A Place at the Table

by Saadia Faruqi

  “I think Mama’s plan to sweeten Mrs. Kluck up is working,” Sara says. “Did I tell you she gave Mama an extra key to the FACS room? That means she’s starting to trust Mama.”

  I’m surprised. I didn’t think Mrs. Kluck trusted anyone. “She did?”

  Sara nods proudly. “Yup. It’s on a silly little pineapple charm, something you’d buy at a tourist shop.”

  Mrs. Hameed claps her hands for attention. I try to focus on her smiling face. We boil milk, sugar, and spices, as if we’re making vanilla pudding. Then Sara squeezes fresh lemon juice and water into the mixture and, as promised, it curdles.

  I don’t say anything to Sara, but the mixture we just made looks vile, like pale gravy full of lumpy flour. It’s supposed to cool and set for several hours before the so-called treat gets decorated with pistachios and coconut, then cut into something like bar cookies.

  We’re each going to take home the batch we’re cooking so it can cool. Sara says her mother made a panful in advance so we can all taste it now. Hooray?

  “If this milk was in my fridge, I’d vomit,” I hear Maddy say. “Indian food is disgusting.”

  Sara grits her teeth. By now, Maddy knows the Hameeds are from Pakistan. “Keep stirring,” Sara tells me, calling my attention back to the pot. “If it burns, we have to start over.”

  Before I can answer, Mrs. Kluck bursts into the room. Behind her is our janitor, Mr. Brody, who is usually all smiles, but not today. Today, he is huffing and puffing as he pushes a gigantic wooden box.

  Mr. Brody works as a birthday clown on weekends, so lots of kids have known him since they were toddlers. He’s the closest thing our school has to a celebrity.

  Mrs. Kluck throws out her arms. “Gather around, everyone. The ice cream machine is here.” Finally she’s the center of attention in her own classroom.

  “Children, children,” Mrs. Hameed calls over the commotion. “Do not leave your stoves. Your halwa will burn.”

  When no one listens, Sara rushes off to help her mother. They go from station to station, removing pots from stoves and turning off the heat.

  This is my chance. “Maddy,” I say, as she walks over to join the group.

  She stops. Her dark hair pulled back into its too-tight ponytail makes her expression look hard. She’s wearing lip gloss and mascara. When did she start wearing makeup?

  “What’s up, Els?” she says. She takes in my outfit, which is pretty tame for me: navy sweater, stone-gray jeans, and my TARDIS kicks. “Still got your Who gear.”

  “Allons-y,” I say, quoting the Tenth Doctor’s catchphrase. “I have to talk to you. About what happened at the mall.”

  Maddy is focused on Mr. Brody, who is opening the mysterious box. “That was weeks ago. Can’t you just forget it?”

  “No,” I say. “Sara is my friend. You shouldn’t have spoken to her like that. And I heard what you said to Ahsan yesterday.”

  She takes a few steps back from me. “Thanks to Sara, Stephanie’s been on my case. I don’t see why it’s such a big deal. We’re in middle school. People say mean things all the time.”

  I narrow my eyes. “There’s a difference between being mean and being racist, Mads.”

  I follow her gaze back to the demonstration kitchen. A shiny silver contraption emerges from the box. I know what that is. An ice cream maker, the rapid-freeze kind they use on television cooking shows.

  “Is that all?” Maddy asks. “ ’Cause I kind of want to see that thing.”

  “You need to apologize,” I insist.

  She shrugs. “Sara shouldn’t take things so seriously. And neither should you.” She walks away. Stephanie gives me a thumbs-up from across the room. I shake my head at her. That did not go well.

  Everyone but Sara and Mrs. Hameed fusses over the ice cream machine, which gleams on the counter. Micah’s words pop into my head: If it’s ice cream, text me. Because who can say no to ice cream?

  That’s it! Ice cream is the secret element we need for our festival recipe.

  I rush back to our station and stick a teaspoon in the pot. The flavor reminds me of Dad’s favorite cake, German chocolate. Not the cake itself. The halwa tastes like caramel and coconut icing. The texture is weird, though—chewy and . . . curdy.

  When Sara comes back, I announce: “This doodh stuff would taste great mixed with ice cream. Like our own version of cookies and cream.”

