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I can still smell the aroma of home-baked challah. I watched my mother. She started early Friday morning and I, who was the oldest girl of six children had to help. I rolled the dough and when it was ready I carried it to the nearby community oven. The smell of the chicken soup made me hungry. When my mother looked the other way, I tasted it. This was taboo in our kitchen. Then came the gefilte fish. When everything was ready we covered the big table with a beautiful fresh linen tablecloth and lovely silver candlelight.

My father was the one who set the rules at the table. If one child was missing, his face grew dark. One Friday night, he made us wait for dinner a long time. "David is missing" he said with a strong voice that commanded respect. No one started eating. We all waited for David.

Tears come to my eyes when I think back. I miss the togetherness, the anticipation, the feeling of family. I can still see the rosy cheeks of my mother's face, tired, but happy as she lit the candles and said her prayers. This was the beauty of Jewish Shabbat. I miss it.

So many years passed by. So many events shaped my personality. My way of thinking outgrew my childhood beliefs and way of life. But I will always remember sitting together united with love for each other. When I think back to the tender years of my childhood, I think of the little shtetl and my mother's kitchen.