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Moving out of our family home unearthed many treasures, and also my addiction to baskets! Here’s a piece formerly published in NextAvenue

I was packing up the house where I’d raised a family for 27 years when I realized I had a problem. Surrounded by boxes and bubble wrap, I was in the thickets of the herculean task of sorting through years of furniture, papers, photo albums, toys and trophies. There were spices from 2010, stained baby clothes from the 1990s, even the pastel floral Slumber sleeping bag I won on the TV show “Wonderama” in 1970. There was an embarrassing amount of shopping bags. But mostly, there were SO MANY baskets. I had amassed a collection that could have filled the tribal culture section of a natural history museum. There were baskets holding scarves in my closets, onions in the pantry, towels in the bathrooms, decorative bins with fake ivy atop armoires, and monstrous ones filled with plants in my kitchen. I had been using all these containers to gain control of the mess, but I looked around and realized it had gotten out of control.  I was a basket hoarder.  

     Something had to go. I was weepy and emotional as I made agonizing decisions designating items for the keep, dump or donate pile. My husband was little help.      

     “What should I do with this?” I’d ask while holding up glass objects, baskets of crayons, bins of clothing or folders of elementary school artwork.

     “Dump it,” he’d say without even looking up. 

     I’ve saved everything from the time I first took a breath. I still had the stuffed “lamby” that comforted me in my crib. It was missing an eye and fur. I had stored everything for my sons as well, now 29 and 31. They each had a bin with rattles, tattered blankets and Beanie Babies I was sure they’d treasure. Yet each time I sent them a pic of something they texted back, TOSS IT.  I demanded they spend one last day in the house and go through their rooms that were still museums of their childhood. They came and threw field trip souvenirs, sports memorabilia and report cards in the garbage with little sentiment as I secretly retrieved them from the trash bags. I was experiencing an archeological dig. For them it was a “seek and destroy” mission. I was sentimental as I looked back and replayed moments in my memory. They were focused on looking ahead. 

     I had played out this exact scenario a year earlier when my elderly parents moved out of their home in Florida into an independent living facility in West Palm Beach. I’d flown down and helped them purge decades of well-worn cooking items, ancient photos of long lost relatives and mementos from trips taken during their 65-year marriage. My mom pressed her treasures on me, begging me to pack them in my carry-on, but I moved most of it to the hallway of their new building for donation or trash when they weren’t looking. I was trying to get the job done without being totally sympathetic to their distress at parting with their treasures. To appease them I left with a small tea set and a card shuffler.  

     Now it was payback time.  My boys didn’t want any of the things I’d saved for them either. And I didn’t want to think about leaving them with the job of going through it when it was my turn for independent living. 

     I felt like Stewie in Family Guy, where he is in a house and the walls fall away around him. “I don’t like change” he yells out. I was ready to move, but it was completely unsettling. Did I really need these items to remember their childhood or mine? 

     I envisioned all the new things that would happen for me as well and I began to get a sense of freedom in letting go. I thought about the future in our new home without all the baggage of these boxes. I tried on my wedding gown, took some pictures and added it to the pile for donation.  I gave away beds and bookcases, gym equipment and a 45 year old cactus on FB Marketplace, sold the kitchen table that was the scene of thousands of meals on the website Chairish, donated carloads of tchotchkes to a GreenDrop donation center, and sent the rest to an auction house. 

     After another large drop off of vases, books and kitchen items, I went to buy a shower gift and bumped into a friend shopping for the same event. “Let’s not get too crazy picking something out,” I said to her, “they’ll just be throwing it all the way in 20 years.” She laughed knowingly.

        When the packing was finished, I said goodbye to each empty room and played back memories in my head of puppet shows, potty training, homework fights and holidays. It was actually a relief to be able to remember happy times and move forward instead of looking at their childhood rooms, which made me feel stuck in the past. 