  She groans. “Don’t tell me you’ve got ice cream fever too. Mrs. Kluck’s machine is ruining Mama’s class.”

  I’m relieved that in all the confusion, Sara didn’t notice me talking to Maddy. I stir the pot and tell her, “Sara, I have the answer to our recipe prayers.”

  25

  Sara

  THE HOUSE IS QUIET on Saturday morning. I lie in bed, staring out my window. My room seems different since Elizabeth was here. Lighter. Airier. I wonder if she feels the same way, if we leave a tiny bit of ourselves behind when we leave a space.

  Someone is coming up the stairs. Baba was supposed to take the twins to a movie, so that must be Mama. She knocks on my door and enters without waiting for an answer. I grit my teeth. Typical Mama.

  “Salaam alaikum, sleepyhead,” she says, and starts picking up my clothes from the floor. “I need to do laundry, so . . .” She gives me a disapproving look.

  “Sorry,” I say sheepishly. I watch as she tidies my room, picks up clothes, straightens the things on my desk. I should help her, but it feels nice to see her doing these little chores for me. Her entire attention is focused on my room, my stuff, me. I can’t remember the last time that happened.

  When I was little, Mama and I used to do everything together. This was before the twins were born, before Mama started her catering business. Before I somehow changed from being the daughter to being the helper. The responsible one. One time we went to a carnival, just Mama and me together. We sat in a bumper car, laughing every time another car banged into us. We ate popcorn, throwing pieces to the pigeons that hopped toward us with eager beaks. Mama used to laugh a lot then. And hug me all the time.

  “Yeh kya?” She’s looking through my sketchbook.

  I scramble out of bed and take it from her. “It’s nothing,” I stammer. “Just my . . . art.” I’m suddenly thinking of what Elizabeth said at Thanksgiving. Be less intense. Do I even know how? My shoulders sag, and I offer the sketchbook to her hesitantly. “Want to see?” It comes out as a whisper. Maybe she won’t hear.

  Mama’s got a full laundry basket tucked under one arm, but she reaches out with her free hand. Just then, the cell phone in her back pocket chimes. “Hello?” She gives me an apologetic look, then turns and walks away.

  When I go downstairs for breakfast, she’s loading the washing machine. “What are your plans for today?” she calls out to me.

  I shrug, even though she can’t see me. “I don’t know. I need to work on some projects for school. But I’ve got some free time. Do you need help with orders?”

  She emerges from the laundry room with a smile. “Nahi. I have zero orders today!”

  “Wow,” I say. “I mean, that sucks, but still!”

  “Don’t say ‘sucks’—it’s not nice,” she tells me. “You want to go to the grocery store with me?”

  I slurp some cereal. “Can we go to Burger Palace for lunch?”

  She rolls her eyes. “If you insist on eating bland, unhealthy food instead of home-cooked yummy meals, then sure.”

  I swallow quickly and grin at her before she changes her mind. “I do insist.”

  By the time we finish grocery shopping and get to Burger Palace, it’s almost two in the afternoon. I order a double cheeseburger with fries and a chocolate milkshake. Mama gives me an Are you sure you can eat all that? look and orders a salad for herself.

  “It’s called Burger Palace, Mama. It should be against the law to order a salad here.”

  She gives me a little grin. I smile back. I like this version of Mama. Having a day off without a sky-high pile of catering
orders or a couple of hyperactive boys leaping around is good for her.

  “So, about my sketchbook,” I prompt when we’re digging in to our food. Or at least, I’m digging in. Mama’s nibbling on lettuce leaves.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot to take a look like I promised,” she replies. “I’ll do that when we get back.”

  “It’s okay.” I chew on some fries for courage, and whisper, “I’ve got some great ideas for your business. You might like them.”

  She gives me a confused look. “My business? What’s that got to do with your art?”

  I gulp down some milkshake. This is going to be hard. “You’ll understand when you see. I’m just trying to help you with your bills.”

  Mama pushes away her half-eaten salad. “Sara, jaanoo, worrying about my business is not your job. Your job is to study hard, get good grades, and one day get a good job that will make me proud. None of this cooking business for my daughter, okay? Be a doctor, or a teacher, or a journalist maybe. Your baba and I are working so much because we want you to have more opportunities than us. That’s the reason why we came to this country.”

