Sunday, December 4, 2016
Today I am grateful for deviled eggs. I never brought deviled eggs to picnics, barbecues or dinners with friends. Ever. Because my friend Sony always did, arranging them neatly on a beautiful cut glass plate. Sony wasn’t much of a cook, but she rocked deviled eggs.
And she loved to eat. But instead of groceries, her cabinets were full of takeout menus. If they delivered, all the better. Her fridge was filled with condiments and leftover doggie bags in various Styrofoam and plastic dishes, perched precariously next to open cans of cat food.
When Alzheimer’s set in we worried she would mistake one for the other and give the cats the leftover steak and eat the Fancy Feast herself. A single woman with no children and only one brother in California, with his own medical issues, Sony became our family- of-choice. We tended to her. We protected her. We worried over her. We argued with her. We laughed with her.
It is not easy to tell a dear friend that she is slipping; that she cannot go to her mailbox wearing only a long shirt, tucked in pantyhose and no shoes, in winter; or that driving becomes hazardous when you don’t know how to get home; or that ordering three hoagies, two cheese steaks, a large pizza and three liters of coke classic (the real coke, not diet) for dinner is not normal.
Still whenever a picnic, barbecue or dinner was planned, Sony brought “her” deviled eggs. Until she couldn’t. Until she had to quit teaching, quit driving, quit living in her house and we had to sell all of her earthly possessions for her care in the nursing home.
Except a few. I kept her cut glass deviled egg plate. It leans on the back wall of my china hutch, waiting for me to load it up with Sony’s favorites. . .and remember her. I’d like to think she knows. And laughs.