“That didn’t stop me from trying,” Ira protested, moving Theo’s glass away from where the boy’s elbow might accidentally knock it over.
He had, at first. But then the neighbors had started complaining about the smell and put a stop to young Ira’s culinary endeavors. Until Ori was old enough for Mrs. Perchov from upstairs to teach her how to start cooking, the family had mostly eaten takeout. Which, while a bruise on Ira’s ego, was not nearly as bad as it might have sounded, considering the wealth of delicious, cheap ethnic food that was so easily found in Pittsburgh.
“We all wish it had, though.” Ori said, grinning emphatically as she polished off the last piece of her steak with an expression of supreme satisfaction.
“You’re welcome. I love you, too.” Apparently giving Ira a hard time about that particular lack of skill wasn’t ever going to get old for his little sister. But there were worse things in life, he reflected, unable to resist a smile back at her.
“Yeah, of course!” Ori wiggled her own glass in response to Staas’ remark. “We’ll all have to get together again someday.” Ira nodded his agreement; Papa had expressed interest about Staas in his letters, and Ira knew that he was curious to talk to another single father of two – albeit one of an entirely different background and generation.
“I know. I will as soon as possible.” He tried to make it back to Pittsburgh once every month or two, but the time he had taken off for Ori’s visit meant that it might be another handful of weeks before he could afford to skip more work.