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I start taking the head of cabbage out of the fridge. My husband loved it and always talked about how great his mother’s recipe was. Mine never quite lived up to hers. Whatever she did, I never managed to figure out her secret, and bless her, she never let me close enough to reinvent her special dish.

I chop the onion, green pepper, and celery, and add a few cloves of garlic. I buttered the skillet (it had to be cast iron) because nothing else cooked or smothered her cabbage as well as it did.

There’s something about old Southern black women and the “holy trinity”—onions, green peppers, and celery. It goes into any dish. Who puts celery in cabbage? I smile because when she did it, it was so finely chopped you couldn’t see or taste it.

Finally, I wash the cabbage, cut it in half, and add it to the buttered skillet along with the “holy trinity,” making sure the skillet is just hot enough to wilt the mixture and allow a bit of browning. It smelled okay to me.

I call out to him, but there’s no answer. Why? Usually, he’s standing over me at every step of this cooking process, anxiously waiting to remind me how his mother did it.

Maybe that’s why we fought so much in this kitchen, in this place where whatever the secret process was. He didn’t know but would never admit it to me. Strange. By now, the aroma of the “holy trinity” with a hint of garlic (my secret ingredient) would have had him standing nearby. It smells like hers to me. I call out to him again. No answer. The house is quiet. It’s empty. I’m alone. Forget they’re both gone. Her, first taking her secret ingredient with her. He’s gone too, almost the third anniversary of his transition.

Why did I cook cabbage today? I never liked it; I just did it to please him. What was that secret ingredient? I miss him standing over me, not this cabbage as I dump it into the garbage. I’ll keep the cast-iron skillet and the memories of them both.