Found a recipe card in your writing. It was in a bogus old-fashioned tin box that I sent away for. The box says: ALL THE BRAN IN THE WHEAT. Your recipe is for Bananas Foster, and it ends, “Add rum or brandy to top of mixture. Do not stir. Light. Spoon over ice cream while flaming.” You had fun with the word “flaming”.That was before everything, when you would smuggle me into the baths and bars so I could be the only female among hundreds of sweaty men. “Disco Inferno” was blasting from all the shops on the Haight. You nagged me into pumping iron. Our reunion is coming up again. I’ve got that picture of us at the five-year, on a sailboat in Newport Harbor. I look much too slutty for this occasion; you look properly preppy. We ended up passed out on the floor of some Bellevue Avenue mason. I faked sleep while the rick owner hit on you. There’s lots more. But you know that. We moved, the kids are getting big, Cliff’s wife had a baby. The usual. I still haven’t made that banana creation. Scared I guess. Probably set the fucking place on fire.