I pick up a ball of red yarn and brush it against my cheek. It’s like sticking my face in a bowl full of marshmallows. “This color makes me happy. And it’s so soft.”
Mom smiles. “You have Bubbe’s sense of style. The brighter, the better.”
Robin lies down and rests his bearded chin on Mom’s toes. Mom hides a yawn behind her hand and holds out her mug. “Put the kettle on and pour me another cuppa, sweetheart?”
My feet jiggle. I can’t wait for Sara to meet Bubbe. I can’t wait for her to taste my favorite Hanukkah treat, sufganiyot—Bubbe makes the jelly-filled donuts from scratch. And I can’t wait for Bubbe to see the wreath Mom put on our door. It’s electric blue with little silver dreidels. Wreaths aren’t exactly a Hanukkah tradition, but at least Mom is trying.
Most of all, though, I can’t wait for Bubbe to talk to Dad.
An hour later, my brothers are eating massive bowls of cereal and—miracle of miracles—Mom is dressed. But I feel itchy. There are dishes in the sink and papers strewn over the coffee table, and the toaster is in bits. My bed still needs to be changed for Bubbe to sleep in. I’ll have an air mattress on the floor. Bubbe hates it when she visits and the house is a mess. I touch the charms on my bracelets, one by one.
“Mom?” I’m about to suggest that we spend the morning doing a massive cleanup, but Mom is putting on her coat. “Where are you going?
“To the grocery store.”
Justin follows her to the door, chewing on the collar of his pajama top. Robin’s tags jangle nervously. “Can I go too?” Justin asks.
“Not today.” She leans down to kiss his forehead. “Help your brother and sister tidy up. There’s a good boy.”
“Wait. What?” I ask. “You want us to get the house ready without you?”
Mom sighs. “I have a long list for the latkes and donuts. We’ll be cooking all afternoon. David, you’re in charge.” And then she’s gone.
David smirks at me. He loves being in charge. “Justin, get dressed,” he orders. Justin salutes and heads upstairs with Robin Hood. David leans his long, spindly body against the kitchen counter and pokes at toaster parts, like he’s got nothing better to do.
“Why does Mom do that?” I ask him.
“Do what?”
“Disappear. She does it whenever things are hard,” I say.
“Els,” David says in his I’m in high school, so I know everything voice, “that is our whole family’s MO.”
“Huh?”
“Modus operandi. That’s how we operate. Mom tunes out with her knitting and podcasts. And food shopping, apparently. Dad travels all the time, so he doesn’t have to see how depressed Mom is.”
“Aunt Louise says Mom is practicing self-care. Like, ‘Keep calm and carry on,’” I argue. But then I stop and think about what David is saying. “If Mom is depressed, shouldn’t we help her?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” David says.
“Fiddling with the toaster.”
“Very funny, little sister.”
“Is that why you’re always at school for clubs?” I ask. “Are you checking out too?”
David’s face is serious. “Sometimes being at school is easier than dealing with home.”
I lean an elbow on the counter and put my chin in my hand. “If Mom was a kid at our school, I think she’d have to go see the guidance counselor,” I say. “Or the school psychologist.”
David nods. “You’re pretty smart, you know that, Elizabeth-Like-the-Queen?”
I push him away, because otherwise I’d have to hug him. When I was little and people asked what my name was, I always said, “Elizabeth, like the Queen.”
“But convincing Mom she needs professional help? That’s above my pay grade,” he says.
“Huh? Above your what?” I’m convinced my brother uses terms I don’t know on purpose, to confuse me.
He rolls his eyes and opens the family laptop. “Let the so-called grownups figure it out.”
“But—” I protest. David waves me off.
“I figure we have three hours, max, before Bubbe gets here.” David types furiously, filling out a spreadsheet. In moments, my brother has created a plan for cleaning the house, broken down by task, time allotted, and which kid is doing what.
I can’t help it. I hug David around his bony ribs.
“Hey,” he says, awkwardly patting my arm. “We’ve got this.”
Two hours later, the bathrooms are wiped down, my bedroom is visitor-ready with clean sheets, the family room is vacuumed, and the old magazines are in the recycling bin. Mom returns with bags full of potatoes and onions, applesauce and sour cream, flour and jam. Nobody asks her why groceries took more than two hours. We just smile and show her how hard we’ve worked.
