Condolence: Dear Auntie Palma, I received a phone message from Paul yesterday, and felt you must have passed into Heaven to be with Uncle Guido. I see in the Hartford Courant that is what happened. When I heard from Paul, I had just finished working on my new memoir, and here is the scene I wrote: I make rigatoni with meatballs following my Auntie Palma’s recipe, (Per two pounds of ground chuck, beat one egg in a large bowl, mix in a quarter cup of bread crumbs preferably your own—grate two slices of stale bread—and a little salt and pepper.) “That’s all,” warns Auntie Palma, waving her wooden spoon, “you’re not making meat loaf!” Form into balls and fry them till brown in rendered salt pork, and then put them in your pot of sauce to simmer for twenty minutes, give or take. Auntie Palma was as good a cook and instructor as Julia Child, who once noted to her American viewers that the longer you cook lamb, the gamier it becomes. She shouts an exhortation into the camera, a là Auntie Palma: “It is not pork! Lamb has never given anyone trichinosis! You might as well eat an old shoe if it’s not a lovely pink inside,” freeing us to try rare lamb and swoon with culinary joy. So I guess, Auntie Palma, this is a little tribute to you. Thank you for all you taught me about cooking and life, for taking care of Tyler, for taking me to the Strand to see Showboat, and for being such a good Godmother to my precious Jene. My sympathy to Paul and Celine, David and Joe, their children, and all your family and friends. I wish I could come to say goodbye, but I’m in Florida with my foot in a splint. I know you’ll understand. I love you—Mickey