Not to worry, it’s just a cat this time. And I’m very aware that there are atrocities happening right now all over the world that far outweigh the death of my cat. I also know that statistics say that over half of the people reading this are dog people so I can feel the eye rolls. But, I can also tell you — he was everything, at least to me.
I had him for nearly half of my life, twenty-one years. His companionship (and loyalty) outlasted my marriage and despite his shrunken appearance, part of me thought he would live forever.
Three days ago we ended our summer vacation two days early, threw our bags in the car, and rushed home to say goodbye to our boy who had been unusually lethargic that morning. We didn’t make it in time.
I got him from a shelter in Cincinnati in the summer of 2005. He was a grey and black tabby with a clean white chest, chin, and paws; and a little spot in the middle of his front leg I called his “elbow patch.” We brought him home to our East Macmillan apartment and he scampered around the furniture, wrestled in plastic grocery bags, perched on my shoulder, and cozied up in my neck as I slept. He was the perfect mix of sassy and sweet.
At my first salaried job, I set up two 8x10 black and white framed pictures of him on my desk where other people had photos of their children. I was obsessed.
Much like me, he was motivated by food. Much like a dog, he got into everything. He made his way onto the counter and scarfed up three-fourths of a pan of brownies. He also liked broccoli, avocado, ranch, chicken wings and Dairy Queen blizzards. He could hear a tuna can opening from three miles away. We were always happy to share. He nestled into the soles of my shoes in the bottom of my closet and slept. He drank my leftover cereal milk. Sometimes I fluffed his head fur up and he looked like a baby lion cub. He was curious, feisty, and never ever scared. He gave forehead to forehead nuzzles and habitually sunbathed on our back patio, following the patches of light that shown between the trees. He made every day his own adventure, walking out the back gate like a cowboy going to a showdown, a slight hitch in his back right leg. When he’d come home, he was met with generous pets and pieces of turkey or the soft parts of popcorn.
We called him Grandpa, King, Yiggy, Diggles, Handsome, or Diggy-Poo. His name was Diggy.
He sat in the same spot every time we assembled for a family movie, waiting at my side until I pulled my feet up. He’d climb up onto my thigh and settle in.
Maybe you can grasp the depth of my love for him. Or maybe not. Either way, the girl that lives to eat — can’t. It only ever lasts a couple days and I’ll be back to making spicy roasted corn salsas and garlic-heavy tomato tarts. But, for now, the blander the better.
Some people, my eldest daughter included, grieve by eating. She’s cleverly named this the “grieving gobble” and I think it’s a popular approach. But, not me. I need food that is enough to sustain me but is not terribly exciting in any way. Foods that can’t be disappointing. Foods that are safe, predictable, and ummmm…comfy?! In 2020, when I was going through a divorce and Covid simultaneously I ate only toasted sourdough with salted butter for months. Safe, predictable, and comfy.
This pasta combines mellowed flavors to create a bowl, big or small, that is enough to sustain you but not too much. The garlic keeps it interesting and the lightly crisped chick peas add a protein dose that your body needs while the pasta provides a familiar anchor.
I’m not suggesting that you have to be sad to make this pasta. But, when complex dishes seem to scream at you like an overly aggressive gym teacher, this is like an edible hug. Safe, predictable, and comfy.
Spaghetti with Fried Chick Peas
Serves 4
Cook Time: 25 minutes
1 lb spaghetti
4 T olive oil
1 can chick peas, drained and rinsed
3 garlic cloves, chopped
1 T Kosher salt
2 t freshly ground black pepper
1 T butter
In plenty of salted water, cook the spaghetti according to package instructions, reserving ¼ cup pasta water.
In a medium pan, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the chick peas and cook, stirring occasionally, until they darken in color, about 8 minutes. Add the garlic, salt, and pepper and continue to cook for 2 minutes, being careful to not let the garlic brown.
Add the chick pea mixture to the pasta and combine. Stir in the butter and warm pasta water and toss until butter is melted and everything is evenly coated.
”But First, Food” columnist Whitney Kling is a recipe developer who lives in southwest Ohio with her four kids, two cats and a food memoir that’s ever-nearing completion. If she’s not playing tennis or at a yoga class, she’s in the kitchen creating something totally addictive — and usually writing about it.
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