Meet Cate (4 page)

Zac Brown was singing about being chicken-fried, and therefore, Cate was, too. She was sitting with her laptop, her feet, in cozy socks, tucked up under her. She was looking for show inspiration.

Cate was always open to a new spice rack idea, one with an unusual size or shape, or one that fit naturally into a kitchen. She knew her precious viewers had varied needs–lots of room or no room; some wanted few spices; some (like Cate) had more than thirty spices on their rack at a time.

On The Rack
, she thought, what a great title for a cookbook. Cate sprang up, running to her office for blank paper and a pencil. She moved quickly, like a fairy. Her socks slid across hardwood floors that shone in the sunshine. As she skidded past the refrigerator, the tails of the t-shirt she wore flew behind her like wings.

Back on the thick, sumptuous couch, pencil tucked behind her ear, Cate turned her attention back to the laptop. She knew some viewers liked their spices in a drawer while others preferred an eye-pleasing wall-mounted rack, for convenience. A few women she knew stashed their spices in their pantries or in a cupboard. She jotted a note,
was she was missing anything?

Cate wrote madly. She could do a whole show on spice racks. The different kinds that were sold, how to grow and dry your own spices. Make-your-own recipes, like Italian seasoning. Maybe she'd even throw in her theories about using sea salt and good, cracked pepper. Cate tapped the pencil against her lip, looking skyward, thoughtful. Yes, she would.

That
was a sign of a good relaxation, when the show ideas started to flow. Months ahead, she'd ask viewers to write in or call with their needs, and ask her sponsors to donate spices and racks for the audience. Picking a favorite, she'd hold a drawing online for the fans at home. Cate was devoted to her viewers, and she didn't miss an opportunity to let them know.

She definitely needed to spend some time with a Williams-Sonoma catalog, researching. Cate chuckled:
yes, researching
. And relaxing, so the ideas continued to flow, she thought, as she hastily captured them in a messy scrawl.

On Friday's show, Cate had made pizza dough. (She'd promised sweet dough, for pies, closer to Thanksgiving.) Back when she'd been a new host, she always found herself wondering who needed to know what. Cate had had a hard time deciding how much was too much advice−or not enough.

Once she found her groove, Cate began a show by saying, “I'm talking to you like you don't even know where to find your kitchen. If you walk away understanding, I've done my job. If you're a regular chef, and you learn something today, that makes me happy. Thanks for tuning in.” She'd pause, smiling toward the camera, before her signature phrase, "Let's cook!”

Cate had made the dough, walking the audience through the simple recipe, then set it aside to rise. Swapping the freshly-made dough for a pre-risen batch, she talked about 00 flour and how she'd come to know it. Her beautiful and loving friend Tomi, an expert cook and baker, had led Cate to it years before.

"Z
ero zero
not
oh oh
," Cate explained. "It's a finer flour that increases the elasticity of your dough." She rolled it out for all to see, speaking as she pressed the rolling pin to what was quickly becoming a respectably round pizza crust.

"Tomi's pizzas−" Cate thought for a moment. She couldn't find a word descriptive enough. "They're
beautiful
. Perfect."

She made a mental note to schedule another
Cate's Friends
episode. Wildly popular, they invited spin-offs and experiences for her dear group. Cate liked to tape the series' around the holidays. The shows brought a festive atmosphere; they relaxed and rejuvenated Cate. Plus she adored sharing her friends with her delighted and devoted fanbase.

Carefully trimming and setting the edges with her fingers, Cate moved the extra dough aside. When the pizza was in the oven, Cate explained her Garbage Pizza. (Add leftover meat and vegetables−chicken, spinach, mushrooms, whatever she needed to use up−to about a quarter cup of fresh sauce. Slice mozzarella into very small chunks and sprinkle along with a few teaspoons of finely chopped garlic and one tablespoon of fresh Parm. Voila−happy eating, Cate smiled.) It was one of the first recipes she'd ever created. She hated to waste food, especially back then, when money was tight.

