05/07/2026
Pop 89: If It’s Thursday, It Must Be Egg SaladBy Madonna Hamel
My sister and I can get pretty excited about our lunches here at the Cancer Lodge. Today we had lentil soup with egg salad sandwiches, our favourite. I admit I have not mastered the art of peeling boiled eggs. Whenever there’s a funeral in Val Marie, I am usually asked by the reception committee to prepare either a loaf of sandwiches, preferably ham and cheese or egg. I also have the option of baking cookies or a tray of squares. I am more than happy to make date squares, or, as my mom referred to them, matrimonial squares. I never quite understood why they were equated with weddings, except that they were a hit at receptions. Maybe I should start referring to them as funereal squares.
The men in our village, by the way, many of whom bake their own bread, are always asked to contribute a jar of pickles.
Today at the lodge, lunch comes with rhubarb crumble dotted with a rosebud of whipped cream. I passed on the dessert, knowing I’d stashed yesterday’s scone in the back of our little fridge. I smothered it in margarine, then filled my flask to the top with Banff Tea Co. Earl Grey, a gift from my sister and her wife, whose care packages of exotic and essential teas soothe me through these strange days.
I’m still padding my way to the end of the hall every night to survey the sweets tray. I know they say the steroids make me ravenous. But I just want to go for a walk and see what new confections are on display.
“I heard you get up last night,” my sister says, eyeing the scone. “At one, at four and at five, actually.”
“Could you hear me fighting with the saran wrap sticking to the snacks? They had those chocolate peanut logs that look like turds. I think I had three, but I can’t be sure,” I reply.
Sticky saran wrap is the biggest challenge of my day, after reckoning with the sticky truth that most people with GBMs, the moniker for my particular brain cancer, have anywhere between 3.5 to 22 months survival rate post-surgery. What am I supposed to do with that? Except value time spent with family and friends and try not to feel guilty about eating three chocolate turd logs.
Just a couple of minutes ago, Sonja, one of the stellar staff members at the lodge, arrived at our door with a stack of egg salad sandwiches, a tub of soup and a fruit tray, leftovers from lunches and the week’s pickings in the snack fridge. We managed to resist the bowls of leftover crumble and the plates of cheesecakes with graham cracker crusts and the cherry pie filling my grandmother used back in the ’70s.
Recalling my grandmother’s cherry pie reminded me of my grandfather’s standard snack: a slice of white bread covered in mayo and/or Miracle Whip, I was never sure, then smothered in strawberry jam, sat in a bowl and soaked in milk or cream.
Remembering various snacks over a lifetime brings back memories of hoarding Halloween candy. Mini Coffee Crisps were my favourite. No doubt they predisposed me to my affection for espresso, the driving force of my days when I worked as a writer-broadcaster for CBC Radio in Quebec City. My sisters tell me my first request post-cranial surgery was for a “Latte! Latte! Latte!”
Speaking of Halloween, I’m reading a memoir entitled Good Apple: Tales of a Southern Evangelical in New York. The author, Elizabeth Passarella, grew up in Memphis and moved to New York City, a place she’s grown to love and, despite being accused by Southern friends of joining ranks with East Coast elites, managed to become a Democrat and remain a Christian, which, it turns out, is not a difficult thing to do in America if you resist reducing people to cultural stereotypes.
“For those of you who think I don’t like Halloween,” writes Passarella, “because I’m a Christian, and a lot of Christians avoid it because it celebrates the devil, believe me that has nothing to do with it.”
What bothers her is how it’s become a bigger and bigger business, as evidenced by the proliferation of expensive, elaborate outdoor decor and parents who dress their toddlers as Ruth Bader Ginsberg or Magnum P.I. for everyone’s enjoyment except the toddlers, who would prefer to be a puppy.
I don’t even want to think about what feminist icon or bad-ass crime fighter parents want to dress their kids as, because all I ever wanted to do was roam the streets of my childhood in my one-piece yellow bathing suit with a red towel tied around my neck, with the letters IMP etched onto it using toothpaste and a toothbrush. IMP stood for Impossible Magnificent Person — my own brand of superhero.
Ironically, every Halloween, the dentist at the end of the street always handed out toothbrushes, though we considered the gesture to be counter to the spirit of the moment, which, when I think about it, had more to do with being free to wander safely into the night than it did with seeing how full we could get our pillowcases with chocolate bars, salted peanuts and Twizzlers.
Passarella does blame the devil for convincing adults that Halloween costumes look cute on 42-year-olds. I couldn’t agree more. Late into my fifties I’d dress as a nun for Halloween, but always in a cardigan, black skirt and sensible shoes. Then I’d pull a black turtleneck over my hair and wrap a white tea towel around my forehead.
And I’d be sure to pin to my white shirt collar the catechism badge I somehow managed to finagle from Mother Alphonsus back in St. Mary’s elementary school.
One Halloween, while living in Quebec, I met up with a musician friend at a sports bar to watch the World Series. I warned him I’d be dressed as a nun — and no, I assured him, not a naughty nun. While the bar had its fair share of young women in witch, ho**er, gypsy and French maid outfits, the bartender seemed to get a kick out of my Mother Superior attire.
“Un autre bière, ma sœur?” he’d ask, with all due respect.
To which I’d reply, “Merci, mon fils.” And then I’d bless him, my buddy and the beer — and the losing team on the big screen.
It’s suppertime.
I just devoured one of the delicious egg sandwiches, stuffed with extra cheese slices. In a couple of hours my sister will hand me my honkin’ chemo pill. I’m supposed to take it on an empty stomach. So, no Twizzlers. No chocolate turds. And no beer.
