Love, Oysters, Death

I am posting this blog on the ninth anniversary of my Jimmy’s death. He died of an overdose of fentanyl that was prescribed by his doctor. He was 42.

Like most addicts Jimmy experienced physical and mental trauma at a young age. He coped as well as he could but struggled and depended on various substances to get through life.

It is time to see this overdose epidemic for what it is, a mental health crises. I have no idea how to even begin to solve this huge issue, as I had no idea how to heal Jimmy. Love was not enough. But to start the healing we need to recognize the problem. We need to leave the shame, blame, guilt and denial behind and stand up to the truth with honesty and transparency, addiction is rooted in trauma.

On a lighter note I want to share something I wrote a few years ago. Jimmy loved me and our life together, our cats, our home, our business, and his mother so very much. Life with him was never boring, we spent more time loving and laughing than fighting, I am grateful for the adventures, the hilarity and the meals we shared. Food is my language of love.

Meals with Jimmy

I met Jimmy when I was working at a fancy wilderness resort in a remote location on Vancouver Island. I was hired to work in the lodge kitchen but spent a couple of months every spring cooking for the many staff and contractors as they prepared the resort for another busy summer season. There were horses and trails to groom, infrastructure to upgrade, and boardwalks and buildings to construct or repair after a punishing winter. Jimmy was one of the scruffy gang of local lads who had pretty much built the resort and kept it running. Raised in the rainforests and on the ocean they were used to working in remote locations and under harsh conditions and were resourceful in using what was available to get things done.

After breakfast Jimmy would don his duct tape repaired rain gear and disappear into the forest with a chainsaw, a jug of gas and a case of beer. He would emerge ten hours later filthy, tired, and often soaking wet. He started courting me in his own way, by washing my pots and pans and helping in the kitchen when he had time. When my weekly grocery delivery was unceremoniously dumped, often soaking wet on the deck at the end of a long day Jimmy would be there, smelling sweet after a shower, to help me unpack and store the goods. He stole my heart the night he packed a thirty pound halibut into the kitchen and saw the look of dismay on my face. He then grabbed it by the tail, and with a cigarette dangling from his lips dragged it onto the deck and, in the dark, butchered it, filleted it, placed it on a tray and slid it neatly onto a rack in the walk in fridge for the next days fish and chips. He made Yorkshire pudding for twenty or so people for our weekly roast dinner, no recipe, perfect every time. I was smitten. I thanked him by spoiling him with omelettes, cheeseburgers, and a flirty smile.

Jimmy had bad hair, bad teeth and some bad habits. He also big beautiful blue eyes, a strong work ethic and was fiercely loyal to the resort, to his family, his friends, and to me. I resisted, he persisted, I caved, he won. A year later we were living together in my little house by the lake.

We both loved food but had different ideas when it came to meals. Jimmy loved hotdogs and would grill a whole pack. And ice cream, he could eat a litre of Breyer’s tiger tail in one sitting. And cheeseburgers with bacon. He fucking loved them. He ate five one day. Moderation was not his strong point. One thing we both loved was seafood. Being born and raised by the sea he knew where to get it and how to prepare it. This was one of our favourite meals:

Panko fried oysters Tartar sauce Coleslaw Garlic bread

I fucking love oysters and am lucky to live on an island surrounded by the cold Pacific Ocean, perfect for oyster beds and breeding. I have recreated an altered version of this meal often since Jimmy’s death. These days I don’t bread the oysters, I sear them in brown butter with lots of lemon and fresh parsley. I usually skip the tartar sauce, the juice from the oysters and the butter and lemon make a perfect glaze.

“You are eating the sea, that’s it, only the sensation of a gulp of sea water has been wafted out of it by some sorcery, and you are on the verge of remembering you don’t know what, mermaids or the sudden smell of kelp on the ebb tide or a poem you read once, something connected with the flavour of life itself…” On tasting Brittany’s oysters, from “The Oysters of Locmariaquer ” by Eleanor Clark.

Please stand by your loved ones, all of them, even when it feels hopeless. Reach out, advocate, communicate. And eat oysters. Peace and love to you all.