As she spoke, Cate rolled the extra dough into long, elegant fingers. Once the pretzels were shaped, she brushed them with egg white. Holding her hands over the pretty braids, Cate sprinkled coarse kosher salt over the finished dough. “You can use kosher salt. It's bigger and often better on pretzels because of its size. In a pinch though, sea salt, or even iodized salt, would work.

I never want you to feel you can't make a recipe because you don't have all the ingredients. The more you cook, the more comfortable you'll become with substituting.

Now, be careful with the sea or iodized salt. It's easy to use a lot, which isn't good. You can also cover the pretzels with cinnamon sugar, or chocolate glaze, or even caramel. A sauce for dipping is also fun. Try mustard, or something else spicy and yummy.”

Cate glanced up from her work and smiled at the camera. Her eyes swept the audience. “Hummus?”

They clapped on command as the stage manager encouraged them, waving his arms to elicit excitement.

“I've got some freshly-made hummus. What do you think, yes?”

The audience clapped again, talking amongst themselves in a quick burst.

Cate walked to the enormous, stainless steel fridge and looked on her carefully organized shelves. In the cooler months, she used the expansive space for good. She'd organize a show with her mentors, encouraging them to share family recipes of comfort. The group would then cook and serve for anyone who needed warmth in their belly. Cate stored all the extra in the large refrigerator and passed it off to shelters when the show wrapped. She called the series
Cook & Eat For The Hungry.

The hummus was in a delicate Mason jar on the door. Cate spooned a small amount onto a pretty plate. Breaking off a piece of thick, crusty, warm pretzel, she dipped. Thoughtfully, she tasted, exaggerating her movements for the camera.

“Delicious,” Cate told them. “Hummus adds texture to the pretzel flavor. Cashew butter would work, too. You try it and let me know!"

The rest of the show flew by.

Cate was snapped back to the present as a notification rang on her laptop.

"You there?" It was Mike, typing through an app that allowed them to chat online.

"Miss me?" Cate wrote in answer, biting back a smile.

"Nope."

"You could've lied," Cate sniffed.

"So much I can't breathe," Mike typed, grinning.

"Yeah, yeah," Cate answered. It was hard not to smile when Mike was around. She pulled the fisherman's cardigan she wore closer around her. She'd bought it in Ireland, delighted to find it and loving the story behind it−the laptop dinged again.

"What are you doing?"

Daydreaming
, Cate backspaced. "Brainstorming."

"Anything good?"

"Yes." Cate jotted
C's friends, holiday ep/cook & eat for hungry
in pencil, under her spice rack notes
.
An email prompt popped up on the bottom left of her screen. "Hold on, I've got a new email."

"I see how it is," Mike wrote back, patient.

"It's from Tom."

Cate sucked in a breath. She didn't realize she was holding it until she heard Mike's ding.

"You dead?"

Almost
, she thought.

The bell softly panged. "Need me?"

Cate nodded at her screen. Unshed tears made her eyes sparkle. Her hands were clenched at her sides, tightly fished.

"Be right there," he typed as if he could see her. She only nodded at the screen.

Tom had taken to writing Cate emails, in his PTSD, instead of speaking directly to her. It was a quick way to reach her. It was also his way to speak up when he was too emotional to face her.

The emails didn't open with
Dear Cate,
or
hello
. There was no signature, no
Love, Tom
, or even
F−you.
They just ended, leaving Cate with a slimy feeling in the pit of her stomach. The purpose wasn't to make Cate feel awful about herself, although that was often the result. Tom's PTSD caused his self-worth to plummet. His words lashed out at Cate and caused her own confidence to sink. The desperate hurt caused by his disease was contagious.

Deep in his disease, Cate didn't feel she could speak honestly to Tom. If she could have, she would have gently told him his writing hurt and frightened her. But Tom's PTSD embraced his pride fully. She would rather take the email with grace than damage the man further. She wanted him to live in a world where his emails set her straight. And that cost her.

Mike sat back after reading this one.

