A Place at the Table

by Saadia Faruqi

  “Says the guy who eats microwave pastry,” I say.

  David puts on his I’m smarter than you face. “It’s basic chemistry. I wouldn’t expect sixth-graders to understand.”

  “See why I always say younger brothers are better than older brothers?” I complain to Sara.

  “Well, we don’t have an ice cream machine, so we don’t have a choice,” she replies. She’s getting frustrated. I can tell by the way she’s picking at the edge of her tunic.

  David takes his last bite of Hot Pocket. “This sounds like a job for an engineer. Let me see what I can cook up.” He raises an eyebrow at us. “Cook up. Get it?”

  Sara groans.

  I say, “David, no way. The last thing we need is you pulling apart another kitchen appliance and turning it into some robo chef.”

  From the family room, Mom calls, “Not another project! You’ve already made a real dog’s dinner of the garage. And you promised you’d finish the toaster.” That cracks Mrs. Hameed up.

  David starts up the family laptop. “Mom, I am trying to help my dear sister,” he says, grinning at me and Sara with all his teeth showing.

  “What’s he going to find on the Internet?” Sara asks.

  “Knowing my brother, probably some broken-down, ancient ice cream maker somebody’s selling on a ‘Please take my trash’ app.”

  We go back to our notebook for more brainstorming. Suddenly, David stands up, closes the laptop, and says, “Where’s Justin? It’s brother-project time!”

  “We get dibs on the kitchen,” I say, just in case.

  “You can have it,” David says. “All I need is an empty pretzel jug and a big freezer bag.”

  “What are we making?” Justin asks David as he hops down the stairs. “Is it a robot?”

  My brothers put on jackets and disappear into the garage with Robin trailing behind them.

  “Is it this nutty at your house?” I whisper to Sara.

  “Every Saturday,” she says with a laugh. Sara peeks into the family room. “I’m glad we got our mothers together. Mama’s only friends have been ladies from the mosque, or her catering clients. She’s never had anyone in the neighborhood to hang out with.”

  “Same here,” I say. “My mom used to work at a community theater. She liked the people there. But when Nan got sick and she took a leave of absence, nobody from the theater ever called to check on her. She needed a real friend.”

  “I did too,” Sara says as we get out ingredients for our ice cream recipe. “I needed a friend at school.”

  “And you picked me, because I’m an awesome cook.”

  Sara rolls her eyes. “Nope. I thought, I feel sorry for that girl. She has no one to cook with.”

  “That too. But now . . .”

  “Now we’re just friends. And cooking partners.”

  “And recipe contest winners.” A moment of doubt creeps in as I wonder how we’re going to churn our ice cream. “Sara, for real. Do you think Halwa Cuppa Tea has a chance?”

  “I hope so.” She closes her eyes as if she’s dreaming. “I can picture it. The two of us on TV, wearing Hameed’s Kitchen aprons.”

  But without Mrs. Kluck’s ice cream machine, that’s never going to happen.

  By the time we’ve steeped six tea bags in our custard, David, Justin, and Robin Hood tumble into the house in a blur of grease stains, sweat, and fur.

  “Elizabeth! Sara!” Justin pants. His cheeks are rosy from the cold. “Wait till you see what we made.”

  David leans against a wall, arms crossed and relaxed, like he’s super proud of himself. I should tell him that his puffy winter coat makes his legs look even more like toothpicks, but I restrain myself.

  Mom, Mrs. Hameed, Sara, and I follow Justin to the garage with Robin Hood leading the way and David behind. There is Justin’s bike, also known as Blue Thunder, with a plastic pretzel jar attached to the handlebars.

  “Um . . .” I say.

  “It’s very . . .” Sara says.

  Justin is about to explode. “It’s an ice cream machine!” He jumps up and down.

  I’m confused. “It’s a bike with a pretzel jar stuck on the front.”

  “Ah,” says David, “but it’s not stuck.” He points to the clear jug. “The jar has a spindle through the middle. It’s resting gently on the front wheel. So—” He motions to Justin.

  “So, when the wheel spins, the jar spins!” Justin says. Robin Hood barks.

  Sara says, “I still don’t get it.”

  But I do. I’ve watched enough videos of old hand-crank ice cream makers to see David’s vision. “All we need is ice, and some salt to keep the temperature low.”

