“Gonif,” she called, trailing me into the kitchen. Other children stole from the cookie jar. But what cookie could compare with my grandmother’s huge cold matzoh balls, satin-sleek with fat, gleaming like golden goose eggs in the moonlight?
“Stop! There won’t be any left for tomorrow. You little gonif, you thief.”
But she was laughing. She always made extra. It was the one food she knew I’d always eat and she was engaged in a constant struggle to put more weight on me, which