When my preschool was closed for some obscure Jewish holiday, my mom would leave me at the mercy of her father. Me and him, we were responsible for each other. A hug from Pop-Pop could not have possibly broken any ice between us, and he proved entirely inept at the banter adults learn to offer to children, usually in the form of a series of questions relating to lost teeth and birthdays. I don’t know how we first arrived, miraculously, at an activity we both enjoyed. It must have brought tremendous relief: he had found something to do with me!

The French toast, it was a dance. We’d make a production about the decision to make it, as if the possibility of its preparation had to be, each time, freshly conceived. Have you eaten? He’d ask. I hadn’t. My answer was independent of whether I had ingested a bowl of Cheerios an infinite hour before. Continue reading →