“In Judaism, we children did not grow up with nursery rhymes, rather we had cautionary tales of plagues, wine splatters across plates to resemble the blood of sheep and cattle, protests against Guiliani and protests against drinking to the afflictions of others. Our throats filled with the growls of grogers, we grew in reverse and memorized the entire Barabara Streisand discography by age 7.
This book is my attempt at a belated delivery - a guilt-driven delivery to my achille’s heel, my Guima. Perhaps the same-day delivery of black and white cookies and nursery rhymes written on napkins stained by chicken soup. A delivery of a life born into what I imagine Christmas tastes like to the postal workers who deliver Christmas every day anyway. My attempt at delivering snapshots of whole worlds lived in a single sip of water.”
