Oy Vey


“David, go say hello to your grandmother,” a woman nudged her ten year-old in the direction of a plump old woman,
“But mom, I never understand what she says!” the boy’s protest was ultimately defeated by the insistence of his mother.
“David!  How have you been bubbala?  You haven’t seen your grandmother since Rosh Hashanah.  No visit from you at the Home, but ah, I don’t blame you.  Who would want to shlep all the way to Syosset?  And you are just a boy, but your cousin Shlomo?  No excuse.  He is a grown man and I get gornisht from him.  And the shmendrick is to marry a shiksa now?  Not you, bubbala, you will find yourself a nice Jewish girl and give your bubbe something to kvell about.  But oy, that Shlomo has always been surrounded by goyim; he can be such a shmuck.”
“Oy, mama, stop telling the boy all this kibitz, he looks scared to death,” his aunt’s voice rang from the room of people graced by the light of a Chanukah menorah.
“What a kvetch,” the grandmother rolled her eyes, “Go on David and have one of the latkes I made for tonight,” she licked her thumb and pressed it to the boy’s cheek before allowing him to leave, “Hold on bubbala, you’ve got some shmutz.”
“How was your talk with grandma?” David’s mother asked as he reached for a latke off the kitchen table.
“Oy gevalt!” he spat through bites of the potato treat.