The Comforts of Food

Sometimes, I write a column for the paper that is deemed insufficiently food-centric; this is yet another instance.

Here is the original version of today's piece, before I was asked to revise it and then the revision was edited. I think it's worth sharing because it shows far better the depth of my grief, the desperate need for comfort and distraction. If nothing else, it's important to me to publish it.

Is half of it about my pussycats, rather than about food specifically? Yes. To my mind, that doesn't mean it's not about food, and the various ways that food provided solace when I needed some. I also think there's useful information about my cats' health, and I wanted to offer some public thanks for the care I/we received. And beyond all of that, I smile when I remember hearing someone say I'm "hilarious," and I need as many smiles as I can get, right now.

But, enough blathering. On to the story as I want to tell it ....

This column is going to start out with tears (mine, at least), but don’t worry: it will end with some comfort. Comfort food, that is.

In January, my seven-month-old kitten, Graycie, died very suddenly from feline infectious peritonitis. I’d never heard of it before that day, and wish I were still that ignorant; it’s almost always fatal, especially among the young and the old who don't have the resources to fight it. It was devastating to lose someone so little, and with no notice or opportunity to try to prepare. Graycie and our other cat, Hobbesie, had been inseparable. He was never quite as full of cat-itude, which he’d possessed in abundance, after she left us.

Then, on March 18, I had to put three-year-old Hobbesie, whom I’d written about last year – we officially named him Hobbit for his love of multiple meals – to sleep. He had occasional flare-ups of chronic pancreatitis. But a recent recurrence which didn’t improve turned out to be, after more tests, congestive heart failure. Hobbesie had so much fluid in his chest that it was difficult to even see his heart on the x-ray. Truth be told, I think his heart broke on Jan. 11 when we lost Graycie, and little by little his tears seeped out from that wound until they simply consumed him.

Hobbesie was rushed into the back of the hospital when I brought him to the veterinary emergency room that night, because his breathing was so labored; he needed oxygen. Then two very friendly vet assistants came into the exam room to talk with me, to get a history, to reassure me that they’d do their very best for him. One of them had worked previously at our vet's office and knew Hobbesie. She knew that he wasn't himself - he wasn't flirting, he wasn't showing off how handsome he was. My poor baby was so sick.

The other woman smiled at me and told me she enjoys reading my page. It was such a sweet thing to say, completely unexpected, and a kindness that I desperately needed at that moment. After they left the room, I could hear the one saying to her co-worker, ”If you read her, she’s hilarious.” That may be one of the greatest compliments I’ve ever received.

But once I went home alone that night, without Hobbesie, how could I find any hilarity or even a smile? We’d lost two beloved pussycats in only two months.

Well, I found comfort with food, of course ... and not just eating it.

Thirteen hours after leaving the veterinary hospital, I was a judge at the Mobile Meals Great Chili Cook-Off, supporting a cause that is so very dear to me: feeding people, especially ones who are vulnerable. Those at the event who knew about Hobbesie’s death, having read his obituary (not just an announcement) on my Facebook page, offered hugs and condolences. Others who didn’t know offered distraction, as I tried not to say anything unless directly asked how I was; I couldn’t lie, after all, and say ”I’m doing great, thanks!”

Sampling 31 (that’s not a typo) different kinds of chili, chatting about the tastes and textures, debating with fellow judges whether a New Mexico-style green chili really constituted chili because it’s so different from their expected Midwestern-style beans-’n’-meat variety ... this was all good. Focus on the food. It’ll be okay for a little while.

I also got to try two of Toft Dairy’s new flavors for this summer: Peanut Butter Cheesecake and Salty Caramel Fudge Truffle. Ice cream makes everything seem better, doesn’t it? Oh, yes. Yes, it certainly does.

The next day I baked, doing some recipe testing. I had to pay attention to what I was doing. I had to sample the wares, too – quality control, you know. If I was thinking about the food I wasn’t sobbing, overwhelmed by the losses of Hobbesie and Graycie. It worked, as long as I stayed busy. I baked three kinds of cookies and a lemon meringue pie.

And thus, the term ”comfort food” took on new connotations for me, that very sad weekend.

