It was bad enough he cooked; did he have to broadcast it?
Z
issel was in no rush to leave. She leisurely removed her hand from the nail dryer and blew gently on the glossy thumbnail.
Adeena glanced at the clock, trying to hide her growing frustration. Twenty-seven minutes until the kids would be home. Zissel sniffed appreciatively as she cautiously slid her fingers through her jacket sleeve. “Something smells divine,” she said admiringly, carefully elbowing the side door open.
There was a definite tang of citrus interlaced with a certain spice she couldn’t quite place. Adeena quickly locked up her beauty studio and hurried toward the kitchen. Avi had already gone to his Friday chavrusa. She had to check out the chicken he’d made. She opened the oven door, squinting into the depths of the oversized roaster bag inside. It looked like a giant sachet of citrus potpourri, with chicken pieces hiding between the slices of orange and yellow.
Avi put down the parshah questions and rubbed Mendy’s bristly hair. “Great stuff this week,” he said approvingly. “Now you can help Mommy serve.”
Create a free account to keep reading.
