THAT "RED STUFF"

Our little ones always tell us the truth. My three-year-old granddaughter, Sophie, upon learning to read the word “fat,” proudly announced, “My zayde is fat!”

So far, my grandson, Sim, has been slightly more merciful. At the tender age of two, he had already told his friends that his zayde was “a good cooker.” I asked him what he liked best.
“That red stuff.”

What “red stuff” does he mean? Maybe it’s ketchup. “No, silly!” he says to his dumbkopf zayde. “You know, the ‘red stuff’ I put on everything!”

Finally, it strikes me. Sim already has a sophisticated palate. The “red stuff” is my fig conserve, a mélange of gritty-seeded figs, acerbic lemon zest and aromatic bay, reduced in a high-proof peach liqueur. It is intended as a sauce for halibut I make, which friends tell me “tastes just like lobster.”

I planned to try it out at Shabbat dinner, so I asked Sim if he wanted to taste some fish with “zayde’s special sauce.” The fish got only brief acknowledgement, but he licked the sauce off it until it looked like a science-fiction prop. Then came the chicken and more dipping in the sauce. Potato kugel dipped in sauce. Challah dipped in sauce. Cookies dipped in sauce. Then, finally, eschewing any semblance of manners, dipping his fingers and licking them clean.

The next Tuesday, Sim called and requested more sauce. “Do you want to share it with your friends?” I ask. “No, just for me!”

My mind is instantly drawn to theology: How different would the world be if the serpent had urged Eve to share the apple with Adam, and Eve said, “No, just for me!” A moment later, I am drawn back to simple economics: $20 each week for the four boxes of figs that it takes to produce a cup of the conserve. That’s over $1,000 a year spent on “red stuff” for Shabbat dinner. The zayde in me says, “Nothing is too good for your grandchildren.” But, the ogre in me responds, “$1,000 a year? Let him learn to eat his kugel with ketchup!”