Chapter 46

From my balmy Ballard burrow

6/1/93

Dear Frida,

Wow! What a line: “No matter how bad food is, we taste it with generosity if it’s made for us by a friend with a tender heart.” And Branka’s warm shiver laugh. And ending with the purple butterfly. Two thumbs up! Five stars! Ten! A lot of people would want to read this, but I know one person for sure: your mom.

Sometimes when you write to me, it’s like our lives are in sync. Franny’s up from Cali, and she came to the nursing home with Mom on Saturday. She’s got lots of style and she’s into the whole baby-doll dress look, so afterward we went shopping at The Bon. That led to a slumber party at my place. We were trying to decide what to have for dinner, and I swear I didn’t prompt it, but we got into a conversation about food we remember and how it makes us think about certain people. It started with Aunt Wilma’s chocolate chip cookies, and then Franny mentioned Aunt Norma’s cinnamon rolls. The next thing we knew, it was like we were on an out-of-control episode of Beat the Clock , shouting things out. Aunt Judy’s penuche! Aunt Janice’s banana cream pie! Dad got his own whole bonus round. Monte Cristo sandwiches on Sundays! Chocolate malts at the Seahawks games!

I decided to tell them what you’ve been writing, about food memories and a sense of identity, and Mom told us that one of her first memories was sitting at the counter in the basement of Food Giant. Bumpa would buy a rib steak dinner for $1.49. Mom ate until she was full, and then he ate the rest. It was all he could afford, but she was little so she didn’t realize it then. Whenever she sees rib steak on a menu, she says it reminds her how much she was loved. How bittersweet is that? Franny said peanut butter cookies make her think about how Mom sat with us in the kitchen after school and asked about our day, and I told them how Chef Boyardee pizzas in a box remind me of game nights and how we had fun together no matter where we lived.

That got us craving peanut butter cookies and one of those pizzas, so we made a run to Ballard Market. Don’t laugh, but we make our cookies with a Betty Crocker cake mix. They really are the best. I wish I could say the same about the pizza. We even doctored it up with canned olives and mushrooms like Dad used to. Mom took the first bite. She started laughing and said, “You poor kids.” Franny and I took bites, and it was not good. So how come that sour-tangy sauce made me feel so loved like Mom with the rib steak? We decided to call Dad and ask him what he remembered about the pizza, but when he picked up the phone, Mom giggled and said in a deep voice, “Hello, sir, is your refrigerator running?” and hung up on him. She crank called Dad! We laughed so hard I thought I was going to wet my pants. Then we ate that disgusting pizza and danced to “Sweet Caroline.” I didn’t think about Coleslaw Meatloaf or unexamined lives once all night.

Maybe it’s a problem that I didn’t mention any of this to Sven, but I don’t feel like analyzing crank calls and Neil Diamond in the Big Scheme of Life. Just thinking about it fills my veins with molasses. So guess what? I won’t think about it. I’m going to make a cup of chamomile tea and read Madeleine L’Engle. I’m starting the third book in her Crosswicks trilogy.

Your essay is amazing! You’re amazing! Keep writing!

Lots of love,

Kate

P.S. I wish I was a Ramona. I’m definitely a Beezus.

P.P.S. I’m not sure what the Ramona Club will want to read next so I’m sending From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler , The Phantom Tollbooth , and Charlotte’s Web .

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