Nusha

 

Nusha didn’t do anything quickly.  She was so happy to have survived the Holocaust and have food in the refrigerator, she figured she could take an entire day to cook a pot roast. I remember calling her one Friday morning early and could hear her clanging in the pantry.

“Mom, what are you doing,” I asked?  

“We’re having company for dinner. I’m making pot roast and potatoes.” She sounded so happy and here I was going to say something stupid, as daughters do, and ruin a perfectly beautiful morning.

“Mom, it’s eight o’clock in the morning. You can’t put it in now, it will taste like shoe leather.”  I could hear her smile disappear.

“What’s wrong with you?” she retorted.  What if they show up early?”