Tag: the life changing loaf of bread

gratitude-a-thon day 702: remembering katie, how could we ever forget

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It’s soft outside. There is a light rain. I am making The Life Changing Loaf of Bread for my friend Katie’s Memorial gathering (I’ve written about her here, here and here).  We ate the bread together the last time I saw her. It is a year that she has been gone. A year since she took her life. A year since all those who loved her have had to adjust to a Katie-less world, have been forced to try and understand, digest, process what feels utterly unprocessable.

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My friend Beth’s son Nicky told her there should be some other word that’s not “suicide” for people like Katie who take their lives. I understood what that meant without explanation. He understood that she didn’t want to leave, she had to leave. Because when you had a life like Katie’s, a French bakery of goodies all lined up so perfectly, with the sweetest aroma wafting through it, you would never leave on a whim, there would have to be a fire. A fire that surrounded you everyday of every year. A fire that would make escape your only choice. It’s not because you want to leave, IT’S BECAUSE THE FLAMES ARE TOO HOT.

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Yeah, mental illness is one red hot mother fucker.

This quote by David Foster Wallace describes the choice to end your life in a way that makes me see what MAYBE Katie saw and felt. It makes me begin to understand.

I think of her when the sky is dappled pink. I think of her when I see a great hat, a drool-worthy necklace. I daydream about  what other amazing things she might have accomplished had she let the flames keep licking at her as she tried to armor herself from the unbearable temperature. Every time I see a sunflower, every time I hear another story about mental illness, I see that gleaming smile, those twinkly eyes. And I understand more how hard it was to stay in the kitchen with all that heat.

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I have so much gratitude to have been in the orbit of the kind of brilliance and beauty that was Katie. Her being, her essence, her power stays with me, like a hearty bowl of oatmeal, a scar the doctor promises will fade but never does.

Today we celebrate what each of us has lost and found and kept. Together we let one another know that we’ll always remember that girl. We will not say those words to fill the air, we’ll say them because we feel them, we live them. We will always remember. Because really, how could we ever forget the streak of light, the epic force, the complex and stunningly beautiful shimmer that was Katherine McQuaid Toig.

gratitude-a-thon day 414: saying goodbye, and why we ever said hello to start with

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Today I will go to the funeral of my friend Katie. It will be a hard day.

Some people are surprised I knew Katie, because of the 23 year age difference, and because my kids were older than her son. It’s funny how during the school years, your schedule often only allows you to pair off with the people who are doing exactly what you’re doing, or who have children who are close enough in age, that you can throw them all together while you have an adult conversation, or make a meal, or polish off a bottle of wine (or two).

For a while I thought I might open a store, and for a few years I sort of set up a store in my living room with a mix of what I would sell in a real store, as kind of a test kitchen. It was also kind of a party, with food and wine and girl talk. Anyway, that’s the first time I met Katie. Someone brought her over to shop. And I was literally stunned by how beautiful she was. I think I said to her, “You are gorgeous, Who are you?“She was like 5’9, with long hair and perfect features, and a great body and killer style. Anyway, I talked to her and we clicked in some funny way, and then I saw her at a party not long after, and then we just sort of had this funny little relationship, in which we didn’t spend a ton of time together, but we messaged a lot on Facebook, and we just got each other. There was some sort of no bullshit zone we got into. She told me her whole story, because as she said to me, “You’re so open, it makes me want to tell you everything.” She acknowledged it was odd, that she didn’t really do that a lot. But I understood, and appreciated it. Because that girl had a lot of story. And I could hear it, I could take it in, because I am older, wasn’t her contemporary. And because I have very openly on this blog shared my own difficulties, with my dad’s alcoholism, and how that has affected every part of my life. She liked that age hadn’t diminished me. She liked my kind of 55, and knowing that’s what hers could be like. She appreciated where I’d been and wanted to know what I thought about things she struggled to try and figure out, that I’d already been through, stuff lots of 32 year olds struggle with, and then some. She loved the blog. As for me, I loved her incredible energy, and her quick mind, her take on the world, and the way she worked at her life, to make it good, to make it right. It wasn’t easy for her. She had such a brilliant mind. It was unusual in its brilliance, like the brightest star you’ve ever seen in the sky. Amidst all the serious talk, we would also talk about clothes, and where to get a good blow dry, and girlie stuff like that. It was kind of hilarious to be in the middle of some intense topic, and at the same time discuss the merits of highlighting your hair.

The last time I saw her we had lunch at Rifrullo. She wore a shirt with a big heart on it. And we talked a lot. And I ordered the gluten free bread, which I’d recently had there for the first time. And Katie was on a no carb diet, but she had to taste it, and she went bananas over it,  just like I had a few weeks earlier. I told her  that Colleen the owner had given me the recipe. She messaged me later in the day for it. I sent it. Ironically, It was called The Life Changing Loaf of Bread.

I am going to miss that girl, that sparkly, ball of brilliance. I will really miss those conversations. She had zillions of friends, so I feel lucky she streaked through my life. Because I loved our funny little friendship. It made me think, and made me laugh, and made me better.