Off the Menu by Stacey Ballis Page B

Patrick is in love with me. Of course, my dad believes that every man I ever meet is in love with me, including Barry. But Mama, she thinks Patrick hung the moon, especially since he praises her rustic cooking and always takes leftovers home when he comes to family events. It should be noted that after the first time I brought Patrick, at his own insistence, to a family Shabbat dinner, which we try to do once every other month with the whole gang, my mother began inviting him directly to most other family occasions. I think my parents are hilariously split in their views on the whole Patrick thing. My mom would like me to marry Patrick, so she invites him to every birthday and Chanukah party, sure that spending time together away from work will push our relationship to the next level. And my dad, who is positive that Patrick is after me romantically, is scared that I will cease to resist the endless advances heimagines I fend off every day. So when Patrick is at a gathering, my dad works very hard to keep him busy, showing off his tool collection, talking sports, inviting him outside for one of his rank greenish cigars, which take forever to smoke and smell like an ashtray full of manure.
    “Yes, Mama. I will bring him pelmeni.” And I will. Because if I don’t, when my mother calls him and asks if he liked them, they will both kick my ass. “He is out of town for the weekend, but we will freeze some and I will give it to him on Monday, I promise.”
    Mom, finished with the wrappers, nudges me aside with her hip and we shift, I roll the meat mixture into little balls and hand them off and she swiftly covers them with dough, pinching them perfectly closed, setting them aside on trays.
    “You veel come next week, nu? Shabbat dinner?”
    “Of course. What should I bring?” It is only in the last few years that my mother has allowed me to bring food to the family dinners. It both thrills and saddens me. I’m delighted that she finally trusts me to make some of the family recipes, and that she genuinely seems to enjoy when I tweak them slightly to make them new while still honoring the flavors we are all used to. But sad, because I know that, in part, her acquiescence means that she gets too worn-out by taking on the whole menu herself. My aunt Rivka, Mom’s younger sister who lives up the block, is a terrible cook, so she is not allowed to make anything. She buys the challah from the bakery near the Russian community center where she volunteers, and brings the wine. But the food is on my mother’s shoulders, and they are beginning to stoop slightly with age. I hate seeing my parents show the signs of getting older.
    “Tssk.” My mom sucks her teeth, a habit she has when she is thinking, or annoyed, or very pleased. “Borscht maybe?And carrot salad?” And then a pause. “And Patreeck, of course.” A little smile plays around the corners of her mouth.
    I ignore the last bit, and decide to take a major risk. “How about I do a brisket? Patrick just got a gift shipment from a local farm, and gave me a huge one. It is taking up so much space in my freezer; I would love to cook it so I can make some room.” Mom will never let me do the main dish unless she thinks it is somehow helping me out of a jam.
    She tilts her head at me and squints, trying to see if I am implying that she is no longer capable of making the family meat. I keep my face impassive, and a little imploring, and she buys it.
    “Well, yes, eef freezer is too much full it no work well. Things go bad, get freezer brunt. You brink brisket. I make kugel.”
    Whew. “Thank you, Mama, it will be a huge help.”
    “Pish. Is somsink the cats cried out.”
    I smile. “Well, it is a big deal to me.” I lean over and kiss her. She grabs my nose between her knuckles and gives a gentle twist.
    And we set back to making pelmeni.
    By the time we’re finished, my mom asks me to invite Barry to bring Dumpling here for dinner instead of dropping him off at my