The aroma reaches the door
before it even opens.
I already know what’s waiting—
a big hug,
an even bigger feast.
Potato kugel.
Her famous meatballs.
Shabbat done right.
Any night.
Apple cake at the end,
or something sweet
just because.
Served on white and blue plates.
My mother still has them.
Slightly chipped, quite perfect.
I can picture it still.
Recipes were only lists of ingredients.
The magic never written down.
The food stays with me.
The memories even more.
She left us too soon—
but the stories still rise
from the kitchen,
from dinner at Grandma’s.
Feb 27
Feb 27, 2026 at 4:17 PM UTC
The aroma reaches the door
before it even opens.
I already know what’s waiting—
a big hug,
an even bigger feast.
Potato kugel.
Her famous meatballs.
Shabbat done right.
Any night.
Apple cake at the end,
or something sweet
just because.
Served on white and blue plates.
My mother still has them.
Slightly chipped, quite perfect.
I can picture it still.
Recipes were only lists of ingredients.
The magic never written down.
The food stays with me.
The memories even more.
She left us too soon—
but the stories still rise
from the kitchen,
from dinner at Grandma’s.
On Fridays, the aroma reached the door before it even opened. A poem about Shabbat, memory, and the magic that was never written down.