I have to give credit for my parents first and foremost for my love of food and of entertaining. They are both true foodies and know how to throw a mean party. However, Mary loved food more than just about anyone I know, and as roommates and then neighbours, we shared recipes and hosted some great shindigs.
Funnily enough, when I logged into Blogger this evening, Mary's last blog post randomly popped up on my homepage. Read it here and notice how many times she mentions food and drink. There is other beautiful content as well, mind, but the woman loved ice, diet coke, and great food.
When I was cooking for Christmas this year it seemed that almost every recipe I made was given to me by Mary. My curried cheese pate, white chocolate covered pretzels with m&ms sprinkled on, buttermilk chocolate sheet cake and chocolate mint brownies are all hers, and she is responsible for my love of cosmopolitans, feta cheese on everything and red leicester cheese with digestives. She would smile if she knew that the buttermilk chocolate cake is now the favourite birthday cake of several of my friends and their friends' friends.
Mary loved to entertain. We hosted a Christmas party every year which involved getting our guests to bring specific dishes chosen by Mary (I've never met anyone so able and willing to get people to do what she wanted them to do whilst still being incredibly loveable). I had never heard of a Parker House roll before meeting her, and I was sent to find them for our first party. It had to be Parker House rolls, nothing else would do, and then we filled them with tinned ham and cheese and brushed them with some sort of mustard sauce. They were amazing, I admit it.
Mary was all about the finishing touches...flowers, the right platters and serving utensils, music, candles...she knew how to create an atmosphere. I never caught the knack, but I remember the way she knew just where she wanted things to go, how she wanted people to feel, what she wanted them to smell when they walked through the door. She had an eclectic sense of taste, leaning towards shabby chic with an international and homemade flair, and she brought it all together with elegance and warmth. I loved being at home with her, and other people must have felt the same because we attracted loads of people to our little abode.
When we lived next door to each other we celebrated Easter together on several occasions. Twice she convinced me to spend an outrageous sum of money on brunch at a local hotel. Mary was like that--she'd spend money on experiences without a thought for the cost. This is something I always chastised her for, but in retrospect I think she lived life so fully and so enthusiastically that she did more in her 43 years than most of us can hope to do if we live to 100. The brunch was magnificent. I can still remember vividly the beautiful display, the table where we sat, the omelet and waffle stations, and the wonderful array of salads and desserts. Another year we firmly insisted that we couldn't afford dinner out, so we brought a very tiny Cerys to hers and ate lamb with a fresh mint aioli. I'd found the recipe in the Washington Post food section, another experience to which she had introduced me--she faithfully bought the Saturday paper and cut out recipes she intended to try. I specifically remember her cooking a fresh sea bass filet over greens one week night in our home on Idylwood Drive.
When Mary was sick and in hospital, I was trying to explain to my girls why I was so sad, and I told them that my very dear friend was very ill and possibly dying. Cerys remembered Mary well, but the other two were not so sure. Cerys said to them, "Remember, she's the one who came and ate all our ice." It's true. Mary loved her ice water, and she had just been to Sierra Leone where ice was truly a luxury. So she came to ours and guzzled ice, enjoyed curries and my home cooked meals, and blessed our home with her presence for the last time.
I find it strangely comforting to think Mary will live on in my memory every time I make one of her decadent treats.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Friday, January 25, 2013
Mary, part 1 (or How I Met My Soul Sister)
Mary's mom, Edith, asked me to write to her about Mary--our story and what she meant to me. And so the blog is back in business for now as I seek to compose a memorial that will do Mary justice.
It is a daunting task to chronicle 13 years of friendship at any time, and in the depths of grief, it feels monumental. However, I am hoping that in the writing will come some healing, and that in this space I will find freedom to reflect and remember and cry and laugh and ultimately enjoy and give thanks for the gift of true friendship.
I moved into Mary's rented house on April 1, 1999. She was away at her brother's wedding, and so I settled into an empty and absolutely FREEZING house. Mary was from Cape Cod, and she didn't believe in keeping the heating above 60, so I became accustomed to wrapping up in blankets and wearing gloves inside when we lived together. I don't remember much about our first meeting, but I remember feeling fairly stressed for the first few months we lived together. This was due in part because Mary was THE lightest sleeper ever created by God and was very particular about keeping noise down after 10:00. As a 19-year-old girl working odd hours, this was not ideal for me. Mary was an amazing English teacher, and she never gave easy multiple-choice tests, so she was forever grading essays in front of Law and Order. She was tired and counting down the days until summer break.
