KAREN WIGHT
A version of this article ran four years ago on Thanksgiving. I
missed my wonderful Mrs. Bell then, but I think I miss her even more
today. As I sit in my own kitchen with my own children and their
friends, I realize that I have fulfilled the prophecy. Yet I would
love another opportunity to sit with her and have a cup of tea. I can
still see her, sitting in the kitchen poring over a book with her
half-moon glasses on, pretending to be surprised that I arrived for
nourishment, both physical and spiritual. "Darling," she would say,
"life is perfect. Everything will work out. Trust me." I have, Mrs.
Bell, I have. Thank you.
Thanksgiving always makes me think of Betty Bell. Aside from being
the mother to 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 also reading, listening and 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 status was just a friendly front. She was a
world traveler, an intellectual, a comedienne and a surrogate parent
to the bevy of children 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 a recipe
book open constantly, and there was always a lot of chatter. Their
family wasn't big (it was just the parents and two daughters), but
the kitchen was full, and there was invariably a great deal of
sharing going on.
It wasn't just food; the food was the least of 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 an opportunity like that. It was a
chance to ask questions or make observations without peer pressure.
At all times, Mrs. Bell gave a thoughtful answer.
After her girls and I graduated from high school, we dispersed to
different locales -- her girls to private universities, I to UCLA.
The Bell tradition of dragging "strays" home continued throughout
college and graduate school. Mrs. Bell eternally welcomed the motley
crews with open arms.
Her beloved recipe books remained open on the kitchen table. As we
