"Would you like some cake?” asked the waitress, “we have excellent cakes” she added. We looked at each other, trying to decide if to take a cake at all, and if so which one. Cafes weren’t places we went to often. Usually we would gather in the public park, close to the neighborhood kiosk.
Do you know those cookies that have already been eaten before they could even make it from the oven to the cooling net? Those that if one is not in the area when they are ready, there is a slim chance of getting any? At our home these were the Ma’amoul.
It doesn't matter if you know them by Ghriba, Rayvah or Jrieva these cookies are addicting. When I make them I have to hide some so that my family won’t devour them before they are chilled. I can’t really remember the first time I ate them, it seems as if they were always there, part of my mom’s Shabbat cookies. Over time I forgot about them.
The first time I had ever heard about banana bread was from an American friend in Paris way back in the ‘80s. The combination of bread and bananas sounded pretty weird. You put bananas on bread? What’s next, orange bread? “You’ve never had banana bread?” my friend asked in astonishment, looking at me as if I had a deprived childhood.
Just about all my childhood foods relate to Mom. She was the day to day cook. The kitchen was her domain and she ruled it with a firm hand. From time to time, mostly during holidays and specials occasions, Dad also entered the kitchen to prepare delicacies that were “his.” It’s not that Mom didn’t know how to make them, but these were dad’s dishes.