     I learned a few things from this process. I saved a couple of bins of things I couldn’t part with (a Shirley Temple doll and some autograph books), but I didn’t need my grandmother’s chipped china to remember the meals we had on them, or my stained baby clothes and stuffed animals to remember special moments from when they were small. The collectibles that I (and everyone else) saved thinking they’d be valuable — record albums, sports cards and the aforementioned Beanie Babies, were worth pennies. I made a promise to myself I would no longer collect “stuff” — I’d collect memories. I vowed to be vigilant about immediately getting rid of magazines, boxes and greeting cards that just piled up and created clutter. And every season, I’d consign or donate clothes, shoes and bags that I didn’t wear. 

         We settled into our new home with the things that were important to us. I unpacked and organized my kitchen and bathrooms. I used one small closet for the photo albums and bins that I’d saved. A friend who had been through downsizing told me I wouldn’t miss the things when they were gone. It was true. Except when I mentioned to another girlfriend that I had no place for towels in my new home. She said I should go buy some baskets. I laughed. I had always used them as a way to maintain order in my life. Basketry takes a weak material and weaves it until it becomes strong. I hoped that is what I’d done for my family… knitted a sturdy and resilient structure that would provide a foundation for their lives.

      I got in my car with a sense of purpose and headed to The Container Store. A couple of new baskets couldn’t hurt anyone.

https://www.nextavenue.org/moving-revealed-my-basket-addiction/



Read on www.kveller.com/done-with-long-jewish-goodbyes-here-are-5-exit-strategies/

OR READ HERE:

While binge watching “Schitt’s Creek” during the long months of quarantine, I saw an episode where Moira (Catherine O’Hara) is at a funeral and says to her husband, Johnny (Eugene Levy), “Let’s pilfer a few sandwiches and make a gracious French Exit.”

 Maybe I live under a rock, but I had never heard this phrase. So I Googled it, and I learned from Wikipedia that it refers to guests who make a quick departure without the courtesy of saying shalom, ciao or sayonara. It’s also known as an Irish Exit. However, coming from a Jewish family, making a quick retreat isn’t something I am familiar with. When people of my faith get together, departures are slow and drawn out. In fact, I recently heard someone retell the old joke that non-Jews leave a party without saying goodbye — while Jews say goodbye and never leave.

This trait is certainly exhibited in my extended Jewish family, and I’ll admit that it used to drive me bonkers. However, being unable to see anyone in person over the course of the pandemic, I found myself longing for these drawn-out farewells. Finally, after 18 months of only interacting with others through Zoom, and attending weddings and bar mitzvahs virtually, it’s been a true mitzvah to actually be able to be with people in person. And with these in-person get-togethers, the long goodbyes are coming back in practice. I observed it at the first post-Covid wedding I attended in May.

 A Jewish goodbye is an experience to witness. The last expeditious exodus of our tribe was thousands of years ago, when Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt by high-tailing it through the parted Red Sea. Since then, we’ve been in no rush to leave more pleasant events and situations — and it can make a person meshuggeneh (crazy).

 I am so thankful to have a big family with lots of aunts, uncles and cousins once, twice or 10 times removed. I am excited to see them again. But leaving a gathering takes guts, determination and sheer will. A Sherpa would have an easier time navigating Everest than getting out the front door of a Jewish home. It’s like the Yiddish version of “Ninja Warrior,” between finding a route through the masses congregating in the kitchen, avoiding the distant aunt whose name you forgot and earning bonus points for arriving at the exit without pink lipstick prints on your cheeks.

Our family get-togethers, from a casual lunch to a big affair, end with the “bag exchange.” Out come the crinkled shopping bags that were schlepped to the shindig with something someone had for another. There was my late grandmother’s photo album, which bounced around like a game of hot potato. My aunt foisted my mother with a hand-me-down wool sweater with a crewel rose reminiscent of “Little Shop of Horrors.” The nuttiest swag ever was 39 pounds of pistachios my bargain-hunter Aunt Linda got on sale and distributed at a BBQ. Maybe this tendency derives from being immigrants — it’s as if they are leaving Anatevka with their belongings in sacks.

