I met Ellen Bland in 1989.  Ed Perrault and I attended an art event at Meredith Long Gallery and we had barely gotten a glass of wine when approached by Betty Bland.  She reminded Ed who she was and introduced her daughter, Ellen.  And as Betty engaged Ed in conversation, Ellen just looked at me and asked, “You a coonass?”  I said yes.  And then she asked, “You like pralines?”  I said yes. 

A week later Ellen dropped by with pralines and a friendship was born.  It was the holiday season, because Betty’s praline business was full throttle and Ellen was a fully deputized praline elf.  And I never had pralines like that before.  They were the best I’d ever tasted–being from Louisiana that says a mouthful– and they were very fancy, individually sleeved in customized wax paper with a beautiful red presentation tin. 

On August 24th of this year, instead of a trip to Mexico City with Ellen to celebrate her birthday over a meal of Red & Green Fish (which she had been obsessing), I found myself gathered with a shortlist of her friends and family at Brennan’s to posthumously honor her birthday.  Ellen died unexpectedly in her home, in bed, on August 4th due to complications of surgery.   

This morning, Ellen’s remains were interred at Houston’s Glenwood Cemetery, during which I spoke a few words in her honor.  Afterward, a nice service took place at St. Luke’s Methodist Church.  But as I had planned to speak during the service itself, I had many more thoughts than can be spoken grave side.  So I have here translated from spoken word into a written collection of thoughts about my Ellen Bland. 

Ellen was a people person.  She had a magnetic way of collecting people, more so than any of the many dynamic characters that I’ve met.  With friends of all ages and all backgrounds, it didn’t matter if you were a titan of industry or a grocery clerk–Ellen wanted to know who you were, where you were from, and if you spoke Spanish.  I was lucky to witness it all regularly and lucky to be caught in that wide net. 

The earliest picture I can find of us is in formal attire on our way to the Museum Ball in 1990.  I got to sit and talk to Betty while waiting for Ellen to descend the stairs, revealing her outfit.  Over the decades I would find myself with Betty in the same situation many times.  

In our early days, Ellen worked for her brother Robert’s fledgling real estate business, doing open houses most Saturdays and Sundays which entailed serving her delicious food and checking-in potential home buyers.  This precluded fun things to do on weekend days.  But there is something that Ellen and I always had in common–we’re both night owls.  Alas, in the evenings we were wide-eyed and venturing to glamorous cocktail parties or grungy music venues. 

And Ellen would entertain.  Betty also had homes in New Orleans and Puerto Rico, so when Ellen had that big house to herself she would cook for sometimes just me or entertain as many as the formal dining room would fit beneath that gilded chandelier of star-shaped crystals.  She would end her meals with pralines crumbled on ice cream–the ugly ducklings got crumbled as toppings. 

She was proud to show off her culinary skills.  Owner of Ellen Bland Catering, she was one of Houston’s finest chefs.

And what a treat to watch her in the kitchen. I would sit across the breakfast bar nibbling cheese and watching her like the studio audience at the Food Network.  The closest comparison I can make would be like a dancing shell game, Ellen gliding through the kitchen with her arms swirling effortlessly from cabinet to sink to oven to wine goblet. 

One night she just stopped mid-slice and said, “I like this.” I asked what and she responded, “Everyone’s always in the kitchen with me.  You’re the only one who sits on that side.” 

I might have had fresh bass from my brother, or she might have found the “most beautiful lump crab meat at Airline Seafood”, you know, the “big crab meat” she loved to find.  But any occasion was an opportunity.  On Covid Halloween the two of us got all dressed up in honor of a slab of salmon which she cremated in butter and served with crab meat and corn.  Then like giddy children, we got into the Halloween candy. 

Ellen’s food was no joke, and always on point. 

We shared many common bonds but especially a love for dining.  At a minimum, every Monday was date night.  Most Mondays we went to her favorite restaurant Huynh.

But we never minded venturing out other nights to try new places.  This could be a long list, but she recently drug me 36-miles to Mike’s Seafood for hush puppies and crawfish out of a plastic bag.  We luckily did Captain Benny’s only weeks before it burned to the ground.  And one night we dressed up in all our most expensive jewelry and did four courses at LuLu’s. 

We usually finished evenings with Old Fashioneds at her place, parting company to respectively walk our dogs.  But being night owls, we’d end up on the telephone an hour later.

After her father passed away, Ellen immersed herself in her busiest catering season since the Covid crash.  And when that concluded, it was time for her to relax.  I’d pick up the phone on a random evening and say, “Pick you up for a taco?”  Or something similar.  But she would sometimes respond that she was reading a book and relishing the idea of having no plans.  “I hope you don’t mind,” she’d add.  “But maybe you could twist my arm.”  And I did neither.  It was the first time in her life that she wasn’t responsible to take care of other people.  The so-called wild child of River Oaks had found a resting point. 

But she was bothered by her legs. 

Ellen stopped riding her bike with me.  It was too hard for her.  We could putter through River Oaks but that was tricky because she stopped at every other yard to talk to friends.  Funny, I can go through River Oaks and only see yard crews and contractors; drag Ellen Bland through and suddenly it’s like National Night Out.  “Oh, Ellen!”  Every other yard, which was a testament to how special she was.  Her loss is like a golden thread plucked from the fiber of the neighborhood in which she and her mother grew up. 

In New Orleans, 2024, it was hard for me to watch Ellen hobble through the French Quarter in an ankle boot, saving up what leg strength she could for a cute pair of matching shoes at dinner.  

She had a knee replacement early in 2025; I told her it looked like an alligator got her.  Then she had a growth removed from her right leg in May.  The last surgery to replace her Achilles tendon was important to her, and she planned to have her second knee replaced when her Christmas rush was done.  Ellen was a woman on the go and she wanted to stay that way. 

Monday night before her operation, we had our weekly dinner at Huynh.  Then Tuesday morning we headed to Bush Airport for our simultaneous Global Entry interviews.  We were still going to Mexico City for her birthday, just two weeks later than planned.

That airport run was a wild ride, and of course she gathered a few other Global Entry applicants on the tram, insisting that they go ahead of us since they were already late.  She was collecting people until the very end. 

After the airport, we scarfed down burgers at B&B, then wandered through the farmer’s market.  She kept shoving weird fruit into my mouth saying, “We have these in Puerto Rico.”  The last one I spit into her hand like a toddler, and she laughed out loud saying, “I knew you’d do that.”  That was the last time I saw her. 

This new terminology Celebration of Life seems insurmountable when accepting an unexpected death.  I was concerned about speaking to a celebration.  I am angry, not necessarily celebratory.  Besides, how does one decide what is poignant enough within an allotted five-minute slot with 35-years of material? 

Over those past two months when something happens that I need to tell Ellen about, I can’t call and I certainly can’t stop by her house. I even tried dinner at Huynh last Monday–table for one, which didn’t go well.  I realize that this overwhelming sense of loss is the catalyst for celebrating a life.  It isn’t easy but the beauty is that we had that to begin with–not crying that it has been stripped away. 

I assert that my grief in itself is a tribute to my Ellen’s life.   

And as I look over this document, I am reminded that Ellen spent her final two ambulatory days with me.  It was both my pleasure and my honor.

For my birthday in a few months, I will be in Mexico City.  And I will celebrate the life of my Ellen at Contramar with their famous Red & Green Fish, and I know that she’ll be there with me. 

Link to Bradshaw Carter Obituary for Ellen Louise Bland

Link to Huynh Restaurant