![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bliumchikMy maternal grandmother and I share a strange sort of bond. Until quite recently I just found her irritating, and while it's still annoying to be constantly offered food some humour has crept in under the door. She and my grandfather were over here tonight, and grandad had insisted on having a "pesach" "seder" - and I use both terms loosely, even in quotation marks as they are. For one thing, the matzah on the table was completely at odds with the three loaves of bread and countless biscuits remaining in the house.
My grandad has resently had a resurgence of religious feeling, so he had lit a candle in the window and was wearing a jaunty white headpiece which kept falling off. He also insisted on loudly mispronouncing some prayer or another at dinner. And then doing it again. Because he felt like it. Meanwhile my mother was desperately trying to feed my brother his (totally not kosher-le-pesach) porridge, an event which escalated into him crying and her yelling at him and trying to shove the spoon in his mouth, still to the tune of grandad's incomprehensible Hebrew, and my grandma and I just shared this Look. It went something like "you've gotta laugh or you'll cry."
Then my grandad started going on about how we were supposed to have an egg, and bitter herbs, and a shank bone, whatever that is. So I rolled my eyes, got up, pulled a raw egg, an onion and a random piece of meat (raw) out of the fridge and dumped them on the table.
"And apples! Apples and honey!"
"Grandad, that's for Rosh Ha Shana."
"Apples! Ira, pick up my hat, it's fallen down again."
My dad was fiddling with things in the kitchen (because there weren't enough stools around the tiny table and he couldn't be bothered going and fetching a big chair) and my brother had exhausted my mum's supply of persuasive techniques and was climbing on the couch. I retreated back into my corner with a jar of mulberry jam and a spoon, and some matzah. Then my mum asked for the prawns, so I got up to get them, and what do I hear but a crack and the following (and do remember that all conversation is primarily in Russian):
"Whoops."
"What's the matter?"
"The egg's raw."
"I thought it was boiled?"
"...it's not."
I return to find that yes, my grandad has indeed tried to eat the egg. Which was now sitting drippily in a bowl on the table.
Naturally, we all cracked up laughing.
My grandad has resently had a resurgence of religious feeling, so he had lit a candle in the window and was wearing a jaunty white headpiece which kept falling off. He also insisted on loudly mispronouncing some prayer or another at dinner. And then doing it again. Because he felt like it. Meanwhile my mother was desperately trying to feed my brother his (totally not kosher-le-pesach) porridge, an event which escalated into him crying and her yelling at him and trying to shove the spoon in his mouth, still to the tune of grandad's incomprehensible Hebrew, and my grandma and I just shared this Look. It went something like "you've gotta laugh or you'll cry."
Then my grandad started going on about how we were supposed to have an egg, and bitter herbs, and a shank bone, whatever that is. So I rolled my eyes, got up, pulled a raw egg, an onion and a random piece of meat (raw) out of the fridge and dumped them on the table.
"And apples! Apples and honey!"
"Grandad, that's for Rosh Ha Shana."
"Apples! Ira, pick up my hat, it's fallen down again."
My dad was fiddling with things in the kitchen (because there weren't enough stools around the tiny table and he couldn't be bothered going and fetching a big chair) and my brother had exhausted my mum's supply of persuasive techniques and was climbing on the couch. I retreated back into my corner with a jar of mulberry jam and a spoon, and some matzah. Then my mum asked for the prawns, so I got up to get them, and what do I hear but a crack and the following (and do remember that all conversation is primarily in Russian):
"Whoops."
"What's the matter?"
"The egg's raw."
"I thought it was boiled?"
"...it's not."
I return to find that yes, my grandad has indeed tried to eat the egg. Which was now sitting drippily in a bowl on the table.
Naturally, we all cracked up laughing.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-04-02 12:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-02 12:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-03 07:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-03 07:44 am (UTC)