by Betsy Andrews
I was raised in a little place on the western border of Philadelphia. It had a blue-vinyl and wood-laminate décor, and there was always food on the table. I am not talking about my parents' house; I'm talking about our favorite booth—my grandmother's and mine—at City Line Deli, in Philly's Overbrook neighborhood. Our booth was the second from the door, from which my grandmother could watch other customers enter and I could gaze out the window. There, several times a week, she and I would eat our favorite foods: for me, a corned beef special, with coleslaw and Russian dressing, on rye; for her, chopped liver, and chicken soup with matzo balls the size of my fist. Keep reading...