  David says, “Exactly. Put a bag full of liquid ice cream mixture into the jug, go for a ride, and in a few minutes . . .”

  “Churned ice cream!” Sara says, beaming.

  Now I’m jumping up and down. I throw my arms around my brother’s puffy-jacketed middle. “I will never get mad at you for taking apart my old alarm clock again.” I can’t believe he did this for me and Sara. “David, you’re brilliant!”

  “Took you long enough to notice.”

  Mom and Mrs. Hameed go back to studying, but Sara and I put on our jackets. We carefully place the bag of liquid ice cream into the plastic jug. David packs in the ice. Pouring in salt to keep the ice cold is Justin’s job—but it’s so frigid today, I can’t imagine anything melting. We all take turns riding Justin’s bike around the block with the ice cream maker rolling on the front wheel. Justin’s bike is too small for us, but no one cares.

  My whole family helped me and Sara today, all of us together. I wish Dad had been here. I can picture him trying to ride Justin’s bike with his long legs sticking out. I hope he gets a new job soon so he doesn’t miss stuff like this.

  When our hands are too cold to stay out a moment longer, the four of us go inside. It’s time for a taste test.

  I give a spoon to each person: Mrs. Hameed, Sara, Mom, David, Justin, and one for me. We dip our spoons into the freezer bag full of Earl Grey ice cream with halwa pieces.

  “Mmm,” David says.

  “It’s delicious, girls,” Mrs. Hameed agrees.

  “I’ve never tasted anything like it,” Mom says. “The nuts and coconut complement that floral tea flavor.”

  “Don’t tell them about the curdled milk,” Sara fake-whispers in my ear.

  Justin raises his hand, as if we’re in school. “I like curdled milk.”

  “On what planet?” I ask.

  He says, “On Planet Ice Cream.” Everyone laughs.

  “So, this is it?” I ask Sara.

  “This is it.” She takes another taste of the ice cream. “Our Secret Award-Winning Recipe. Halwa Cuppa Tea.”

  “Halwa Cuppa Tea,” says Mom as we all clink spoons.

  33

  Sara

  POPLAR SPRINGS MIDDLE is one mile from my house. Every inch of that mile is filled with Christmas lights hanging from trees, mailboxes, and houses. “Christmas is almost here,” Baba informs us with a wry smile as he drives. “In case you forgot.”

  “How can we ever forget?” I grumble, but I don’t really mean it. I love the way my neighbors celebrate their big holiday. It reminds me of Eid, how happy we all are to dress up, worship, and give gifts to mark the end of Ramadan.

  It’s weird coming to school at night. We pull into Mama’s usual spot, and I scramble out before Baba even cuts the engine. I inhale a lungful of crisp air. It hasn’t snowed yet in Maryland, but the temperature is close to freezing.

  This is it, what Elizabeth and I have been working on for so long.

  Baba carries big foil containers full of samples of Mama’s most popular dishes. “What is this curry made of, rocks?” he asks.

  “Think of Elizabeth’s dad,” I tell him severely. “He’s gotta drag a ton of ice cream around.”

  Baba grunts, but he straightens up a little. I leave him behind and lead Mama to the entrance of the school, where my poster hangs by
black rope, waving a gentle welcome in the cool night air. The colors are bright, and the faces in the middle glow from the light above our heads. “Ta-da!”

  Mama turns to look at me with a huge smile. “It’s absolutely stunning, jaanoo!” She’s wearing a green-and-white silky shalwar kameez—the colors of the Pakistan flag—and a matching white hijab that makes her almost radiant.

  I reach out to squeeze her hand. “Shukriya,” I say. “Are you ready?”

  We enter the school together, ignoring Baba’s grunting behind us. The hallways are dimly lit, but I can still see the snowmen and reindeer in every class window. The teachers have been busy. We go into the gym, and my jaw drops. It’s flooded with bright lights. Music streams through speakers above my head. Long tables line the walls, each representing a different country. There’s Germany, with a towering pile of what looks like hot buns in straw baskets. There’s Mexico, with a trio of students practicing mariachi. There’s Poland, with a woman who looks like Mrs. Kluck’s not-so-evil twin sister standing beside it, arms crossed over her chest. Toward the back of the room is a table for Haiti, where Ms. Saintima sits with a broad, welcoming smile. I wave at Micah, who is setting up a line of djembes for the percussion-group performance. It’s all buzzing with activity and bursting with color.

