Ess, Bublelah. Ess!

Faint are my memories of my actual Bubbes. I did know three of them, technically. My great-grandmothers all passed when I was young. I do have faint memories of sitting at the table in the upstairs kitchen at a Bubbe's house in Brooklyn, potato latke in hand. Grandpa (actually he was my great-grandfather, but everyone called him grandpa) sat at the head of the table, hot tea in one glass, teeth in the other, and a pocket full of Hopjes coffee candies for the kids. Bubbe showered (pelted) us with rich, delicious foods and wouldn't take no for an answer.

I like to make the occasional spin through the kitchen myself, but the schedule we've had lately has kept me away from cooking anything more interesting than a pack of ramen noodles or a fried egg. But tonight we were treated to a feast that would make a Bubbe proud. Matzo ball soup, brisket with gravy, fried kugel, a week's worth of calories. Each dish so rich and wonderful. My mother-in-law is a great cook, and she was obviously a great mother (I did marry her son, after all). What's even better is that she's become a great friend as we've gotten older. Delish.