Worth Its Salt

Every Shabbos night seudah at the Cohen household was special. This particular week, the air was thick with the aroma of kugel and roast chicken, but for Uncle Dov, there was one singular, pressing priority. He was ready.
The glistening, braided challah loaf was firmly in his hand, the resonant bracha had been recited with customary gusto, and the chorus of “Amen” had barely faded. His stomach, an extremely reliable internal clock, was already rumbling its objection to any further delay.
He lifted his knife, cut a perfect slice, and poised himself for a moment of pure, carby satisfaction. But as he scanned the length of the heirloom mahogany table, the moment shattered. The tiny, silver-capped glass saltshaker was nowhere near him.
His eyes finally located it, far across the crowded landscape of fine china. It was firmly, almost militantly, clutched in the hand of his youngest niece, Chaya, who was completely oblivious to the silent crisis unfolding at the head of the table.
Uncle Dov, a man who prided himself on patience, began a quiet campaign. First came the gentle cough, a subtle clearing of the throat. Then the pointed glance, alternating carefully between the challah in his hand, the empty space beside his plate, and the shaker in Chaya’s grip. Still nothing.