The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake - Page102

He'd been raised in Chicago proper by a Lithuanian Jewish mother who had grown up in poverty, telling stories, often, of extending a chicken to its fullest capacity, so as soon as a restaurant served his dish, he would promptly cut it in half and ask for a to-go container. Portions are too big anyway, he'd grumble, patting his waistline. He'd only give away his food if the corners were cleanly cut, as he believed a homeless person would just feel worse eating food with bite marks at the edges- as if, he said, they are dogs, or bacteria.  Dignity, he said, lifting his half-lasagna into its box, is no detail.