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refrigerator was stocked with salsa. And still I was making more!
    “What should we call this one?” Izzie asked me, referring to the salsa I was concocting.
    “Well,” I answered while adding a touch more lime juice to the mixture, “Tell me what’s in it and then we’ll figure out a name.”
    My six year-old started naming the ingredients. “Lime juice, tomatoes, onions…”
    I nodded my head and added some more garlic.
    “Garlic,” she continued.
    “Beans…”
    “I know!” she exclaimed, “Let’s call it Try not to fart salsa! ”
    I burst out laughing and then, just to be a good mommy I added, “That’s not nice. Don’t say that.”
    “Then why are you laughing?” she giggled.
    “Because it’s funny,” I answered.
    “Hey, mom?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Did dad like salsa?”
    I thought about the question and honestly, I couldn’t really remember Sam having a strong opinion either way about salsa. “You know what dad loved?” I answered.
    Izzie’s eyes lit up, just as they did every time we talked about her father. “What??”
    “He loved Taco Bell,” I said with a smile.
    “He did?” she asked excitedly, “What did he get there?”
    “Everything! He’d order at least five things.”
    “Cool,” she smiled.
    And that was the end of the conversation. And I was pleased, because I thought it was healthy for Izzie to ask about her dad, which she was doing more and more lately.
    Just then the phone rang. It happened to be Stacy McGowan, who was confirming our kids’ play date for after camp. It was mid July, and so typical for this time of year in Chicago, the weather was sticky and extremely warm. So, the plan was to head over to Stacy’s at 3:30 and let our kids play in the sprinklers in her backyard.
    Stacy and John McGowan had boy girl twins the same age as Isabelle, and the three had clicked since we’d met them years earlier. Because they’d gotten along so well for so long, I had spent a lot of time at their house for play dates and get-togethers, and I’d become pretty good friends with their mother.
    Just as Izzie did, I had always looked forward to going over to the McGowan’s or having them over at our house because talking to Stacy was fun, unlike the forced conversations I’d endured with so many other parents of Isabelle’s friends. Some of them, although kind and decent people, were strange or hard to connect with, and I would find it stressful to sit there and make small talk while our kids were playing. Stacy was different. We had connected right away so our get-togethers became more about all of us, not just the children.
    Now that Izzie was a little older, most of her play dates were drop offs. So today, I could easily have dropped my daughter off at Stacy’s house but I chose to come along.
    The only awkwardness between Stacy and I was the same awkwardness I had with everyone in my life, which was that the subject of Sam was constantly being danced around. Like all my other friends and acquaintances, Stacy had tried to talk about his death a few times, asking me how I was doing and if I needed anything. I would quickly brush it off, telling her I was fine. Then I’d change the subject. Eventually, just like everyone else, she stopped asking.
    The only people who had never stopped trying armchair psychotherapy on me were Laura and my mother. They would plead with me to open up. They would tell me it was unhealthy to bottle up my feelings. And I would tell them that not only were my feelings bottled, but that the lid was on so tight, not even one of those bottle-opening gadgets from Bed, Bath and Beyond would help get the lid off.
    So here we sat, Stacy and I, in our bikinis, lounging and soaking up the sun, peacefully watching our kids play in the distance, and definitely not talking about Sam. I’ll never forget, we were discussing the Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony break up.
    All of a sudden, up walked two men, Stacy’s husband, John, and some other guy whose