Connie and her husband Duane were my parents’ closest of friends for upwards of 40 years. They drove to Cleveland from their home in the hills of northwest New Jersey to crawl into bed with my father in his last days, to whisper their love for him, to share some memories, and to be, as always, the best friends they could be. My parents shared thousands and thousands and thousands of memories with Connie and Duane throughout the years. Their shared love for their Afghan hounds and Belgian sheepdogs, their joyful July 4th celebrations, hundreds and hundreds of weekly Sunday dinners, restaurant meals, New Years Eve parties, Thanksgiving graces, glasses of light red Beaujolais, local and national dog shows, chaffeuring one other, Zooming together, housesitting, and endless games of Trivial Pursuit. How do you make a life? How do friends and neighbors become transformed into family? This is how.

And then there was the cooking. I’ve written on this blog, from time to time, about a very small sample of some of the remarkable array of meals and dishes that came or went across the street between their two homes. About their shared devotion to the Saturday morning cooking shows. Even about how Connie’s heritage as the daughter of a fireworks emperor always made it feel as if we were entertaining royalty at the annual fourth of July parties. But, truth be told, it was always, always, always about the food.

Which is why Connie read my blog religiously, and why, to my surprise, she asked last week when I was going to start writing again. Who knew that she looked forward to my posts? That she missed them since October, when I had by default, and certainly not design, begun to take my first real blogging break since 2009? Not I. So this is for you, Connie. But it’s not about food this time. For now, and maybe for a while, it’s about friendship. Kindness. Self-care and self-love. Patience, respect, peace and quiet.

As of today, I’ve got a 7-month-old granddaughter. She’s named for my mother of blessed memory, the announcement of which moved my father to tears, which was remarkable on its own merit. I want her to feel the love, to be proud of her name. I want to teach her how to say orange in Hebrew (tah-POOZ), to take her for rides on her new sled, and to look forward, with her, to the arrival of the members of her generation yet to come. I want to tell her stories about her hilarious great-grandpa Ira and his remarkable generosity, especially where food was concerned.

I want to keep doing yoga every morning in my quiet little space upstairs, followed by a few moments of meditation and a special blessing in memory of my father. I want to walk every day, even a short walk with my husband in the snow flurries after dark. I want to be a part of many meals to come that remind me of my father. And I want, forever and always, to be one of the proud, lucky women always considered by Connie to be one of her girls.

(raises glass) Here’s to you, Connie, and to you, Duane. To friends, to family, to gracious living.