She wasn’t a big maven or anything, but the food looked impressive. Neat and beautiful plating, unique ideas. And Yochi was desperate
Something — some thing — was tickling Pessie’s brain, an elusive itch she was trying to put her finger on that remained stubbornly out of reach.
Not that she had time to focus on elusive itches. “I feel like I’m running on a treadmill since Suri’s wedding,” she told Yochi late one night, as she sat down to tackle a pile of mending. “One foot in front of the other, no option to power off.”
Yochi offered a distracted grunt in response.
Pessie’s heart pinched. True, she was frenzied; between the kids’ school orientations, sheva brachos, Yom Tov shopping, and Rosh Hashanah cooking, there was no time to breathe. But Yochi’s frenzy was different. He barely ate or slept. Three and a half weeks. As much as she wasn’t excited about spending Succos in Italy — and if the tour didn’t find a caterer, there wouldn’t be a tour in Italy — she couldn’t watch it happen. She didn’t want Yochi to fail.
She went back to pinning the hem on Zissi’s dress. It was ridiculously late and the mending pile was ridiculously large. There was no choice but to get on it — there would be no time tomorrow. On top of everything she had to take care of, she was putting in several hours of work each day. All her clients wanted to squeeze in a last workout before Yom Tov. She hadn’t realized how hectic it would be when she’d made appointments for the week.
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