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I have a confession to make: I’m not handling this whole isolation thing well.
For one of the first times in my life, I am unmotivated to do much of anything. I find myself sitting in silence, looking out the window. It’s been hard to get out of bed in the mornings. I’ve been drinking an extra nip of Scotch to sleep at night. Rinse, repeat.
Aside from all the obvious reasons for feeling down during an otherwise lovely spring, our old man cat Ragnar, a/k/a Big Row, is dying. He was old and decrepit when we took him in 18 months ago, but now it seems his time is ebbing away faster every day. It’s been a decade since I’ve lost a cat, and it won’t be another after we lose him; our sister cats, Giblet and Harlequin, turn 13 this month.
Yeah, yeah, it’s just a cat, I hear you. And you’re right. Some of you reading this have relatives or friends in the hospital. A few of you may even have lost someone. Not to mention all the other assorted horrors that happen to half the world on a daily basis. But still. He is my friend. And I love him.
Even feeling as I do, my Yankee upbringing won’t allow me to sit idle for too long; I can thank my mother for that one. She’s from New England, but I am from New Jersey. I tell you this because whenever despair grips me, whenever I want to bawl my eyes out and dig a hole to lie in, I make red sauce. Old school, New Jersey Italian red sauce.
No, I am not Italian, but most of my friends were growing up, and even mom made a damn good red sauce. I’ve made mine for going on 35 years, and not always when I am down. But I’ve never written the recipe anywhere. That’s because there isn’t one.
I make this sauce without thought. The motions, the sounds, the smells and flavors of it are all imprinted on me. It has, over the decades, become an instinctual sauce, as much a part of me as the click in my left wrist — a lingering reminder of that day it shattered on the ice, so many years ago.
My sauce sits, simmering slowly, as I write this. Bill Evans is playing on the stereo. I always find him sad and soothing at the same time. His piano helps me grieve, helps me endure. The aroma of tomatoes and red wine, oregano and garlic and meat have begun to permeate the house.
This sauce is not a quick one. It starts its life as a soup, and simmers down into the sort of intense pasta sauce the Italians call either sugo or ragu, depending on which Italian you happen to be talking to. It always starts with olive oil and ground meat. Historically beef and pork, but now always ground game. Today it’s venison.
Sometimes a little cured ham finds its way in, sometimes pork “country ribs,” which are really just strips of shoulder. Today there’s a bit of ham I made from a javelina’s hind leg. It’ll do.
After the meat sears, in goes a minced onion, maybe two. I know to move to the next step when the timbre of the sizzle rises. A low sizzle means there’s still lots of water in the mix. A higher tone means the meat and onion are finally browning. I stir well, then let it all happen again. Always a flat-edged, wooden spoon to scrape the pot with. Always.
At some point, I decide to toss in thyme, minced garlic — I am almost to the end of last year’s garlic harvest, alas — a handful of bay leaves, a pinch of red pepper, and rather a lot of oregano from the garden. I dry it as whole leaves, crushing them between my palms over the steaming pot. The aroma calms me.
Another stir, then in goes at least half a bottle of red wine. Nothing as precious as the 2001 Barbera we plan on drinking tonight (tough times require good wine), but a drinkable bottle nonetheless. I let this roll until it reduces. If I happen to have any red vermouth or brandy, I add a shot to the pot.
A can of tomato paste. Sometimes two. It gets mixed in, and finally the pot begins to look like red sauce. I save the can and add some homemade stock to it, cleaning the inside to get all the tomato goodness out. In it goes, along with a full quart of the stock, as well as fire-roasted tomato puree from last summer’s garden tomatoes.
And now, we wait.
When I am tired, I simply cook dried pasta from the store. But today I needed something to take my mind off the world. So I made the pasta. Just flour, and lots of eggs. Pasta-making, for me, has always had a zen-like quality to it. It cannot be rushed, and it requires a quiet mind, a touch of care, and love.
I like to make the pasta shortly before eating it, so it barely has time to dry out. Tossed into a cauldron of boiling water so salty it tastes like the ocean, it will cook in less than a few minutes.
Finishing this dish is as automatic as making it. Pasta goes into a huge, wide steel bowl, along with a ladle of sauce. Toss. Grab with tongs, plate with a twist of the wrist. Grate as much Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese as you like over it all. Eat. Drink red wine. Repeat.