Even phone calls with my family drag on with numerous attempts to hang up as the other person has “just one more thing” to say. Even though I phone my mom daily, I can’t end a conversation with her until I say goodbye five times before I finally hang up mid-sentence. The Zoom calls we began during Covid are a new tradition — but I didn’t spring for the unlimited version or we’d be on all day.

My husband and sons are tortured by these long “Jexodus” leave-takings. (They start complaining in the car before we even walk into a gathering.) On the final season of “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” Larry David introduced “The Big Goodbye” — his approach was dodging a person for an entire evening and then giving them a grand parting gesture as he was leaving hastily. David may be one of us, but this would never fly in our world outside TV land. Every Jewish friend I know is accustomed to this trait of interminable exits. 

In anticipation of these situations, I’ve come up with my own techniques for making a fast departure as life returns to a new normal. Here are my five top tips for skirting the long Jewish goodbye.

1. The Swiss Miss

Otherwise known as “Shalom Farewell,” this approach will assure you don’t get “von ‘Trapped.’” When I start waving and humming “So Long, Farewell” from “The Sound of Music,” each member of the family will slip out separately like we are heading for the Alps.

2. The Hamilton Retreat

In the Broadway hit “Hamilton,” remember what Aaron Burr sings to Alexander Hamilton? He goes: “Talk less, smile more.” Using this strategy, I’ll make up a good excuse and stick to it. The simpler the better: I have to relieve the sitter, the pet needs walking, gotta leave for an early morning trip. (I won’t divulge that the kids are too old for a sitter, the pet is a goldfish, and my expedition is just to the grocery store.) I’ll blow kisses, smile and evacuate the troops.

3. The Casper Cop-Out

Don’t ghost the host! It’s rude to leave an expensive wedding or party before dessert, but I also hate being the last one standing at a table of 10 at midnight. Before the next shindig, my hubby, sons and I will agree on a reasonable time to leave. The key part of this strategy is to fuss over the party-thrower early in the night, make sure I’m seen in some photos for verification, then meet at our designated time and place… and vanish.

4. The Cinderella Swindle 

Summon your inner Disney princess with this “wrap trap.” Instead of glass slippers, order yourself a bundle of some discount pashminas in a memorable color. Traipse around the gathering in your signature look, and leave it on your chair well before the stroke of midnight. Everyone will think you’re in the powder room, or on the dance floor, while you’re headed home before your Uber turns into a pumpkin. (If you’re lucky, you might even have a handsome prince return your shawl the following day!)

5. Throw in the Schmatta

When all else fails, you may just have to give in to the fact that Jewish gatherings are long and lively. There’s always an abundance of delicious food and noisy conversation. Honestly? There are worse fates than spending extra time with friends and family, especially after experiencing those months of isolation. In fact, maybe I’m not going to be rushing out the door anymore. I’ll tell my kids it’s a contest to see who will be last to leave — there will be plenty of competition. We may end up with the best prize of all: great memories for the future. Or maybe just a few more bags of pistachios.



When I lost my sense of smell after coming down with Coronavirus last March, I was distressed. That strange symptom of anosmia slowly improved, but another sensory deficit took it’s place. The year…
— Read on medium.com/@susankravet/losing-my-senses-to-covid-knocked-the-sense-back-into-me-f26825449654

Last February, my pantry was pristine and my near empty fridge looked like the “after” on Netflix’s The Home Edit. Pellegrino bottles were perfectly aligned with labels facing forwards, a few coconut yogurts sat in a row next to a carton of eggs, the crisper drawer held lemons and limes for my cocktails, and the door was stuffed with assorted condiments.

