The Matzo Ball Heiress by Laurie Gwen Shapiro Page B

wanting to ax open the oven. But Jake knew that if the burning matzo could be kept in the seventy-two-foot oven, it was safe. In an oven that big, a burning sheet of matzo is likely to be contained. He wouldn’t let them hack Izzy’s oven, so he was arrested for obstruction of the fire department.” I have second thoughts about the information I’ve just let loose. “Steve, maybe you better not let that on TV either.”
    “You mean about how long the ovens are? Is that a trade secret?”
    “No, about Jake’s arrest.”
    “I’ll get that edited out if you want. We’ll have more than enough for the Izzy Greenblotz segment. Let’s get the last of it to be sure.”
    We continue the tour for another half hour, continuing to the machine that heats wax paper and seals it on the boxes with no glue. I end up showing them some of our collected mementos from the early years of the factory, including Izzy’s penny notebook of ideas.
    Steve says, “You’re a wealth of knowledge, chickie.”
    “To paraphrase my father, how badly can you screw up flour and water?” Okay, I fucking love how Steve called me chickie so casually. A slick style that’s working on me big-time.
    “Is your father still active in the business?”
    “Uh, no, not really.”
    “Oh, I forgot to ask. Do you have a slogan?”
    “We do. Buy Greenblotz—Because Family Is Everything .” I force those words out. How could my visitors know how humiliating that phrase is to say and what a joke it is, given our crumbled family connections.
    “Perfect. We’ll put that on air.” He starts undoing his mic. “I’ll say that in a voice-over. Where’s the best place to call you if we have to check our facts?”
    “I can give you my regular office number at my production company. And I’ll add my home number in case you can’t get me there.”
    “Super.”
    I hand him one of my business cards and scrawl my home number on the back.
    Steve opens his wallet and hands me his producer’s card from the Food Channel.
    “Can I have one too?” Jared says to me. Steve gives Jared an indecipherable look.
    “Sure,” I say, and Jared hands me his card that reads Jared S.—Camera and only lists his cell-phone number.
    Tonia does not ask for one, nor do I give her one. She packs away her equipment. “We’re so near Chinatown,” she says to Steve, loud enough so I can hear her. “Can we stop the van and get my sister some imported pimple tea?”
    Steve shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve seen your sister, she doesn’t have pimples.”
    Jared whispers in my ear, “That’s because she drinks the pimple tea.”
    Steve sees Jared leaning in close to my ear and ups the ante with a slightly lingering peck on my cheek on the way out. “You were awesome. I’ll call you about when this segment will air.”
    “Bye!” I call out libidinously. Which one to choose? Bachelor Number One or Bachelor Number Two?
     
    After they’ve packed up and gone, I remember Sukie and the dress I planned to buy at my Good Samaritan discount.
    I take the short stroll down the street and try to open the door to Upsy Daisy, but it’s unexpectedly locked. Sukie comes out from a back section cordoned off by a maroon velvet curtain. When she spots me she breaks into a big smile and lets me in.
    “Sorry,” she says. “Yogurt break. I packed up that polka-dot dress for you. The one from the window. Remember, you don’t pay a thing. If it doesn’t fit, bring it back for something else you like.”
    “No, no, I said I’d buy it from you at discount. Sukie, you can’t stay in business giving your merchandise away.”
    “I wasn’t sure if you meant it about buying it.”
    “Absolutely I meant it.” I can afford it, and I feel bad for these microshops. They have gushing plugs from the in-the-know shopping pages of Time Out and Paper , but I never see anyone shopping in them. Trust-fund vanities, I think, but then I remember who I am and feel guilty for passing judgment.
    “You’ve