Here’s how bad my memory is. I thought I had already blogged about that new book by whats-her-name. You know. The essayist and screenwriter I’ve adored for years, ever since she was The Wallflower at the Orgy. Crazy Salad. Scribble, Scribble. Once called Julie Nixon a chocolate-covered spider. Heartburn. When Harry Met Sally. Sleepless in Seattle. You know. Recently felt bad about her neck. Now more reflections on getting older. Same last name as my friend Seth only spelled differently. Ephron! Nora! Nora Ephron!
I think I may have met her once at some Knopf publishing thing, or maybe we just talked on the phone when I was doing a story on the reissue of Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes and Theatre Shoes, which I read and reread as a kid and which Meg Ryan raved about in You’ve Got Mail. But after reading her new collection — the aptly titled I Remember Nothing — I’m almost positive that Nora Ephron won’t recall any conversation we might have had. After all, this is a woman who was surprised to run into her sister at the mall and didn’t even recognize her at first. Well, maybe her sister changed her hair. No, the whole reason Nora was at the mall was to meet her sister.
I hope she doesn’t mind me calling her Nora. Even if we haven’t talked — although I really don’t think I would have imagined it, her being kind of an idol of mine — I feel we’re on a first-name basis. I so relate to so much of this new book, although between “Google” moments (such a better name than “Senior” moments) and lupus fog, I may soon forget which parts.
Oh, “My Life as an Heiress,” in which Nora recounts how she and her sisters expected a large legacy from their Uncle Hal, reminded me of when a great-uncle I never knew died when I was high school or maybe college. He’d been in the state mental hospital for years and years because of “brain fever,” and died without a will, so his share of his father’s estate went to his many siblings and their descendants, including my mother. But like Nora, she never entered the “the fifth stage of inherited wealth: Wealth.”
And how could I not identify with “Journalism: A Love Story” ? Nora recalls working all hours of the night and into the morning as a mail girl at Newsweek. “It was exciting in its own self-absorbed way, which is very much the essence of journalism: you truly come to believe that you are living in the center of the universe and that the world out there is on tenterhooks waiting for the next copy of whatever publication you work at.” So true. Even if that publication is your own occasional blog.
Some of these essays are mainly lists or short paragraphs. Amusing, but I prefer the more substantive, such as “My Life as a Meat Loaf.” I wish I’d had had the chance to dine on Nora’s Meat Loaf at Monkey Bar before Larry Forgione changed the menu and recipe. Larry Forgione? Do I know him? I know I know the name. Wait, wait. It will come to me, but maybe not until the middle of the night or next week or never. Might as well Google it now. Aha! He’s the new Iron Chef. I just saw him win the title last month on the Food Network.
Speaking of food, I agree with Nora when it comes to pie.
Open Book: I hope that if I ever meet Nora Ephron again, I recognize her. Maybe we can compare Arubas. I bought my copy of I Remember Nothing (Knopf) according to my credit card statement.
On a Clear Day I Can Read Forever 