One of the last times I saw Molly was in winter. She was living by then in upper Manhattan, close to the hospital where she needed to go for frequent check-ups and follow-up procedures. She was working on a new memoir about her illness, called Liver: A Love Story. I stopped at Petrossian and bought some of the luxuries she adored: foie gras, smoked salmon. It was during Hanukkah, so I made her latkes, though, by then, she could eat only one or two. I also brought her chicken soup. Preparing the stock with her in mind the day before, I had cleaned my pot well, then dispensed with my own recipe and used hers for 5-hour chicken broth from The New York Times: two birds, two onions, three carrots, three celery ribs, peppercorns, bay leaves, water, and time.