Friday nights were my favourite part of the week. My father worked as an insurance salesman for the John Hancock Life Insurance Company and part of his job was to go out on Friday nights to collect the insurance premiums – a good thing to do as Friday was pay day. To wait another day or so was to risk not getting the premium or to have it squandered in the local bar. Friday night was also Rawhide night. Mum loved Rowdy Yates (a gloriously young and unwrinkled Clint Eastwood) and wouldn’t miss an episode. Now, my role was critical to the success of our Friday night entertainment. I was to go up 231st St. to Loeser’s Jewish Delicatessen to buy each of us a potato knish (which I have heard described as Jewish food for Irish people). Loeser’s had a window which opened onto the street. I prayed there would not be anyone in line as that would slow me down. The smell of the knishes grew stronger as I approached. They lay on the griddle behind the window. I greeted Mr. Loeser and gave him my order. Mr. Loeser asked after my mother. And my father. And the baby. And my schoolwork, as I fretted about the time. Each knish had to be folded into a wax paper and then placed carefully into a double brown bag (“I’ve seen you run,” Mr. Loeser said, “You should be so lucky not to have knishes schmutzing everywhere with only one bag”!) Then, still conscious of the time, I had to charge back up the street and go to the other Jewish deli because that man made the best pickles anywhere – which I was never to mention to Mr. Loeser. ‘A nickel a pickle’ boasted the sign — and they, like submarines, remained submerged in the cloudy brine of the massive barrel. My job was to get the biggest pickles, get them into wax bags and get this feast home in time for the opening theme song at eight o’clock. We put on our cowboy hats and settled down, ready to belt out the lyrics, finishing strongly with ‘Head ‘em up, move ‘em out – Rawhide!” What a wonderful way to spend Friday nights. It is certainly one of my most vivid and happy memories.