“I just made up my mind to be cremated,” my 93-year old friend told me recently.
“Why not be buried?” I asked.
“I don’t want to rot in a box,” she said.
“Then consider being sprinkled,” I said.
“My mother wasn’t a good cook,” my friend said. “So imagine my delight as a young girl when I came home from school one day to the aroma of stew simmering on the stove.”
“Did she surprise you with a home-cooked meal?” I asked.
“No, she was stewing meat for the dogs and I got a frozen dinner,” she said.
“I had a friend in college who slept in a bathtub,” Jules said.
“Why there?” I asked.
“Because we called him Mr. Machine and he had shifty eyes and I guess he had to live up to his name,” he said.
“It’s not brunch anymore,” said the hostess in the hotel dinning room.
That would make a good title for a novel, I thought. The story would center around a woman of social standing searching for the perfect brunch in her city in order to invite her best friends to join her and announce she was going to kill herself, except in the course of trying different dishes around town she falls in love with the cooking of an old-timer Parisian chef whose food awakens the passions in her life.