seared ahi with tangy, crunchy pesto zucchini noodles

So here’s a weird thing about grief: sometimes it makes you feel so full that you’re not hungry.

But not physically full. More like to the rim with sadness. Bursting with anger. Holding back an amount of tears so huge you swear that they’re pooling in your stomach, rising up through your esophagus - you can feel them there, physically, it’s true - and gathering in the back of your throat.

Here’s another weird thing about grief: it gets harder as everyone around you expects it to get easier.

We’re coming up on six months. In my scientific opinion, this is “grief no man’s land.” It’s all you can think about, but the check-ins, the small acts of love and friendship, the understanding of just how awful this feels… disappears. You’re too far away from the actual day of tragedy. People have forgotten, maybe? They expect you to be “more over it by now,” perhaps? That leads to the Circular Trifecta Of Questions: do people know I’m this sad all the time? Do people care I’m this sad? And the ultimate kicker: are people annoyed that I’m still this sad?

But you’re also too far away from that four letter word (The One Year Anniversary) for milestones to matter.

Except every goddamn thing is a milestone thanks to grief.

Traveled internationally and couldn’t tell you. Visited home and couldn’t tell you. My cat did something stupid and I couldn’t send you a video. I had a great meal out and couldn’t text you about it. My birthday is coming up and I won’t hear from you and knowing that even a month out makes me want to smash my car windows. Went on a bucket list adventure with mom and couldn’t tell you. Went on a bucket list adventure with mom and won’t be able to take you.

I saw a quote recently that said something like: a lot of grief is being sad about what you will never have.

On the one hand, hell yes - that’s exactly what I’m scared about. One the other hand, fuck - this will never get better, will it? There will always be a new level of loss, a new level of absence, a new level of sad.

It’s like this: the worst day after losing you wasn’t the day after losing you. It was the first day I woke up in my own apartment in Portland after traveling home from being with our family. It was the first time I was solidly back in my own life, back in the “normal routine,” without you existing in this world.

In some ways, the rest of my life is waking up for the first time in my normal routine without you.

So in those moments - even though I can hear myself saying this to you and feel you staring back at me incredulously: “NOT hungry? Not hungry. Elizabeth, no one in the history of this family has been not hungry!” - in those moments, what to do?

What helps a bit is to think about our shared belief that food is love. And our even more shared belief that the best food (fresh, local, seasonal, delicious) is the best love.

It was thinking about that shared belief while playing around with some seasonal produce and a really, really good looking piece of fish, that lead me to this salty-tangy-crunchy-sweet recipe.

I wish I could make it for you. But I’ll settle for knowing that even though the rest of the world is moving on around me, recipes like this, ones that force me to eat through the lump of sadness and think about you and smile, and take a deep breath through the fact that most of my day is still - somehow! still! - boxing up the part inside of me that wants to sob until it’s all out of my system - recipes like this make me feel closer to you. And closer to the people I’m making them for.

Which is, in turn, happiness.

seared ahi with tangy, crunchy pesto zucchini noodles

To make the pesto: in a mini food processor, combine 1/2 cup basil, 1/2 cup olive oil, 1/2 cup grated parmesan, 1/4 cup walnuts, 3 tbl pine nuts and 3 cloves of garlic. Add pinches of salt to taste. Set aside.

To make the zoodles: in a pan, combine a pint of cherry tomatoes, garlic to taste, and 1/8 cup olive oil, and cook it slowly over medium heat until they all burst. Drain and set aside. Cook the zoodles quickly in the same pan, add the tomatoes, add the pesto. Mix and set aside.

To make the tuna: season each side of the steak with high-quality salt (use sparingly) and freshly cracked black pepper. Using a cast iron heated over medium high heat, add a bit of olive oil and sear the tuna for 3 min/side. You want the middle rare…. it’s tuna, people!

Plating: place the noodle mix on the plate, top with thinly sliced tuna. Scatter chopped almonds and capers atop.

Enjoy.