Wednesday, November 19, 2008


Duncan Blitz cut a Valencia orange in half and squeezed it, plus three more, in the juicer. That’s how he started each day in Florida with his father, and that’s how he began today.

His father’s appetite had turned tiny, so Duncan made meals in miniature, serving portions that even his Pop could manage. “Duncan cooks dinner for me," Dad told everyone. Pleased and proud less of Duncan’s ability to make a lollipop lamb chop with a spoonful of baby peas and a sliver of petite potatoes, than happy that his son was there, loyal and loving to the end.

Today was his mother’s birthday, November 19. Mom had a joke at Christmas time, about an old jewish lady who’s caught in a snowstorm on Fifth Avenue and walks into St Patrick’s Cathedral. She finds a nice dry place to sit, and looking around her, realizes it’s Christmas Eve. Staring at the face of Jesus under his crown of thorns, she confidentially whispers, “Don’t cry little boobalee, tomorrow’s your birthday!”

Duncan lit a candle for his mother last night, whispered to her, and went to bed with his prayer.
God bless mom if she’s around, with dad.
And god bless my children, please.
If there were room for another blessing, Duncan would ask god to help him be a mensch and not a jerk.

This morning I poured espresso over hot foamy milk for breakfast and nibbled two skinny ginger cookies: 60 calories

“All my life I tried so hard to be thin, and now I’m supposed to gain weight,” said my mom, on the couch, with cancer.

I thought about my mom, who wanted us to be stoic, and fixed myself hot oatmeal topped with butter, brown sugar and cream, and three pieces of toast. There!

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