RIP, Nora Ephron

Nora Ephron is gone, and she was perfect.

Nora Ephron was Joan Didion for people who didn’t really have their shit together. Joan Didion would never have told us that mashed potatoes were a horrible paradox of a comfort food, because when you’re depressed, the last thing you want to do is peel, boil, and mash potatoes, and if you actually have someone willing to peel, boil, and mash potatoes on your behalf, how depressed can you really be?

Nora Ephron was a journalist first, a real one, at a time when being a woman who could type might not even land you a desk to sit at. You should read Crazy Salad: Some Things About Women. And Wallflower at the Orgy, which contains her delectable piece on Ayn Rand.

Nora Ephron made great movies. Even the crummy ones were a little bit great. If you want to talk shit about Nora Ephron movies, you have that right, but please watch that scene where Bruno Kirby (also RIP) and Carrie Fisher get off the phone with Harry and Sally and take immeasurable comfort from the reality of never having to date again. The orgasm scene? Whatever. Bruno and Carrie, Stanley and Meryl: love is supposed to be easy. When love isn’t easy, it’s Heartburn.

Nora Ephron knew a lot of things. She knew that egg-white omelets were evil. She knew that you can’t really write about marriage properly until you’ve had a bad one and a good one to compare it to. She even knew that Mark Felt was Deep Throat.

And she was so, so funny. Wasn’t she funny?

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