Moishe Abramowitz had not long to live, and knew it.
As he lay on his deathbed, his daughter sat dutifully by his side.
“Marcia,” he said to her. “I smell kugel.”
And she said: Yeah, Mom is making some.“
"You know what would make me really happy?” he said to her, as he grabbed her hands and looked earnestly in her eyes. “Just to taste some of your mother’s kugel just once more, before I die. Will you get me some?”
“Of course, Daddy,” said Marcia, and ran to the kitchen.
Minutes go by, and she eventually comes back—empty handed.
Sitting down, she folded her hands, and just looked at him, plaintively.
“Where’s the kugel?” Moishe asks her, almost too weak to utter the words.