Three (featuring gazpacho)

Cheffing Around

Three (featuring gazpacho)

I stepped over a paint can set on a stained drop cloth and pulled open the sliding door of what would become our bedroom closet.

“Grace? Grace?”

The closet was catless just like every other corner I had scoured in this old, new-to-us home.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” I whispered to myself as I slipped on my blue Chucks and grabbed my red plaid winter coat.

I had only been in Portland, Oregon for 2 weeks, only married for 3 months, and living in the chaos of a remodel. Francis, my husband since October, and I were sleeping on a frameless mattress in a little room off our demoed kitchen. Our clothes spilled out of suitcases onto the floor, empty paper coffee cups lined the windowsills, notebooks with plans for our new lives together balanced on piles of books. All of our real belongings were taped up in boxes in the basement like hostages of our resolve

.

My lab/ schnauzer mix Amelia and I had moved across the country from New York City. Francis and his grey cat Grace had moved from 26^th Avenue to 29^th.  Their culture shock was more like a predictable annoyance, so Francis had gone to work as usual.

Amelia cowered in the corner of the room we called home and Grace spent most of her time in the basement, away from the hammers, drills, and strangers of construction. On this day, however, Grace was nowhere to be found and I had searched for hours.

“I know,” I thought. “I’ll go back to 26^th Avenue. I’ll look around near their old house. Maybe Grace slipped out when the construction crew arrived and faithfully returned to the only home she’s ever known.” Images of dogs running halfway across the country to reunite with their masters splashed through my memory. I’d seen the tearjerking stories on the news… or was it social media… and would never forget those pet’s determination to go home again.

“Grace! Graaaaaaacccceeee!!!” My voice cracked in desperation as I walked in front of Francis’ former residence. I looked in the bushes and under cars. “Graaayyycccee!!!”

A stranger stopped and asked helpfully, “Did you lose your dog?”

“No, it’s my cat, my husband’s cat, actually. They used to live here so I’m looking around.”

And this stranger got the weirdest look on his face. He exhaled with a little chortle and walked away.

“Huh,” how rude, I thought, but moved on to the back of the house. “Grrrraaaaaaaacccccceee!!!”

Wait, is that her? A little white cat mewed on the corner. No, definitely not her. She was grey and round and, well, that’s all I knew. Grace hadn’t exactly welcomed me to Portland with a catnip bundt cake. She was the master of new wife indifference, never curling up in my lap to give me the proper understanding of her dimensions, never manipulating me for treats, I received nary a sniff nor a boop from her. These are all the way dogs introduce themselves and I didn’t know what to do without those reliable cues. Grace is the first cat I’ve ever lived with, and she was a mystery. And now she was gone.

“Grace!!!” Oh my god, what am I going to do? “GRACE!!!”

I had effectively lost my new husband’s cat.

I was terrified of the possibilities because Francis and I had not lived together until after we were married. We’d had a gorgeous, deep, solid, yet long-distance relationship in the year and a half before we married. We understood the ups and downs of our connection- because there had been many– but I hadn’t really screwed up yet. I hadn’t lost the OTHER most important being in his life until now. Was he going to scream at me? Would we have our first big fight? I’m not much of a fighter—especially when I’m so obviously wrong!

“Oh god oh god,” I panted as I walked down the alley behind his old house. “Grace! GRACE!!!”

Bupkis. No cat.

I returned home and paced in our small room. Francis wouldn’t be there for 3 more hours. I was suddenly starving and went to the basement to grab a piece of turkey out of the only working fridge.

I swear there was a snicker. A little teensy meowsneer. And I looked up to see this.

It’s like Maya Angelou once said, when someone shows you they’re a cat, believe them the first time.

Maybe I stomped my feet when I saw those ears. Maybe I shook my head. Mostly I was just so relieved that she wasn’t wandering the streets of Northeast Portland never to be heard from again. And that she stayed in this position long enough for me to snap her pic.

When I confessed to Francis that I thought I had lost Grace and that I’d gone back to his house, searching high and low, he made the same chortle that the guy on the street had.

“Cats don’t do that,” he said, shaking his head and laughing kindly.

This is when the fine-tuning of the difference between cats and dogs began for me. Cats don’t return to their old homes for sentimental reasons. Cats disappear in plain sight for as long as they want or as long as it takes for you to completely lose your mind. FREQUENTLY.

Cats are devilish, conniving scamps.

I didn’t know. I’ve never had a cat until this one.

Finally, the house construction was complete. Francis and I got off the floor and settled into our upstairs bedroom. It was weeks before Grace felt comfortable enough to venture upstairs. Even longer until she stayed for a whole night, but eventually we became a family of four. For years and years, the last thing I heard every night was the flump of her jumping onto the foot of the bed and then the softness of pads creeping up next to Francis where she would sleep soundly. I waited for those pawsteps like a dedicated mother and then fell asleep with a grin on my face.

She always kept me at a distance, which made me love her even more

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She waited around every corner like she was going to jump out at me.

She loitered at stair tops as though any moment a leg would extend and send me toppling down

.

She gave me looks that let me know something evil and premeditated was headed my way.

I loved her so deeply. I’ve never known a being as gorgeous, determined, and unapologetically in control as she was.

Yeah, was.

A few weeks ago, we had to say goodbye to Grace after the battle with feline asthma became too hard for her to fight any longer.

So now we are three. It’s impossible to express how deeply we feel her loss. Not anytime soon will we be fluffing the pillows where she lay, mending the threads she plucked out of the furniture, or straightening the divot in books made as she rested on her scratching pad. She is in every nook and cranny of our lives. We will celebrate her spirit forever

.

I made gazpacho with the tomatoes from our garden about a month ago before we realized that Grace’s illness was rapidly progressing. It was outstanding. Then I made it for clients a week ago after Grace had gone. Same tomatoes, same recipe, completely different soup. Not bad, just different. Now, I’m not suggesting that Grace is responsible for good or bad gazpacho. She wasn’t THAT powerful. I’m suggesting that time shifts everything. We are different weeks later. So are the tomatoes. That’s life. And while we mourn the changes, we must also celebrate them.  So here’s to life! I bet there are a few end-of-season tomatoes in the back of your garden that could use some time in the blender. 

Gazpacho

• About 6 large tomatoes (or about 15 small ones, which is what we have the majority of right now)

• 1 or 2 Padron pepper –half or whole, based on how hot you’d like it – they aren’t THAT spicy- in fact, some aren’t spicy at all. You can use a more spicy pepper if you want, but heat should not dominate this recipe. 

• 2 cloves garlic

• 1 large cucumber

• 1 shallot

• 2 teaspoons of lime juice

• A handful of cilantro—unless you think cilantro tastes like dish soap (JEN???)

• 1/3 cup olive oil

• Salt and pepper to taste

• A pinch of MSG if you have it

1. Blend the tomatoes, peppers, garlic, cucumber, shallot, lime juice and cilantro until it’s liquified. Add the olive oil and blend again for about 30 seconds. Taste and add salt, pepper, and MSG to your liking.

2. Some people strain, some people add ingredients one at a time. I didn’t and it was spectacular. It was thick, which I love, and bursting with flavor. Francis and I ate it with pan con tomate (Spanish tomato smeared toast with garlic confit) and my clients at it out of martini glasses as an appetizer.