While I felt bad about my burned cholent, I wasn’t worried. Somebody would have enough for us and our guests
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his Shabbos, I awoke to the smell of popcorn. It was my cholent, withering away in my crockpot.
But I knew we’d be okay — we were in the country. The country, that iconic place of shared space and sunshine, shared goggles and clotheslines, and plenty of cholent to go around.
Last year, my bungalow had been “far.” Meaning, my kids could still run to the swing set in their pajamas, but I couldn’t see them from my porch. I had a half-minute walk to the center of things. When people from the inner circle asked me if I felt out of it, I didn’t know what they were talking about; I enjoyed having my space.
This year, the entire bungalow colony was my porch. My kids opened the door in the morning and scanned the swing set to find their cousins and friends. The two lawn chairs parked in the space outside, which served as a porch, were dragged around the yard to accommodate swing-set-watching mothers and DMC-ing teenagers. And truth be told, I enjoyed it.
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