Linda Bell, Rest in Peace

Last summer, I went to Iowa to visit my college friend, Linda, who had recently entered a home hospice program. While she and I were much changed, by age and by her illness, the connection we had was as powerful as ever. She was, despite difficulty of every sort, still the "outrageous, courageous, unforgettable" friend whom I had always known.

I said to someone recently that Linda wore her red lipstick the way one wears a suit of armor. She always said exactly what she thought, and her bawdy sense of humor, coupled with her outspokenness, made some dislike her. She could have cared less. She just went on being herself, imperturbable and totally funny. I don't know which I enjoyed more -- her ribald jokes and remarks, or the looks on other people's faces when they heard them.

Linda had two children when I met her. She had left an abusive marriage, and was going it on her own, leaving behind a career in cosmetology to strive for something better -- a social work degree that would hopefully bring her more financial stability, and give her something to do with her very able brain. I was also a single-parent college student, and when Linda became pregnant with her third child, our talks began in earnest.

Linda was afraid that she wouldn't be a good enough mom for her baby. She was afraid that starting over with a baby, when her two children were older, might not be the right thing for the older kids. She was afraid she wouldn't have the strength to stay in school and raise all three children. But she did -- she chose to carry on, and she made it.

Our bond was partially due to this time period, and then it grew deeper as we both spent our days, raising biracial children in the uptight-and-white world of the 70s & early 80s. Dealing with the prejudice we faced was a trip, and we were sometimes amazed at the immensity of our task. We worried together, were scared together, but most of all, we laughed together. We had some very close times, so close.

In 1983, my world crashed in on itself when my son died. Linda was there for me, and I remember how she hated the story that was published in the paper about the accident, and how she called up the Waterloo Courier and cursed them out. She was a fighter on my behalf, when I was too down to fight anything, and I never forgot it.

Fast forward to three weeks ago: Linda's son, Kevin was shot in the chest and died. She asked her husband to dial my number, and she told me she'd lost her son. The next two phone calls had sounds, but no words. Then last Friday, Linda died. I knew it was coming, and I wanted her to leave behind all the illness and suffering, and the broken heart, but I can't help it -- I miss her.

No one was as bawdy, as irreverent, or as funny as Linda could be. I described her to one of her daughters as "strong stuff," and her daughter laughed. She said, "Yeah, Mom didn't care if you didn't like her. She was like, don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out!" I never understood how anyone could NOT like her.

So I say goodbye to my modern-day Wife of Bathish, Molly Bloomish, wonderful out-there friend. My promise to you, and to your children, is that I will never forget you. What other promise can anyone make? It's all I have -- memories. Memory upon precious memory, memories of tough times, of not knowing where we would get the strength, and then we found it -- memories of beautful dark hair, red lips, and open-mouthed, real, true laughter.

Noses

It's the time of year when Northerners feel Jack Frost nipping at their noses, but I am unfortunately in the land of relentless sun, facing the prospect of a surgeon nipping at my nose.

It all began a few weeks ago, when my dermatologist biopsied a spot on my nose. The diagnosis came back: basal cell carcinoma. Basal cell is, fortunately, a non-life-threatening type of cancer, but it can be as disfiguring as a deadly melanoma (which I survived in 1998). Visions of ending up with half a nose danced in my head, in a sort of gruesome south-Florida parody of ye olde holiday verse.

Reason soon takes hold, however, and after trips to the surgeon (who specializes in Moh's micrographic surgery) and the plastic surgeon, I am much encouraged. While they can't predict how large the wound might be until they actually operate, it appears that I found my cancer early, and will hopefully not need extensive removal or reconstruction. The plastic surgeon says I'll always be able to tell where it was, but others will not be able to see it, once it heals....which may take up to a year.

So, I will go for surgery on the 23rd (two sessions, two locations, two docs), and celebrate the holidays anyway. No photo ops this year, but what the heck....we all know it's about the good company of much-loved friends and family anyway, right? (Not to mention the presents and the good food...)

