A Love (Letter) Supreme
I can't say I know Calvin Trillin well. But as one of my writing heroes I'm happy to say that we do break bread together a couple of times a year. Yes, he's as funny as you think he would be, and he really loves and knows good food. Trillin, as many people know, lost his beloved wife and muse Alice Trillin on September 11, 2001 (yes, that September 11th). Last week, a little less than five years after her death, Trillin wrote one of the longest, most beautiful love letters ever written, to Alice in the New Yorker. It rang so heartbreakingly true and was so emotionally resonant for so many of us I just can't get it out of my head. I have teared up three kinds just thinking about the piece. It has nothing to do with food, and everything to do with life. And those damned Conde Nast people don't have the good sense to make it available on-line. A pox on their houses. So if you still have last week's New Yorker (and most people keep their New Yorkers for a long time) read it and then re-read it. And if you have to borrow a friend's New Yorker or even steal it from your doctor's office, do it.
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