Page 25 - Philly Girl

Philly Girl 9

My Mother

and the Kosher Butcher

My mother loved going to the kosher butcher. She went
just about every day and spent hours there. My father used
to joke that she was having an affair with one of the three
fat, bloody-aproned, heavily accented Holocaust survivors
who shared duties behind the counter and, in a way, he was
correct.
My mother lingered in the shop because they listened
to her. They loved to hear her talk. She opened up to them
about everything—trivial or important—and because she
was a good customer, and because my mother had a flair
for storytelling, they listened intently. Esther must have felt
important, valued, heard.
The butchers themselves spoke a broken English. They
probably only understood about half of what she was saying.
But they were nice to her and she loved them. Years after my
father died, as she began her slow decline into an infirm old
age, the butchers personally delivered her chicken to her at
her home. She actually let them in the house. Such an invita-
tion was a rare event.
I have a butcher too—in San Francisco, where I live now.
It’s not a kosher butcher. But Steve, the meat guy at my
market, came to my rescue one day, making me think of my
mother and her butchers. There had been a casual conversa-
tion. It was about carnitas. One day a few weeks later, when I
stopped in to pick up an order, Steve handed me an envelope.