Rest in peace, dear Friend: For Paul Wildermuth

Spending the day at Paul and Patience's house today, I saw how many people loved Paul. I imagine all the people who loved him is actually 5,000 times that. Everyone who showed up today said they admired his dedication to food, that he was a mentor and the reason they did what they did was because of Paul. And they all said the same thing: I loved him. But it was easy to love Paul.

I first met Paul at Opera, when my then-boyfriend and his best friend who was also a chef, went to try the vegan/vegetarian menu. My then-boyfriend was vegan and I was entertaining the concept of converting to veganism. Opera got a lot of buzz for the vegan offerings and we decided to have a go. The food was delicious and when we met Paul briefly, we told him so. But it was mostly Joshua who spoke with him. I was struck by how friendly and humble Paul was. He thanked us for coming and asked us to come again.

About two years later, I was single and definitely not vegan. I met Paul again through my parents, but not before meeting his "better half" Patience Hayes, a real, honest-to-God Southern Belle. He and Patience had bought a condo in the building my parents lived in. Patience and my mother became immediate friends, bonding over food and cats. At the time, Paul and Patience had just lost a cat - this cat had been Paul’s cat. My mother, a fanatical feline devotee, had traveled back from Michigan with a white and grey kitten especially for Paul. His name was Brutus.

I met Patience in the backyard of the 1434-1436 condo in the middle of summer 2006, a few days after Brutus had been brought home to Paul. Patience came down with Brutus, who was passed around, cuddling with everyone sitting at the table. Patience was long, lean and beautiful; full of laughter and light. I loved her instantly; I could tell she was my tribe. When Paul finally came down, it was late and we'd been drinking wine and smoking cigarettes for hours, talking and enjoying the mid-summer evening. Paul was again warm and kind, and when I told him I’d met him two years before at Opera, he told me, you should come down to the restaurant, I’ll treat you to an amazing dinner. That was the first of many feasts of beautiful food crafted by Paul’s hands.

Over the years, he treated me to some of the MOST amazing dinners I was lucky enough to enjoy, including a Thanksgiving dinner in the middle of nowheresville, MI with my parents and Patience. I was also lucky enough to experience the incredible power of Paul: his kindness, his warmth, and his encouragement.

When I was laid off from my job in December of 2009, Paul took me to cheetah gym and bought me a membership. "You need a hobby like working out to help you figure out what you want to do next." He took me through the weight room, showing me the different contraptions and how to use them. We had a great afternoon together. It was the one of the few times I spent alone with Paul. But his kindness in helping me to see that this "layoff" was the opportunity to re-invent myself was the bigger gift. He made me realize that I needed time to think about what I wanted my next move to be and that I didn't have to hurry. And exercise could help me dig for what that next move would be. Who do you know who takes someone aside and tells them, it's gonna be ok, it's your opportunity to figure it out and I think I know a way to help you focus on that? Paul, that's who.

Paul and I spoke about food. He told me about guys he went to school with, chefs he was lucky to have worked with, and things he wanted to do with food. I trusted Paul implicitly when it came to food. I never told him I didn't like something, I only told him that I disliked something after he'd made me like it. I never liked salmon. As absurd as this sounds, I never liked the way salmon tasted like fish, or what I called, "that ocean taste." Paul knew what I meant when I explained "that ocean taste" to him. He made us poached salmon in olive oil and it was better than butter, simply amazing and incredibly flavorful. He made me believe that salmon could be good, it was just a question of knowing how to draw out the flavors.

Paul and I constantly recommended restaurants to each other. We were culinary adventurers on a constant journey of discovery - I took him to a Pakistani Chinese restaurant and he ordered half the menu, he had to know and I understood that. I dug my heels in and helped eat. He would ask me to come sample new dishes he was working on and asked for my feedback. When I said, “But who am I to judge your food? I’m a professional eater, not a professional chef.” "I trust your palate, you know what you're talking about," he replied.

One night, my partner Michael and I invited Paul and Patience for dinner. Michael’s specialty is Greek Christmas leg of lamb and potatoes. Michael also served saganaki, something he devised that day and then taught Paul. When the lamb came out of the oven, Paul was IN LOVE with it. I remember how enamored with the juice he was; how he fawned over the potatoes' velvet consistency. Paul was proud and approving of Michael’s reverence in explaining the details of preparation, how he mixed the herbs and spices, the slits filled with garlic, how he roasted it with the lid on and then off. He couldn't believe his eyes when we pulled that leg out of the huge pan. He taught Michael how to cut the meat off the bone and how to best slice it. We enjoyed ourselves that night, drinking too much and sitting with engorged bellies. It was an evening of reveling in what bonded us: the love of good food.

It’s cool. Paul said that a lot. It must’ve been the Hawaii surfer boy in him - he was chill, laid back and chose to concentrate on positives, not negatives. And he encouraged that in everyone around him. The people who loved him, looked up to him, worked alongside him, called him friend, business partner or boss; they all feel he was a gift to their lives.

He was a gift. Not just to us but to Patience as well. Our friend lost her best friend and husband last night. It made me cry to listen to her describe her last moments with him: "I held his hand, kissed his face and he was so beautiful." That's more than love, that’s devotion.

To know Paul and Patience was to know how devoted they were to each other. They were both so INTO each other. Paul was head over heels in love with Patience. It was evident in his words, behavior and actions how much he loved her and how much his world to revolved around her.

Essentially Paul had two passions: cooking and Patience. And then maybe cars. He created beautiful food every day, for everyone around him, it was his gift and talent. But his greatest masterpiece was his love with Patience. His dedication to Patience was amazing and enviable. Most women can only dream of a husband as attentive, indulgent and dedicated as Paul was to Patience. Their love for one another wrapped them together in a way where everyone knew it, "That's REAL love." They rejoiced in each other's glow and acted as a constant reminder to me that while relationships are hard and require a lot more effort than most of us know, if your partner is your best friend and makes up the center of your being, then everything else falls in line.

It’s wild that this is real. But this is life and life is wild. We must continue with the business of life. We must help Patience get on with the business of life. The most shocking thing about Death is the gaping hole left when he snatches someone we love away from us. And as cliché as this is, it is Time who smooths out those edges and heals the pain of absence.

So let's remember to always carry a piece of Paul with us every day. Today, from this very point on, promise to be like Paul Wildermuth: devoted, kind, caring, loving, doting, positive, a dreamer and a doer, offering help. And always laughing.

Watch this video. The last 10 seconds is Paul, laughing.