My British cousin, Jamie Gosney, recently decided to put together a compact disc — he calls it a family album — featuring the clan’s favorite songs as a tribute to his mum, my aunt Jen-Jen, who turns 80 in August.
And he offered up a method with which everyone is familiar: “If you were, indeed, shipwrecked on a desert island, this would be the one piece of music you just couldn’t live without,” he wrote in an email.
“Hi, I’m calling from the real estate agency to see if you have rented your house yet for August.”
“No, I haven’t. Your office is in the village, right?”
“Yes, it is. Why?”
“Would you do me a favor? Would you go to Citarella and get me a half-pound of flounder?”