I was rather late to the read-Nora-Ephron’s-books party. I basically grew up on her movies, especially You’ve Got Mail, which I’ve watched so many times I’ve lost double-digit count. And I loved When Harry Met Sally and Julie & Julia. And even Bewitched. It was only when she died, of which I am still five percent in denial, that I finally got I Remember Nothing. Which led to I Feel Bad About My Neck. Which led, recently, to Wallflower at the Orgy. Ephron—don’t you so badly want to call her Nora?—is the aunt you wish you had. Witty, honest, with kickass stories and an awesome predilection towards fabulous food. She’s your best friend at any age. Her books are like a great conversation over wine: they fly by but are full to the brim with advice, gossip, grumbling.
I rarely go back and read my books over again; rather, I motor from new book to new book, hoping to soak up as many as possible (there must be some contest I’ve forgotten I’ve entered). But with Nora’s, I think it’s time to slow down and reread them every few years, glass of wine at the ready.