Baking Away the Blues
Making pumpkin bread to ease the loss of our beloved orange tabby
I’m dedicating this post to our beautiful cat Jackie — aka Jinx — who sadly passed away this week at the tender age of 16 months.
He was our pandemic kitty, acquired in early July of 2020 at about six weeks old, a traumatized flea-ridden runaway who spent most of his first night in our house hiding under the stove, refusing to venture forth for food or drink except when we were out of sight.
Soon he turned playful and irresistible, growing robust and cheeky, a fluffy orange fur ball who tore around our house, chewing up socks, the tie to a terrycloth robe, a dangling shirt sleeve — more puppy than cat.
Jackie (Jeff insisted on calling him Jinx after a beloved cartoon cat, Mr. Jinks) loved to talk. He meowed incessantly and loudly and proved to be an escape artist. Finally, after plastering the neighborhood with signs following an overnight disappearance, we allowed him out, even though we knew it wasn’t the best idea, but he demanded it, and we couldn’t handle his insistent meowing. He became a happy wanderer who roamed our neighborhood, climbing fences into neighbors’ yards and bedding down in rosemary bushes. When he saw us opening the front door, he’d dash inside. There, he’d plunder the food bowl or beg like a spoiled child for a piece of whatever I was cooking.
He spent large parts of the day snoozing in a tattered green La-Z-Boy recliner, on the top of the couch, or sprawled across our bedspread, making strange little mewling sounds in his sleep and stretched his long orange body into impossible backbends, his paws sticking out at odd angles or dangling into space. When we dared to pat him, he yawned and stretched, like a sexy siren. Such a tease!
So when I got the call last Thursday from an officer of the local police department asking if we had an orange tabby, my heart sank to my toes. I hoped Jackie had just been picked up as a stray and the police were bringing the little truant back. But, no, the cat had been hit by a car and was dead. And just like that, my baby was gone.
What’s shocking is how much I miss him. He was my companion in a time when we welcomed no guests into our home and saw friends and relatives only on Zoom or on the back porch, usually wearing masks and maintaining 6 feet of space between us. No touching, no smooching. The cat was the exception. No mask, sometimes even a turn in my lap for a minute or two if I was lucky, a stolen kiss (me doing the kissing, not him). He even sat in on a challah-making class.
As I spent countless hours cooking and baking away my blues, the cat provided comic relief by getting stuck in a paper bag, climbing into the dishwasher or hiding inside a food cupboard among the bottles and bags. He never once complained about the mess.
So now, in the silence, I head back to the kitchen, my safe space in times of sorrow. It’s the season for all things pumpkin, so I dig out my favorite recipe for pumpkin bread-actually pumpkin apple bread, from The Gourmet Cookbook, edited by foodie pioneer Ruth Reichl. It’s so spattered with spills and notations, it may be hard to read, but I’ve included it below:
What I love about this recipe, aside from how delicious it is, is the number of variations I can conjure up. It makes two 9-by-5-inch loaves. Since I bake to share with friends and family, I sometimes make one big loaf and two smaller 5 1/2-by-3-inch loaves, to which I might add chopped candied ginger, dried cranberries, mini chocolate chips (leaving out the chopped apple for this last) — or whatever suits my fancy. (Usually, I just add one selection to each loaf, but feel free to throw it all in!)
Sometimes I make mini-muffins with some of the batter, adding a tablespoon or two of homemade granola to the streusel topping or some pecans, walnuts and/or pumpkin seeds. Instead of all the spices specified, I may add the equivalent amount of pumpkin spice seasoning-about a tablespoon.
It’s hard to be without our cat, but the familiar rhythms of baking — measuring, mixing, stirring, pouring, and, yes, nibbling — take my mind off my sorrows for a while. I make something to give to someone else who is also going through a hard time, and it helps me too. Sounds simple, but it does work, though sometimes I could swear I hear an impatient little meow at my elbow. But it turns out to be bird sounds from the garden, the kind that often sent Jackie racing outside to investigate.
Rest in peace, my baby.
Originally published at https://ruthtalksfood.substack.com on October 10, 2021.
