about what Tim means to me. What our relationship means to me. What I’m missing.

I was blessed to have our relationship deepen into a genuine friendship as I grew older. He was the “cool uncle,” the “fun uncle,” the guy who could go from paternal uncle figure in one text (“remember you represent your company, so keep your cool with the movers“) and friend in the next (“but since they lost your stuff, I’d suggest going out for martinis as soon as possible.”).

We had a lot in common - but perhaps our deepest connection came through food. Tim and I share a love of good food, good wine, good people (OK, he loved good beer too but that, unfortunately, is not quite my wheelhouse), and we swapped recipes, menus and ingredients weekly.

I miss him most when I’m cooking.

Always my first text with a menu, recipe, or ingredient, Tim and I eagerly awaited each other’s updates on our life in food.

With him gone, I’m reminded how food and love are intertwined. Painstakingly crafting a meal for people I love: there’s few other ways I’d rather spend a day.

That brings me to If I Could Feed You…, the place you’ve landed today. This is my love letter to Tim. It’s what I would tell him if I could. It’s the meals I would make him, the details I would share, the menus I would craft.

I think of him when I cook. Which is to say - always.

Grief and love and food: they are constant bedfellows in my kitchen. Pull up a chair if you’d like. The chocolate chip cookies are salted.