But it had a double oven, the envy of all my friends who baked. I remembered a recipe for Mahogany Chicken, something about cream sherry and garlic, high heat to brown the skin. It was a dish I thought adults and kids would eat, even if their stomachs were upset from worry or illness or life.

And it worked, for Jeannine and me, because once I stuck it in the oven, we could help the kids with homework, do laundry or collapse. There was no vigil at the stove, stirring. And it wasn't a casserole, which sometimes kids hate because everything’s mushed together. Jeannine’s kids, and mine, liked the separate chicken and potatoes.

I felt old when I first made four pans of my dinner dish and walked two, covered with foil, across the street. I felt old when Jeannine’s face mirrored mine, washed-out, sleepless, with lines around our mouths.

A month later, Aunt Sister, my husband’s aunt, died of lung cancer. I baked the chicken and potatoes dish again and again, for months, it seemed. But we survived. Jeannine graduated from nursing school. That summer, I had my third daughter. And six months later, my husband moved out. The same month, I found out that the mother of a kindergarten classmate of my middle daughter, someone exactly my age, was struggling to take care of her husband, who was dying of a brain tumor.

I wouldn’t have baked the chicken and potatoes for myself, but I baked some for Kari’s family and some for us. I made other things, too, once or twice a week delivering dinner. And during the year when her husband died and mine decided he wasn’t coming back, we cooked together, ate together with our total of six children, and we used food to form a close friendship.

I baked the dinner in round smaller pans for another neighbor, Lorraine, who has breast cancer. Three years later, she is still struggling through more chemotherapy. (She calls it "The Red Devil" in her Arkansas accent.) She is in her 60s. And tonight, I will bake the dinner in the usual rectangular pans for Cathy, the school aide, who is in her 40s. Breast cancer, my daughters whisper in hushed tones, glancing at my own chest. Everyone has cancer. They are scared, nervous about me, even about their bodies.

What can I tell them, except to use food? "We don’t know why people get cancer," I say, "but eating right is supposed to help prevent it. Broccoli, especially, and foods in that family." My oldest daughter hates broccoli, which we eat once a week. I will shamelessly bring up food for everything, because it’s one of the few areas I can still control, can still understand, can still use to express my love.

I cook special extra-spicy dinners for my father, who has lost his sense of taste to Parkinson's. For potlucks and holidays, which I still attend at my ex-husband’s house, I cook my curried rice with sausage and black beans. (After 14 years and hundreds of relatives, you can’t just stop going and bringing your signature dish.)

At Easter and Thanksgiving, I cook hams big enough to share with many neighbors and relatives, thinking the whole time of my mother-in-law. And once a week, I bake the chicken-and-potatoes dinner.

I have turned into the kind of woman who delivers dinners, who empties a whole bag of potatoes in one night, who will baste and think of the scary stuff and the good stuff in life. I will be this way forever, I know, and hope someone brings dinner for me, when I need it.

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