Last Visit with MFK Fisher

It was a dark and stormy night, 1991. A ridiculous night to drive from San Francisco to Glen Ellen, just before Christmas.  But the invitation was plain, and imperative; MFK Fisher had asked us to come for supper. This was something one did not turn down.  MFK Fisher was the front runner of food writers for years, a national treasure, my friend, and she was dying.

We arrived at the house on time. All was dark.  Did I make a mistake?  No, a girl named Terra opened the door and welcomed us . Was there a fire in the fireplace? No. Was the table set? No. Again, did I make a mistake? We had a bottle of wine with us, soon opened, and we drank in the dark room.  "She'll be able to see you soon," Terra said.  This would be in her bedroom up a few stairs past the bookshelves filled with French titles.( Did you know she did a translation of Brillat-Savarin's famous book?) With the wind howling outside and it being very dark, I had a sensation of being in a very large castle somewhere near the bottom floor.

In the meantime the room began to come to life. A fire was lit (or turned on to resemble fire, I can't remember) and Terra  set the table for two.  "After you eat, she will see you," Terra said. Out came homemade bread and butter, a small pate, some cheeses, and a Cornish Game hen that had been split neatly in two, revealing glistening fruit that was the stuffing. Dessert was a small terrine of wild rice pudding.  Of course, all of this food had been brought in by friends and neighbors, as was the custom. We lingered over the wine, and finally I was summoned to go to her.

A real hospital bed had been brought in for her, but it was a shock to see her lying in it.  She smiled brightly and made murmuring noises, then saying once again, "I want to ask you everything and I can ask you nothing,"; I had heard this many times. She motioned for me to go to a small box on her dresser  that had very small silvery balls. She took them in her hands, waved me down close to her, and shook the balls.  The most incredible music was coming from them, tinkling merriment.  Her eyes sparkled as she listened. I knew it was already time to go. I had a feeling of finality about this , but I smiled and held her hands and told her I loved her, saying  goodbye without saying it.

We said  thank you to Terra, and stepped out into the cold. Impulsively I turned back, tearing a beautiful scarf of golds and purples purchased in St. Maarten, from my neck,  handing it to Terra to give to Mary Francis: I knew she loved purple. Then we drove back to San Francisco with the shades of winter hounding us all the way, but I was possessed with a glow that only a loving effort can create, born in the heart to stay forever.