The author said making family recipes, including this taco salad, with her daughter helped them both feel connected to her late husband.
Courtesy of Lisa Sparrell.
Danny, my husband of 17 years, died three days before Valentine's Day.I felt sick at the store displays I saw. It felt cruel to see people celebrating love when I had just lost mine. My then 9-year-old, though, had seen how her dad treated me during his life. She pulled our family friends aside — friends who were there to mourn with us — and she asked them to take her to the store so she could buy flowers for me. Even in his absence, she said, she wanted me to know I was loved.Our daughter's birthday was the next event on the calendar, followed immediately by Mother's Day, and then our wedding anniversary. Our local Waikiki friends put on a birthday beach bash for Serafina, piled high with food, hugs, and smiles. It almost made her forget that "he promised to make it to my 10th birthday," she told me after.Days later, on what would have been our wedding anniversary, I walked to the ocean and scattered flower petals in the waves, the salt in my tears which were indistinguishable from the salt in the air. I came home, baked an angel food cake, and watched one of our favorite movies, "The Princess Bride".Later that year, on Danny's birthday, I baked his favorite black-bottomed cupcakes. Our tradition. I took some to a local bar to share and downed a few shots of Jameson in his honor.We didn't celebrate. We commemorated. We wallowed. We wondered if it would always be like this, heaviness accompanying what had previously been joyful.I wanted my daughter to remember her dad, but I didn't want every memory to be marked by mourningTogether, my daughter and I walked through several years of sad rituals. Cupcakes for his birthday. Not putting the Christmas tree up until after his birthday. "Deadpool," and whiskey on the anniversary of his death. Angel food for our wedding anniversary.
