by Anna Phelan

When Pop Montreal asked me to write a tribute to Kate McGarrigle, I immediately thought of the last time I saw Kate, in early December, by the bananas at the PA grocery. In her trademark army green cargo pants, with hair pulled elegantly into a loose bun, we talked about fruit—how bananas go from unripe to brown, how nectarines never seem to reach the desired plump, juicy stage. How things ain’t like they used to be.

I first met her about 10 years ago when I fell in with the next generation of McGarrigle siblings and cousins. I remember feeling nervous about being invited to her house for the first time by her niece one evening in the late fall of 2001. I had grown up listening to the McGarrigle sisters and would keep to myself the fact that I still had a childhood-era poster for Complainte pour Sainte Catherine hanging in my kitchen. We stayed up late that night drinking Jameson, while Kate asked me questions about my childhood, my parents and growing up. This trait of hers to probe, listen and learn was something that never ceased to amaze me; or the way she had of offering some knowledgeable snippet about almost any topic you could think of. She always seemed to understand exactly what you were talking about, and by extension, she had an uncanny talent for understanding exactly who you were. Her ability to synthesize everything you’d ever told her and feed it back to you in the form of considered empathy or confident disapproval, was astounding.

Much has been said about the in-fighting and professional competition between members of the McGarrigle clan, but what I remember is the framed pictures hanging on her walls of family members who routinely graced the covers of Montreal’s weekly newspapers. She never missed a local performance by her children or niece and nephew, and when she fell ill, she would turn up, proffering a gloved hand to friends and fans, accompanied by a joke, or some quip to put you at ease.

That same December day at the grocery store, we bumped carts again in another aisle, where Kate had been wandering aimlessly, agonizing over what to make for supper. I gave her a simple recipe for gnocchi with fresh herbs and sundried tomatoes that I use as my standby whenever I’m feeling unadventurous and hungry. “That sounds delicious,” she said, and with that, she trundled off in search of my list of ingredients. I never did find out how she liked my recipe, but I keep coming back to our shared lament about bananas. Since Kate passed away a week ago, I have returned to the grocery several times for the fruit. I reach for them and flinch, reflecting on just how raw and poignant our pronouncement would become in hindsight. I put the bananas into my cart and think, 'no, things will never be like they used to be.'