By Carol J Wechsler Blatter
Our tongues began to salivate. “We will have Belgian waffles, eggs benedict, and mocha lattes,” my husband told the waitress.
“And what will you have for dessert?”
“Better pass, we’re watching our waistlines.”
“Are you sure?”
“Never mind the calories. I’ve heard they make amazing homemade rugelach pastries here.”
Memories of Mrs. Cohen, my childhood neighbor, came to me. Her rugelach was the best. Her tattooed arm revealed she had been in the camps, the worst one, Auschwitz. She never knew if she would live or die. She was barely alive; she survived when our troops liberated the camps. I cried.
I like the topic of how a food order can trigger memories. I like to project that the main character in this story would again order rugelach to honor Mrs. Cohen.
Thanks, Cassandra for your insightful comments. It’s fun to hear from you, we have written together in the past. I like the idea of honoring and retaining the memory of Mrs. Cohen each time we enjoy rugelach.
Best regards,
Carol