Baked Alaska Karol Griffin Gwen and I were breaking up, which is a strange thing to have to say, since Gwen and I were never lovers. At least I don't think we were. Not in the usual sense of the word. Our friendship was based on food; food we shared, food we talked about, food we loved. Sometimes it was soup, warm and comforting. Sometimes it was bread and cheese, nourishing and filling. Sometimes it was wine, giddy and intoxicating. In the end, it had been BakedAlaska all along, complicated and deceptive.Judging by the warm, soft meringue on the outside, you wouldn't guess that there was a hard, cold core in the middle. You wouldn't know that the surface and the interior were nothing alike until it was cut and served.And when it turned out all wrong, you wouldn't know until it was too late. "I don't know quite how to say this," I said, "but we can't do this any more. I'm sorry." Two bright circles of red warmed Gwen's cheeks, and tears welled up in her eyes. We were standing side by side at Leonardi s delicatessen, staring at cheeses. "I don't understand," she said. "Our friendship is . . . inappropriate." It wasn't the best word, but it was the only one I could think of to explain what had gone wrong. "Did Paul put you up to this?" "Not at aU. It's just that you've been giving me . . . things, saying ... I don't know ... I need to get that from Paul. I ought to be getting that from my husband." "So, what are you saying?You're going to make him your sole emotional support?You honestly think that's going to work?" "I hope so." I studied a wedge of Cambezola and rearranged the pasta in my shopping basket. I wasn't explaining it right. It sounded frivolous and stupid. 35 36Fourth Genre "WeU," Gwen snapped, "it would be nice. Wouldn't it. If it worked. It'd be absolutely fucking sublime" I shook my head at her sarcasm and put the Cambezola back in the cooler. I tried to not to cry. I said I was sorry. Again. "You," Gwen said, "let me treat you like a lover." She said it Uke a dirty word, like I was a dirty person. I left my pasta on the counter and went outside , hot with shame. Gwen foUowed. She grabbed my arm, spun me around, and hugged me like she was never going to let go. "I'm sorry" I said again. "Why are you doing this to yourself? I love you!" I hugged her quickly and walked away. "I'm so glad we never got involved," Gwen screamed after me. "You would have broken my heart."When I turned around and saw the look in her eyes, I got the feeling that what she meant to say was that I had broken her heart anyway. Gwen was a bundle of insecurities held loosely together by raw nerves, but it wasn't the sort ofdebiUtating character flaw you'd notice right off. She was one thing on the surface and something altogether different underneath . She was ethereal and weU-traveled, an artist. I envied her certainty, her aesthetic, her aplomb.As time went on, I learned that underneath the glossy confection of impeccable styling and European sensibilities, she was hiding a melting core ofpain and vulnerability, covered with a crusty sheU. She was Uke a fancy layered dessert, a surprising combination offlavors and textures. Sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter. Gwen and I feU into a friendship sparked by a click of compatibility that rarely happens when friends offriends meet. It was 1993, and I was new to San Francisco, naive and newly married. I had a hard time making friends. A woman I worked with invited me to go to the beach for Easter sunset with her friend, Diane, and Diane's friend, Gwen.We piled into Penny's car with sweaters, blankets, a fifth of tequila, two boxes of pink marshmaUow Easter chicks, and a lemon. We parked at the north end ofOcean Beach and...