Entering the new year with a "franken-nose" won't be all bad either. Having my dignity bruised now and then probably helps me have more compassion for others. And I'll be forced to remember that old saying, about being "a spiritual being having a human experience," and not the reverse of that.

Finally, since I was a child-devotee of bedtime stories that ended with a moral, I must seek the moral in this little life episode, that is applicable not only to me, but to others. The moral of this story is: Wear sunscreen, visit the dermatologist regularly (especially if you have fair skin), and find the bad stuff early.

Happy holidays to all.

Once again, I find myself writing about cooking. The unusually cold weather in Florida has put me in mind of comfort food, and when I started thinking about what to cook for my solitary lunch today, I thought of fried corn. My grandmother used to make this very simple dish-to-die-for, and my mother taught me to make it when I was quite young. It's terribly easy, and can be made with leftover corn-on-the-cob (sliced off the cob, of course), or with frozen corn.

Here are the directions: Put a pat of butter in a skillet, and add corn as soon as the butter is melted. Stir frequently with a wooden spoon. At first, nothing happens other than simple heating. But then, as the corn really begins to fry, the yellow color deepens. Then the edges of some of the kernels begin to turn brown as the natural sugar in the corn caramelizes. A few minutes before it's done, add fresh-ground black pepper. Doneness is a matter of personal preference, but I like mine to show a little brown on almost every kernel.

OK, so if anyone out there needs any other ways to turn innocent fuits and vegetables into fat & calorie-laden delicacies, just let me know. I can always post the directions for another one of my granny's favorites: fried apples.

A Few Words About Cooking

For those of you who know me, it will seem exceedingly strange to have my first blog be centered around the topic of cooking. I am a long-time, legendary "bad cook," and I've always been vocal about my dislike of cooking. However, moving to Florida from Minnesota changed many things, and one of the things it changed is my food habits. I can no longer cook without Adobo, sofrito, Goya's little packets of sazon . . . and I can't imagine life without plantains.

So, my mind opened a little. And I cook a little now. I'm still pretty low-key about it, and the idea of cooking a meal every evening for years on end makes me want to fill my pockets with rocks and walk into the ocean, but I can handle the occasional culinary fits that overtake me now.

Recently, I attempted a new dish called Gulab Jamun. Translated literally, the phrase means "Milk Balls," but that doesn't describe them very well. They are meant for dessert, and the best way I can describe them is that they're like donut holes in sweet syrup, but that doesn't do them justice, either. Anyway, I got a recipe from my friend and coworker, Ranjan, who lives in California, and I decided to make them for Diwali, which is an Indian holiday celebrated by several of my coworkers here in Florida.

My first try at making Gulab Jamun was a miserable failure. My carefully-photographed culinary journey ended in defeat, and I sent the pictures of my miserable wilting dough-shapes to Ranjan for a little long-distance critique. His verdict was: not enough kneading, and turn down the temperature on the oil.

So I went to the Diwali celebration carrying only tales of my attempt to make Gulab Jamun. I enjoyed the feast that was prepared by my coworkers, and vowed to try again. Rishi said he would have been honored to eat my failed dish, and his words truly warmed my heart. (May I always respond so graciously when faced with a less-than-perfect offering from a friend.)

A couple of days later, one of my coworkers, Pradeep, was leaving, and there was to be a going-away party. It was my chance to redeem myself, and I went straight home the evening before, and began cooking. I kneaded the dough thoroughly, thoroughly, thoroughly, and I happily sprinkled the majoram and saffron into the sweet sauce......the smells were beautiful, and I just had a feeling that THIS time, it would work out. And it did! (See photo.)

My friends at work said, "Are you sure you didn't import these from India?" And Rishi said, "These are better than what we had for Diwali!"

I felt triumphant for a week -- sufficiently so that I'm now gathering a list of ingredients for samosas.....can't wait to try them.