A Memory: Strawberry Blintzes

A MEMORY: STRAWBERRY BLINTZES

By Linda S. Gunther


I opened the door to our Bronx apartment, my nine-year-old body sweaty from the heat. I was surprised to hear someone crying. In the kitchen, my grandma sat at the dinette table, her head down.

“Nana, what’s wrong?”

I could smell the strawberry blintzes cooling on the stove. She wiped her eyes and wrapped her arms around me.

“I-it’s nothing sweetie,” she said, sitting me on her lap, pressing me to her paisley housedress.

 “Your mother told me that she’d be taking you kids away in a few days. To live in Los Angeles.”

“What about summer camp?” I cried.

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