Not Forgetting

A year ago, my friend Amie died suddenly in Evanston, IL. I couldn't be there to say goodbye, but I sent this tribute:

Lentil soup. It may seem strange that when I think of Amie I think of soup, but that’s two Italian women for you. Amie knew this was my favorite dish at the house. On those special days, it was the first thing she said to me as I stumbled downstairs for breakfast. “Lentil soup today!” she said. It always made my morning - not just the anticipation, but also the joy that someone else understood my obsession with Tuscan country food. We used to grade the revolving door of Chi Omega chefs on their skill at this particular dish. Were there enough vegetables? Was the stock seasoned? Did they use good olive oil? As a vegetarian Italian (which Amie assured me there was no such thing), she would warn me if the chef used meat in the soup. Although I know sometimes she lied because the chef himself would come out and brag about the great pancetta he had added, and then ask me not to tell the vegetarians.

The last time I saw Amie was over a year ago at a wedding in Evanston. I don’t remember what she was wearing, but I remember thinking she looked great. Not great – stunning. She was beaming, full of life. That’s how I always thought of her – this strong, beautiful Italian woman that I always wanted to laugh with and never wanted to cross. At the wedding, she told me about a trip she was planning for that summer. She was going to tour Puglia with her family and maybe make an annual tour out of it. I don’t know if she ever took that trip, but I hope she did. I hope she ate pasta 'til she got sick. I hope she drove those Italian men crazy with her blond hair and big smile. And I hope she brought back an even better recipe for lentil soup.