Along with her crumb cake, delicious chicken cutlets, and vegetable bowties, we imbibed the unique Big City feel we didn’t have back at home,
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M
y aunt’s home was everything an aunt’s home should be: Familiar yet foreign, a place where I could feel completely at home, yet still be treated like a guest. We could go for months without seeing her, yet when we came, the house was ours all over again.
Her three-floor home in Flatbush was our place in Brooklyn, be it for a Yom Tov, a simchah, or any other visit. I still feel the thrill of anticipation as we staggered out of our station wagon in the dark, shaking off crumbs, clutching the pillows and Yes & Know books that kept us company for eight hours.
The house was full of character. There was the little green bathroom that smelled of vanilla and green apple, the pantry stocked with Stella D’oros, Sugar Crisp, and Dried Apple Snacks, the three steps off her kitchen that went down to the nowhere of an unfinished basement.
We’d sidle up the staircase, running our hands over the silver wallpaper with the raised brown-velvet design, stopping at our cousins’ rooms on the second floor and getting lost in their world of books and toys.
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