Basket Case

That food package that says everything you want it to say

Human edibles, including Fat Witch brownies and buckets of snacks from the Popcorn Factory, aside, flower arrangements have also been arriving, a fact that my five cats, who appear to particularly like nibbling on roses, Gerbera daisies, and sunflowers, have greatly appreciated. The flora have also been providing a couple of chuckles -- the arrangement from Larry Carrino and the Susan Brustman agency was delivered a day later than it was supposed to be because he had ordered it on Yom Kippur. "What," he asked the florist, "the flowers are religious?" Then there's the shock-and-awe factor, courtesy of Barton G, who sent over such a stunning yet intimidating orchard arrangement that we're not sure how to care for it.

In short, my chosen community has been unbelievably generous. And the outpouring of support has our gratitude. All we really needed during this dose of bitterness were the extremely kind phone calls, e-mails, generous psychic energy, and vacation time, thanks to my editors, though next time I'd rather take it in Manhattan. I'm also including thanks for the prayers -- I know my friend and fellow aficionado Father Chris said a mass for my husband and nearly every Boca Jew has fasted for at least four hours on Yom Kippur in his honor -- despite the fact that when it comes to religion, we're both just here for the food.

Still, there have been a few, mostly enemies or at the least, nemeses, who have been either startled or offended by my seemingly flippant approach toward my husband's cancer. But you know what they say: If you don't have your healthy sarcasm, you don't have anything. Friends and foes alike be warned, however: Even I have become sick of Lance Armstrong jokes. Mention him to me again, and I swear I'll kick you in the bicycle basket.

Jeremy Eaton

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