El rekordo de la noche de shabat en la kaza de mis djenitores se meskla para mí kon la savor del pishkado kon kapamá o agristada, para no avlar dulses de los de Purim: los travados, los mustachudos i las reshikas de mil formas: la tijera, los antojos, la palomba kon el guevo adientro, la skalera ke yevó a Amán a la forka.
For me, the memory of the night of Shabbat at my parents' home is mixed with the flavor of the fish with tomato sauce or the lemon and egg sauce, to say nothing of Purim's sweets: the sweet biscuits, the almond croissants and the little baked goods in thousands of forms: the scissors, the glasses, the pigeon with the egg inside, the ladder that leads to Haman on the hanging tree.
