“Would you like a tour of the kitchen?” I ask Sara, who is sitting on the couch.

She looks up. “Why? It’s right there. I’ve seen it.”

“I meant I can show you what is milchig, fleishig…”

“It’s okay.”

Sara rests her head on one of our couch pillows. She isn’t budging.

“How about pillows? We have lots of pillows, fluffy, not so fluffy. We have more pillows than Kalamazoo has vowels.”

“What?”

“Never mind, would you like more pillows on the bed?”

“Nuchem likes lots of pillows.”

I’m grateful for the diversion, and I go to the linen closet to take out two pillows and toss them onto one of the beds.

We invited another young couple, Atara and Shmuel, for the meal because I want to keep the table talk lively, moving, and bubbly, like rapids on a river. After shul, the six of us are seated around the table, and everything looks perfect.

We’re serving yummy, wholesome food because today’s youth are big on eating healthy. Unlike when I was their age, I boiled a bird in a gallon of grease, poured orange marmalade on it, and called it Sweet and Sour Chicken.

“Basha made the challah and the hummus.” Everyone is ripping and dipping.

“Amazing.”

“She made the chicken soup, too.” We are slurping it up like lizards in the Amazon.

I made Rosemary Chicken and Peoria Rice for the main course.

“Your grandmother is from Peoria, isn’t she, Sara?”

“No, Persia.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s what I meant.”

Sara spoons it out onto her plate and tastes it.

“Mmm, it’s awesome,” she enthuses.

I want to tell our young guests that our language is rich in adjectives and there are other words to express one’s enjoyment. I consider placing a thesaurus on the table, but I control myself.

Instead, I ask Nuchem and Sara how they met.

“Was it through a matchmaker?”

Sara tells us that at first, she wasn’t interested in dating Nuchem. But then she saw the way he interacted with a teen with  special needs.

“How about you guys? How did you two meet?” Sara looks from me to Basha.

“Oh, I was in a motorcycle accident,” I joked.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I lost control, crashed, and woke up on Basha’s kitchen floor.”

“Were you alright?” asked Atara.

“No! I busted my jaw and couldn’t talk. When I asked for water, Basha’s mother thought I said “daughter.” One thing led to another, and now—”

“—And now you’re empty nesters!” interjected Nuchem.

“Please don’t say that.”

Nuchem grins and begins singing. He stands, comes round the table, takes me by the hands, and we whirl, twirl, spin, and sway.

“Am Yisroel Chai, Od Avinu Chai…!”

Shmuel rises to join us. The three of us link hands, dancing in a circle as we belt out the song and stamp our feet. I feel so happy and free, as if we’re sailing over the rooftops like figures in a Chagall Painting. The sky fills with smiles, and our differences dissolve into the celestial heavens.

When Shabbat ended, Nuchem pulled a banner from his bag, took it outside, and nailed it to a wall in my carport. “Am Yisrael Chai!” it proclaims, flapping in the breeze as if waving at me. Hello, Mr. Feldheim. Do you recall the joy, unity, and camaraderie you felt that Shabbat? You might be getting older, but your friends don’t care; to them, you are about as close to being a dinosaur as Peoria is to Persia.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 967)