Burp

I don’t cook. I wish I did, but I just can’t coordinate three dishes to arrive at the finish line at the same moment. And the stress of trying kills me.


So I am hugely appreciative of those who do this clever thing. And this week I had three marvelous meals that filled me with gratitude and well-being. 


On Monday night, Other cooked chicken with a sauce of curried pureed cashews that restored my appetite after weeks of anomic anorexia. 


On Thursday night, my friend S casually flipped switches on her Vitamix to produce homemade hummus—to top a salad of greens, tomatoes, couscous and sunflower seeds—and homemade banana-blueberry-strawberry sorbet garnished with walnuts. I farted happily all the way home.


And Friday, my friend A dashed together a lunch of poached salmon and salad and rhubarb.


Is there any greater kindness a friend can render than cooking for you? These are not transitory acts that are digested and vanish. They linger on in memory, like that lobster sauce on pasta my friend B whipped up last summer and …