Tell Giselle: The small stuff of dignity

At my father’s hospital bedside, during the end stages of his cancer, I noticed his fingernails were in need of a trim.

When I asked him why they were so long, he replied he had been asking for two weeks for someone to clip them. I proceeded to groom my father’s hands, and then his feet, and realized while I was tending to him, the small things, the things that help a person hold on to their dignity, are frequently unintentionally overlooked by otherwise loving, caring people, when in the throes of great suffering, grief and chaos. I wrote about this particular incident, and numerous other lessons my wise father taught me, in the opening chapter of my book “We are Here for a Purpose: HOW TO FIND YOURS.”

I was reminded of my father’s fingernails while I was a guest at a friend’s gathering in Colorado. Twenty people of various ages and genealogies had come together for Thanksgiving dinner. An elderly woman, tastefully dressed in a Pendleton plaid skirt and matching emerald jacket, who at the time was living next door to my friend’s parents, was left at the table alone with me as the younger guests scattered for the television or for other conversational opportunities, while the more dutiful ones tackled the dirty dishes in the kitchen.

Sitting across the dining table from each other, we found our way through a variety of topics and I learned she had been living alone for five years ever since her brother passed away. I listened closely as she shared the story of her husband’s passing many years earlier, the unfortunate spill she took several months prior that left her with constant back pain, as well as the more recent condition of macular degeneration that plagued her and prevented her from being able to drive. Then, at the age of 82, it had fallen to my friend’s parents to do what they could to help her remain independent and continue living in the modest home she had kept for 30 years.

Somehow, as is so often the case with conversations with strangers, that usually take place on airplanes or in hospital waiting rooms, I learned some especially personal things. Finding at least a willing ear, or maybe sensing I was a kindred spirit, she expressed her frustrations about her situation without complaint or whine, without exaggeration or repetition. I was reminded how much we need one another especially in times of sickness and as we grow old. I was also reminded how easy it is not to think — when we are in our own fine health — about the limits to our independence and the luxury of freedom and how we too often take them both for granted.

The thing that troubled this elderly widow didn’t have anything to do with health insurance or money or the lack thereof, or with regrets and guilt. None of the big stuff that tends to weigh upon even the youngest of yuppies. It was toenails that concerned her then and how, since her macular degeneration, she had not been able to care for her feet the way she wanted to do. Without hesitation, or thinking it might be even the slightest bit forward or peculiar, I offered right there at the dinner table to clip her toenails if she wanted me to.

It was one of those times, sort of like a Hallmark card kind of moment, where you can’t help but get the message loud and clear that happiness doesn’t always require attention to the big stuff. It’s usually the small stuff, the stuff of toenails.

What to bring, what to bring?

A recent query from a bachelor wanting to know what to bring to the couple who were hosting a heavy nosh happy hour social, makes for an especially holiday season, or anytime, gift consideration:

G: Anytime I invite anyone over to my home and they ask, “What can I bring?” I tell them “Just you.” Whether I am hosting an elegant dinner or some lighter fare, I do not want my guest to feel in any way obligated to bring “something.” This is because it is no different, in my mind, than if I had asked someone to join me at a restaurant and had an expectation that they would bring the antipasto.

I want my invitee to not have to do any work. Nor do I want them to help in setting the table, clearing the table or doing the dishes afterward. I want them to be indulged. Otherwise, this would just be an occasion for them to perform a task, and that is quite antithetical to the intention of my hospitality. Call it a respite zone. At this point you might have guessed correctly that I do not host potlucks. Still, kind and generous people enjoy bringing “something” as a gift. And that is the point: The gift should not be an obligation.

For those who are invited over to anyone’s house, here are a few suggestions for those gifts of gratitude: If you choose to bring flowers, make sure they are already in a vase so you are not creating another task for your host the minute you walk through their front door; if you want to go beyond the standard but always suitable selection of fine chocolates, cookies, or any alcoholic or non-alcoholic beverage that aligns with their taste preference if you know it, consider a selection of specialty/exotic spices or some artisan salts; a finer quality balsamic vinegar; or cold-pressed avocado oil or walnut oil.

And if you do show up with a dessert item you made, have the recipe card to share. For the Thanksgiving dinner I attended in the above story, I knew that bringing a dish was the right thing for that family. I presented the pineapple surprise, a dish that is never a surprise hit, and I had six copies of the recipe ready to be handed out upon request as I knew it would be in demand. Here’s the recipe:

Pineapple surprise

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In a large bowl mix together gently (so you don’t make total mush of the cubed bread): 16 oz. crushed pineapple in own juice, 1 ¼ cup sugar, 1 stick melted butter, ¼ cup milk, 3 beaten eggs, 6 slices of white bread cubed (with or without crust). You’ll end up with something that looks like it was barfed … That it comes out of the oven looking delicious and tasting even more delicious is the surprise.

Put in a casserole dish (glass 1 1/2 quart dish or ceramic). Sprinkle very lightly with cinnamon. Bake at 350 on the middle rack until the top is slightly browned and the edges are bubbly and to the point of carmelization. That could be anywhere between 35 to 45 minutes depending on your oven, so watch it, as if you were a helicopter parent.

Serve right out of the oven as a side dish, but it’s also great served cold as a dessert. I don’t eat turkey or any birds, but I am told it is especially deeeelishish with any poultry.