Originally published in The Clifton Courier, February 7, 2018

A dear friend of mine is sick and I’m feeling a little useless.

I love that term, “dear friend”. First of all, it denotes that she’s more than just your standard, everyday friend and, by extension, this implies that I am capable of maintaining strong, meaningful relationships. I also like the way it sounds. It has a certain ring of sophistication to it, as though we are kindred spirits who have seen each other through a great deal and take turns around the garden with linked arms like wealthy women in Jane Austen novels. It’s a much flowerier way of saying, “we’ve been to Big Day Out together a few times, hate a lot of the same things and don’t judge one another for our messy buns or our life choices”. This the kind of excellent person who posted me a scented candle purely so I could say I was a sponsored blogger, legitimately writing in return for luxurious homewares. Yes, she is a dear friend indeed. And right now she’s not doing too crash hot.

The poor thing just had a hasty appendectomy and is quite banged up at the moment (“banged up” being a medical term, of course).

Now, this might sound a little messed up, but I kind of love it when my friends are a little sick or needy. I mean, I don’t love it enough that I would purposefully make them sick or manipulate them into thinking their relationships are over just so I could swoop in and pick up the pieces. I’m not a monster, and I doubt I have the commitment to pull something like that off.

But I do enjoy feeling useful and I like to be around for my friends.

Usually when a friend is going though something, I’ll show my love through food.

When another dear friend of mine (I’m going to start saying that as often as I can) had her baby, I rocked up with a vat of spaghetti bolognaise. It was Mum’s recipe, but I added a whole lot of spinach to help boost her iron levels.* I also brought around the most nurturing and replenishing substances known to humanity: a cob loaf.

* Girlfriend lost A LOT of blood. But instead of dying, she produced another healthy human being. What a tank. 

When I knew my housemate was having a rough time with uni, I’d whip up a pie or fry up a batch of homemade chicken schnitties to eat while we watched The Nanny.

And when there were trying times at my old workplace in Armidale, I found a big tray of nuggchos (nachos with chicken nuggets instead of corn chips, for those of you who are new to the party – if you’d like more details, check out my signature recipe here) would bring people together.

Now, this might sound as though I respond to all of life’s problems with food, and you wouldn’t be entirely wrong*. Because I’ve experienced the magical healing powers a tray of homemade slice can unleash on a worn out little soul before (you ladies know who you are**). It’s hard to describe just how lovely it is to know someone cares enough about you to go to all the effort of preparing actual food and bringing it over to you. It’s like a hot of cup of tea after a cold, drizzly Toowoomba day.

* I say this as a person who ate pasta from a wheel of cheese tonight. Aaaaaand then went and got a double scoop of gelato. 

** This was a shoutout to the Clifton ladies who brought over slice when my mum was teetering on the edge of death and I was doing my best to keep the home fires burning. I’d always hated peanut butter, but this one batch of peanut butter slice was the sweet, crumbly declaration of “someone cares” that kept me from falling completely apart. 

So I like to share that feeling when I can.

But because I’m a good 10-hour drive away from my friend, I can’t just rock up with a fruitcake and a cold bag full of freezer-ready risotto.

All I can do is send supportive texts, using my words and to comfort her. And while my livelihood is based on my ability to use words, I’m not great at using them to comfort people – especially via text messages. As such, I’ve already sent her a photo of an obese beagle and a screen shot of something funny I saw on Instagram.

* It was a photo of sorghum. And underneath it I had commented “yeah the sorgs”. 

So how do I be there for her when I can’t physically be around? I’m going to have to figure that out.

Until then, my Plan B is to see if the nearest bakery to her does “Sorry your appendix bailed on you” cakes.