“It’s fine,” he assured her. “If everyone in the neighborhood can see what we’re doing, it’s not yichud. So what have you brought me this week?” Rav Alter smiled.

“Schmaltz herring with apples. Chicken soup with knaidlach. Stuffed cabbage and a tzimmes kugel. And for dessert, pareve chocolate ice cream.”

“What, no rugelach?” he said jocularly, wide-eyed with mock indignation.

“Actually”—she blushed—“this time, it’s a babka.”

He raised an eyebrow. “With chocolate, or cinnamon and nuts?”

“Both!” she told him triumphantly. “One you’ll put in the freezer for Shabbos. Go sit. I’ll warm everything up and bring you.”

“You’re not going to make me eat alone?”

She pursed her lips, happy as always to keep up the pretense that she was simply bringing him food as a chesed, and they were not actually spending the evening together. “Oy, I’m so full, but I’ll keep you company. Maybe just a spoonful.”

It had been going on for the past three months, a private celebration of friendship to which Rav Alter looked forward all week. It wasn’t just the food—although he was thrilled with that as well—but mostly the happiness of having familiar, homey smells permeate his sterile house. No one cooked here anymore. On Shabbos, he went to his married daughter’s or his daughter-in-law’s. And during the week, he ate at the yeshiva.

Yes, the food was a pleasure. But most of all, he enjoyed the company. Spending time with a kind, pious woman so much like his dear wife who, for a few hours at least, chased away the bottomless loneliness and bereavement of his life, helping him to remember what it was like to be a couple.

What a joy it was to have a normal conversation where he wasn’t forced to rack his brains for brilliant insights or agonize over the correctness of halachic judgments! With her, he could take off his black suit jacket and smack his lips over his favorite foods, eating more than was good for him without risking the admonishments he got from his well-meaning daughter and daughter-in-law who watched over him as if he were an irresponsible child. The older you got, the fewer things life had to offer that still gave you pleasure. Food was the last, joyous bastion that made it worthwhile to get out of bed in the morning, he sometimes thought.

She arranged the rolls on the table. From the scent, he could tell they were still warm from her oven. “Go wash; I’ll bring the herring and the soup,” she said.