4 | FEBRUARY 18 • 2021 

for openers
The Places I Call Home
T

he New Yorker’s Erin 
Overbey wrote a col-
umn “The Meaning 
of Home.” It was about jour-
nalist and screenwriter Nora 
Ephron and her 
love affair with 
the Apthorp, 
a Beaux-Arts 
building on the 
Upper West Side 
of New York 
where she lived 
for more than 
20 years. For her, it was what 
happened under that roof. 
It made me think of what 
home means to me. It made 
me realize how deeply those 
words reach into my heart to 
be thankful for having a roof 
over my head and being able 
to gut through this pandemic. 
Sure, we’re all very anxious 
to see family, friends and to 
sit in a restaurant, have a glass 
of wine. But being at home 
through this brings back so 
many memories of other plac-
es I call home. Actually, I’m 
very grateful for all the homes 
I have had — and my Jewish 
upbringing. 
The question becomes, can 
you fall in love with a home? 
Even though you can’t phys-
ically be in a home, can you 
still love it? I say yes. It’s the 
memories and so much more. 
Those memories can take you 
there if you allow them. No 
clicking heels like Dorothy. 
Just let your mind do its thing. 
 
I remember coming to my 
parents’ house the first time 
I returned from Ohio State 
where the cafeteria food was, 
from 1 to 10, at best — a 1. 
It was a cool, October Friday 
late in the afternoon. Soon we 
would be celebrating Shabbat, 

and that was something I 
sorely missed at school. 
When I walked in the 
house, I put everything 
down, ran into the kitchen 
and lay on the floor. My par-
ents thought something was 
wrong with me because I was 
breathing deeply. I must tell 
you, the aromas were intox-
icating. It was chopped liver, 
chicken soup with homemade 

kreplach, roast chicken, potato 
kugel — and my mom’s very 
own chocolate cake (which 
everyone in the family has 
tried to replicate). I was home. 
I was in a safe place with love 
where I grew up. I can close 
my eyes today and virtually 
walk through my parents’ 
house. I’ve inhaled deeply 
in my own house when I’ve 
made my mom’s recipes, espe-
cially on Shabbat. 
Last Friday night, I made 
my bubbie’s paprikash. The 
aroma in my kitchen was 
incredible. I closed my eyes, 
and I could see her kitchen. 
Her stove laden with steaming 
pots of gefilte fish and chick-
en soup; her oven filled with 
fragrant challahs and sticky 
buns. Oh, yes, and kishka and 
helzel. Not to mention griben-
es (which Soupy Sales said 

killed a lot of Jews). When I 
walked into her house, I was 
home. It was a safe place with 
love. I can close my eyes and 
take a virtual tour, which I 
often do.
I am grateful for where I 
live now with my husband, 
Michael. My father-in-law 
built the house in 1957. After 
my in-laws passed away, we 
decided to move in. Sure, we 

have made some changes, but 
it is to me what the Apthorp 
was to Nora Ephron. We’ve 
raised a family, I’ve survived 
two breast cancers under this 
roof, celebrated 45 years of 
marriage, hosted lots of fund-
raisers and parties. 
We have done our best to 
muddle through this deadly 
virus. It’s been hard not to 
see our children and grand-
children for more than a year. 
Zoom and the others are fine, 
but I miss the hugs and the 
in-person conversations. I 
miss making all those special 
recipes for them.
My Friday night candles, 
my mother’s, photos of my 
parents and other keep-
sakes take me to the other 
homes I’ve treasured. My 
one remaining aunt on my 
mother’s side, Aunt Char, who 

is now 96, and I talk often, 
reminiscing about Bubbie, 
my mom, my other aunts and 
uncles who are no longer here. 
We laugh. We cry. 
But most of all, when I look 
at the photos of my parents, 
I never fail to get tears in my 
eyes and a lump in my throat. 
My father had his own com-
pany, Refrigeration & Heating, 
in Canton, Ohio, for 70 some 
years. He was a gabbi, led the 
Chevrah Kadisha for 60 years, 
following in his father’s foot-
steps. He was on the team that 
developed the heat pump with 
General Electric and that was 
his nickname: Mr. Heat Pump. 
He was president of the shul 
Shaaray Torah for many years. 
My mother was his rock. She 
was a fabulous, caring woman 
who was my rock and who 
made a beautiful home for my 
Dad and me. 
Jewish tradition makes a 
house a home. It’s just not 
the books and prayers. It’s the 
whole gashicht: the aromas of 
food, the sweet anticipation of 
sharing holidays and dinners 
with immediate and extended 
families. And going to Temple 
again for services!
“We’ll be back to normal 
soon,” I’ve heard people say. 
That’s great, but my fondest 
wish is to hug my kids and 
grandchildren, look into their 
faces and revel in how much I 
love them. 
Oh, yes, and, of course, to 
cook for them again! It’s going 
to be a great feast and love 
affair just like Nora Ephron 
says it would. 

Sandy Hermanoff is an area public 

relations consultant who loves to cook 

and bake.

Sandy 
Hermanoff

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