  My head is aching, and my cheeks feel hot. I’ve heard this lecture about sixty thousand times. Study hard. Get good grades. Be a doctor or something. You owe it to us because we left our homes and came to America. For you.

  “Nobody told you to come to the U.S.,” I mutter. “It’s not fair. I just want to help you.”

  “Sara!” When Mama is angry, she doesn’t yell. Instead her voice becomes hard like glass. Right now, I feel encased in a glass box of her fury.

  I don’t care. I’m angry too. I go back to my burger as if it’s the most interesting thing in my life, even though I can’t swallow another bite. I should apologize for being disrespectful, but I don’t.

  * * *

  On Friday, Elizabeth is waiting for me impatiently outside the FACS room. We’re the first ones to arrive, as usual. Mama is busy setting up the classroom. The music room next door is open, and a few students are practicing drums. I catch a glimpse of Micah, eyes closed, head bopping to the beat.

  “Come in and close the door, girls!” Mrs. Kluckowski shouts over the noise.

  I grit my teeth but do what she says. The room quiets down a bit. Elizabeth says, “So have you thought about my brilliant idea?”

  I rack my brain. I’ve spent the entire week being mad at Mama for not taking me and my ideas seriously, so I’m not sure what Elizabeth’s talking about. “Which one?”

  “Our winning recipe—what else?” She does a little dance. She’s that excited. “Ice cream with chunks of doodh ka halwa.”

  “What flavor ice cream?” I ask. “We have to make sure it goes well with the halwa.”

  She nods as if I’ve answered a difficult trivia question correctly. “Exactly. It has to be the perfect flavor combo. Something slightly floral.” She pauses to take a breath. “Like Earl Grey.”

  “Tea?” She knows I’m not a fan of chai.

  She waves her hand in the face of my doubt. “Not plain old tea. Earl Grey. It’s British. It was my grandmother’s favorite. I thought, ‘What if we make Earl Grey–flavored ice cream and put the halwa in it?’ Like a British-Pakistani version of cookie dough ice cream. Nobody will think of that, not in a million years!”

  My mouth is already curving upward. I have to admit, it’s pretty genius. “Yes! That’s perfect.”

  Elizabeth pushes her glasses back up her nose and says, “Only problem is, they don’t sell Earl Grey ice cream in any store I’ve seen. We need to make it ourselves.”

  “How?”

  She’s staring at something in the far corner of the FACS room. Something big and metallic and gleaming. Mrs. Kluck’s ice cream machine.

  “No!” I whisper in horrified fascination. Mrs. Kluck has specifically told us about a million times that no one is allowed to touch the new machine. I’m surprised she hasn’t got it locked up in padlocks and barbed wire.

  Elizabeth gives me the side-eye. “I’ve watched a hundred videos about making ice cream. I can do it in my sleep. Trust me.”

  I clutch the trim on my tunic so hard, it gives a little protest rip. Trust her? How can I? She’s not the one with everything to lose. Mama will be in so much trouble if anything goes wrong. Mama and Baba have enough to worry about without me acting like a disobedient daughter.

  Elizabeth gives me a little nudge with her leg. “Sara, you want to win that competition and get your mom on TV, right? This is our big chance to tell people about her business. And don’t you want your parents to take you seriously?”

  “More than anything,” I whisper over the frantic beating of my heart.

  “I want to win too. I want us to beat Maddy and show her that immigrant food is awesome, because immigrants are awesome. I want my mom to be proud of me. That ice cream machine is the ticket to our dreams.” She unzips her backpack and points inside.

  I see a box of Earl Grey tea stuffed between her notebooks and binders, plus a plastic Tupperware box. “What’s that?”

  “My own doodh ka halwa,” she replies proudly, and I blink. She’s recreated the dish Mama taught us in cooking club. She actually likes my culture, my food. How can I refuse her? I squeeze her hand tightly in a yes. Yes, let’s make British-Pakistani flavored ice cream with halwa chunks and show the world what fusion food means.

  I have a feeling it’s not that different from fusion friendship.

  The other girls start arriving, including Maddy and Stephanie, but I hardly notice. The ice cream machine is taking up one hundred percent of my vision. I swear it’s staring back at me in glee.

