Remembering Anthony Bourdain

I love him.  You either do or you don’t.  He’s not half and half.  He’s 35% whipping cream which rose to the top.  Sorry for the cliché, but we were discussing them in my writing class this week, so I had to let one creep in like a cat. 

There are so many words to describe Anthony.  And such profound loss.  The questions why begs to be asked.

I met him once – long ago in Montreal – and he is all that and more.  I absolutely love the Parts Unknown photo of him sitting on someone’s living room chair in the rocky bay of Red Indian Lake in Newfoundland, Canada.  You can bet your beans that there was much drinking the night before, requiring strong coffee to prop the crew up.  And “embarrasing public displays of affection for seafood” … also known as “kissing the cod” to our beloved Newfoundlanders.

Anthony Bourdain Parts Unknown

This article is SO Tony … with one piece that makes my breath catch. It’s about a landfill in Nicaragua teeming with scavengers, including kids. That happens here, in our own back yards while we continue to toss food not only out of our homes, but grocery stores. Because they have POLICIES about waste. Why can’t we be like France and mandate the best befores today to feed someone? Surely someone will eat the turkey drumsticks I picked up at Real Canadian Superstore for 30% off?

I don’t want to change all of Canada.  Yet. Just my corner of the world. Can we do it? Can we feed the hungry with good food going to waste? I personally will be on a mission to not waste food.

And yes, I know others have tried. But we have the technology. They can calculate today’s losses, plan for their xx% amount of spoilage, give us x% and it’s all good.  Or, if concerned about health, start with fruits and vegetables.

Don’t tell me it can’t be done because I don’t believe it. It just takes a village.  Just like Anthony said.

This waste reeks of the insensitivity aristocrasy feels for the less fortunate.  “Let them eat cake!” … Indeed.

Back in my Creative Writing class, we had to write a small piece from the perspective of someone who just found out their parent(s) had died.

Warm brown hair spills over one eye

As she pushes gently against the kitchen’s back door.

It creaks and moans, opening as reluctantly as an old man stands.

“Tomorrow’s deliveries are soon enough” it cries.  Let me sleep.


He once leaned against its jam, smoke writhing out his nostrils like a poltergeist.

Chasing tortured sous ’til closing.

Smells greet her like hungry cats, weaving in between her legs and rubbing against her nose.

“Feed us!” they cry, as she steps through the bins.  To the streets.

Light from above spills on the stainless counter, draining into the abyss.

His swords glint, ready to carve the kill.

No more.

She cradles them to her salted breast and weeps

For the last family supper.

Anthony, I am not sure it is appropriate to tell you to “rest in peace” … whatever you are doing, do it with the same passion you did on earth … à la prochaine, mon ami.

The Fox

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© 2018

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