By the time we put the groceries away, Bubbe is here. She pinches all our cheeks in turn, then wraps Mom in a big hug. Bubbe is wearing chic dark jeans, yellow flats, and a long black sweater. There’s a plastic spiky yellow thing hanging from her neck.
“What is that?” Justin asks, pointing.
“Wearable art,” Bubbe says. She leans down so Justin can touch the spiky yellow fingers, which bend and bounce back.
“You’re wearing rubber french fries,” he says.
“French fries are delicious, just like you,” Bubbe retorts. She gives Justin a ton of kisses on his cheeks, making him laugh until he pushes her away.
“And how is my favorite granddaughter?” Bubbe asks, her royal-blue glasses focused on me.
“Your only granddaughter,” I correct, earning me an extra cheek pinch. “I can’t wait for you to meet my friend.”
That afternoon, Dad video-chats with each of us, including Bubbe, who holds Robin on her lap. After we say goodbye, Mom and Bubbe argue over latkes. Mom pulls a bag of something called “potato shreds” out of the freezer.
“I can taste the freezer on those,” Bubbe complains. She insists that her potato pancakes can only be made from freshly grated potatoes. It’s scary how Bubbe is reminding me of Mrs. Kluck right now.
Mom puts up two hands. “I give in,” she says, taking the grater from Bubbe, “but only on one condition.”
Bubbe narrows an eye at Mom. “Well, what is it?”
I hold my breath. Is Mom going to stand up to Bubbe? Is Bubbe going to call her shiksa and brush her off?
Mom says, “You give me cooking lessons. Jewish apple cake, charoset for Passover, challah—the recipe and the prayers. I want to learn. Will you teach me, Nadya?”
“It would be my pleasure,” Bubbe says, pulling Mom in for a hug.
Hanukkah really is a season of miracles.
* * *
The next morning, I wake up on a partly deflated air mattress, too excited to go back to sleep. Dad is coming home! Sara is coming over! And we’re making sufganiyot.
The kitchen still reeks of onions from last night’s latke extravaganza, but I’m too happy to care. Everything is finally going right. Was it only two days ago that Sara and I made the ice cream? The ziplock bags are hiding in the bottom of our freezer. Freeze well, my frosty delights, I think. You’re our ticket to fame and fortune. The floral Earl Grey flavor goes perfectly with sweet chunks of doodh ka halwa. It’s the winning combination we’ve been searching for.
Dad gets home right after breakfast.
“You eat, Dad,” I say. “Bubbe can drive me to Hebrew school.”
Bubbe is practically elbow-deep in the dough she’s kneading. “I can?” she asks. I give her a meaningful nod. Luckily, she takes the hint. “Of course I can. I’m happy to drive my best granddaughter wherever she needs to go.”
“Thanks, Bubbe.” I get another pinch on the cheek, but I don’t complain.
We leave the donut dough to rise as Dad eats his favorite Hanukkah dish, fried eggs and leftover latkes.
“So what’s this all about?” Bubbe asks when we’re alone in the car. She pushes her glasses up her nose and starts the engine. Bubbe has the biggest, weirdest rings. Tod
ay it’s a giant green butterfly on one hand and a spiral fossil on the other. Her fingers must be freezing without gloves on. I am wearing the Doctor Who mittens that Aunt Louise sent me as an early Christmas/on-time Hanukkah present. The whole holiday-gift thing is a little confusing in our family. But that’s not what’s on my mind.
“Bubbe, I think Mom needs someone to help her talk about her feelings.”
Bubbe slows down at a stoplight and looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Tell me more, Elizabeth.”
I try to get the words out before the light changes. “Aunt Louise says she’s doing ‘Keep Calm’ but I think she’s not so good at the ‘Carry On’ part. That’s why she forgets to do laundry and gets upset if we ask her for stuff while she’s knitting.”
Bubbe nods as if to say, I’m listening.
“I think Dad needs a person like that too. Someone to tell him that being away all the time makes life better for him, because he doesn’t have to see Mom being sad, but it makes things worse for us.”
“Bubbeleh, have you been worrying about all of that?” Bubbe asks.
