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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.
The Quarantine Chronicles
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Hank . . there is something quite special about cats one takes into their home, cats who are lost, abandoned or otherwise alone. My cat of 18 years was one of those. They appreciate your love and attention in a special way. A bond of trust transforms from just plain gratitude. It’s difficult to explain to folks who refuse to connect with felines. It’s been years since I had to send that beautiful vagabond on to her next journey. Yet, I still get choked up just thinking about that unavoidable day. Those foods that nourished us as children, handed down from our family and served with a lovely vino, are surely a comfort. Often I’ll be making something similar to this wonderful sauce you have here, or a traditional minestrone, and feel my Tuscan Mother’s spirit inhaling aromas with me in the kitchen. It’s bittersweet . . . and always will be. Buon Salute per tutti!
I sit here, weeping..for lovely Ragnar, for you, your family, our world, our friends, our enemies…for everything that is now. Peace, friend.
Sorry to hear about Ragnar. We’ve been through that a few times with our pets. We’ve got a 28 year old mare that we check every morning to see if she woke up.
My mother and sister are also pretty good with their awesome recipes being some of this and some of that and cook it for a while.
That said, please post a more detailed recipe for this sauce that we can successfully reproduce.
My heart bleeds with yours, Hank (actually my eyes do, too). It’s never “just a cat”. I’m the cat lady in the neighborhood. One of my ferals is on her way out with probably FIV and pneumonia. My heart bleeds for her too. She rattles when she breathes and is looking kinda ungroomed right now. She has had this cold for at least a year. I’m so sorry for your loss. Glad you still are motivated to cook. Routines are good for shortening the period of grieving. I hope you feel better soon.
Touching. I love your writing. We will all get through this together and your essays and recipes help!
Sorry to hear about Ragnar.
First of all, sorry for the lost of your beloved cat. I’m writing this with my dog snoring on the couch, against my hip. We grow damn fond of our furry friends…
What I find tough with social distancing is the fact that we have to do it… alone. Whenever we look at photos of the past, even in tough times, people where together. I saw a picture yesterday of ladies knitting in London’s underground shelter during a WW2 air raid. It was one of the worst page of England history, but they where together, doing simple things and sharing with each other. We, as human, are so gregarious it feel unnatural for us to stay away from each other for so long. I get on our nerves.
So reading how you prepare your “Italian” red meat sauce is so comforting. And funny to notice that it’s not that different from mine, which I learnt from my really-not-Italian mother, in Quebec City, Canada. In a way, I feel connected again. Thanks.
Hank – I know your pain all too well. Your words brought back memories of those special pets that are no longer with me. That pain we feel means that we are capable of sharing that love for them. But it doesn’t lessen the loss we experience when that time comes. My sincere thoughts and condolences are with you.
Hi Hank,
I cried to read about your dear cat. We had a close call with Borris the Beautiful last week. Thankfully he’s recovered but I feel for you. They are never “just cats”. They are lovely, friendly companions. I’ll be devastated when my boy goes.
Stay safe. I love your blog.
Regards from
Anne in Melbourne, Australia.
Greetings and best wishes from Australia. We are in lock down too. But at least the bushfires are out, we’ve had a bit of rain and the government says we can still go fishing (alone)!
That was a beautiful story/recipe.
I do something similar with kangaroo or venison. But always lots of parsley.
My heart hurts for your loss. It never gets easier and sometimes it is good to be uninspired and not motivated. The quiet time allows for reflection and reconnecting and grieving.
Miles, Betty and Lois, our cats extend their sympathy for your loss of Ragnar. I feel sorry for people who don’t like cats. They are not as overtly attentive as dogs. I have fun trying to get one of ours to acknowledge me when they’re staring off in the backyard or nowhere in particular. But there is nothing better in the past weeks than having one jump up and curl in your lap and go to sleep.
We made some killer homemade bolognese lasagna a few days ago and shared some with these homeless twin brothers who live in a van that we let park in our business parking lot in midtown the past few weeks–it’s a win-win–we have almost 24/7 security and they are safer the than they are parking on the street. I don’t know what was the best part–spending all day making the sauce, and the pasta and then assembling and cooking the lasagna when I’d normally be working and then having if for dinner that evening with a bottle of Carvahlo, or knowing that those two big guys really enjoyed it–they’re Italian and I’m not, but I think it was damn good. I hope you’re feeling better, Hank.
Un grande ragu’ Hank. I start with a soffritto of minced pancetta or guanciale or lardo and vegy. I must tank you for the nettle ravioli recipe.I added caramelized onions and served the ravioli with black olives and artichokes pesto. Super good.I had too much fillings and made lasagna alternating semolina noodles,tomato puree, olive/artichoke pesto,your nettles ravioli fillings and asiago cheese. Super good specially day later microwewed. Thanks to you Hank.I am sorry to ear about your pet loss.M i dispiace molto.Spero di leggere altre buone avventure la prossima volta.Until next CHEER Hank!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Hey,
You are not alone! I just put my sweet Golden Retreiver down-Walker. One of the worst days of my life. (Last week)
We loved that dog like no other.
So, yes a very bad day. But today is better, and tomorrow even more better ?. Hang in there man! I’m going to make your sauce & hold up a glass of vino to cheers the life of a fine dog that was welled loved by all who met him, a dog who helped make 2 little boys grow up to be caring men, & a dog that would always wag his tail when others wouldn’t. I hope you do the same in memory of your cat.
Cheers!
Hank, you are a brilliant writer. This surely helped someone, and inspired me to take a first shot at home made red sauce and pasta. Sorry for your loss, the cat was purring because he was happy and exactly where he wanted to be most, and you gave him that.
Very sorry for your loss …… very sorry … (((
Gods speed to the great beyond Big Man Ragnar ………
Salute to Ragnar, Big Row, a/k/a Big Handsome. Thanks for what you do Hank. Thinking of you, stay safe.
Chris
Thank you for writing such an honest and beautiful post. If I can manage to get a grocery delivery — because sadly that’s what it’s come to for me — I’ll make the sauce and think of you, your cat, the animals and people I love, and try to momentarily forget everything else with the rest of the red wine that went into the sauce. … We will endure.
Thinking of you Hank here in Australia. I absolutely love your newsletter. I have tried a few of the receipts (sadly not with game) and really appreciate how well balanced, wholesome and yummy they are. Hang in there, these are dark times but they will end and there will be light on the other side.
A socially distant meow in Yuba City (a stone’s throw from Gray Lodge!) from Sweetie, Scabby Buster, Crusty Buster and Fatso Buster (the Buster Brothers). Just yesterday my son was lamenting over his lack of interest in the spring turkey hunt this year on the Bear River/Feather River confluence. 🙁