A World of Flavor Across the Veil

Two months after Scott’s death, and after receiving some signs, synchronicities, and telepathy—along with other types of communication we were trying to send back and forth across the veil—I was still in the midst of deep grief.

After Scott’s death I found myself back at my family home with only a backpack stuffed with everything I owned.  One evening, one of my family members ordered Chinese takeout—at least ten different menu items from the local restaurant. When the doorbell rang and the delivery arrived, I wasn’t really hungry. But if you’re going to try to spark an appetite, for me Chinese food is a good way to go.

For years now, I have lost my taste. I think the last time I really tasted a strawberry, a rich Italian Carbonara—a favorite of mine—or any variety of spices was years and years ago. I can mostly just taste sweet and salty, and very strong spices, but the subtleties of most flavors evade me. 

When I grow  beautiful tomatoes in our garden, or pick a blueberry or raspberry straight off the bushes, or harvest from the pomegranate, peach, and plum trees we have... this is the closest to something I can actually taste—taste the layers of scent, flavor, and story in them, perhaps because I’ve grown them myself. But eating beyond my garden, it’s just a loss as to any kind of flavor I can really taste, which is hard for someone like me who enjoys food so much. Because I can’t really taste food, I usually eat fast and often overeat trying to chase different flavors I just can't enjoy anymore.

I vividly remember several memorable meals that Scott cooked for me. I was actually able to taste all the flavors. One time he made me this beautiful omelet, and we sat together and shared the plate. He gathered all kinds of herbs from our garden—thyme and oregano—and added whatever scattered vegetables were left in the bottom of the fridge. Adding onions and garlic, he chopped the heap into perfect bite-size pieces while the onions melted into the pan, sautéed in butter. I remember tasting his dish and being delighted by all the flavors. Another time, he cooked a dish at one of his friend's houses for the whole family, and it was one of the best dishes I ever tasted. He never followed a recipe, just making it up with whatever he could forage from the spice drawer, pantry, and refrigerator.

When we traveled in our van that last summer, I handled most of the cooking, but once in a while he would cook something. Now that I recall this, it surprises me that I didn't tie it together before. His food always tasted really good to me. I am a pretty good cook myself, so it didn't have anything to do with my own abilities. 

For some reason, I was able to taste his food when I couldn't taste mine or anyone else's. It makes me curious about that unique connection with his cooking in the physical world, and how that bridges to this experience with Chinese food.

That evening, I piled on the food, not wanting to go back to the kitchen for seconds. Returning to my old bedroom—deflated and battling grief—I sat on the edge of the very same bed that Scott and I slept in when we stayed or visited between our travels.

Sitting on our bed, balancing the paper plate on my lap, speaking softly to Scott, I invited him to merge with me so we could enjoy the meal together, while holding my boundary that this invitation was strictly for him—no other spirit was permitted to merge, touch me or draw near.

As I started picking at the food with my chopsticks, taking a bite of the Chow mein noodles, my mouth awakened with sensations. I could taste the subtle notes of the tiny red chiles through the heat. I slowly chewed each bite, tasting notes of citrus and smoke, aromatic ginger and garlic.

When I tasted the fried rice, each tiny bite of rice had a whole world of flavor in it. I could taste the prawns with the honey walnut sauce—I could taste the earth in the walnuts, I could taste the richness of the sauce, and I could taste the sea in the prawns.

I felt a pure sensuous pleasure I thought I would never feel again, merging with Scott and sharing a meal together after weeks of suffering.

A few months later,  I would be guided to a “Dream Teacher” who teaches students  how to go through the portal and astral travel.

Within a few weeks, I would find myself sitting next to Scott in a Chinese Restaurant, having dinner and tea surrounded by  “other worldly” gardens floating on a massive cloud in the sky.

Sitting on that bed, I didn’t know what awaited me in the future. I was just trying to get through the rest of the day dreading nightfall.

I kept eating really slow so I wouldn’t lose the connection with Scott.