Vicky and Christine
By Stephanie Kemp
November 9, 2025
So often when I sit down to write, it’s to spew toxins. Get rid of the mental dung. Emotional Sturm and Drang. Fury. Fear. Anxiety. Shoulds.
What ifs……
In my life (and everyone else’s) at this moment, there is so much of that.
But I want to write about the good that is swirling this morning.
It is 8:44am. I have been up for 3 hours. Drinking coffee with my husband, talking to one daughter in Italy while the other (still) sleeps soundly in the hug of a house that is our home.
I never take it for granted, this husband, these daughters, our home.
I am the luckiest and I always know this, even when I’m spewing.
And last night was pure soul fuel.
Adam and I went to a gallery show of his friend, Vicky, who he went to high school with and hasn’t seen in over 25 years.
She is a ceramicist (beautiful vases, lamps, bowls).
She lost everything (house, studio, art) in the Eaton Fire.
She started again (moved to a new town, started a new studio, got back to work).
Vicky is a badass.
And watching her figure out who Adam was and then hug him was so pure -
a friend showing up for a friend and the difference (in a face and smile) this can make in a life or a moment. (I saw this happen in his face and smile, too.)
Vicky is (in every way) beautiful. I immediately (also?) had a crush on her.
I wanted to buy (all of) her pottery, but very quickly and sadly realized I would have to make (much) more money to buy even one piece.
Within seconds of chatting (you can’t hog an artist’s time at her own gallery opening), we found out that Vicky is friends with my friend, Christine, who also lived in Altadena.
Christine, whose gorgeous home was technically spared but remains uninhabitable (on its street with next to no neighbors) as she continues to fight insurance while reconfiguring her life, too.
Christine, who every single day since January 7th, has fed people and kept her community/ies together through her bakery and cafe. She never closed (or closes) her door to anyone.
It was also Christine, whose food (soup, granola, bread, quiche, lasagne, sea salt caramel candy), was often the only thing I could (or wanted to) eat during my six rounds of chemotherapy, the third of which coincided with the fire/s.
When my infusion center had to shut down and I drove from hospital to hospital trying to get my empty chemo bag flushed and refilled with the right chemical cocktail.
When Adam and Frances and I had to evacuate our house (Eaton Fire), then my sister in law’s house (Sunset Fire) and then our family friend’s house (Palisades Fire), before being able to go home again.
The last time I saw Christine was the morning after my bag was finally refilled and my house (and my sister and brother in law’s house and our family friend’s house) didn’t burn down.
I dropped off clothes at the cafe, because not only did she keep her door open for firefighters and everyone reeling from unimaginable loss (often feeding people for free), she also spearheaded a clothes drive from her sidewalk. (She did this until too many people donated and the never-ending rolling racks got in the way of her primary mission of providing food, at which time she, of course, commandeered a clothes drive move to an off-site location).
I hugged Christine and tried not to let her see the chemo bag and cord hooked up to my chest port. I hoped she wouldn’t notice my (synthetic) hair under a newly acquired beanie.
She had enough to worry about.
I am sad I haven’t seen her for almost a year.
I haven’t been back to the cafe since I finished (God willing) chemo.
I miss her (and all of the friends I haven’t seen).
These thoughts (of all of them) are making me hungry.
I will write Christine to tell her that I met her friend Vicky last night.
…that Vicky and Adam want to see each other again and that we all want to have a dinner with her. (We will even cook!)
I will tell Christine that I wish I saw her more often and that I tried to eat something from her cafe every single day of my treatment (mostly via the world’s best friends and Meal Train), not only because it was delicious but because I also wanted to channel her (kindness, energy, strength) to get through a really scary thing.
Maybe I will even resend her the poem I wrote about her (during the pandemic, another impossibly scary thing):
“Grateful Every Day”
is an easy thing to say.
But to those who say AND mean it,
life is better, I have seen it.
Maybe I will also send the poem to Vicky (or write her a new one) to thank her for all of her strength and soul fuel.
And maybe I will even explain the beanie that I am (still) wearing, trying to follow their leads as I continue to move through a very scary thing.
Happy Sunday.