“Yes.” I nod. “For a long time. For months.”
“What’s going on with your mother?”
But I’m tired of talking about problems all the time. I’m eleven. I want to eat donuts, hang out with Sara, and win the recipe contest. I lean forward in my seat. “Can’t you talk to her? Please?”
Bubbe pulls into the synagogue’s drop-off lane. Outside, Micah is waving to me. I’m bundled up in a parka, hat, and mittens. He’s in his usual hoodie and cargo shorts.
“I’ll do my best,” Bubbe says. “Pinch Micah’s cheek for me.”
“No way, Bubbe.” I smile. “That’s grandma stuff.”
I follow Micah inside. It’s ridiculous to hope that something will be different when I get home, that I’ll walk through the door and an alternate version of my family will be there: Happy Mom, Stay-Home Dad, Cool Older Brother. Justin can stay exactly the way he is.
But hours of watching Doctor Who has prepared me for the possibility of other dimensions. As long as we’re still making donuts in the alternate universe, I can deal.
* * *
That afternoon, Sara and her mother arrive wearing identical outfits—jeans with floral tunics, plus Mrs. Hameed’s bright pink hijab. I introduce them both to Bubbe, then point to the family room. “Mom’s in there, Mrs. H.”
She holds up her tote bag. “I made lots of notes,” she says, hurrying away.
“It took them long enough to get serious about that test,” Sara says. She’s carrying a grocery bag with coconut flakes and pistachios to garnish our ice cream.
“Interesting ingredients,” Bubbe says as she sips her coffee. “I can’t wait to watch you two in action.”
While we roll out and cut the donuts, Sara calls Rabia for a video chat. “Hellooo!” Rabia’s smiling face fills the screen. She insists on staying online while we cook. “Someone has to make sure you guys don’t burn the house down,” she says.
“Don’t worry. My grandma is in charge of the fryer,” I tell her. After we say goodbye to Rabia, it’s time for Bubbe to help us fry donuts.
Soon everyone is packed into our small kitchen: me, Sara, Bubbe. Dad comes in, asking, “How are the study buddies?”
“Are you talking about us or the moms?” I ask. Sara giggles.
Then Justin appears. “Hi, Sara! Are you making kha-gee-na? Bubbe gave me astronaut Legos for Hanukkah. Want to see?”
“Not right now, Justin,” I say. “Let’s teach Sara how to play dreidel while Bubbe cooks.”
I wish I could freeze this afternoon in my memory—the sound of the dreidel spinning on the table, the way Mrs. Hameed’s and my mom’s laughter carries from the other room, even the longing glances Robin Hood gives Bubbe, hoping she’s saved a bit of Hanukkah donut for him.
Last year, my family spent the holidays in Nottingham. We all stayed in Nan’s rambling old house, where David, Justin, and I each had our own room. Nan bought us new pajamas and laid them out on our beds for when we arrived, tired from the long flight and the drive up from London.
If I’d known it was my last-ever visit to Nan’s house, I would have paid more attention to everything: the carpets with their busy floral designs, the giant soaking tub in the bathroom, Nan’s gentle hugs and lavender perfume.
“Your bubbe should sell her recipe to my mom,” Sara says as she fills a just-fried donut with jam. “Yum! What do you call these again?”
“If I can learn to say doodh ka halwa, you can learn sufganiyot. Repeat after me: soof-gah-nee-yoht.”
David shoves a whole donut in his mouth and says, “Shoof-gan-ee-yummm.” I punch his arm.
Bubbe pats her belly. “Every culture has fried dough,” she says, “because it’s delicious.”
Even though we’re celebrating Hanukkah, I can’t stop thinking about Nan. If she were with us today, she’d be sitting in Mom’s corner, knitting, talking quietly with David. She didn’t always do so great with people she didn’t know. When Nan visited for David’s bar mitzvah, I introduced her to Maddy. I wanted Maddy to love Nan as much as I did, but they never exchanged more than a hello.
I’m lucky that I had two different grandmas. One who was as soft as bird feathers and loved sharing quiet cups of tea in the morning. And one who is loud, and pinches our cheeks, and makes great Hanukkah donuts.
The Hameeds are leaving before sundown, when we light the Hanukkah candles. It’s starting to get dark, so I pull Sara aside.