  “Finally! You guys are late!” Elizabeth rushes up to us, all smiles. She’s wearing a plain black T-shirt over white capri pants, and a little hat that says PAKISTAN in green embroidery. She points to a table in the corner, covered in green cloth. “Our table’s all set. Mom and Dad helped me.”

  “Sorry,” I reply sheepishly. “It’s called South Asian Time.” She looks at me blankly, and I explain, “We always go late everywhere. It’s almost a tradition.”

  “Mrs. Hameed, come see what we made!” A couple of girls from cooking club wave frantically to Mama. She hurries off to talk with them.

  I look around. “Where are your mom and dad?”

  Elizabeth points to a table nearby. “My dad couldn’t come. My mom’s at the England stall. Maddy and Steph are selling scones and jam, and I think my mother is literally going to polish them off singlehandedly.”

  Maddy and Stephanie are wearing identical white aprons with SUPPORT HOWARD COUNTY GENERAL NICU in neon green. Maddy waves. I remember Rabia’s comment about forgiveness and plaster a polite smile on my face.

  There’s a movement near the gym entrance. Students flock around someone short and bald, dressed in a navy blue blazer that seems right out of a catalogue.

  Elizabeth nudges me. “There’s the judge.”

  I try not to stare. I’ve seen Chef Alfonso Morgan on television many times. Once my family went to his cookbook signing at the Curious Iguana bookstore in Frederick. Baba even shook the chef’s hand. “He’s going to judge our fusion ice cream?” I groan. “He’s probably eaten every exotic ice cream known to mankind.”

  Elizabeth and I watch as Chef Morgan moves along with a wave of adoring fans to the back of the gym, where a few chairs are set up for teachers and guests.

  “I’m sure he’ll like our bike-churned ice cream,” she finally says, but her voice is uncertain. “We should have brought the bike here so people could churn it themselves. How cool would that have been?”

  “Totally. If Mr. Harrison would let us ride bikes in the hallway. Which would never happen.”

  Baba sets up the ice cream, and we get to work assembling. One scoop of Earl Grey mixed with chunks of halwa, a few pistachio pieces, with a sprinkle of coconut and chocolate flakes on top. Repeat countless times, until our hands ache. Pretty soon we have rows of plastic bowls of ice cream spread out on the table. A small sign says HALWA CUPPA TEA in neat letters. I’ve also printed out flyers with Mama’s catering menu and prices. They sit in a neat pile ready to be handed out. My HAMEED’S KITCHEN logo is on the top of each flyer. I watch nervously to see if anyone notices.

  A few students come up and we hand out samples. Before long, there’s a line in front of our table. Mrs. Newman wanders over with a plate of rice in her hand. “Hello, girls.” She smiles. “What do you have here?”

  I give her a sample, then venture, “The poster looks nice outside, doesn’t it?”

  Mrs. Newman’s smile broadens. “Definitely! I’ve been telling your dad you have a future as an illustrator.”

  I gulp. “Really? What did he say?”

  “He just smiled.”

  I take that as a positive sign. Mrs. Newman walks away, muttering “Delicious” as she eats her ice cream.

  There’s a lull in hungry students, and I look up. The gym is full of kids and parents, plus most of our teachers. Mrs. Kluck and Mama are standing side by side near the Poland table, trying to chat. I can tell by Mama’s rigid backbone that the conversation is uncomfortable, but at least they’re talking.

  Elizabeth wipes her hands with a towel and shivers. “Remind me never to serve this much ice cream without wearing gloves again.”

  “Remind me never to take part in food competitions again,” I reply, eyeing the line in front of Maddy and Stephanie’s table. It’s about fifteen kids deep, and at least half of those kids are back for seconds.

  Elizabeth waves away my concern. “So what? They made scones. Big deal.”

  “Wah!” Baba walks over with his mouth full and a plate of scones for both of us. “You girls have to try this. Mazedaar! It’s out of this world.”

