“This was not my first fané,” he wrote.

After a meal, our Stephen loved to sail

into the dining room, holding aloft

this last course: ice cream, whipped cream, and meringue.

“Its presentation is a jaw-dropper…

love to do it for a newcomer.”

That night he chose a deeper bowl, whipped up

“not a measured slope but an escarpment…

the whipped cream avalanched, chips of meringue

floating around like icebergs…it always

thaws beautifully, but this time I took it

from the freezer and stuck it in a pan

of hot water, which was like climate change.

The melting added to the avalanche…”

Invoking the advice of Julia Child,

Do not comment, apologize or make

excuses, he carried it to his guests

con brio, “to the delight of all….”

Was it showmanship that, just weeks later,

bore him away—leaving behind

our grief like the sinkful of pots we’d wash

while he went off to nap—bore him, now light

and lush as fané, to another feast?