When a Manhattan survivor takes to the kitchen, her dishes nourish far more than herself alone
Special to the Jewish Week
The elevator door opens on the 12th floor and I inhale the heady scent of sautéed onions. I don’t have to wonder where the smell is coming from, I know: Eva is cooking.
From the first day that my husband and I moved into our East Side Manhattan apartment, we were greeted with the intoxicating food scents wafting through the door of my neighbor Eva’s apartment, just down the hall.
I ran into her in the corridor one day and told her how enchanted I was by the smell of her cooking.