"Mom bought those cookies that we love!” my younger brother howled at me as I entered home back from school. “How do you know?” I asked “it’s not passover yet” “I saw mom take them out of the shopping bag” he answered. My taste buds responded immediately and demanded immediate satisfaction. “Where is mom?” I asked, trying to avoid drooling.
"So you really know how to cook?” asked Jezebel (an invented name) when we sat in the early hours of the morning in a small restaurant in Paris after a long, alcohol-filled night. I vaguely remembered that we spoke about food and cooking in the evening. I guess the alcohol in my blood made me feel at least like Gordon Ramsay because I answered “yes, I’m a great cook” trying to impress Jezebel.
Purim in one of my favorites holidays. It wasn’t always like this. One of my most memorable childhood traumas is connected to Purim. It wasn’t the costumes, I actually loved to dress up, and I loved the costumes parade. The Purim gragger was one of my favorite toys, and not just on Purim. What scared me was a conversation mom had with our neighbor.
"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.
Thanksgiving we celebrate with our extended family. It’s not an easy task to explain the relationship between the guests. One of the first times we celebrated together, my younger son took the video camera, went from one guest to another and asked “how are you related to me?”
More than a few years ago, when my older son was still young, we used to to go on a daily walk in our neighborhood. The neighborhood was still small, many mom and pop shops, family restaurants and the famous local cafe.