I can't get my mind off Anthony Bourdain's suicide. I'm smart enough to know that we never really know what is going on with other people, and I don't think I'm naive enough to think that fame and fortune solve life's problems, and, quite obviously, he is nobody I knew personally, and yet, here I sit, reading article after article after article online, searching for something that will make sense of it.
I read Kitchen Confidential when I was in bed recovering from a C-section delivering my sweet baby Owen. My friend Eileen had been there in the hospital with me, and stayed a few days taking care of me, and helping Ernie with Leo. Lord, I was grateful. And she knew me well, so when she tucked me into my bed upstairs she gave me a copy of Kitchen Confidential. I read it in that semi-dreamy state that goes on post-birth with little sleep despite being in bed. I have a clear memory of laying in my bed devouring it. Of course I was smitten. He was a tall, rock and roll, a smart, smart, smart ass. What was not to like? And of course, as I followed him in the years to come, I remained smitten, with his quick wit, his use of language, and respect for other cultures and people.
Why has this hit me so hard? Maybe because it makes it clear how little we know one another. What do I NOT know about all those I love? Maybe it's because it somehow brings home that, no matter what, we are all alone with our insecurities and sorrows.
There is no way to protect oneself from oneself.
Tonight I'm going to cook a good dinner, a chipotle pork shoulder, and we'll share it with Owen and whatever band members trickle in, and I will think about how lucky I am that I have never been in as dark a place as he obviously was.