I had enjoyed the culinary arts since my days as a single gal in NYC, but after 20 years of rotating the same 10 dishes for dinner for my growing boys, (reserving a plate for my husband to microwave after his commute) cooking became more of a chore than a passion. Our neighborhood gourmet club had fizzled out due to lack of interest. I quit my job as head chef when we downsized to an apartment in NYC. It was time to let someone else do the cooking. Our empty nest was clean and sleek, devoid of children and ingredients. Most nights, we ordered in or went out.

All that changed in March when rumors of the pandemic began to spread and supermarket shelves emptied like they were filming this fall’s reboot of Supermarket Sweep. I unashamedly hauled my granny cart to Whole Foods to grab what was left — a 5-pound bag of rice, jars of generic sauce and some ground turkey. There wasn’t a frozen vegetable to be found, and I wondered aloud to the masked shopper next to me, “ Why are boxes of lasagna sheets the only pasta left on the shelves?” I wasn’t too worried — I thought the panic and stockpiling would be short-lived. I went home and made a pot of turkey meatballs for dinner and froze the leftovers just to be safe.

A few days later, my husband was feeling fatiqued. I hoped it was a winter cold. I washed my hands, tied a bandana around my face and went to gather more basics. I scored some jarred Italian tuna, a box of gluten-free pasta, bags of frozen ravioli and eggs. Then I hit the farmers market for winter vegetables, and turned them into a hearty soup for my husband and dropped off a container for our neighbor Nick, a single dad who was also feeling ill.

A visit to Urgent Care the next day had no definitive answers, as testing was scarce, but he was told to assume he had Covid-19. We began our quarantine, cancelling a trip to Florida for my Dad’s 95^th birthday. Days later, I felt achy and started coughing. When I lost my sense of smell and my taste it was obvious we had Coronavirus. At least I felt secure that I had some food prepared, even though I was afraid to dig into my stock. Instacart had no timeslots. Neither of us could go out. Most restaurants were closed for delivery. I didn’t want my sons anywhere near us. I was anxious. But we needed nourishment so I defrosted the precious supplies and hungrily ate the meatballs.

My friend Nancy went to a local butcher shop and ordered me a package of ground turkey and some sliced chicken breasts that was sent up alone in the elevator. I threw on a mask to run down the hall to retrieve my treasure. I felt like I’d picked the winning door on Let’s Make a Deal when the elevator opened with my brown-paper wrapped bundle on the floor. It was my only connection with the outside world. Feeling better mentally and physically, I made another batch of meatballs, with the bonus of leftovers to stuff into the small freezer drawer.

Watching the frightening news of the spread of the virus, and being isolated from friends and family had me craving comfort food – something about eating a humble meal of meatballs drowning in tangy sauce and topped with parmesan cheese, reminded me of childhood, family and home. It evoked memories of my grandmother, Alice, in her cramped Queens kitchen, mixing and chopping meat without a measuring cup or YouTube. I could picture her chipped pots and could practically smell her onions browning, even though I actually smelled nothing due to the Anosmia from Covid. And just like my granny, making meatballs for me was stress-less. I didn’t need to make a long list of ingredients, follow a recipe or measure anything.

As I recovered, I rejoiced when a food delivery time slot opened. I ordered enough groceries to last a couple of weeks while we continued to quarantine, and without the ability to shop daily nothing was tossed. I always teased my mother about the tiny mystery packages of leftovers in her Florida freezer. Now, it was a personal contest to see what I could reuse and reconfigure into another meal so I wouldn’t have to venture outside. I made soups and salads with leftover vegetables and chicken parts and the surplus from Chinese take-out was saved to make fried rice. Stuck at home, I starting watching cooking and baking shows and searched the Internet for new recipes. I pulled out the old scrapbooks where I’d kept my favorite recipes with their pages smudged with drops of oil. Looking at my handwritten recipes for family favorites made me realize I missed the ritual and creative outlet I got from cooking. Prepping and cooking in my kitchen made the apartment finally feel like a home during the months of isolation.

