Tziporah had watched this happen before, but she was entranced anyway. She loved watching the way her husband’s raw honesty got the guys every time

Tziporah Muller lowered Momo into his stroller and strapped him in, mentally pitting the hours until Shabbos against her to-do list. They’d be having a big crowd tonight — Benny had told her to expect around eight guys — and she still needed to do some shopping, straighten up the house, and prepare the salads, sides, dessert, and a second main dish.

“I want the guys to feel like Shabbos is a different plane, a whole different existence from the week,” Benny had told her yesterday, standing just outside the door of the spare-room-turned-home-office as she input the final changes into the Scheinberg income tax file. “They have chicken all the time in yeshivah. Shabbos should be special, we should be giving them more. How about your poppers? Those are epic. Or maybe some brisket? The guys here are always hungry for a piece of meat. Plus I’m a little worried about Akiva, I have this feeling he’s dealing with something, and I think he needs a little pampering.”

Tziporah wondered whether it was worth opening the monthly budget Excel file to check where they were holding, and to quickly calculate how two more packages of chicken cutlets or a big roast would affect the balance. But she restrained her inner accountant — not the easiest thing to do, when you actually work as an accountant — and instead made a conscious effort to focus on Benny’s comment about Akiva.

She closed the Scheinberg file and swiveled her work chair so that she faced Benny directly. “What do you mean, you think Akiva’s dealing with something?”

“Not sure,” Benny said, settling onto the stack of plastic chairs they kept alongside her little desk. “I mean, he’s tense, all wound up. Not focusing so well. Usually during second seder when I go around to the guys, he knows what’s going on, answers my questions. The past few days he’s not holding at all. And he’s been leaving night seder early. Not his type. He was doing really well winter zeman, had a good groove. I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I don’t have a good feeling.”

“I hear you,” Tziporah said, tapping her finger on the mouse. “And a piece of meat will—”

“Come on, Tzip, don’t be cynical. You don’t realize how amazing your food is. It’s magic! It makes the guys feel relaxed, like someone cares about them, someone gets them, like they have an address.”

Tziporah smiled. She knew it wasn’t really the food. “Okay, I’ll run out tomorrow and buy some brisket,” she said. “And then you’ll do the real magic.”

Benny gave her a thumbs-up and jumped off the stack of chairs. “You’re the best, Tzip,” he said.