Page 9 of Kate & Frida

Frida Rodriguez ... En Route

January 15, 1992

Paris, France

Fair Kate,

How is it possible you don’t know you’re having anxiety attacks? There must be tons of books about them in your perky self-help section and haven’t you listened to Nirvana? Your hot hometown band is one massive plaid-flannel-clad nervous breakdown. I’d also like to point out that the free coffee at work probably isn’t helping the internal beehive.

I think you’re on the right track with your idea about Bumpa. You can bet being a single dad wasn’t Three Men and a Baby back in the day. It was probably strange for your mom too. I’m sorry it gives you anxiety but I hope you keep trying to write about it. Maybe my gift will help. Yesterday I was sitting in Chez Lisette and out in front the Seine is lined with bookstalls called bouquinistes – isn’t that the most gorgeous word you’ve ever heard. It sounds like bouquets of books! I got up for a wander and found a stall that sells used American paperbacks. You’ll never guess what I came across. Ha! Of course you will because you’re holding it. I know you can get old Stegner’s Angle of Repose at your store but it seemed like a message from the universe to find it here. If it doesn’t inspire you, you can use it to swat the bees away.

Now for the bummer part of this letter. Thanks for MFK but no offense I’ll pass. My mom has been writing about food for the L.A. Times since before I was born. I’d never say it to her but I don’t get it. Who cares about the trend for Pacific Rim cookery when she got a master’s degree in journalism from UCLA – that was back in the 1950s before women were getting master’s in anything. Sure I love food. Kirby and I found a fromagerie nearby called Barthélémy that sells more than fifty – count ’em fifty! – kinds of goat cheese. We’re going to try them all. A few at a time to save room since a couple doors down we discovered exquisite rabbit braised in mustard – but that’s just good food. Everybody eats. Not everybody lives in a country at war. The destruction of innocent people’s homes. The cruelty of bombs dropping on children. That’s what’s important.

Bonne journée – aka Have a Nice Day,

Frida

P.S. My secret food? No-brainer. Anything processed! When I was a kid I never got a single bowl of that psychedelic-orange Kraft mac and cheese. I used to sneak off to the Hostess thriftshop and buy old Ding Dongs and eat them in my closet while my parents watched Masterpiece Theatre.

P.S. Deux. The bookstore kept you on after Christmas so you must have more going for you than knowing how to wrap a book.