“Are you ready?”
I take our ice cream out of the freezer. Sara scoops big dollops into glass bowls.
“Let’s make it look pretty, at least,” she says. Typical Sara. She’s always thinking about design. She sprinkles a few extra flakes of coconut on each serving. “Ready.”
We’re about to go into the family room and offer tastes to everyone, when I notice a ziplock bag of ice cream melting on the counter.
“Go ahead,” I say, picking up a damp sponge. “I’d better clean this up before . . . Oh, no.”
Sara stops cold. “Oh, no, what? Did we forget the cardamom?”
My stomach drops. I wish I hadn’t eaten so many donuts. “Sara, we forgot to clean the ice cream machine.”
27
Sara
I ALMOST DROP THE TRAY of glass bowls. My hands are suddenly numb. “We did.”
My mind runs frantically over the events of last Friday. We’d scrambled to use the machine before anyone caught us. We’d giggled and eaten way too much ice cream in the name of flavor testing. We’d even divided the cleanup duties as we waited for the machine to ding. I’d wiped down the counters and mopped the floor, and Elizabeth washed the pans. Then the thunderous drumming from the music room went silent and we’d rushed out before anyone walked past the FACS room and saw us.
We’d been so proud of our division of labor, we forgot the most important cleanup task of all: Mrs. Kluck’s brand-new ice cream machine.
I lean against the wall for support. “Ya Allah,” I whisper.
“We would make terrib—” Elizabeth hiccups, then swallows. “Really terrible criminals.”
Her joke falls flat.
I set the plate carefully on the counter and turn to face her. My heart is thumping so loudly, it drowns out the sounds of laughter in the other room. “This is serious, Elizabeth. We weren’t supposed to touch that machine.”
“Maybe we can go to school early tomorrow and fix it before anyone notices.”
“What if Mrs. Kluck finds out? Who knows what she’ll do?” Elizabeth bites her thumbnail. I’ve never seen her do that before. “What if she tells Mama and they figure out that we made the mess?”
Elizabeth picks up the tray I just put down. “We didn’t leave any clues,” she tells me. Her voice trembles a little. “It’s not like they’ll dust the place for fingerprints. Your mom probably doesn’t even remember that you have the extra key.”
Elizabeth walks out of the kitche
n, her posture rigid. I follow her with lead feet into the family room, where everyone is gathered to taste our recipe before Mama and I head home.
Elizabeth passes around bowls and spoons. “Earl Grey ice cream with halwa chunks,” she tells everyone, but her voice is flat. Nothing like the excited way we planned. I am supposed to say Ta-da!, but my mouth won’t open.
“What is halwa?” her grandmother asks, passing bowls around.
I don’t say anything. My throat is closed tight. Mama gives me a puzzled look, then explains. “It’s a milk-based custard I taught the girls to make in my cooking club.”
“This is delicious, Elizabeth,” Mrs. Shainmark says in a surprised voice.
“Huh?” Elizabeth pushes her glasses up her nose and gives her mom a blank expression.
Mrs. Shainmark pauses and puts a hand on Elizabeth’s forehead. “Are you coming down with something? You look flushed.”
Elizabeth shakes her head.
“AAAH!” Justin clutches his throat and pretends to choke. “I’ve been poisoned!”
For a split second, I think he’s telling the truth, that our recipe is so bad, it could kill someone. My breath stops.
But everyone is laughing.
Elizabeth’s dad says to Justin, “Too much sugar for you, kiddo. I’ll have to eat your share.” He picks up Justin’s bowl and takes a spoonful. “It really is delicious.”
I let my breath out with a whoosh. A silver lining in the very cloudy sky that is my life right now.
“You invented this recipe?” Mama asks me quietly.
I can’t even look at her. All my anger at her over the last week evaporates in a haze of worry about the ice cream machine. I nod way too fast. “It’s no big deal.”
Mama frowns. “Take it as a compliment, Sara. From one chef to another!”
“What’s it called?” Justin asks.
“You need a snazzy name for the contest,” Elizabeth’s grandmother says.
Everyone looks at me. I can’t stand it. How am I supposed to think of a name for something I wish I’d never created?
A Place at the Table Page 18
