KAREN WIGHT -- No Place Like Home

Thanksgiving always makes me think of Betty Bell. Aside from being the

mom of two of my high school friends, Mrs. Bell exemplified graciousness

and hospitality.

It seemed like Mrs. Bell was always in the kitchen, not just cooking,

but reading, listening and always ready to dispatch requested advice,

homework tutoring and world philosophy.

Mrs. Bell found us interesting and interested. We found her the same.

Her stay-at-home mom status was just a friendly front. She was also a

world traveler, intellect, comedian and surrogate parent for a bevy of

children who her girls dragged through the front door.

I never spent a Thanksgiving with the Bells, but somehow, I feel as if

I’ve spent many Thanksgivings at their house. There was always a recipe

book open; there was always a lot of chatter. Their family wasn’t big, it

was just the two girls, but the kitchen was constantly full, and there

was invariably a great deal of sharing going on. Actually, I think the

food was the least it: There was more sharing of the day’s news, boy-girl

relationships, school happenings and college aspirations. Basically, we

solved most of the world’s problems in that kitchen, although we didn’t

always do a stellar job with our own conundrums.

Occasionally I would find the kitchen empty, and I would get Mrs. Bell

to myself. I never wasted a moment like that. This was an opportunity to

ask questions or make observations without peer pressure. Mrs. Bell

always gave a thoughtful answer.

After we graduated from high school, we all dispersed to different

locales -- her girls to private universities, I to UCLA. The Bell

tradition of dragging “strays” home continued throughout the girls’

college and graduate school careers. Mrs. Bell always welcomed the motley

crews with open arms.

Her beloved recipe books remained open on the kitchen table. As we got

older, she would try recipes from her experiences abroad. In addition to

widening our food repertoire, our discussions became more philosophical

and politically activated. Mrs. Bell remained a good listener and

sometimes a referee.

After I graduated college and moved to Costa Mesa, I would

occasionally receive notes from Mrs. Bell, which were always very proper,

yet full of praise. The notes were never solicited, just random acts of

kindness and encouragement, like an unexpected gift in the mailbox.

I was the first from her girls’ group of friends to get married. I

made a point of getting Mrs. Bell’s “permission” to marry Ben and

solicited her advice. I was the first to have children, and Mrs. Bell was

the first person outside of my immediate family to send a congratulatory

note.

As I got older, Mrs. Bell would share her insights on her own life

experiences, hopes and dreams: those fulfilled and those broken. She

became a confidant, less of a parent, more of a friend. Those afternoons

spent sharing a cup of tea -- I nursing a baby, she baking scones --

became some of my most treasured memories.

I began to realize that her hospitality was more about spiritual

nourishment and attitude. It was about the respect that flowed to her and

from her.

As I got older and a little more confident in the kitchen, Mrs. Bell

would occasionally allow me to cook a meal. I considered that the highest

praise imaginable. When our families got together, sometimes she cooked,

sometimes I cooked, but it always felt like a Thanksgiving meal.

We shared many meals and many conversations before she died in 1996.

When her daughters were ready to sort through her life’s accumulation of

treasures, they asked me if I would like to have as a keepsake of their

mother. I asked for a cookbook.

A few months later, I received a package in the mail. It was one of

Mrs. Bell’s favorite Junior League cookbooks. Ironically, it was also a

book that had been in my kitchen library for years and one of my

favorites as well.

Her version was a little more worn. I thumbed through and stopped at

the soiled pages. I read the words written in the margins: She made notes

of when she had served the dish, what needed changing, who liked it.

I felt the warm glow of recognition, not just from the words, but from

the mood created so many years ago in her kitchen: feelings of

hopefulness, anticipation and unconditional love. Feelings of

Thanksgiving.

As another holiday season approaches, I give thanks for Mrs. Bell’s

lessons in hospitality. I’ll try to carry the torch for the next

generation. I hope the smiling faces that hang out in my kitchen remember

many good times and thoughtful conversations. I hope that they can carry

a similar feeling of Thanksgiving with them as they make their way

through the highs and lows of their own lives.

And I look forward to someday sharing a cup of tea with them when

they’re older, giving thanks for my many blessings: past, present and

future.

* KAREN WIGHT is a Newport Beach resident. Her column runs Saturdays.