What a Difference a Few Daffodils Make

By Kathleen Daelemans

What a difference a few daffodils make. Two springs ago, I was shooting a PBS special in my home and taking care of my best friend and longtime sous-chef, Miho Mizuno who was dying of colon cancer. She was 44. We shared the same birthday, a love of food, and custody of an obese, non-English speaking kitten.

We’d both worked very hard to see the fruition of the filming of the pledge special. Despite the grueling side effects of her end-stage cancer, Miho willed herself to live to see the taping. She did it for me. And she did it for her “little brother”, Aaron Chew, a Chef and Culinary instructor too.

At my insistence, Miho had moved in with me a year before she died. She had no living relatives save for an estranged brother in Japan who wanted nothing to do with her. She needed a home. I needed to know she had one. So I gave her mine. “It will be fun”, I told her at the time. “You’ll see. We’ll have slumber parties and stay up all night”.

Little did I know we really would stay up all night. Miho was the sickest between the hours of midnight and six a.m. So instead of sleeping, we did anything we could to take her mind off the pain. We watched old movies, or played with her kitten. We cooked a lot.

Sometimes, when she was feeling good, Miho had crazy food cravings so we’d drive for hours in the middle of the night looking for things like The Best Corn Dog in Detroit or the best Coney Island. We slept during the day. If the phone rang and it was a business call, I’d let it go to voicemail while I rushed to the bathroom and splashed myself with cold water. I’d call back and pretend I was “on another line.”

Miho introduced me to Aaron a few months before she died. I was beside myself with grief. I was trying to take care of her and hold onto my career. Despite my best efforts to hide all of my pain and grief from her, Miho knew I was a complete basket case. Not only was she dying, but she was my sous-chef. I had no earthly idea how I could possibly pull off filming of a cooking show without her. I hadn’t found a replacement and in fact, had no culinary team at all. The taping was a month away.

Miho had known Aaron for many years. She looked on him as a little brother. I’d heard his name often enough but I’d never met him. Miho decided he would be her replacement. I wanted nothing to do with the thought. How could I possibly trust someone I’d never met, let alone cooked with, on such an important project? Miho ignored my insecurities and excuses and invited Aaron for a visit.

I don’t remember much about the day except for meeting Aaron and thinking there was no way he could pull it off. He was consumed with his own grief at the thought of her passing. There we’d be, two barely functioning human beings racked with intense sorrow, trying to stay on top of a grueling shoot schedule. No way. I put my foot down with her.

Miho wouldn’t let me go to sleep until I promised her that I’d trust Aaron to take her place. When she was well, and especially when she was sick, Miho always got her way. The culinary team for the pledge special was indeed headed up by her “little brother”, Aaron Chew, and a team of students he assembled from Baker College.

Aaron is the kind of chef you want to work hard for. He just commands that kind of respect. But nonetheless, a culinary shoot is a tough gig and we’d never cooked together. The culinary team was young. I had little faith. But Aaron assured me they could and would handle it. “Don’t worry”, he told me over and over.
    
My reputation was on the line with PBS. I had a job to do. Production crews could not be made to stand around while “green” culinary interns learned the art of food styling on the job! Despite my insecurities and fear, the shoot was magical. It was the most fun I’ve ever had on a set.
    
Miho had no intention of dying until she was satisfied that we would all take care of each other. She stayed alive to make sure there were no rough patches and no kitchen fights. Miho needed to know we could make it without her. And we needed to know we could survive. Everyone came together for Miho.
    
The filming was magical. It was a month of guerilla shooting and hard work. But everyone, the directors, the production team and the culinary team worked in harmony. There were no egos; just a group of humble people, happy to be employed, working to create the best pledge special ever. And we did. Miho made sure of it.
    
She died a few weeks after we wrapped the shoot. The told me she was leaving before she went. “Take me to outside”, she commanded one morning. It took us a half hour to go from her bed to the back door. She was blind and bloated from the disease. Her body was heavy. Each step took all of our combined strength.
    
A river of tears ran from my heart down my face. When we made it to the back door, Miho motioned for me to push it open. “Spring is here, Kath-a-leen. I made it to Spring.” I told her the crocus and daffodils were up. “There are three little purple crocus at your feet, Miho. And three baby daffodils. They’re blooming! There are tiny white flowers too”, I remember saying. “I see”, she said as she turned her face to the sun and smiled.
    
Only Miho couldn’t see. She had lost her site to the cancer. We stood in the doorway, on the top stair, and basked in the warm breezes. I described each and every flower and songbird. Her kitten, Fujin, played at her feet, chasing leaves as they blew about the sidewalk below. When she tired, Miho turned around and motioned for me to take her back to her bed.
    
As we made the painful journey back, Miho whispered, “I will become wind” she said. I strained to hear her every syllable. “I will see everything. I will visit everyone I love. I will see the world. I will be free.”
    
When we finally arrived, Miho fell into her bed. I gathered her pillows behind her head and pulled her Japanese terrycloth blankets to her chin. They greedily swallowed my tears. Fujin jumped to his spot on her bed. He always positioned himself between her smiles and the window. Almost as if to say, “Follow my cries, I will show you the light”. When Miho looked to her kitten’s meows, the sun, when it was out, splashed across her face. Before I left her room Miho whispered, “Open my window. I can fly now. With the wind,” she said. Fujin climbed onto her tummy and kneaded himself into her blankets.
    
Miho died on April 7th, 2006. She survives in my soul. She survives in the unruly, obese, Japanese speaking kitten-monster she left behind. She survives in the hearts of my nieces who still talk about their Auntie Miho and how much better of a cook she was than me. “Let’s make Miho’s Princess Aurora cookies, Aunty Kathy. Not yours.” At their tender age, they’re forgiven. Besides, Miho’s Princess Aurora cookies were better than mine.

Comments

[Laura]

Hugs from me, too. What a beautiful piece.

[MaryJo]

Kathleen
Some people go a lifetime never feeling loved, or searching for real true love. Some people search for a lifetime for a true friend. You were both for Miho. What a blessing to have found such a friend as you and to have been able to experience such love before she left this earth! You gave her the greatest gift of all, how awesome!
I remember thinking how sweet she was when I came to see you in Knoxville years ago, and as we chatted she served us the Angel food cake. As I read your words, I feel happy that I had a chance to cross paths with her!
God bless you and your most generous heart, in all that you do, as you continue to bless others in so many ways!!

[Sheri]

A lovely and fitting tribute, Kathleen. Well done. Miho would be proud (okay, she'd have something to say about it--correcting some detail or another--but she would also be proud). :)

Love and hugs to you--I know anniversaries can be tough.
Sheri