This whole Torah thing, and Shabbos and kosher and looking for crumbs in pockets before Passover —I need to figure it out.

October 1964

Everything... except potatoes.

For dinner at the hotel that night there was gefilte fish and brisket and chicken paprikash and stuffed cabbage. Tzimmes and string beans and homemade pickles.  And, of course, three kinds of Hungarian pastries.

“You see, Marjorie darling, you once complained that everything we cook is made with potatoes,” Perele said, her eyes twinkling, “so I did not peel even a single one.”

The festive meal Mrs. S. had prepared was, Marjorie had to admit, a far cry from the greasy chips and burgers of her cross-country journey. Everything was delicious, generous... and strictly kosher.

If I’d gone back with Mother and Father, we might be eating pork chops. Or gone out for Chinese.

Am I ready for kosher food?

For a kosher life?

She glanced at Artie, sitting at the far end of the table.  He’d been oddly silent, just giving her a brief, almost formal, nod and hello.

What’s with him? Is he not glad to see me?

She turned her thoughts back to the conversations taking place around her. Everyone seemed determined to keep the atmosphere light and joyous. No questions asked about the Haight. Instead, they talked about Mutty’s commendation and, of course, the upcoming move.

Imagine, everyone going up to the Catskills all year round. I wonder if there’s skiing...

That is, if they’d take me with them...

The answer to that silent, unasked question came quickly. “We’re driving up tomorrow to see the premises of the new hotel, Miss Burton,” Moe said. “Want to come up to what we hope will be your new home?”

“Sure.”

It was Annie who noticed Marjorie’s increasing fatigue. “It’s been a long day for everyone,” she announced, standing up with some difficulty, “especially Marjorie. Abe, why don’t you get the kids into the car?”

The group broke up. Marjorie said goodbye to her parents. Her mother, who’d hardly spoken through the meal, gave her a hug and an awkward, tentative kiss on the cheek.

“Tomorrow I’ll start working on getting the Mustang back,” Fred Burton told her. “That grocer fellow, nice guy, said he’ll help me out. And Margie — please keep in touch.”

“I will, Father.”