To Sit at the Head of the Table

My Zaide was tall. Or at least, I remember him that way. Marking his 11th yartzeit this week memories of him are close at hand. Sitting in his armchair with a huge book. Long talks about the future, or the news, or the red sox. Flying his kite as he enjoyed his well-deserved retirement on the beach. Most of all, I remember him at the head of the table. At family holidays he sat regal in his chair with family on either side. My grandmother would prepare a formal meal — no jugs or jars on the table. Perfectly plated, expertly prepared. For Passover we would have Brisket, matza balls, charoset, and gefilte fish. We always had a slice of real horseradish root on every plate, and then a dish of the sweet purple chrain in the middle of the table. I remember helping my grandmother chop — never blend — the apples and walnuts into small pieces for charoset. And this year, my daughter helped my mother do the same. And it tasted sweet and tart and nutty and cinnamony, just like it always has. <a href="https://medium.com/rabbinic-writing/to-sit-at-the-head-of-the-table-bf42461511f0">Visit Now</a>