Inevitably, Nubi would find himself – mysteriously – underfoot in the midst of some mad dash to bring a meal together. His favorite assistance to the cook was to wait until the feet had stopped, then he would undertake a perfect, textbook flanking action before rubbing up against and then biting the cook’s toes. Repeatedly. Despite the flailing of arms and promises of pain and agony. Only when sprinkled with water would Nubi run from the kitchen, stop short under the dining room table, undertake a quick bath, and then return committed to his mission once again.

Many meals happened with Nubi at the center, which means of course that a great deal of my joy in the kitchen came from interactions with his good natured self and his insistence that whatever I was doing wasn’t nearly as important or fun as what he was doing. That, and I think he just enjoyed watching me attempt to steer my way around him while whisking egg whites, sauteing garlic, and sipping wine.

Nubi died this morning of a horrible, untreatable disease called feline infectious peritonitis (FIP). It was quick; he went from healthy to not in a short, short time. But, at only a year and half old, he was much too young to die the way he did; and I too close to handle it with anything other than grief and anger.

I’ve never thought of cooking as chemistry, although it is, and lots of very accomplished cooks do extraordinary things working within that sort of framework (Achatz at Alinea comes to mind). Nor do I see cooking as a sport, as something that you must excel at to better others or to feel better about yourself. Cooking contests are fun to watch, and I like the Chairman and his stadium as much as the next guy. But, there, something lacks as well.

I find joy in cooking. I am rarely happier than when I’m in the kitchen, or thinking about the kitchen. I hold no illusions about it, no romance. But the smells and the sights of a meal coming together cause me to smile.

I’d grown up eating some version of chicken paprikash, concocted by my father, based no doubt, on some recollection of a story he read someplace. Then, sometime in the mid- to late-nineties, a radical (as in communist battling, flee the country, and work hard to undermine the system) Hungarian who I will call A, fixed a pot of chicken paprikash that changed the game for me entirely.

I’ve spent the last 15 years trying to get the same flavor…and I’m getting closer. But more than anything, more even than nearly transcendent moment when I tasted his version, I love cooking chicken paprikash because it is such a visceral dish. It is visceral in the way that babi guling is visceral. It it, simply, a joy to cook.

From the very beginning, when the cut-up whole chicken browns in butter with salt and pepper, the kitchen takes on the smells and sounds of a place where something good is happening. The butter, just as it begins to brown, gives off that wonderful rich, sweet smell, that then is transformed with the addition of the chicken into what is probably the consummate primordial smell: sizzling fat.

Once the chicken goes into the stock, and onions, and paprika, and begins to cook slowly into tenderness, the deep tangy richness of the the smell combined with the scarlet color (and the knowledge that I’m half-way to eating) makes this moment by second favorite of the dish. There is something about the color, the multitude of visual and physical textures, and the sound that inspires another glass of wine (and, conveniently, this is right about when you should need it…THAT I did take from my father’s school of paprikash manufacturing).

Despite the earlier addition of thinly sliced onions cooking in butter and chicken fat, my absolute favorite part of the dish is when, chicken removed to platter, I begin to cook down the stock, the onions, flour, paprika, and the chicken juices. Once I can pass a spoon through the mixture and leave a trail, I know that it’s time to whip in the sour cream, bring everything to a bubble with the chicken added, and then serve over noodles (or, if you’re feeling Germanic, spaetzle).

It is a joy. Anyway you serve it.