So it was Monday and there I was patiently (well, not really) waiting in line at the desk to check in and get my file. The two young women behind the window know me by now; this is a ritual I go through each Monday morning. The receptionists are young and efficient, ready with “good morning” greetings. But today it wasn’t their efficiency or smiles that attracted me. It was a smell. The delightful smell of toasted sesame seeds.
One of the women was nibbling a small sesame candy — the kind you can get in most Israeli supermarkets. Out of politeness, and to break the boredom and anonymity, I commented, “What a wonderful smell!”
She looked up to see if I was kidding. “Do you want a piece?” she offered. I glanced around at the others on line and thought, Why not?
She broke off a small piece and passed it under the window. It was really delicious — not too sweet and very fresh. My natural reaction was to ask her where she bought it. “This can’t be bought. Malka, the cashier at the main window downstairs, made it.”
“Well, then,” I replied, “I’ve got to get the recipe.”
Now many of us have been in similar situations and we rarely follow up. The only thing I desire after finishing my treatment is to get out of the hospital as quickly as possible.
I entered the main floor and noticed a long line snaking toward the main window. Each person was closeted in his own world, just wanting to get the wait over with. All of Israel was represented there. On pure impulse, I began walking to the head of the line. Two older woman of Eastern origin gave me dirty looks. A Russian immigrant in a heavy accent called out, “Hey, where you going?” A thirtyish, hirsute Israeli with a large tattoo on his forearm and a bandage on his wrist growled, “Sure — tell me you just have one small question to ask.”
“No,” I replied. “I just need a recipe.”
Murmurs. With twenty pairs of hostile and curious eyes on my back, I asked, in a clear voice, “Is there a woman here by the name of Malka?”
A woman in her forties, with suspicion veiling her face, answered, “I’m Malka. What do you need?”
“Can I please have your recipe for sesame candy?”
Silence.
Then a wonderful smile broke out on Malka’s face, the other clerks began to laugh, and soon this potpourri of Israelis, each with his own “peckele,” his own bundle of troubles, turned to each other, smiling and talking.
But the story doesn’t end there. “Give him the recipe,” called out an elderly man. “We’ll wait.”
Malka looked down the line and shrugged. A few minutes later she handed me a scrap of Hadassah Hospital stationery with some Hebrew instructions scribbled on the back. As I took it and turned to thank them all, the hairy Israeli called out, “Hey, what about my copy?”
Over the next few minutes, fifteen slips of Hadassah paper were passed around, each with Malka’s recipe on it. We all turned to each other and wished each other good luck with the candy and “refuah sheleimah.”
Somehow this Monday wasn’t half bad — I wonder what will happen next week.