A Place at the Table: Chapters 25–34

Mama puts away groceries with quick, economical movements.

I can’t believe we’re lying so easily. I can’t believe I’ve changed from Good, Obedient Daughter to Scheming, Dishonest Daughter.

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.

David leans his long, spindly body against the kitchen counter and pokes at toaster parts, like he’s got nothing better to do.

“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.”

In moments, my brother has created a plan for cleaning the house, broken down by task, time allotted, and which kid is doing what.

After we say goodbye, Mom and Bubbe argue over latkes. Mom pulls a bag of something called “potato shreds” out of the freezer.

The kitchen still reeks of onions from last night’s latke extravaganza, but I’m too happy to care.

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.

Outside, everything seems strange and downcast, as if a storm is coming.

Mama and Mrs. Kluck are almost toe to toe, arms akimbo.

Mama’s in an old shalwar kameez and the threadbare pink leopard hijab that she keeps in her purse for emergencies—the one she wears when she needs to run out for an errand without warning.

Rancid milk is stinking up the insides. That’s what happens when milk and sugar are left to pool for three days.

It’s Stephanie, glaring at Mrs. Kluck with her arms crossed defiantly over her chest.

The enormity of what’s happened is hitting me in waves. Big red words—LOAN PAST DUE—flash in my mind.

“She used school equipment for her catering business, without permission. When she was let go, it was my opinion that the cooking club should be disbanded.”

“I wanted you each to have something of Nan’s,” Mom says. “But all I had was her unused yarn—unless you want the Queen’s Jubilee plates.”

“You sound like Bubbe,” Dad says. “Is this some kind of conspiracy?”

“I hear you’ve contracted a serious case of the friendship flu.”

I bite my lip, wondering where to hide before I’m accosted by any more kids feeling sorry for me.

I stare at the wooden whorls on my desk, the nick that’s been there from the first day of class, and also the blue paint I smashed in the corner in my first week and never bothered to clean.

As I puree tomatoes in a blender, Mom leans on the kitchen counter, sipping her tea.

We sit at the table together, but before I can take a taste, the doorbell rings, sending Robin into a barking frenzy.

My mood is as light and sunny as a lemon meringue pie.

Once, I coat my brush with red and think of Elizabeth’s advice about using a warm color for Mama’s business flyer. Another time, I mix my palette with peachy tones and I’m reminded of the color in her room.

Money isn’t something Rabia’s family worries about. I finally open up and share all the details. The bills. Mama and Baba’s arguments. The ice cream machine fiasco.

I take in the scene in my tiny foyer.

Rabia stands a little bit to the side, looking skeptical but also highly amused.

“Thank you for saying that. I don’t want to fight. We’ve got to stay friends. We complement each other.”

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

Our judges are Mrs. Kluckowski, myself, and the esteemed Chef Morgan from Let’s Get Cooking!

I peek at Chef Morgan’s clipboard. His writing is atrocious.

I stand with Elizabeth on one side and Rabia on the other, holding hands like some sappy team on America’s Got Talent.

“After much deliberation, we have decided that the prize goes to Maddy Montgomery and Stephanie Tolleson for their Raspberry Ginger Scones!”

“You are a mosaic of people from all around the world,” the judge says. “You are adding color to that mosaic, sharing your traditions, your art, your food. Especially your food.”