(It is a very happy Sunday.)
![]()
So often when I sit down to write, it’s to spew toxins. Get rid of the mental dung. Emotional Sturm and Drang. Fury. Fear. Anxiety. Shoulds.
What ifs……
In my life (and everyone else’s) at this moment, there is so much of that.
But I want to write about the good that is swirling this morning.
It is 8:44am. I have been up for 3 hours. Drinking coffee with my husband, talking to one daughter in Italy while the other (still) sleeps soundly in the hug of a house that is our home.
I never take it for granted, this husband, these daughters, our home.
I am the luckiest and I always know this, even when I’m spewing.
And last night was pure soul fuel.
Adam and I went to a gallery show of his friend, Vicky, who he went to high school with and hasn’t seen in over 25 years.
She is a ceramicist (beautiful vases, lamps, bowls).
She lost everything (house, studio, art) in the Eaton Fire.
She started again (moved to a new town, started a new studio, got back to work).
Vicky is a badass.
And watching her figure out who Adam was and then hug him was so pure -
a friend showing up for a friend and the difference (in a face and smile) this can make in a life or a moment. (I saw this happen in his face and smile, too.)
Vicky is (in every way) beautiful. I immediately (also?) had a crush on her.
I wanted to buy (all of) her pottery, but very quickly and sadly realized I would have to make (much) more money to buy even one piece.
Within seconds of chatting (you can’t hog an artist’s time at her own gallery opening), we found out that Vicky is friends with my friend, Christine, who also lived in Altadena.
Christine, whose gorgeous home was technically spared but remains uninhabitable (on its street with next to no neighbors) as she continues to fight insurance while reconfiguring her life, too.
Christine, who every single day since January 7th, has fed people and kept her community/ies together through her bakery and cafe. She never closed (or closes) her door to anyone.
It was also Christine, whose food (soup, granola, bread, quiche, lasagne, sea salt caramel candy), was often the only thing I could (or wanted to) eat during my six rounds of chemotherapy, the third of which coincided with the fire/s.
When my infusion center had to shut down and I drove from hospital to hospital trying to get my empty chemo bag flushed and refilled with the right chemical cocktail.
When Adam and Frances and I had to evacuate our house (Eaton Fire), then my sister in law’s house (Sunset Fire) and then our family friend’s house (Palisades Fire), before being able to go home again.
The last time I saw Christine was the morning after my bag was finally refilled and my house (and my sister and brother in law’s house and our family friend’s house) didn’t burn down.
I dropped off clothes at the cafe, because not only did she keep her door open for firefighters and everyone reeling from unimaginable loss (often feeding people for free), she also spearheaded a clothes drive from her sidewalk. (She did this until too many people donated and the never-ending rolling racks got in the way of her primary mission of providing food, at which time she, of course, commandeered a clothes drive move to an off-site location).
I hugged Christine and tried not to let her see the chemo bag and cord hooked up to my chest port. I hoped she wouldn’t notice my (synthetic) hair under a newly acquired beanie.
She had enough to worry about.
I am sad I haven’t seen her for almost a year.
I haven’t been back to the cafe since I finished (God willing) chemo.
I miss her (and all of the friends I haven’t seen).
These thoughts (of all of them) are making me hungry.
I will write Christine to tell her that I met her friend Vicky last night.
…that Vicky and Adam want to see each other again and that we all want to have a dinner with her. (We will even cook!)
I will tell Christine that I wish I saw her more often and that I tried to eat something from her cafe every single day of my treatment (mostly via the world’s best friends and Meal Train), not only because it was delicious but because I also wanted to channel her (kindness, energy, strength) to get through a really scary thing.
Maybe I will even resend her the poem I wrote about her (during the pandemic, another impossibly scary thing):
“Grateful Every Day”
is an easy thing to say.
But to those who say AND mean it,
life is better, I have seen it.
Maybe I will also send the poem to Vicky (or write her a new one) to thank her for all of her strength and soul fuel.
And maybe I will even explain the beanie that I am (still) wearing, trying to follow their leads as I continue to move through a very scary thing.
Happy Sunday.
(It is a very happy Sunday.)