As grocery stores re-opened I experimented with exotic dishes, adding more seasoning and salt to entice my dulled taste buds. It actually improved my dishes. I enjoyed having some structure in the day, creating meals for my husband and me as we spent so many hours trapped together. And every week, I made another batch of my favorite dinner – meatballs.

Once restaurants reopened over the summer, we ventured to outdoor dining. I wanted to support the local businesses and frankly, I began to tire of the obligation of everyday cooking again. Our freezer became depleted as we used up the frozen dinners and bags of Trader Joe’s shrimp, dumplings and veggies. My food insecurity disappeared too.

But now, almost a year later, it is cold and dreary again in the North East, indoor dining is not an option, and as predicted, cases are still spiking all over the country. People are posting triumphant photos receiving the new vaccines while others are desperate to score an appointment. We are low on the list. One last container of my homemade meatballs remains in the freezer, but I feel superstitious about eating it. Hopefully, we will get to a new normal by the summer. Until then…I’ll be in my kitchen. I predict Covid with a chance of meatballs.

At least some good came out of this pandemic. Here’s my latest in Kveller

Quarantine Finally Gave Me the Confidence to Dance

Blame it on American Bandstand, Dance Party USA,and even MTV. The cool kids, hip outfits, and upbeat hits on these shows turned me into a dance show addict since I was a teen. I even had my 15 seconds of fame dancing on a platform on Wonderama, in a paisley mini.

But now, as I watch shows like Dancing with the Stars, World of Dance, and America’s Got Talent, I feel incredibly disappointed that this American has got NO talent when it comes to busting a move. Unfortunately, I was cursed with inflexible hips, spindly limbs, and two left feet.

This doesn’t seem fair. My parents are wonderful dancers, but I must have skipped that gene. They still turn heads on the dance floor at 88 and 95, and they drop everything to sashay across the room if a great song comes on the radio. I’ve always wanted to dance, too. As a little girl I dreamed of becoming a prima ballerina. Despite perfectly arched feet, I never advanced to the toe shoes I desperately wanted. When our studio put on a performance of The Nutcracker, I was banished to a non-dancing background role. I quit. When I became an adolescent, I endured the kind of excruciating co-ed parties that launched the teen angst movie genre. They might have been called “socials” but there was nothing friendly about a pre-pubescent boy snapping your training bra in a middle school gym. Plastered against the wall, I hid in the flickering shadows until a dorky boy dragged me onto the floor where we danced awkwardly. My older sister snickered, and I imagined everyone else laughing. My dance trauma had begun.

Teenage insecurities have a way of making a permanent home deep in your psyche. When I met my husband in my late 20s, he was disappointed that I didn’t dance. Newly partnered and trying to hitch him, I reluctantly got up with him at parties and wedding. But I often snuck away and left him on the floor, bopping alone with his one move. Despite this, we got engaged, and desperate to not humiliate ourselves at our wedding, we took the free Arthur Murray dance lessons offered before our nuptials. We managed a few spins without tripping over my train, and we even got in a little dip.

Our performance wasn’t flawless, but I am confident we would have scored a solid “8” if the guests were judges, with extra points for my perfect dress.

I’ve been married for more than 30 years and it’s been eons since that middle school dance. Yet, when it comes to dancing, I still feel anxiety — I worry that I look like I’m creating a horrible dance GIF. The one time I let my son pull me on the floor at a bar mitzvah, he actually landed me flat on the floor. I’ve hidden in the back of a Zumba class, praying for it to end instead of having fun. When friends surprised me on my birthday with a pole dancing class, I was so self-conscious I displayed a vibe that was definitely more neurotic than exotic. When I danced at weddings, I feared I was conjuring Elaine’s infamous jerky dance on Seinfeld. It didn’t help that I also had a version of her curly hairstyle.

