Dark and Stormy

I've been struggling to write this for days now, but somehow I need to get it out.

On January 9th, my dear friend Grahame put an end to his suffering and took his life. It's hard to bear the sadness we feel at losing him, and difficult to process the fact that he survived his illness but not the treatment for it.

His wife has asked that friends and family contribute happy anecdotes from their bank of memories, and the only difficulty here has been choosing which. Grahame was a kind, generous, warm, intelligent, humourous man who loved nothing more than cooking for friends and sharing a dram, and most of my memories revolve around meals and drinks prepared for, or by, or with him. Who else would we find on a dark and stormy February day, shuggling a lamb in a binbag full of secret-recipe marinade ready for the barbecue. Sane people were supping soup and hugging their radiators, but not Grahame.

And talking of Dark and Stormies, it was Grahame who first introduced me to this wonderful drink - one I can't make without immediately recalling the oppressive feeling of Florida humidity and keeping an ear out for an impending thunderstorm. They aren't recommended on any diet that I know of, but take a long tall glass,add ice and a double measure of good dark rum. Squeeze in the juice of half a lime and top up with ginger beer. Drink, for preference, on a beachfront balcony as you watch thick jagged spikes of lightning break the sky and jab the sea hard while the air around you thickens and the thunder cracks over the ocean. Better yet, drink it anywhere, but with friends.

It's hard to say goodbye; sad to realise that there's one less rumbling laugh in the world. No-one left who calls me "Sweetie". We'll miss you Grahame, but we won't forget you.

Kath.