Dear Alice, I sought refuge in you on that long flight west when I buried her. Didn’t need misplaced sympathy—she wasn’t my real mother, after all. So your cookbook sufficed to keep me to myself until landing at John Wayne. Then picked up by relatives in a black Cadillac to lunch at some new eatery on MacArthur—noisy with noontime money-makers swinging deals, their tanned arms gesticulating over garlic potatoes and Pinot Grigio. I could barely hear Monica at the Santa Ana Register telling me over a cell phone that my bio-obit would cost $300. Later we chose coffin linings, flowers and I wrote big checks. Rising impulse was to drag her back to Iowa where she was born, where people eat roast beef with simple side dishes. But no, we were on Manchester by the Freeway. This cemetery, her choice, was once visible while gliding south to UCI. Now the road is a three-story structure that shelters Melrose Abbey—a cloister for all those lain to rest. Makes me feel better about putting her body into the ground here, sandwiched between her two husbands. It made the others hungry. Back into the Caddy, we slid down Harbor Boulevard, past old landmarks—the Kona Lanes and Tiki Room, sadly incongruous. No one drinks mai tais anymore, Alice. Stopped at a gourmet organic on 17th in Newport for dinner take-out. Next day I’m cruising up Sunflower past Segerstom’s extravaganza—once just a truck farm owned by post-war Nisei. Auntie Blanche in the back of this borrowed ‘85 Vanagon. Ahead I see an equally ancient Beetle, pull up to parallel it. Our windows are down, hot day. Nice car—I say to him. Thanks—he smiles glancing at my blue antique. Auntie wants a burger from Jolly Roger. Lunch again. That night we did Lido, joined friends at Blue Water Grill on the Bay. My smoked salmon in cream sauce filled me with longing. Memories of other dinners there, mixed with concern—which dress should I wear tomorrow? What can I get away with saying? What am I supposed to feel? Who will show? What would you have suggested for an after-funeral luncheon? What did you serve for Gertrude’s? You once decorated a bass for Picasso using colored mayonnaise and truffles. This Orange County crowd would expect the latest pasta salad with a roasted pepper mélange. Meanwhile, my mother’s body had shrunk, eating nothing in her last weeks. Her friends—the ones still living, came to pay their respects. We celebrated her passing with catered specialties and mediocre wine. All ate heartily, not missing a foie de Mouton nor iced soufflé. And no one noticed my lack of grief. After all, Alice, a mother is a mother is a mother. My flight home swung out over the Pacific on takeoff. I hadn’t seen that ocean in years. I bid it goodbye, and took back my childhood. Yours—