I’ll tell you the biggest problem for me: trying to remember things Dan or Dana tells me. In the beginning, I felt like there were things happening, and I needed to write them down to remember them, and so I did. I have a little book for that. Dan can tell me something and I might not remember it ten minutes later. But I try to by writing it down in that book. I’ll even write it on my hand, if I don’t have the book right there.

Usually I keep the book in my handbag. But then I have to remember where my handbag is. I started misplacing it, so now I have it down to a good science. I just carry it with me wherever I go, from room to room. My mother taught me that a lady always carries a handbag, and so I do. I still do.

I try to have a routine. When we’re in Manhattan, I take Bishop out for walks every day to Central Park. Most evenings, I walk to the restaurant, from our apartment on Fifty-Ninth street down to Forty-Sixth Street: it’s on Theatre Row, between Eighth and Ninth avenues. Until last fall I was involved with all aspects of the business, including talking to every single customer who came in each night. I loved doing that, and I did it no matter how I felt—whether I had a cold or flu, no sleep the night before, whatever. I know this sounds like boasting, but the waiters loved having me there even more than the customers: the tips were always larger. I don’t do that as often, but I try. I still know how important that is.

That’s in the city. On weekends in Sag Harbor, I’ll take Bishop for long walks on the beach. I feel like I know where I’m going on my walks, and I have no trouble getting back. You can’t get lost on a beach, right? But I’m conscious that I’m telling myself, “Okay, here’s where we’re going, and here’s how we’re going home.” That helps. If I don’t do that, it’s more likely that I’ll get depressed. Because who wants to forget what you’re supposed to remember?