Last week, novelist-director-screenwriter-playwright-producer-all-around-badass-feminist-heroine Nora Ephron died following complications from acute myeloid leukemia. For a celebration and remembrance of her most acclaimed work, you won’t read anything better than the obituary published in the New York Times.

This is not an obituary. I wouldn’t even call it a eulogy. No, this, I believe, is the closest I’ve ever come to writing a love letter.

I can’t remember where I was or what I was wearing or how old I was when I read my first Nora Ephron essay. Dammit, I can’t even remember which one it was. I think I might have an even earlier-onset case of severe forgetfulness, which Ephron once wrote — in an essay part of her “I Remember Nothing: And Other Reflections” collection — has plagued her since her thirties. “I know this because I wrote something about it at the time,” she wrote. “Of course, I can’t remember exactly where I wrote about it, or when, but I could probably hunt it up if I had to.”

In any case, it doesn’t really matter which one I read first, because by this point, I feel like I’ve read them all … which is probably impossible considering the sheer multitude and expansiveness of her writing. Though aging became her go-to theme in much of her later work, Ephron has written about everything imaginable — from fine dining, to presidential debates, to raising (and eating!) children, to being the only White House intern J.F.K didn’t make a pass at.

The common thread? An unfailing, super-ability to make me laugh and laugh and laugh. And think. And cry. And laugh some more.

For somewhat obvious reasons (two, to be exact), “A Few Words About Breasts” remains a personal favorite, and I think I’ll always be searching for the opportunity to end an essay with “They are full of shit.”

Though I have a strong attachment to Nora Ephron’s essays and short stories, they are not where our relationship began. No, it was at a sleepover in middle school when I was first introduced to her work — her movies to be exact. And it’s her movies that first came to mind when I heard of her passing, movies that influence — more than any other work by anyone else — my own attempts at screenwriting (emphasis on “attempts”), movies I’ve fallen for despite all odds.

My relationship with the romantic-comedy genre is not an easy one. I tend to pass over feel-good formulas like “Definitely, Maybe” and “He’s Just Not That Into You” in favor of “Vicky Cristina Barcelona” and “American Beauty”, which I’m told don’t really make the rom-com cut.

In fact, when I found out the theme of Crystal City’s (where I’m currently living) summer film series would be romantic comedies this year, I was disappointed. That is, until I saw the schedule and was reassured by the presence of Ephron’s rom-com trifecta: “You’ve Got Mail,” “Sleepless in Seattle” and “When Harry Met Sally.”

I love these movies. Yes, all three of them, though “When Harry Met Sally” takes the cake (or pie) as not only my favorite of the three, but as one of my favorite comedies of all time. It’s the one that I saw at that middle-school sleepover, at a time when my parents probably wouldn’t have permitted me to watch such a raunchy, grown up film.