A Cat, a Kitten, and Coming Home

My poor, sorry blog has been neglected ever since I started my job as Food Editor at The Toledo Blade in February of 2014. Deadlines, stories, and not enough time have kept me from stopping by here very often. And I've missed everyone!

So today, after chatting with a couple of our editors, the suggestion was made that I could use this space for random stories, for stories that aren't quite what the paper wants on the food pages, for stories that deserve to be read but need a different space.

Here's the first installment, then: a story about Craig's and my new kitten. It's a sequel to an earlier story, and I've included a link. I'm hoping to do this fairly regularly ... we shall see. Time is elusive, and there's not enough of it. But I'm going to try!!! (If you want to follow my writings and adventures, the best bet is still The Toledo Blade Food Page, on Facebook.)

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In January, I introduced everyone to my cat, Hobbesie. (Here's the story.)

His proper name is Hobbit because, as I noted, “he likes to eat breakfast. And second breakfast. And a mid-morning snack. And brunch, followed by lunch, second lunch, and afternoon tea. He wants ’linner’: a lunch/dinner combo. He likes supper, dinner, an evening snack and a midnight snack.”

Hobbesie has filled out nicely (perhaps just a touch too nicely, as he’s a sturdy 10-pounder now), compared to the scrawny little thing he was when we found him wandering in our neighborhood last fall.

Given how popular he seemed to be after his introduction, with lots of feline fans telling me about their own cats’ quirky names and unusual eating habits, I thought you’d like to know that Hobbiesie now has a baby sister, Graycie. Needless to say, we called her that because she’s gray with a light-colored striped stomach.

Graycie was living under the deck behind our house, and we’d see her with two other cats who were much bigger than she was. Neither seemed to care for her efforts at snuggling; one of them actually swatted her when she tried to cuddle up. The three would come up for the food we’d started providing once we realized they were there. A very round raccoon also enjoyed joining the party. The buffet was served every night.

We checked with several rescue organizations, and it became clear that the older cats wouldn’t be domesticated very readily. But Graycie was very little, so we tried to capture her.

She was skittish and afraid, but gradually would come out to eat some soft canned food even if we sat close by, hoping to make her comfortable with our presence. As a skinny little scavenger, Graycie didn’t have a particularly discriminating palate and happily ate everything we offered.

Very quickly, the older cats seemed to have left her alone. It was as though they’d completed their mission, dropping her off at a new home where someone would take care of her. Graycie would sit alone in the middle of our deck and cry, but then run back under the slats any time we gently tried to get close.

There’s one sure way to lure a little frightened cat, though.

You call it tuna. I call it kitten kryptonite.

We put a small bowl of it into a carrier one evening and she soon tiptoed out in search of the treat. At which point we shut the door, brought her inside (to Hobbesie’s great delight as he sat on top of the handle), and then took her to a vet the next morning. He guessed that she was about eight weeks old.

Some creeping crud in her eye, a bad smell, fleas, and being hungry were the only medical issues. Eye drops, oral meds, death-to-fleas treatment. Then Graycie was discharged to come home. Our home.

Ravenous as she was, it didn’t matter whether we fed her Hobbesie’s kibble for indoor cats or her own kitten chow. Cans of chicken, turkey, tuna with egg, salmon, pate (which Hobbesie loathes) or tidbits or filets ... Graycie ate it all.

Until a few days later, when she snubbed the beef shreds.

Beggars can’t be choosers, as they say. But apparently Graycie had realized that she didn’t need to beg anymore. She didn’t need to share her food with the mean cats or with Rocky Raccoon.

Sure, Hobbesie ate out of her bowl because it somehow seemed new and exotic, and he was likely teaching her who the Alpha Male was. But Graycie just retaliated by eating out of Hobbesie’s bowl. It all worked out and no one was going hungry.

And so, with the new-found comfort of knowing more food would be available, Graycie let us know she didn’t want beef. She waited ’til her minions served her something better.

I used to joke that Hobbesie was our starter cat, and happily he likes having Graycie around.

Maybe the next cat will be beige. I already have a name picked out: Matzah Ball.