Before we got together, the freezer had been quite unloved. As a single guy whose pantry was mostly stocked with instant noodles, I didn't much need a stash of frozen food.
But the freezer in the Toronto apartment I shared with my ex-girlfriend – saying "our" freezer doesn't feel right, now – was perpetually stocked with foods from the place she affectionately called the motherland.
Newfoundland was where she was raised, grew up – all those intrinsic experiences that make a person; that was the very first thing I ever learned about her. A proud Newfie, she loved to extoll the virtues of the home she had left behind: the people, the culture, the salt air.
Mostly, she missed it.
When mementoes and Republic of Doyle reruns and phone calls with her dear mudder weren't enough, she turned to the freezer. There was moose, cod, crab, sometimes shrimp, depending on the contents of the last care package. You're familiar with the excited mainlander who comes back from an East Coast vacation with a live lobster in tow? The return legs of her trips home always included a carry-on freezer bag of the good stuff.
Moose stews, crab au gratin, cod tongues fried with scrunchions. I'm a Chinese kid from up there in Canada, but my Newfoundland diet would have made even the most proud St. John's townie jealous. The packages were hers, and hers alone, to defrost and cook, to enjoy a drop of home, as they say. I could never lay claim to the bounty, but I certainly benefited.
The second thing I ever learned about her bore itself out: A Newfoundlander always goes home.
And so one day, a few too many years later depending on whom you ask, she went home. She belonged there, and I'd had many years to prepare myself for the inevitable.
Every relationship past due leaves behind physical remains, the evidence of a now-previous life hastily abandoned for a pre-dawn flight bound for way east. Her clothes, her books, her non-essentials that didn't fit into suitcases – I was ready to deal with these remnants.
I hadn't given much thought to the freezer. Eventually, I had to take stock.
There was the cod, fresh-caught, some by my own clumsy hands, in the icy waters off the northern shore of Conception Bay, and flawlessly filleted by her father and his friends. They'd tease when I'd insist they not throw out the fish heads. There was the moose, hunted by her father somewhere in the wooded interior of the Avalon Peninsula, and turned by the butcher into steaks, roasts and sausages. Back then, there was always more where that came from: A quarter of the beast fills an entire chest freezer. There was the crab, sourced right from the processing plant, freshest off the boat, if you will. I'd eat so much that someone would always joke I'd soon be walking sideways.
All of it remained where she did not. It used to connect her to where she wasn't. Now it was shipwrecked in a freezer in downtown Toronto, its rightful owner returned to her rightful place.
So it became mine.
I would be lying if I said the slow process of eating it all was fraught with meaning and emotional duress. Not at all. Nora Ephron, who was at her best when making sharp observations on food and romance, once wrote: "I have made a lot of mistakes falling in love, and regretted most of them, but never the potatoes that went with them." While she sought starch, I was awash in seafood. Whatever mistakes I had made – and learned from – in this relationship, I held no stigma toward the good eating that came of it.
And so I ate, but on my terms. She had always told me that moose was too gamey and tough for anything but stews and ground; so I pan-fried steaks whole. She had always told me that cod tasted best when cooked in fatback; so I baked fish sticks coated in packaged breadcrumbs. She had always told me to be judicious with the crab au gratin; I ate them all.
Then, an odd realization crept in: I would never be able to openly share any of these delicious things.
While I could separate my inheritance from its history, others could not. How do you explain to friends and family that you're still dining on your ex's moose meat months after she left town? How do you tell the woman you reconnected with in the aftermath, who, you realize, is the true love of your life? (I didn't, until these words.)
Truthfully, I did try to share with friends once. My last box of crab legs – caught, cooked in ocean water and flash frozen – were my contribution to a New Year's dinner party. My plan was for them to blend in with the celebratory spread, no questions asked. It worked, but too well: They were drunkenly left out to spoil overnight. In retrospect, it seems appropriate.
My favourite book title of all time is from an anthology devoted to solo cooking and dining. I've never read Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant, but I love the idea it imparts. Eating by myself is a great pleasure, practised and honed over the years in noodle houses near and far. My first vacation after the relationship ended was a solo food tour of Texas. The most indulgent act was a four-hour drive to a renowned, remote steakhouse. The journey was satisfying. The ribeye was even better.
My freezer, full of her memories, afforded none of those self-empowering feelings. I knew the dishes I made were mouth-watering, amazing even. But what was the point if they were being consumed just to be forgotten? Meals, as I've learned, are a social thing. Even if I choose to have a bowl of ramen in solitude, I'm free to revel in that memory with no one or anyone. Moose sausages rendered me silent.
I don't remember when I finished the last frozen item from Newfoundland, nor what it was. But it's all gone.
My freezer has since been restocked. I've taken up an organic beef and pork delivery. It's the best cow and pig I've ever cooked. I've learned to make a bolognese sauce that I freeze three batches at a time. I'm creating a new life and a new story. I'm telling everyone all about it. I'm sharing it with my love.
In theory, I wouldn't turn down a shipment of moose if it ever came my way. But I'd think twice about the accompanying baggage.
Cliff Lee