The first real interaction I remember with Mary was when she invited me to spend the day at the local pool with her one hot summer day. All of a sudden this stressed-out teacher turned into a fun-loving soul who wanted my company. I was trepidatious at first, not being one to dive into new experiences (pun gleefully intended--Mary would be trying not to laugh and rolling her eyes right now--fantastic), but she convinced me to come, and it really was the start of a beautiful friendship. We spent tons of time together that summer, and even though there was a 10-year difference in age, we got along wonderfully. She introduced me to all her favourite restaurants, (Anthony's, Burrito Brothers, and Tara Thai, to name a few) and made me go on hideously long and brisk walks with her (her legs had to have been at least three inches longer than mine, and I always got shin splints trying to keep up with her mad pace). We shared our family histories, cried with each other upon receiving bad news, sympathised over sibling dramas, hosted dinner parties, fought over whether cleaning the kitchen should include washing the walls (I am fairly certain she won that one and that the walls were included), scrapbooked, and truly became like sisters. Only living under the same roof and seeing someone in their true form can create space for that sort of closeness, that true acceptance and love for someone, having seen them at their best, worst and all the in-between times of just being.
During the two and a half years we lived together, Mary introduced me to the idea of co-dependency, of healing prayer, of talking to Jesus about everything, not just the big stuff but all the everyday stuff too. She encouraged me to get counselling when I wasn't coping with my parent's divorce. She prayed for me and got others to pray, too, when she knew I was up to no good. Her eyebrows raised knowingly when I'd try to sneak in unnoticed after a night out. Mary never lectured, but her very being rang out conviction and emanated grace. She was a God-sent beacon for me in the darkest time of my life, when I was looking for love, for acceptance, for truth, Mary was a faithful friend and mentor to me, never wavering in her insistence that Jesus longed for me.
It is a daunting task to chronicle 13 years of friendship at any time, and in the depths of grief, it feels monumental. However, I am hoping that in the writing will come some healing, and that in this space I will find freedom to reflect and remember and cry and laugh and ultimately enjoy and give thanks for the gift of true friendship.
I moved into Mary's rented house on April 1, 1999. She was away at her brother's wedding, and so I settled into an empty and absolutely FREEZING house. Mary was from Cape Cod, and she didn't believe in keeping the heating above 60, so I became accustomed to wrapping up in blankets and wearing gloves inside when we lived together. I don't remember much about our first meeting, but I remember feeling fairly stressed for the first few months we lived together. This was due in part because Mary was THE lightest sleeper ever created by God and was very particular about keeping noise down after 10:00. As a 19-year-old girl working odd hours, this was not ideal for me. Mary was an amazing English teacher, and she never gave easy multiple-choice tests, so she was forever grading essays in front of Law and Order. She was tired and counting down the days until summer break.
The first real interaction I remember with Mary was when she invited me to spend the day at the local pool with her one hot summer day. All of a sudden this stressed-out teacher turned into a fun-loving soul who wanted my company. I was trepidatious at first, not being one to dive into new experiences (pun gleefully intended--Mary would be trying not to laugh and rolling her eyes right now--fantastic), but she convinced me to come, and it really was the start of a beautiful friendship. We spent tons of time together that summer, and even though there was a 10-year difference in age, we got along wonderfully. She introduced me to all her favourite restaurants, (Anthony's, Burrito Brothers, and Tara Thai, to name a few) and made me go on hideously long and brisk walks with her (her legs had to have been at least three inches longer than mine, and I always got shin splints trying to keep up with her mad pace). We shared our family histories, cried with each other upon receiving bad news, sympathised over sibling dramas, hosted dinner parties, fought over whether cleaning the kitchen should include washing the walls (I am fairly certain she won that one and that the walls were included), scrapbooked, and truly became like sisters. Only living under the same roof and seeing someone in their true form can create space for that sort of closeness, that true acceptance and love for someone, having seen them at their best, worst and all the in-between times of just being.
During the two and a half years we lived together, Mary introduced me to the idea of co-dependency, of healing prayer, of talking to Jesus about everything, not just the big stuff but all the everyday stuff too. She encouraged me to get counselling when I wasn't coping with my parent's divorce. She prayed for me and got others to pray, too, when she knew I was up to no good. Her eyebrows raised knowingly when I'd try to sneak in unnoticed after a night out. Mary never lectured, but her very being rang out conviction and emanated grace. She was a God-sent beacon for me in the darkest time of my life, when I was looking for love, for acceptance, for truth, Mary was a faithful friend and mentor to me, never wavering in her insistence that Jesus longed for me.
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