However, during these endless months of quarantine, like so many people I fell down the rabbit hole of TikTok and its endless supply of short dancing videos. It seemed like everyone in the world wasn’t going anywhere — but they kept moving anyway. Two-year-olds shook their tiny tushies like Beyonce, teens’ perfectly synched choreography racked up likes, and even silver-haired bubbes were getting down, making up for their lack of agility with spirit and a smile. I wanted to try some moves, too, but my sons begged me not to humiliate them by posting any “Savage Love” challenges.

Then, as I realized gyms were not reopening anytime soon, I began scrolling through some live-stream classes on my iPad, and I realized I had finally found a perfect way to get my groove on. I laughed my way through a Bollywood exercise class, and I didn’t stop when my husband saw me clumsily moving to the theme song from Slumdog Millionaire. (I’m pretty sure I looked like I was having a tough time screwing in a light bulb.) I unearthed my inner danseuse with a ballet-style Barre class; the bone spurs on my feet the only thing similar to an actual retired ballerina. Sweating to a live Cardio Dance Party was fun, and no one could tell (or judge me) when I took a few breaks on the couch to catch my breath.

It was a relief to be moving, and get comfortable with myself, without worrying how I looked or who was watching. I remembered how natural it felt to move to a good beat. I still had trouble following more than one step in a row — and I couldn’t break, lock, or pop — but I didn’t care. After being quarantined for months, I’d already let go of so many other inhibitions: I stopped fretting over my clothes, living in leggings and sweats instead of pulled-together outfits. I watched celebrities broadcast from their homes without the artifices of good lighting and a professional glam team, and I, too, grew comfortable seeing myself more natural. I barely put on makeup. I didn’t freak out over the gray sprinkling my hair. (OK, maybe I did, but just a little bit.) I was trapped inside my walls, but feeling freer in some ways. I let go of the high standards of perfection that I had put on myself. I wore a face covering anytime I went outside, but inside I was finally unmasked.

I also realized that, although I’d probably be voted out on the first episode of a competition show, I’m not a total klutz. My main dance goal now is simply to move and not throw out a hip. But now I dance more freely. Hopefully the simchas, weddings and parties that were cancelled will be rescheduled next year, and I won’t be the shrinking violet anymore. I’ll be out there with my husband, joining in a joyous hora, participating in line dances, and celebrating all good things that had been missed.

I don’t actually think I’ll be called out for doing the Elaine, but if I happen to be caught imitating that dance, well, I’ll be in on the joke. It’s the one dance I can do perfectly.

Here is my latest essay for Kveller

This Yiddish Word Describes How My Sons Have Changed During Coronavirus

My cell phone rang and I saw a pic of my eldest son appear on the screen. I resisted the urge to yell, “WHAT’S WRONG!?” and answered with an apprehensive, “Hi?”.

“Mom, do I need a bench scraper?” he asked. I checked again to see if it was a wrong number. This one rarely called unless it was a medical emergency and besides, it was 8 a.m. — hours before the time he normally wakes on a weekend. Considering that he usually eats food right out of a takeout container, I was shocked that he knew the name of this obscure kitchen item. 

But I realized things were different now. Thanks to Covid-19, everyone seems to be anxious and turning into insomniacs  — conditions that are somewhat ameliorated by stress-eating. With restaurants closed and only limited take-out availability during this prolonged quarantine, people are getting creative about cooking, and learning to be resourceful, to boot. I was surprised and proud that my son was actually preparing his own meals, even if I also worried if this was a sign of the apocalypse. 

When my husband and I came down with the virus in early March — one after the other — we took turns caring for each other through fevers, cough, chills (him), and a debilitating headache, sore throat and loss of smell (me). My two 20-something sons had to shelter in place in their apartments — one five blocks south of our home in New York City and the other 15 blocks east. They were each living alone, having recently moved into their own places without roommates for the first time. 

I worried more about them than I did myself, as I had prepared by freezing copious amounts of homemade chicken soup and turkey meatballs. I was concerned that they’d run out of food, as others were stockpiling and the grocery store shelves were already emptied of pasta, frozen foods, and all paper goods. I urged them to prepare but they waved me off.  

