To cheer myself up about not owning a dog, I went to Will Wright's and got a pistachio, chocolate, and strawberry ice-cream-cone – my own Neapolitan mix.

We had gnocchi and ravioli, Indian curries and samosas, pork buns and chow mein.

Bobby didn't say anything. He went into the kitchen and came back with a large green apple and a cup of peppermint tea with lemon and honey.

In the morning I went to the grocery store to make pasta with pesto sauce and a spinach salad with walnuts and dried cranberries and balsamic vinegar from a recipe I'd found in the one old cookbook that hadn't been totally ruined in the fire when I was a kid. I found an old damask tablecloth and set the table with roses and candles and our best dishes. Then I put on a waiter jacket I had found in a thrift store and invited my mom to dinner.

I thought at the time that the ocean was the best backyard anyone could ever have – so vast and alive and musical, always changing colors, always singing different songs. We ate little pieces of raw fish and candied ginger and my parents had cocktails and wine.