This whole Torah thing, and Shabbos and kosher and looking for crumbs in pockets before Passover—I need to figure it out.
Everything… except potatoes.
For dinner at the hotel that night there was gefilte fish and brisket and chicken paprikash and stuffed cabbage. Tzimmes and string beans and homemade pickles. And, of course, three kinds of Hungarian pastries.
“You see, Marjorie darling, you once complained that everything we cook is made with potatoes,” Perele said, her eyes twinkling, “so I did not peel even a single one.”
The festive meal Mrs. S. had prepared was, Marjorie had to admit, a far cry from the greasy chips and burgers of her cross-country journey. Everything was delicious, generous… and strictly kosher.
If I’d gone back with Mother and Father, we might be eating pork chops. Or gone out for Chinese.
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