What Remains

W 

e sit in a wide circle outside our building, careful to accommodate the requisite six feet, and watch our children frolic in the grass. Inevitably, our conversation veers toward corona weight gain and the various diets we’ve attempted so far.

I grab at the opportunity for a little informal polling: “So, what do you do about Melaveh Malkah?” I ask. “Do you wash? Just have a snack? Skip it altogether?”

My neighbors’ responses vary, but most say they don’t wash, and many admit to not partaking at all. It seems that for most of them, Melaveh Malkah is strictly a husband’s affair.

I nod in understanding; Melaveh Malkah has always been the weak link in my efforts for kavod Shabbos. After 25 hours of prepare-serve-clear-repeat, I’m loathe to deal with yet another meal and its aftermath. Though in a vague sense I know I’m wrong, and that Melaveh Malkah should be formally reinstated in my home, I’m still unclear as to exactly why.