Day 248: Emily Taught Me How to Cook.

For many years, I lived at the tip of a cul-de-sac in the Hollywood foothills, and Emily was my next-door neighbor. I resided in a two-bedroom apartment in a 50s-style building (think "Melrose Place" but smaller, and without the pool); Emily and her husband James lived in a regal little house built higher up and into the hill. They were dashing and elegant and forever throwing dinner parties, and I thought of them as the king and queen of the sac.

I didn't get to know them until the 1994 earthquake, when everyone in the sac huddled outside for several hours, nervous to go back inside. But once we connected, that was it. It was the first time I'd been close friends with a married couple, and the three of us got along beautifully. Emily was a chef who catered to movie stars and hollywood moguls, and between her sincere love of cooking and her stunning presentation, her meals were something to behold. For three years that I will always treasure, Emily, James and I spent a great deal of time together. I ate dinner at their house several nights a week, we talked endlessly about everything, we shopped, we watched movies, we tried new restaurants (she delighted in being mistaken for Emma Thompson, whom she strongly resembled, and given a prime table), and I became a staple at their large and frequent dinner parties.

In the process, I learned how to cook.

Emily taught me all kinds of things - how to choose food at the market, the order in which to prep and cook when throwing a dinner party, how to chop and present foods in new and interesting ways, how to turn everyday stuff in the kitchen into gourmet meals, and, perhaps most importantly, how to manipulate heat. Emily would change the oven or flame temperature constantly as she cooked, a master at making the outside crisp and the inside tender and succulent.

If only Emily had been as happy inside as her lifestyle implied. Behind the charming hostess front there swirled a mass of insecurities, which would have made her just like the rest of us except for the fact that she was emotionally fragile. She had a wonderful, generous heart, she was funny and quick-witted and she had an interesting mind, but she wasn't strong.

Emily's life took a turn for the worse when she took a job on a movie set, working as the private chef for a legendary actor who was both star and director. She was one of two on-set chefs, and the other was a whack-job who (among other things) dealt with the job's intense pressure and long hours by slamming endless amounts of cocaine up her nose. Emily, whose inner frailty rose to the surface under the job's stress, began to join her.

Over the many months it took to complete the film, I watched my friend crumble. She became loopy and disconnected, repeating herself constantly and asking questions that were either childlike or had nothing to do with the conversation. I was watching a train wreck in progress, but every time I tried to broach the subject, she would insist that everything was fine.

I became so concerned that finally, I took James aside and asked if he had noticed the changes in his wife's behavior. He was visibly relieved to talk about it and spilled his anguish. It was a painful conversation. A few nights later, when he and Emily were fighting, he said something like, "It's not just me who sees what's happening to you - why don't you ask Karen about it?" Emily came storming down to my apartment the next day, ripped me a new one for betraying her, and ended our friendship.

I was devastated, but my greater emotion was worry. Over the next year, I watched from a distance as Emily cycled through rehab (more than once), as her father died, as she began drinking constantly (this was confirmed when she drove her car into the cul-de-sac lamp post), and as James finally left her for another woman.

At one point, Emily reached out to me and wanted to resume our friendship, but I refused. I said it was because she wouldn't deal with her drinking, but I'm embarrassed to admit that the truth was far more selfish: It hurt too much to see what she'd become, and I didn't want to be around her. I wanted the old Emily back. I guess I figured there was time, and that eventually, she'd work it out and we'd reconnect.

I was wrong. Time ran out when Emily drank herself to death in 2004. She was 41 years old.

I was blindsided. I didn't think it was possible to go from casual drinker to death from liver poisoning in just five years. I felt both overwhelming grief and terrible guilt - I'd abandoned someone I loved when she needed me most. I cried at the memorial in quiet, wrenching waves, and when her sister read Emily's all-time favorite poem (Isabel, by Ogden Nash), the irony of a strong, fearless little girl slaying all was so pervasive I thought I was going to lose it. For many months thereafter, I thought about Emily on a daily basis.

After Emily's memorial, her sisters held an estate sale. I went to help, and was urged to take something to remember her by. I chose the old, cracked shelf that had hung over her stove, along with the white porcelain salt and pepper shakers that always sat on the top left (they'd belonged to her grandmother). The shelf now hangs in my kitchen.

I thought about Emily a lot last night when I threw my dinner party. I missed her, I wished desperately that she was still alive, and I tried not to beat myself up for failing her. I wish she had known how much I loved her.

Isabel
Isabel met an enormous bear,
Isabel, Isabel, didn't care;
The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,
The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous.
The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,
How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry.
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,
Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.
Once in a night as black as pitch
Isabel met a wicked old witch.
The witch's face was cross and wrinkled,
The witch's gums with teeth were sprinkled.
Ho, ho, Isabel! the old witch crowed,
I'll turn you into an ugly toad!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry,
She showed no rage and she showed no rancor,
But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.
Isabel met a hideous giant,
Isabel continued self reliant.
The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid,
He had one eye in the middle of his forhead.
Good morning, Isabel, the giant said,
I'll grind your bones to make my bread.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She nibled the zwieback that she always fed off,
And when it was gone, she cut the giant's head off.
Isabel met a troublesome doctor,
He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.
The doctor's talk was of coughs and chills
And the doctor's satchel bulged with pills.
The doctor said unto Isabel,
Swallow this, it will make you well.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She took those pills from the pill concocter,
And Isabel calmly cured the doctor.

- Ogden Nash