What vegan cheese taught me about memory
By adjusting to the loss of comfort foods, I strengthened my connection to my dead brother.
When I was 43, I found myself doubled over in pain at the same emergency room where my older brother Alan had died – at age 43.
Alan had severe developmental disabilities and had died suddenly. While I knew my situation was different and likely not life-threatening, I couldn’t help but think of him and wonder if he was somehow sending me a message.
I had been Alan’s younger sister, but also his caregiver. Prader-Willi Syndrome caused him to have violent mood swings and an insatiable appetite. Our relationship was tumultuous, his behavior unpredictable. But one thing I could always count on to calm him down was the promise of his favorite meal: a juicy cheeseburger, thick-cut French fries, and a velvety chocolate milkshake.
After doctor appointments, on his birthday, or as a reward for good behavior, I’d take Alan to Red Robin, a family-friendly burger chain, for this special treat. The staff there were patient and kind, refilling his basket of fries and topping his shake with extra whipped cream. The food wasn't just an incentive for Alan, but also a source of joy and connection for both of us. Alan and I had grown up in the South; comfort food was part of our heritage. These meals were some of the rare occasions I saw him truly happy, at ease in the world.
In the few years since Alan’s death, my grief had been showing up in strange ways physically. It was as if the pain was too complicated to metabolize through tears alone. So, it presented as fatigue, migraines, insomnia. I coped by indulging in little treats as I’d done with Alan. Nostalgic flavors got me through the toughest days: A bowl of cheesy grits for breakfast. Mid-afternoon pastries. And, occasionally, I’d take myself out for a cheeseburger and shake.
It was immediately following one of these greasy, heavy treats that my abdominal pain began. In the ER, doctors performed several tests and told me my gallbladder was inflamed and failing. I was admitted to the hospital and underwent emergency surgery that night to remove it.
The surgery went well, and I recovered quickly. But in the days and weeks that followed, I discovered an unwelcome side effect. Along with my gallbladder, I’d lost my ability to digest dairy. Anything that contained cow’s milk would leave me with stomach cramps, rushing to the nearest bathroom. Suddenly, I’d lost access to the foods I’d used to cope with my sorrow. More than that, though, I lost access to a powerful memory – and a crucial connection to my brother.
Giving up dairy is a first-world problem, of course. These days, many stores and restaurants cater to dietary restrictions. My vegan friends reassured me that there were plenty of substitutes available that I might enjoy. Soy cheeses, nut milks, coconut creams, nutritional yeast, chocolatey desserts made with avocado or tofu.
Yet, small losses echo bigger ones. The first time I scanned the vegan section at my local grocery store, I couldn’t bring myself to buy anything. It all looked so plastic and unappealing. The blocks of cheese were beige and smelled a bit like sweat socks. The milks and creams appeared watery.
I traveled through the stages of grief as they applied to dairy. Denial at first, as I continued to eat ice cream and suffered the gastrointestinal consequences. Then anger, when I begrudgingly ordered oat milk lattes (and scoffed at spending an extra dollar or two for the substitution). Bargaining, as I swapped goat and sheep’s milk cheeses in my favorite recipes. Depression, when I realized the taste and texture were never quite right.
One day a friend dragged me to a popular local restaurant that had just begun offering no-cheese cheeseburgers, vegan milkshakes, and baskets of crispy, crinkle-cut French fries. Walking through the door, we were enveloped by the sound of line cooks flipping patties, blenders whirring, the smell of charbroil and grease. Browsing the menu, I felt skeptical, but hopeful. We sat down, and I ordered the non-dairy version of my comfort meal.
When our food arrived, the no-cheeseburger towered with angus beef, crisp lettuce, caramelized onions, and a secret sauce tucked between a toasted sesame seed bun. Grabbing it with both hands, I closed my eyes and took an enormous bite. I washed it down with a few sips of the vegan chocolate shake, which was surprisingly creamy, rich, and satisfying. The flavors and textures were delightful – and familiar. I closed my eyes, leaned back in my chair, and felt my brother sitting next to me, peaceful and smiling.
Evolution has seen to it that our brains associate food not only with survival, but with positive feelings. Food-seeking memories are stored in the brain’s hippocampus in technicolor detail. The sights, smells, sounds, tastes, and emotions of a particular meal are encoded so that humans can access the experience and repeat it, avoiding starvation.
Given this, it makes sense that an approximation of cheese might fail to recall my truest, vivid memories of Alan. I needed a multi-sensory experience that more closely resembled the neurological template – the atmosphere of the burger joint, the smell of meat on the grill, the taste and texture that could teleport me right back.
For my brain and stomach, those meals with my brother might have triggered a chain reaction of molecules, hormones, neurons. But for my heart, it was about so much more. Alan’s disability had made us feel separate, unknowable. It drew a boundary that neither of us could cross. To bond as siblings, we needed moments of emotional intimacy, shared joy. Comfort food, in the end, helped us find common ground.
Anyone who’s lost a loved one knows that grief isn’t neat or linear. Over the years, I’ve tested certain foods to see if they still cause stomach upset. And sometimes, I still lie awake at night with a migraine, longing for more time with my brother.
Acceptance, I've learned, is not a finish line, but a rest stop, a place to catch your breath and find some peace. And in my case, dairy substitutes (the best ones) continue to offer some solace and delight. They allow me to time travel, activating memories of my brother in my body, bringing us together for one more meal.
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