A time to grieve, a time to eat

My name is Nneka. I’m a journalist, author and quite possibly the most grieving person you’ll ever meet. If you’re here, you’ve probably encountered me online somewhere at some point musing about grief. Maybe it was messy rambles about a part of grief I’m struggling with—I tend to get stuck in what I called grief-fueled rage when mourning. Or perhaps its wistful reflection from who or what is no more.

Three years ago, I wrote a beautiful book on grief called Self-Care for Grief. It was my attempt to put all the “advice” and wisdom I’ve learned since I was a child on grieving and how to tend to yourself while doing so in a beautiful container, in a way that gives every individual the chance to customize their grieving journey that honors their specific needs without demands or shame.

But grief has loud demands. When a loss is fresh for me, my appetite leaves. There could be strings of days where the thought of eating a morsel of food is a passing, forgotten thought. For someone who looks to spending time in the kitchen to destress after being in my head all day, it’s a weird space to be in. I sip water and tea all day to hydrate, nibbling on things here and there.

Usually, late at night, I force myself to eat something. Appetite and somatic symptoms are a landmark of those submerged in loss. Forgetting to eat, disinterest in food or reaching for it compulsively in a quest for comfort. It is truly no wonder that Black people communicate care in thinking of one of our most primal needs when life feels most groundless—and have such pronounced, moving rituals surrounding the food we eat while grieving.

I read a tweet somewhere about how trauma and pain need somewhere to go outside of our bodies. That we can put what ails us the most into another entity versus it remaining within us stagnant begging to be released. There is a deep desire for me to put all my grief about being a Black woman in this world somewhere else besides hiding in these weary bones. And to explore them in meaningful, revelatory ways so that we can learn as we grieve and mourn.

This newsletter magazine will be divided into topical seasons: Season 1 is on food. This means I’ll be writing about how grief intersects with food, eating, culinary traditions and larger Black cultural practices tied to food and grief. In the past, I’ve written about recipes as archival remembrance, repass food, losing my appetite when grieving, cooking through the grief that the holiday season brings. But I’m hoping to go deeper and chronicle even more of our history and narratives. For this month alone, I have pieces planned on funeral fried chicken, casseroles and the sweets we reach for when bereaved.

Now: basic housekeeping stuff. My intent with this newsletter magazine is to present a weekly issue every Friday with a leading piece—whether it be a personal essay, a reported piece that calls on other voices, a combination of the two. I’d also like eventually to experiment with form, incorporating audio and video.

Grief work is heavy so I’m asking to be supported as I chart my way forth with the dead zine. Please consider subscribing for $7/month or $70/year. I have a promotion going on right now where you can get 20% off both. If subscribing is beyond what you can do now, I understand. Free subscribers will still get two issues per month. And yes, I welcome tips in my “tip jar” via PayPal or you can buy me a cup of tea.

Thank you for being here. I’m excited about our time here together in this space to give credence to all the complexities and nuances of Black grief and how the mourning only we can do is reflected into every corner of life.

See you next Friday.