Monday, March 1, 2010
I must have been about 6 years old when my maternal grandmother died. The most vivid memory that I have is of visiting her house with my mother and sister very shortly after we learned of her passing. In the kitchen, on a platter, was the last batch of rice knishes that my grandmother had baked. My mother approached the counter as if gold was sitting on top of it. With tears in her eyes she gave each of us a rice knish, and took a third for herself. We ate them very slowly and without saying a word. No words were needed. The message to me was very clear: Homemade food equals love.