It’s just a regular Monday morning: the usual flurry of lunch bags and kisses and lost shoes. With my gleaming, space-age, newly Pesachdig kitchen winking in the background, I’m particularly eager to get the kids off to school. Finally, finally, the schlepping, shopping, scrubbing, and kashering is done. As soon as the kids are off and the baby settled, I can start on the task I love most: cooking.
It’s just a regular Monday morning: the usual flurry of lunch bags and kisses and lost shoes. With my gleaming, space-age, newly Pesachdig kitchen winking in the background, I’m particularly eager to get the kids off to school. Finally, finally, the schlepping, shopping, scrubbing, and kashering is done. As soon as the kids are off and the baby settled, I can start on the task I love most: cooking.
I get the kids out the door and take a moment for a cup of coffee while I consider what dishes to begin with. I revel in this — the creativity, the ability to nourish, to surprise my guests and delight my family with every bite. And family is a prominent theme this Yom Tov — my mother is arriving tonight on a flight from Eretz Yisrael, and my brother and his family are coming all the way from New Mexico — it’s been years since we were together, and the excitement tingles.
I tuck in the baby for her nap, roll up my sleeves, and the phone rings. It’s my five-year-old Yerachmiel’s school on the line. As I say hello, I hope that my little one hasn’t been sent to the office (who knew that Pre-K could be so tough?!).
Yerachmiel’s teacher tells me that he’s not himself, he threw up, and can I come and get him? No problem. “Plans change,” I tell my baby as I lift her up from her nap and strap her into the car seat. At school, I bend down to my little man and kiss his forehead. It’s cool. That’s a good sign, I tell myself. Still, he’s so tired that the teacher has to carry him out to the car for me.
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