My Mom Made Herself a Cheese Omelette at my Cousin’s Bat Mitzvah

Look, every family has that relative. Ours is my mom. She's loving, supportive, and apparently believes that no event is complete without her personally sautéing onions in someone else's kitchen.

So we’re at my cousin Rachel’s bat mitzvah. It’s beautiful. She chanted her Torah portion like a tiny Broadway star. Everyone’s crying. Except my mom, who’s whispering to me, “Did you eat? They’re only passing around sliders. That’s not lunch.

”Flash forward to the reception. The DJ is trying to get the kids to dab unironically. My mom disappears. Ten minutes later, I smell eggs. Not metaphorically. Real eggs. I follow the scent like a cartoon character and find her in the synagogue’s industrial kitchen, cracking eggs like she’s running a 24-hour diner.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

She looks up, very calm, and says, “They had a hot plate. And I brought cheese. You know I get low blood sugar.

”I remind her this is not our kitchen. She reminds me that I once ate a mozzarella stick off the floor at a Sweet 16, so maybe I should climb down from my high horse.

Meanwhile, a rabbi walks in, sniffs the air, and just says, “Smells great,” and leaves.

By the time we get back to our table, my mom is eating her custom omelette between two mini bagels she commandeered from the buffet. A man across the table says, “Wow, I didn’t know they had eggs.” My mom just winks and says, “You have to ask.”

Rachel’s bat mitzvah was lovely. But let’s be honest: the real coming-of-age moment was when I realized my mother will never let hunger, social norms, or basic trespassing laws stop her from making brunch.