It's Just a Griddle. Except It Isn't.

The other day, while cleaning out around the house, I dug out the old propane griddle.

It had been sitting untouched for five and a half years.

The last person to use it was my husband.

I lost Tim in 2021, after 27 years of marriage. And while five and a half years have passed, I'm still discovering that there are some parts of losing him that I haven't quite figured out how to navigate.

There are some things about grief that are just hard to explain. For me, one of those things has been using the things he loved. The grill. The smoker. The outdoor kitchen. All those things that were such a part of him and the life we built together.

For some reason, using them without him has always felt like a betrayal.

I know that probably doesn't make much sense. They're just things, after all. And I know good and well he wouldn't want them sitting around collecting dust.

But a lot about grief doesn't make sense. Grief doesn't listen to reason.

It can be tucked away somewhere in a nice, neat little drawer, and you haven't thought about it in a long time. You think you're doing pretty good, going about your life, and then all of a sudden it rears its ugly head in the weirdest ways.

Sometimes over something as ordinary as using a griddle.

Since his passing, I know there have been times when people haven't understood my reactions or why certain things bother me or upset me. And that's okay. I don't expect everyone to understand. I've been an irrational lunatic on occasion over the course of the past five and a half years. I can admit that.

But grief has a way of bringing out emotions you didn't even know were there, sometimes when you least expect them.

And if you don't understand this kind of grief, you're truly blessed that you've never had to walk through it.

I mean that sincerely. Not having to know this kind of grief is a blessing. I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

Anyway, I've slowly been finding my way back to some of those things. And in a lot of ways, finding my way back to myself.

The grill came first. And even then, it took me over a year to touch it. For months afterward, every time I used it, something about it just felt wrong. The food was delicious, but the experience wasn't quite right without him there.

Last Thanksgiving, I finally fired up the smoker for the first time since he passed away.

Might I say, that was a hot disaster.

My husband was the master smoker and grill master in our house. He knew exactly what he was doing, and I had apparently underestimated just how much I relied on him knowing what he was doing.

The turkey was fine, but it was NOT his turkey.

I struggled with the whole process. Praise the Lord my uncle was there to help bail me out of that smoking quandary.

But I did it. It wasn't perfect, and it certainly wasn't the same, but I did it.

And then there was the griddle.

I feel like ominous music should start playing right about now.

The last holdout.

Five and a half years of sitting there under the deck, waiting.

So I dragged it out, cleaned it up, scraped away the years of grime, and gave it a fresh seasoning. Much to my delight, it still worked!

I'm planning to make tamales soon, and preparing that much food is so much easier on a big outdoor griddle. So today, for the first time in five and a half years, I fired it up.

And you know what?

It was okay.

I was okay.

I cooked on it. I actually enjoyed using it. And for once, I didn't feel like I was doing something I shouldn't be doing.

It didn't feel wrong.

That surprised me more than I expected.

I don't know why it took me five and a half years to get to this point with a griddle. I don't know why I could eventually bring myself to use the grill, struggle my way through Thanksgiving with the smoker, but couldn't quite bring myself to touch this one last piece of our outdoor kitchen.

There really isn't a logical explanation.

But maybe that's part of what I've been learning about grief. You don't always know which things are going to be hard, or why. Something that seems insignificant to everyone else can carry years of memories and emotions that are difficult to explain.

And sometimes, without even realizing it, you reach a point where something that once felt impossible doesn't feel impossible anymore.

Today, I used something my husband loved. Something that had been sitting untouched because I couldn't bring myself to use it without him.

And for the first time, I didn't feel guilty about it.

I didn't feel like I was betraying him or somehow leaving him behind.

I just enjoyed cooking.

I don't know that I would call it a milestone. It certainly wasn't something I set out to accomplish today.

But when I finished, I realized something had changed.

And it felt good.

Afterall, It's just a griddle.

Except it isn't.