The Matzo Ball Heiress by Laurie Gwen Shapiro Page A

says.
    This time Tonia knows the reference. “I Love Lucy,” she whispers toward Steve. “The chocolate-conveyor episode, when everything got out of control—”
    “Oh right!” Steve says.
    When we start to move on, Braulio happily sings us off with a bit of Frank Sinatra’s “I Got Plenty of Nothing.”
    “See,” I whisper to the camera. “I don’t think he knows it’s the worst job.”
    “I’d say the next stop for this baby is the Smithsonian,” Steve says when we’re standing over an aging machine with a queer array of gadgetry. “What is it?”
    “I have to admit even I don’t know exactly what this one does. It’s old and it’s been here for eternity. I’ll have to ask my cousin and get back to you on that. But I can tell you that whatever it is, it works. Everything here works because of our in-house mechanic who likes to do things his way. The factory will buy him any tools and parts he wants but he’d rather use what works best. Aesthetics be damned. We couldn’t find the right tubing to match an old machine and he brought in a garden hose that fit perfectly. Our matzo-cooling fan broke and we weren’t going to get a fan for a week from the supply company, so he brought in his house fan. He uses a ski pole to get gears moving again. If he doesn’t want to weld, he uses a clamp. Big on duct tape too.”
    Steve is clearly amused. “What’s that machine over there?” he prods.
    “That’s our polypropylene machine. It’s our newest machine, from the fifties.”
    “What’s it for?”
    “To put the plastic wrap over the boxes of matzo. Predates shrink-wrap.”
    “Where do you get a polypropylene matzo machine?”
    “You don’t. We adapted a basic model for our needs. You could use it to package baseball cards if you set it up right.”
    Steve gives me a broad smile as we turn the corner: “Our editor will love you. Adorable. You’re going to get fan mail, mark my words.”
    “Especially for those eyes,” Jared says from behind the camera.
    I am doing an interview, but now the attention is bordering on embarrassing. It’s not as if I’m wearing some miracle musk guaranteed to draw them in, this is plain old me we’re talking about!
    “Your eyes are incredible,” Steve says.
    I’ll concede that my eyes are my best feature by a mile. “It’s the recessive Greenblotz Blue that shows up once or twice every seventy-five years. Apparently old Izzy had them.”
    “Sounds like a new lipstick color,” Jared cracks.
    I grin and pan for Jared’s viewfinder: “Greenblotz Blue. New from Max Factor.”
    We come upon the huge and weighty silver-colored fire doors. “These doors are required by law.” I grunt and push the one on the right side open. “We’re near the matzo ovens again. This is the most likely place a fire would start, and the heavy fire doors would isolate the flames.”
    Antique-looking gears are attached to each door, rusting hardware which I hope the camera doesn’t focus in on. You’re supposed to have regulation weights, but instead, our thrifty mechanic dredged these heavy gears up from the basement.
    I curse to myself. I told Jake the last time I saw these doors that you can’t screw with the fire department. If someone from the New York Fire Department is watching the Food Channel and sees these rusty gears, we’ll get called on a violation. Jake knows the local hook and ladder isn’t too crazy about our factory to begin with. After September 11 and several Code Orange terrorist scares, they’ve had bigger fish to fry, but now things are returning to normal in New York and we could get closed down on a moment’s notice if the fire department resumes spot-checking Manhattan factories.
    “You ever have a fire here?” Steve asks.
    “Three years ago a matzo caught fire and the smoke was streaming out the windows. A science-fiction writer who lives in a walk-up across the street called 911, and in a minute ten guys from the fire department burst in