In reading Nora Ephron’s I Remember Nothing, an important question arose right around the time the prodigious author and greatest cinematic gift-giver of all time (When Harry Met Sally, anyone?) started to talk about her friend Graydon Carter’s (the editor-in-chief of Vanity Fair for the uninitiated) downtown restaurant.
Carter consulted Ephron on the details of his imminent menu and she suggested he include a meatloaf. In return, he put said loaf on the menu, called it “Nora’s Meatloaf” and that’s when the wheels of the cogitation train were put in motion.
Ephron discusses the perks and perils of having something named after you (on the one hand, if people respond well then you, the supposed proprietor, feel like a great success; on the other, if they don’t respond well, there’s a sense of defeat and hunger [pun intended] to disassociate yourself from the thing) and talks about what else she’d have wanted to have named after her which, of course, in a bout of true narcissism only reminded me that there are plenty of things I’d like named after me, too.
First, a Dries van Noten collection. I’d love it if one season the Belgian miracle worker would call his collection “une homage a Leandra.” Also — and of course I understand this is incredibly ambitious but tomato, to-mah-toe — I’ll happily take New York City’s skyline being referred to exclusively as Leandra’s Skyline any night of the week. (Except Sunday when the Brooklyn Bridge would go by The Brooklyn Leandra thus rendering me that which connects two entities between a body of water.)
Come to think of it, actually, I think I’d be perfectly okay if just white sweat socks were named after me but enough about that, what about you? In an ideal world, WHAT THE HAM WOULD YOU HAVE NAMED AFTER YOUR FINE SELF? If you say sucking candy, I will feel inexplicably disappointed.