Ms. Cecile Gray and the Emptiness of Ragu

Ms. Cecile Grey savors food and the idea of it—passionate about both eating and cooking it—it is her first and only love. Her house always smells of freshly cooked food, no matter the time of day (or night, for that matter). Just a step inside, and the familiar bouquet of confectionary sugar and warm butter presents itself, inundating every nook and cranny of the house. The waft of stews, soups and hotpots forever linger. Both quaint and enticing, with its eggshell-tiled kitchen and robin drapery, one can sometimes fail to spot the smell of loneliness, the blue scent of an empty nest.

At forty-nine, Ms. Cecile is still smooth-faced, save for the odd crows feet that claw at the sides of her eyes when she laughs. Behind which are carefully ensconced years and years of love lost, for a family that isn’t.  

Aside from being a passionate cook, Ms. Cecile is a fetal surgeon at one of London’s most renowned hospitals, delivering infant after infant to expecting families every day; before taking the train back home. I personally love Ms. Cecile’s house. In fact, I visit her almost every year (more often than not in the company of my mother), never giving a thought to staying at hotel. They Grey home consists of a small, bonny cottage, hemmed in by rosebushes and lavender blooms. Every year, I am eager to see it again, so different from the vibrantly painted houses that line the roads back in Martinique. She said, once, that her parents thought her cottage needed color, a little smattering of radiance—a nod to the Martiniquais roots. But she thought it was kitsch and would detract from the pleasingly “English” essence of her home. I don’t personally think anything of it; it looks beautiful either way.

From her little house, you can spot the wild horses wandering the fields, grazing and uprooting flowers. During that special time of the year, when I am with Ms. Cecile, she and I like to take walks in that field, during inclement weather and the early grunts of impending thunder, when we have a reason to sport wellies and raincoats.  During those walks, I will usually ask her questions about her life—just to see what I have missed, halfway across the world—and she will, for the most part, do the same. She will often talk to me about her job, all the adorable children she’s delivered that day. It always felt as though, in her eyes, the greatest injustice was that others had the choice to end a pregnancy, when she could never become pregnant. But nonetheless, she was “fulfilled” to play a part in the creation of new families.

She once told me, in a rather informal fashion, that it was her roundness that kept her so alone—an assertion that made very little sense to me before, but now holds some light. She is indeed round, quite literally spherical in shape, with raven curls and blushing cheeks, all pleasantly brought together by ashy chocolate eyes. Her kitchen also curves around, in a stainless steel ring of utensils and hotplates. Sometimes, in the midst of the fumes of steaming stews, and the clamor of pots tossed into the sink; an eerie hush weeds its way in. Ms. Cecile never lets it overstay. Instead, she sings through the void, piling cookbook after cookbook into album stands, pinning recipe after recipe onto Polaroid boards; scrapbooking her favorite finds.

Much of the food, so meticulously prepared, is haphazardly distributed to neighbors and hungry acquaintances. When visiting, I will usually eat myself into a nauseating state of lethargy, just so that Ms. Cecile mightn’t have to part with her meals. Afterwards, we’ll take the edge off by taking another one of our leisurely strolls. During our discussions, she’ll often say (whether it makes sense in the context of conversation or not) that there’s more to life that getting married and having children. She says it quietly, looking at the density of the green horizon in front. All her words are often lost in the fumes of steaming stews, in the clamor of pots tossed into the sink. Sitting at the head of a table, laden with ragu and fresh bread, hotpots, pastries and a plethora of confections, Ms. Cecile closes her eyes, so as not to see the empty chairs around her.