  I give him a dirty look, but we each take one scone anyway. We bite into them together, as if ingesting an enemy’s secret poison. Baba’s right. It’s creamy raspberry mixed with a familiar taste I can’t put my finger on. “Ginger?” I ask nobody in particular.

  Elizabeth nods. “With a hint of cinnamon.”

  “Genius,” I whisper.

  Baba’s already walking back to the England table. “I should get another one, for your mama,” he tells us. “I don’t think they will last long.”

  Elizabeth gives me an unnecessarily bright smile. “Forget the scones. Our ice cream is much more original.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She smacks her forehead. “I totally forgot! Are you wearing it?”

  I finger the zipper on my cardigan. It’s maroon and very plain, worn over a faded pair of jeans as if tonight is an ordinary winter night. “I don’t know . . .”

  She sighs loudly. “Come on, don’t be afraid! It’s going to be fine.”

  “What’s going to be fine?”

  I whirl around. Mama is standing behind us, looking highly interested. Elizabeth pushes me forward. I glare at her, then pull the zipper open and face Mama. I’m wearing a gray T-shirt with the logo I designed hand-drawn in fabric marker. Front and center, it reads: HAMEED’S KITCHEN. I watch her carefully, one hand still gripping the zipper in case I need to pull it up quickly. Her face turns from blank to confused to stunned. I may stop breathing, but I’m not sure. One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi.

  She smiles and squeals, “Sara, this is amazing! Did you design this?”

  Elizabeth gives me an I told you so look. I nod quickly, not sure of what to say. “I thought you should have a logo to promote your business. Stephanie gave me the idea,” I admit.

  She leans closer and kisses me. “Is that what you were working on in your sketchbook?”

  I nod, her kiss making me embarrassed but also weirdly happy. “It started as an art project, but it’s something I think you can use.”

  Elizabeth adds, “Sara has lots of cool ideas for your business, Mrs. H. You should listen to her.”

  “I don’t know what to say. You girls are always surprising me.”

  The microphone crackles to life above our heads. It’s Principal Harrison. “Students, please get your entries ready for the first-ever Poplar Springs showcase! Our judges are Mrs. Kluckowski, myself, and the esteemed Chef Morgan from Let’s Get Cooking!”

  Everyone claps and cheers madly. I’m more nervous than excited as the judges come around to the tables, sampling foods and making notes on thei
r clipboards with serious faces. Mama nods enthusiastically at all her girls, even Maddy and Stephanie. When the judges reach their table, they spend several minutes chewing and nodding.

  Then they’re at our table. Elizabeth makes fresh bowls of ice cream for them to try, taking care with the coconut and pistachio toppings.

  The judges take dainty bites and jot down notes. Mrs. Kluck looks like she can’t believe what she’s eating. “This is actually very good,” she tells me, as if I’ve committed a crime.

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth answers for both of us.

  I peek at Chef Morgan’s clipboard. His writing is atrocious. “Good effort,” he tells me, and the trio moves to the next table.

  Good effort? That’s it? Who does he think he is? I suddenly feel hot. I look around for an escape route. Elizabeth’s mom comes up to talk to her, and I slip away. I leave the gym with its bright lights and noise, and sit on the floor in the empty hallway.

  “What are you doing out here?” It’s Rabia, dressed in a purple puffy jacket, jeans, and a matching purple hijab. She unzips her jacket and sits down beside me, leaning her shoulder against mine.

  I put my hand on my chest to stop my heart from racing. Rabia at Poplar Springs Middle is a sight I never thought I’d see. “I could ask you the same question.”

  “Your mama told my mama all about this brand-new ice cream you cooked up, so I convinced her to bring me. She’s parking the car.”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  She puts a hand on my knee. “You’re always too modest.”

  “I don’t think we’re going to win. I wanted that TV spot. I was going to wear my Hameed’s Kitchen shirt.” I unzip my sweater again and show her the logo.

  “Who cares? You tried your best.” She looks around. “Where are your brothers? I haven’t seen those munchkins in forever.”

  I shudder at the thought of Rafey and Tariq running loose in my school’s hallway. “Elizabeth’s older brother, David, is babysitting all three boys: the twins and Elizabeth’s younger brother, too. They’re going to make popcorn and watch superhero movies.”

  She stands and pulls me up with her. “That reminds me. I’m starving.”