On Pét-Nat, Soup Dumplings, and Chemo (At Least I Can’t Taste the Mouse)
An essay by the late Tracy Kennard
ALICE’S NOTE: I commissioned this gorgeous piece from Tracy Kennard who died in November of 2019. She was as you’ll see a beautiful writer, a talented designer and in the wine world, she was known as the co-owner (with her husband, Jamie ) of the Kingston wine bar, Brunette. What she wrote about is still so relevant to those going through chemo and for those who love them. So I hope you read this piece, that I don’t want to go missing. So I’m bringing you one beauty from the archives of TFL.
It is our third year in business and a Friday afternoon at Brunette, the wine bar my husband Jamie and I opened in Kingston, NY. A couple sits at Table 2, a coveted window table. Jamie served them and they have finished their food and first round of wine. I approach the table, clear a plate, tuck it behind my back, and ask how they are doing. The woman, head wrapped in a blue and green silk scarf, orders a hot dog — her second. Embarrassed, she explains she would not normally eat two hot dogs, but she is undergoing chemotherapy and it is the first time she has been able to taste in months. I fire her order and while it’s cooking, return from the kitchen with a bowl of Calbee shrimp chips and a cocktail sauce that makes my eyes water. If the hot dog’s jalapeño and Sriracha spoke to her tastebuds, this might, too.
A few months on, I meet Danielle, the woman in the headscarf, and she insists we have met before — that she has been to Brunette. She recounts this story as proof and adds that her eyes watered too — at my shrimp chip gesture and how normal I was to her; I did not dwell on her illness or make her feel weird about ordering two hot dogs. I did not disguise my pity for her bald head with a compliment about her scarf. And I did not judge her for drinking wine during chemo.
I stopped drinking in the Spring of 2019 in an attempt to cure a five-month-long headache and dramatic nosebleeds. The headaches became so debilitating I couldn’t see straight.
One night I cut my pinky while slicing cucumbers. I insisted I could work once it stopped bleeding — but it wouldn’t stop and I spent the shift at the ER getting the top of my pinky reattached.