Before Covid-19 put us all under house arrest, my boys rarely had food in their fridge other than a few IPAs, a Brita pitcher, and ketchup. But suddenly they were lining up at Whole Foods to stock their pantries. They were sending me shots of their bounty and asking me how to cook and store their stash. And they weren’t asking Google — they were relying on ME!  

I knew things had really changed when my younger son FaceTimed me to debate the pros and cons of different grill pans. Up until the pandemic, this kid had been surviving on dinners delivered by GrubHub and Seamless, expensed to his office.

I grew up with a father who liked to putter in the kitchen. He made salami and eggs for his three daughters every weekend. Now 95, he still makes pancakes for my boys when we visit. My hubby has never made food for our kids, not as much as a PB&J sandwich. He’s just not interested. His dad wasn’t much of a cook, either. 

I tried to break this cycle and bought my kids a PlaySkool kitchen when they were toddlers, but they just used the faux produce for epic food fights. I enjoyed cooking for them, trying new recipes, baking my legendary zucchini bread and preparing abundant Thanksgiving dinners and Jewish holiday meals. I always hoped they’d join me in the kitchen to help. But they preferred sharing different interests with their dad like football, golf, and rock music.

I cooked much less after they left for college, but during these months stuck at home I was back wearing my chef’s apron. Now, finally, it was my turn to share my passion — these phone calls about gastronomy were finally in an area I was skilled at. At last, I was the one they wanted to consult with! Truthfully, I’d been envious of the moms who were posting Instagram pics of mother/daughter baking during this crisis, posing with their homemade breads and cookies. I felt like I was missing out. 

But now, I’m emailing my sons recipes, and they are showing me pictures of perfectly grilled salmon, sesame crusted tuna, and steak, all seared on the grill pans I happily shipped them.  There was a quesadilla competition between them and one mastered my chicken cutlets — one of their favorites.

I am grateful my kids are older — I can’t imagine having to homeschool children during this time.  I don’t think I would have survived. And yet, I amdoing distance learning with my sons. Forget Master Class! They have me — an expert in stain removal, laundry, cooking, and wall patching. I know how long deli meat lasts in fridge, the difference between percale and sateen sheets, and what temperature to use for any type of laundry, although I sometimes secretly use Google as a reference before I give my expert advice. I am so thankful for this time to continue teaching them these life lessons. I thought it was too late. 

The Yiddish word balaboosta refers to a woman who runs a warm, comforting home. Without a masculine substitute (balaboosto?) for that word I will just have to say that my boys are becoming mensches. They call more often and offer to do our food shopping so we can avoid public places. They follow the stay-at-home orders and work from home with little complaining. They even phone their grandparents to check on them during this stressful time — without me telling them to.

My boys are facing this strange predicament armed with grill pans, baking sheets, and, yes, even a bench scraper. More significantly, however, they’re proving that they are well equipped with the skills of patience, persistence, planning, and practice  — attributes that are needed for cooking, yes, but also for life in general. They are often choosing to stay in and cook, instead of accepting my offer for food drop-offs or a home-cooked meal.  

The other day, one asked me for the mandelbrot recipe that was passed from my grandmother to my mother to me. I used it as bait. “It’s too hard to make,” I told him. “You’ll have to come here and watch me.”

“I know, Mom. It’s just manipulation so I hang out with you but that’s fine, I enjoy that,” he replied. 

Yes, my boys may be growing up, but I still have work to do around here. The other day, as I was cooking my millionth quarantine meal, I asked my husband to pass me the olive oil. He looked at me questioningly. I rolled my eyes and pointed to the bottle — which is directly next to the coffee pods he’s reached for every day for the last 7 years. It seems this stay-at-home order could last a while longer yet — perhaps it’s not too late to get him trained, too.