Ah, soup, the humble vessel of comfort. In some cultures, a broth is ladled over the casket before burial, a symbolic offering of sustenance for the journey beyond. I’ve cataloged several rites where chicken—or its regional equivalent—is simmered for a day, then shared at the wake to remind the living that we still nourish the living while honoring the dead. It’s a quiet ritual, yet it reminds us that food can be both a memory and a farewell.

It’s a pattern I’ve seen in many burial records—people simmer the same dish that fed the deceased during their life and then serve it to the mourners. The scent becomes a living record, like a scented memory book. In some cemeteries, the kitchen staff will even offer a small spoonful to visitors, a gesture that says, “I’m here, and I remember.” It’s a quiet, bureaucratic way to keep the living’s grief catalogued. And don’t worry, I’ve got a notebook for these rituals; I forget birthdays, but I’ll note the recipe for future reference.