As a young child, I came to fear Sunday afternoons. This was a special time, reserved for teas with my elderly aunts and uncles.

Why so scary? Imagine being greeted by an Aunty Betty or Uncle Harry, all leather-worn-faced and balding head (and I’m talking the Aunt here) with an out-streched hand that would squeeze the life out your cheeks as if they were lemons, accompanied by a shriek of “bubelah” spat through clenched (and most likely, false) teeth. It’s scary… really.

So when my mother would give me this soft, roundish thing to eat and tell me it was a bubelah, I was naturally dis-inclined to eat it. It reminded me of my Monday-morning swollen face. And furthermore, I assumed I was being fed cow cheeks or some such.

Later I learned that bubelah means darling in Yiddish and is said as a term of endearment… one I use frequently with my children today (as I squeeze their cheeks).

I love the way my mother (and doubtless her mother and hers before her) used the very last crumbs of what was left of the batter preparation for her shnitzels.

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