Frumet reaches for the dips again, and my smile wanes. I can’t — she can’t take refills. It’s just… gross. Doesn’t her mother teach her table manners?,
T he girls are squealing over the personalized placecards at their seats when I enter the dining room with the tray. “Fish?” I ask.
They laugh. Little girls don’t eat fish especially not at Bubby’s house when nobody’s forcing them. A chorus of “eew”s follows and the younger division — Matti Shaindy Nechama —launch the food survey game. “Do you like broccoli? Sushi?” They cry “ugh” and “yum” alternatively with the mention of each food.
“I want fish.” That’s Frumet nasal voice dull over the babble. Dandruff coats her slumped shoulders white specs glistening on her navy velour Shabbos robe. I smile thinly and hand her a portion. Her hand reaches gauchely for the sectional tray of dips and I watch as she spoons a dollop of techina onto her plate then dill dip and chrayonnaise and marinated eggplant.
This is why I prepared the food right? I want the girls to enjoy every minute of their Bubby’s girl-Shabbos. We’ve been talking about it for weeks.
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