  Mama puts away groceries with quick, economical movements. Everything else we need for the ice cream is in the FACS room already: sugar, milk, cardamom.

  I have no idea what we cook in class. Something with ground chicken, something steaming hot that splashes on my fingers and makes me yelp. Elizabeth and I alternate between whispering, making notes in our OSAWR book, and nodding at Mama. It helps that the drumming from next door is getting louder, covering up our plotting.

  The class ends and the other students leave. The music room is booming now, as loud as a thunderstorm. Finally, Mama stands before us with her hands on her hips. “Sara! Elizabeth! We’re all done. Let’s go.” She’s supposed to drive us both home today.

  Elizabeth and I exchange a glance. “Er, can we stay behind and listen to Micah’s percussion group?” I stammer. “We can all walk home together.”

  Elizabeth gives Mama a thousand-watt smile. Not suspicious at all. “Please, Mrs. H.?” she begs. “Micah’s been asking us forever.”

  I gulp. I can’t believe we’re lying so easily. I can’t believe I’ve changed from Good, Obedient Daughter to Scheming, Dishonest Daughter. The noise from the music room hammers around us in emphasis, copying the beating of my heart. Boom-ba-boom-boom! Mrs. Kluck is pushing all three of us out, looking at her watch. She locks the door and leaves without saying goodbye. “Not more than one hour, okay?” Mama says, turning to leave.

  I freeze. “She locked it. How are we supposed to . . . ?”

  Elizabeth waits until Mama’s gone, then gives me a huge grin. “Do you still have that pineapple-charm key chain?” I rummage through my backpack until I find it in the bottom, under all my books. Elizabeth unlocks the FACS door and rushes inside like a secret spy. “Let’s get to work.”

  * * *

  Making ice cream isn’t as easy as it sounds, even with a sleek, metallic machine like the Breville 3000 Ice Cream Maker. Elizabeth fiddles with the buttons and dials on the top as I chew my nails. “Wish I had a phone so we could look up the instructions,” I mutter.

  “We’ve got this. It’s not rocket science.”

  I want to tell her that cooking is basically chemistry, which is a kind of science. But she waves me toward the cupboards, so I ignore the bubbles in my stomach and gather ingredients for making ice cream. My heart is still thumping in time with the percussion group, making my ha
nds tremble, but I steel myself. This is me taking charge. This is me forcing my parents to take me seriously. This is me creating a prize-winning recipe. Me and Elizabeth.

  I use the frozen custard recipe she’s brought with her to make a thick, creamy mixture. We add a dash of steeped tea and pour chunks of the halwa mixture into the machine’s churning bowl. I’m muttering all sorts of Arabic prayers under my breath as we push the START button and watch the bowl spin.

  Elizabeth hugs me, grinning broadly, and I try to grin back. How comes she doesn’t seem even a little bit nervous?

  Oh, right—her mom isn’t responsible for this ice cream machine, this FACS room, and everything inside it. She probably thinks we’re having some secret adventure straight out of a Doctor Who episode. In the meantime, I’m planning to beg forgiveness on my prayer mat for the next year.

  The bell dings. The first batch of ice cream is so bland, it tastes like paper. We take two more tries to get the ratio of sugar, Earl Grey, and halwa right, but finally it’s ready. The mixture is a little soft, but as Elizabeth pours the ice cream into ziplock bags, she assures me that a few hours in the freezer at home will make the texture perfect. There’s silence as we sigh in relief, then gobble some of our creation down like starving puppies. The halwa pieces are the perfect addition of chewy crunch. “This is nothing like chai,” I announce gratefully.

  Elizabeth claps her hands. “International Festival, and Alfonso Morgan, here we come!”

  26

  Elizabeth

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, Robin Hood waits for me at the bottom of the stairs. He tilts his head, hairy gray eyebrows raised in that adorable schnauzer way. “Robin, Bubbe’s coming today,” I say. I’m so glad that Bubbe is going to be here. Dad may not listen to me about coming to Mom’s ceremony, but he’ll listen to Bubbe.

  Mom is the only one awake. She’s working on a red blanket. I was hoping when she finished the last one, she’d take a break.