Ragnar the Cat has curled into a ball in the corner. His breathing is slow, labored. Will this be the night? Can the news on the radio be any worse? Will I get a call that a friend, or a family member, has fallen ill? All of that may happen. Some of it definitely will.
I wish I could say that making this sauce, this pasta, this meal, has healed me. I can’t. To do so would be a lie. But it’s better than nothing. And it’s what I can do today.
POSTSCRIPT: Ragnar, Big Row, a/k/a Big Handsome, died on April 2 at about 11:10 a.m. We don’t know how old he was, but we think about 14. He came into our life 18 months ago, starving and abandoned. We took him in and he stole our hearts. By far the most affectionate cat I’ve ever lived with. We are left feeling empty, wondering about the life he had before us and what he was like in his prime, which we never got to see. I miss his big saber teeth, his giant paws, his gloriously floofy tail. But most of all I miss him sitting on my lap, purring for hours. He was a sweet boy. My heart is broken.
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I try your recipes from time to time which make my GF and friends happy. Especially now. Hang in their. You are an inspiration.
There’s no such thing as “just a cat,” or dog or red-bellied newt or whoever our chosen family members are. They are family, regardless of species, and we mourn their loss, because we love them. Peace to you, Hank.
Dear Hank,
Good advice from Paul Davis. You sound down. This will pass. Hopefully we will learn something from it,and be stronger for it.
Your sauce is very similar to what my mother made. She wasn’t Italian either, but my father sure was, as you can tell from my name. I make this in large batches and can it. I make a simpler quicker sauce for week day meals. And yes, sometimes even make fresh pasta, All very satisfying.
Thank you for all the hunting, fishing and cooking stories.
Ciro Casa, Norwalk, Ct
Hank, I feel your pain. I have mourned the loss of every pet I’ve ever had as deeply as mourning a human, sometimes more so. It never gets easier. To some, they’re just animals, but to me, they’re family. I’ve always had dogs (too many to name) but now, I have a pair of cats, two brothers who as different in appearance as their namesakes, Simon and Garfunkel. Both are as friendly and animated as any dog I’ve ever had. We got them last summer, while my husband was undergoing chemo and radiation. Very dark times, that those two boys brightened immeasurably.
You came to your sauce recipe in much the same way I did, from my mom. We were originally from North Jersey as well and she, as Irish to the bone as anyone could be. Before she met my dad, she was engaged to an Italian guy whose mother taught her to make a really wonderful sauce; two of my aunts, both Italian, insisted hers was better than their family recipes. I’ve tweaked it over the years, but it still stays pretty true to her original recipe. Sometimes with ground meat, sometimes meatballs or sausage links, but still the same basic sauce.
These are seriously trying times. Having certain constants in our lives, even something as simple as making sauce or baking bread keeps me on a slightly more even keel.
This is the toughest time America has faced since the Great Depression. It is creating stress in us all. But, queue the light at the end of the tunnel speech…
our parents and grandparents made it through that and we can make it through this too. We Americans came from all over (every color, every religion, every creed), but we and an ancestors came here with grit and determination to thrive as individuals and live in liberty.
Hang tough. I own all three of your books and hope one day to get you to sign them. It would be an honor. I appreciate your posts/recipes/hunting tales & tips…all of it. I have about a gallon of black olives from our trees curing right now thanks to your article on oil curing. You are an inspiration. I feel you pain of impending loss. We lost our Springers last Summer, brother and sister rescues. They had long healthy and happy lives full of love and companionship but their bodies and minds just gave out. All of us have limited time the length of which none of us know. But your articles are an inspiration for many of us and make our lives much richer. Our community of hunters, anglers, gardeners, and cooks need your great recipes and uplifting tales now more than ever. You matter.
Hank,
Wishing you peace as Big Row’s time approaches. And no, it’s not “just a cat”. Other than the loss of my parents, the loss of true and loving companions, my cats, have been among the most painful times in my life.
The heart never forgets. The pain mellows over time. Blessings and hugs to you.
Julie
Great post hank. It helps.
To me it’s a grieving, and a sense of doom I think, of the real possibility – almost surety, of death and morbidity.
While unmitigated climate change holds a similar outcome, it is mostly longer term. This, is pretty immediate and probably the first time in our USA generation we are dealing with a real, acute, all encompassing problem, a threat to our lives, loved ones, and comfort here.
