These days, there’s a common word we try to avoid in my house, and that is Just.
I remember taking down recipes from friends over the phone, stretching the phone cord to the kitchen table, and filling an entire sheet of loose-leaf paper, front and back. Then for some reason my mother believed in me and let me actually execute the baking, at an age far younger than I would allow my kids to do it today.
The catch was that (back then, as now!) I used artistic license in the kitchen, and just a bit more potato starch or just a few degrees off in the oven or just a missing egg was totally fine. I’m sure there were some things that came out okay, but the strongest memory by far is the flattened blondie with the one-inch gel-like layer on the bottom. (I don’t know if any of my creations ever made it to the table, which is why I referred to this activity as my babysitter!)
These days, there’s a common word we try to avoid in my house, and that is Just.
I almost always finish cooking on Fridays with plenty of time to exit the kitchen a few hours before Shabbos, but I never do. Because even if my cooking is done, I Just put up a quick pot of whatever or Just prepare an extra dressing. And so, Just is not Just anymore, it’s hours and hours of extra time in the kitchen.
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