Saturday Delight

The usual scenario: I cut a simple salad, make toasted cheese sandwiches and set some dairy products for breakfast. I also serve Mathias fillets cut in small strips (mum: "salty. Sara gets me better ones from the market"). My "bon appetit" is met with the usual silence (I have resisted commenting on it so far), and the only conversation I get is something negative. "Why cut it this way? I don't like this type of yoghurt, I always take that one". Throughout my life I was taught by that same person I should never fail to thank her for every meal, and woe betide he who failed to praise it over-enthusiastically (a practice she always found vulgar with all others who indulged with it). After breakfast: "I'll wash it up". Sure.
While she is down with dad I prepare and roast some potatoes with whole cloves of garlic, onions and a blend of olive oil, honey, mustard and other spices. Later I fetch her so dad can have his lunch with the professor. I reheat some of yesterday's chicken paprika on a low heat. She adjusts it. I turn the oven on again to give the potatoes a final boost. "What for?" I serve it up. "Bon appetit". Nothing. She gobbles her food. "It's hot (as in spicey). What have you put in it that it's so hot?" I forget there's some English mustard powder in it, although very little and I certainly do not feel too much spice. Again no thanks forthcoming. Now what to do with the left-overs. I say "leave it in the dish, it can cool off in the oven". "Not a good idea, the oven is still hot" she contradicts me. I know she is right but my feathers have already been ruffled. "So leave it out of the oven covered with some foil". "No, transfer it to another dish" (a habit of a lifetime with her, forever moving left-over food from one container to a smaller one as the quantity diminishes over several days of same fare at the table. Now I too rarely cook an amount for just one meal, damn it!). "Tell you what, mum. You do whatever you want with the potatoes. But don't tell me to do it. You want it your way? No problem. Your way it is. But I'm damned if I'm going to do it for you". "You'd rather I didn't speak at all" she starts yet another long, monotonous soliloquy. I close the door behind me and go to see dad. Lea calls. Among other things she mentions she had just spoken to mum, and asked her whether she had eaten lunch yet. Mum's response was as it has been throughout my stay here. Evasive and dismissive. "I had whatever Moshe gave me". "What was it?" "Oh, I don't know".