Maiden Voyage

ode d'cigar

As I hoisted myself out of bed this morning, I noticed I had fisted my hand for leverage. I looked down and saw my grandmother's hand at the end of my wrist. Thich Nhat Hanh says that we hold those who have died in our memories, in our bodies. One memory triggered another and I was back in that tiny cigar flavored apartment with my mother's entire extended family. The living room, normally spacious, now cluttered with the long, carefully set table, and resounding with the sound of laughing and yelling punctuated by brief interludes of noisy open mouthed chewing. My grandmother's mushroom barley soup- to die for.

I made my own yesterday in preparation for the holiday, and while it is never exactly like Grandma's (no beef) it is pretty damn good. Alex asked, last night at dinner at my sister's house, if I had just made it yesterday. He could tell it wasn't ripe yet. Tonight it will be superb. Our holiday meal was small-my brother in Africa, my mother off to Florida unexpectedly for a funeral-they are happening almost daily it seems-Cousins in California, and most everyone else, gone. But definitely not forgotten. Alex and five year old niece Rachael will remember their own Rosh HaShanah dinners, this one particularly poignant and sweet. Shanah Tova.