He lives in a far away facility where there are no other Jewish residents. There are not many activities and the food is less than appetizing. I have sat with him at lunchtime and wondered what dietician approved the gravy-ladened slice of pork on a plate with two too many starches. Dessert was canned fruit and ice cream. Did they ever serve fresh fruit? He said rarely. We talked about the meals that he missed. And then the subject of a corned beef sandwich presented itself. 

For many Jews before the heart awareness of lean beef and moderation was on every talk show and on the cover of magazines, we enjoyed our comfort food.

I had an idea. Before leaving for the next visit, I stopped at a nearby deli and ordered matza ball soup and a corned beef sandwich to go. The server generously wrapped both in extra plastic. I grabbed some mustard packets, just in case, and drove with my car windows open.

As I pulled into the driveway, I had a strange feeling. Knocking on her door, an aide informed me my resident was at a doctor’s appointment for most of the morning. Someone from activities offered to keep the white paper bag in the refrigerator. While thanking her, I had my doubts, so I left the resident a note in his room informing him of the meal awaiting his return.

I drove home disappointed, as selfishly, I wanted to see his expression. That’s ok. I know where the deli is. I’ll be back.