Candy Greenblatt became a woman on a sunny Saturday afternoon in May; we all watched from our wooden pews at Forest Hills Jewish Center on this unseasonably warm day, which made beads of sweat pill up on Candy’s broad forehead, like raindrops. She stood on the bimah, dressed in a gold quiana Huck-a-Poo blouse with an enormous, pointed collar, a suede blue miniskirt and
I used to be one of those people who laughed at animal fanatics. You know the type, I’m sure: the slightly older woman upstairs with the eight cats, who mis-hits with the fushia lipstick just enough to make you a little worried; the woman at the flea market wearing the electric pink spangled baseball cap pushing her three Yorkies in a similarly matching electric pink spangled doggie stroller. (Why are they all women? Don’t ask me that. This is a food blog.)
