Mindy Greenberg, my sister-in-law, was in the last stretch of a two-year run with cancer when she started calling family and friends to deliver some crucial information.
In an almost prophetic way, she shared her vision for each person’s life. She didn’t waste time or beat around the bush. She was beyond blunt.
Mindy told one friend to dump the jerk husband who’d cheated and emotionally abused her throughout the couple’s entire marriage.
She told another friend to quit talking about her dream of selling her boring suburban house and moving to the city, and just do it.
What made these proclamations and directives all the more strange was the fact that it was never Mindy’s nature to butt into others’ business, or offer unsolicited advice.
Except when it came to her brother. He was fair game. Except she had no words of wisdom for Bruce, since Mindy felt her older brother was just about the only self-actualized person she knew.
I, however, was not one of those fully actualized people — in her opinion.
At the time, I still worked at the paper as an opinion columnist and food writer where I had probably one of the best jobs at the paper. I chose my own topics, set my own schedule and was a department of one. Pretty cool.
Mindy said my newspaper job was fine and all, but it wasn’t in her vision for me. Instead, Mindy pictured me in my Igo kitchen, doing work that was completely fun, with no strings attached.
She said I’d totally fly with it.
She said I’d have the time of my life.
The thing is, we didn’t live in Igo at the time. We’d just broken ground for our home’s construction.
Mindy and I were exactly the same age. She died before we finished our house. Bruce installed two of Mindy’s stained-glass pieces in the house. My favorite is in my kitchen’s pocket door; a little bird with an outstretched neck sits upon on a slender branch.
I never look at that glass without thinking of Mindy.
Last month I was in the middle of teaching a cooking class to a great group of women (mostly retired educators) when the reality of Mindy’s vision hit me. There I was, surrounded by these great, raucous, interesting women, with my twin to assist me.
I was having the time of my life . . . in my Igo kitchen.
Complete fun. No strings attached.
Mindy was right, of course, about everything.
In fact, I type this on a laptop at my mother’s oak table in my Igo kitchen, while nearby, onions caramelize in a pot for butternut squash soup.
I’ve taught many cooking classes here in my kitchen since I left my old newspaper job. Every one was an absolute blast, attended by the most wonderful, interesting men and women who rolled up their sleeves to pitch in and make pastas and soups and desserts and breads.
I just scheduled the next round of spring cooking classes which will run through May 22. My son Joe, in the Czech Republc, even designed an ad and accompanying slide show for it. (Click here to see it.)
I take all this in as I look across the kitchen. My eyes rest on Mindy’s stained-glass pocket-door panel.
I could have sworn that little bird winked at me.
Must be the onions getting to me.
