We lived in a nice house, but it was also a nosh house.
For those not of the tribe – or living in parts not exposed to nibblers of the yiddish persuasion– a nosh is a snack. A little something. A tidbit, if you will.
Elaine, for a skinny woman, was a serial nosher. She had the home of the ‘goodie basket’. Friends from childhood can confirm its legendary status in the neighborhood.
This hung in her kitchen. Of all the things I have not taken home from there, this one keeps calling my name.