"Wow," was all he said. Mike's chin, set in a hard line, lifted slightly. He studied her, wondering what she thought.

Like most, Mike thought Cate should move on with her life. She didn't deserve this treatment, disease or no. He also knew that she was loyal and wanted to understand Tom's illness. Most of the time, she didn't take Tom's behavior personally. After a hit like this, though, it was hard not to.

Cate sat, staring, re-reading before she cleared her throat and rose. She closed the laptop in a business-like manner and strode to her office to put it away.

"Want to take a walk?" she asked Mike over her shoulder as she stalked through the kitchen, frustration rampant. There was little else she could do. Worry was always an option, but not one she liked to subscribe to.

"Yeah," he called out eloquently, lifting his voice so she'd hear him. On second thought, he followed her through the expansive kitchen and into her gracious office. She was muttering under her breath.

"He wants money." Cate fussed with the cord, wrapping it neatly and clasping it in Velcro. She laid the cord on top of the overturned laptop, exposing the fan. "He wants the children to fly out to him for the holidays.
Wherever
he is."

Mike leaned against the door frame. Cate's small frame moved like a tornado as she rearranged already neat office supplies and desk content. Slamming books down, admiring the heavy noise, she continued to talk to herself, or him−he wasn't sure. He thought about grinning, deciding he might. Life was serious business (and it had hurt her plenty) but Mike knew Cate.

Like he knew she would, she whirled on him. "
What
are you smiling about?"

"Hey−" He played his part, eliciting the opportunity he knew she wanted. Maybe needed.

"Seriously! This is not a funny situation." Now her attention was fully on Mike.

"You're cute." Mike grinned a lazy smile at Cate.

She watched him for a beat, speechless, then went back to rearranging pencils. "Cute," she muttered. "There's that word again."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"Do you want to walk?"

"I want to
power
walk," Cate told him. "To Arizona
."

They settled on the gym, where Cate could lift and punch without words, taking time to process her emotions while staying close to Mike. He comforted her with his presence, easily lifting five times what she could. After awhile the punching bag in front of her grew to look less like a human head and more like the equipment it was.

Cate wandered to the edge of the mat. With effort, she lifted her slender arms, glistening with sweat.

Mike looked at her, his eyes bright with unshed humor, waiting.

"Thanks," was all she said.

He only nodded, his grin sincere this time.

It would take Cate time to process Tom's words and her feelings about them. Part of the problem lay in the temporary pattern of the disease−as soon as she adjusted to Tom's behavior toward her, it would change.

She dressed conservatively in jeans, boots and a thick sweater over a t-shirt, wrapping her neck in a favorite scarf. It was soft and never failed to comfort her. She added a worn, chocolate-brown leather jacket to the pile she'd created near the door. The days were gradually dawning more chilly.

Hurt and confused, Cate knew she had to be the change she sought. What often helped was work, allowing her brain to think through what it needed to in the background. The other thing that helped was giving. This often took her mind off her own life for as long as she needed to work out a solution. The simple work also served to balance Cate, replacing the damage done by the disease and reminding her she was okay.

Cate decided to do up her holiday tree early.

Flipping on the lights in her office, Cate opened the locked filing cabinet, and searched under C for
Christmas: holiday tree
. The file was thick because Cate compiled information all year long. She didn't add names, ages or anything identifying in her notes. She only wrote sizes, desires and ideas that sometimes reminded her of a face or faces.

Today, she'd shop. Later, she'd duplicate her notes and group them on pretty ornaments hanging from a tree set up in the audience. This encouraged viewers to shop and return with gifts to place under it. She would pass these gifts onto The Foundation (the charity for children she and Alex had started years ago). Cate hoped one day Alex would run the non-profit; she was certainly organized enough. And very dedicated.

Cate lifted the hefty pile of catalogs she'd saved. Thumbing through them, she added three to her open bag, next to the thick file of notes.

She locked the cabinet and turned off the light. Walking through the kitchen, Cate patted Merry goodbye then opened the garage door.