I was born in Pittsburgh to immigrant Jewish parents who survived the pogroms of Russia, and in my household, more Yiddish was spoken than English. I heard so much Yiddish that as a child I didn't know which language was which. When I was 4 years old, the gentile children next door to our tiny house invited me for dinner. When their mother was serving the meal, she asked what part of the chicken I wanted, and I said, "the fleegle."

I remember very clearly the perplexed look the woman gave me, which I thought meant that there probably weren't enough fleegles to go around, so I hastily assured her, "That's OK. I'll be just as happy with a poulkie." She still didn't know what I meant and told me, "Just point to it, dear!"