Neither of us have been back to Louisiana since we moved to Minneapolis in June. It's a little rough, but for the most part we've both been too busy to let it get us down.
Last week, however, Y came home from work looking a little sad. We were in the middle of a giant group text message with his parents, his brother, and his brother's girlfriend. It started with his mother wishing us all Shabbat shalom! and then turned into an all out emoji-fest.
"I could really go for some chopped liver," Y said dejectedly.
You're probably thinking that sounds disgusting (it's okay, I'm with you), but chopped liver is actually a Jewish delicacy that Y's dad makes to the family's great delight. When Y came home longing for chopped liver, I knew better; he was actually longing for the family dinners we used to share on Sunday nights at their house.
That night, we sat down to our own family dinner, and Y started telling me about his day.
"I got to do an autopsy today," he said.
"Oh really?" I asked, feeling a little sorry for him and being extra nice. "Was it like CSI?"
I watched him eat his dinner, knowing he was wishing we were eating chopped liver with his family.
"No, it wasn't like CSI," he said. "It was an autopsy on just a liver."
And then, knowing his craving came from cutting up a human liver, I started feeling sorry for him for different reasons.