Your wonderful cat in his last part of life and your writing about it, just brings it all into more focus and out in the open. At the same time, because nature’s life and death, it’s workings, are so grounding to me presently, it’s relieving somehow to read your post and live making the wonderful sauce with you. Thanks ?
Thanks Hank. Our fur friends are precious to us. And the red sauce is divine.
Grateful for this piece today. It has a meditative quality that fits perfectly.
It is good and right to grieve a loss, including a cat. Anticipatory grief is real.
I work in a hospital, so I’m busy overall. Today is my day off though, so I’m going fishing. Being outside helps me with the doldrums and tiredness, and if I get some fish to bring home all the better.
Take care, brother, and manage your news intake. I’m afraid it’s easy (and unhealthy) to overload on bad news we can do nothing about, especially right now.
Grateful for you.
Thank you for your honesty, Hank. ((Sterilized hugs))
Reframing: the virus to “the pause” helps me. Knowing that FINALLY nature is getting a bit of a break from our species fills me with joy.
Hearing that I’m not the only one struggling with this drastic & surreal lifestyle change is a true comfort. I often feel I’m failing at “doing”(?!) the pandemic (sounds like the worst dance move ever). P.s Very sleep deprived. Going to go harvest pine resin
Huggggg, be safe
You’re a terrific writer…I relate very much to your comments of being unmotivated…cooking definitely helps me through rough times.
Thank you for this. It’s hard for us to admit that we’re not doing well. And yes cooking helps. Love to you and your family as you grieve.
Always love your stories, this one made me cry.
I’m from Philly, so I understand the red sauce comfort thing and I’ll be cooking yours soon. I also lost my awesome old cat just before the pandemic hit, so I very much get your pain. Thanks for writing so honestly and beautifully.
So very sorry you are in the end days f your beautiful friend Ragnar .. I have a shorthair Tabby .. Purr Purr .. He means the world to me. Keep cooking and putting out your wonderful dishes. We have a hunting lodge where I am the cook; your recipes are wonderful.
Haven’t read your recipe yet but wanted to let you know I understand how difficult it is to lose a feline friend. Thru circumstance I found myself the owner of 4 non-litter mate cats, all about the same age. Now about 17, Stew is my only cat. It’s a hard, painful road to lose these old friends. With each loss the household dynamic has changed. Lost one of them 2 months after my husband passed away. It has been suggested that I adopt some new kitties but I’ve decided to let him be an only cat for now. He obviously needs it. And so do I.
Thanks for sharing your story
PS Ragnar resembles my 1st cat, Brfrd. Joined me in college (literally) in the early 70’s & moved with us from Seattle to San Jose to Portland. Good cat who sulked when a stray adolescent red setter adopted us. Brfrd lived 18 great years.
Hank – Thanks for sharing. So sorry to hear about your old Ragnar. Everyone throughout the world is feeling about the same, and waiting for normal times to return. The variable is when…. will it be 2 weeks, 2 months or even a year or two? Hopefuly not!
Daughter down east mentioned that their dairy farm (120 holsteins) and themselves are in a strict isolation – only family permitted in barn and milking parlour – absolutely no non-family members nor hired hands permitted on premises and only person driving in and out is milk tanker truck doing pickup. Even their vet will only visit if a real emergency requires it. For her family only she goes out to do food and supplies shopping. Hand sanitizer for hands and her gloves before going into store and upon leaving the gloves are trashed. Products are sprayed or wiped down before entering residence. Her specific sweat suit outfit and jacket goes into wash and she changes into her regular every-day living clothes. All of them have another set of clothes to change into and out of for barn work. They and all other dairy producers in North America are following the same procedures. If any of the cattle become infected, the results would be horrendous. So this covid thing is hitting everyone very hard. It’s very difficult to think that some people still consider the isolation and extra safety precautions are not needed and are overkill. Quite scary when you realize that some of those same people are charged with determining levels of medical equipment to be bought/allocated to various states/provinces.
Best regards,
Robert Stockwell, Sundre, Alberta, Cda T0M 1X0
Thanks for this. This isn’t an easy time, and it’s oddly comforting to know others are struggling with all of this, too. I’m sorry about Ragnor, too.
Beautiful post Hank. I really enjoyed the read. Stay as busy as you can. Make a list like I do and stare at it. Love your recipe and details. Mine is quite a bit less involved. I’m inspired by your account to take it to the next level. Love you and all that you stand for. paul davis, bessemer, al