Quotes from Jennie Shortridge

Plumes of white, pink, and purple blossoms offset the one hundred shades of green our little city is known for this time of year: lime, celery, and avocado, butter lettuce and kale, Granny Smith apple and broccoli and sage.

By the way, honey, you look wonderful. You've lost so much weight! What diet are you on?" I stop in the doorway, breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. "I'm caring for a dying man, Mother. A dying man you haven't asked me about once since I stepped foot in here, or even called to say hello. Somehow, I've lost my appetite.

If I could write anything I wanted to, I'd write about the splendor of butter and sugar hitting your taste buds at the same time, or smooth pasta and sharp Romano, or a fat strawberry dipped in bittersweet chocolate.

Tell me about your relationship with food." How can I tell her anything she'd understand? Has she ever eaten a pan of brownies in one sitting? A half dozen salad-bar baked potatoes? A baker's dozen? What is it about slippery-sweet ice cream, about half-melted chocolate chips or moist homemade birthday cake, juicy steak seared on the grill, creamy potato salad, watermelon freshly cut and dripping with juice?

Anne and I were imbibing our second dirty martinis, and she'd ordered hazelnut-encrusted salmon and goat cheese salad while I'd asked for the macaroni with three cheeses and Dungeness crab, comfort food for the well heeled, or those with a paying sister.

Hello?" my mother answers, sounding happy and normal and far removed from all that is falling apart around me. "He's dying," I say. "Soon. He's sick and shitting himself, and your daughters are the only people he can count on.