Read Online Julia’s Kitchen by Brenda A. Ferber - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brenda A. Ferber
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of God existing, even if I didnât understand him, comforted me. Maybe Iâd hang the mezuzot in this apartment. Maybe Dad would help. After all, heâd taken them from our home. He must have wanted them if heâd gone to the trouble of unscrewing them from the doorposts.
Just when I thought I couldnât be shocked by anything else, I spotted something at the very bottom of the carton. I reached for it and gasped. Momâs black metal recipe box! I opened it and looked inside. All of Momâs recipes, in her curvy handwriting, in perfect order. Impossible! My hands shook as I held the black box.
I found my favorite recipe, chocolate-chip cookies, and read it. I had baked them with Mom about a million times.
I considered surprising Dad tomorrow when he got home from work with a warm, chewy cookie. He would smell the apartment from the hallway. He would think he was dreaming. He would walk in and see the cookies, Momâs cookies, and ⦠and ⦠I didnât know what would happen next. Would it make him happy? Or would it break his heart? Hadnât he seemed so sad when he said I would look like Mom when I grew up? Besides, hadnât I sworn I would never eat another dessert?
It was a bad idea. I could never make her cookies. Who did I think I was, anyway?
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
On Monday after Hebrew school, Dad and I ate spaghetti for dinner. Then Dad turned on the TV and I went to my room and tried on Momâs ruby necklace again. I gathered all the photographs, along with Janieâs journal and baseball cards and Momâs recipes. I got to work putting the photos in my scrapbook. In big block letters I printed AFTER THE FIRE across the top of a double page spread. I wished I could ask Marlee to write it, but she was definitely getting tired of my mourning. I hadnât even told her about the boxesâalthough Iâd really wanted to.
Next I matted the pictures of Mom and Janie. I mounted a photo of Janie in the center of one page and one of Mom in the center of the other. Around their pictures, I listed some of the things I wanted to always remember about them.
On Janieâs side, I wrote: Crooked Teeth, Great Athlete, Tomboy, Best Friends with Justin Wittenberg, Scared of Thunderstorms, Cat-Lover, Wanted to Pitch for the Cubs, Messy, Sweet, Sometimes Annoying.
On Momâs side, I wrote: Smelled Like Vanilla, Curly Hair, Hazel Eyes, Best Baker in the World, Helpful, Organized, Loving, Cool Mom, Sometimes Strict.
Then, across the bottom, I wrote: Died Way Too Soon.
To the next pages I attached all the rest of the photos, the baseball cards, and my favorite recipes. I even ripped out some pages of Janieâs journal to put in there. I thought about what it would be like to look at this scrapbook next year, or sometime far in the future. I wondered if I would ever forget Mom and Janie. Would they someday be just these pictures and items to me? Would I forget Momâs smell or the feel of her skin? Would Janieâs giggles fade away forever?
By the time Iâd finished everything, it was eleven-thirty. Dad must have gone to bed without saying good night to me, or maybe heâd fallen asleep on the couch. I knew Iâd be exhausted tomorrow. But if I skipped my shower in the morning and got my backpack organized now, Iâd be able to sleep a little later. So I checked my assignment notebook and my folder to make sure I had everything I needed. My folder was stuffed with old papers from school. Mom used to look at all the notes and graded papers, but now they just sat in the folder.
I grabbed the papers and walked to the wastebasket. It wasnât as if Dad would care about them. But one piece of pink paper caught my eye. It was a flyer about the Valentineâs Day Bake Sale. It would be this Friday, and everyone was invited to bring in baked goods. I thought about Momâs cookies from last yearâs sale. Janie and I had been so
Just when I thought I couldnât be shocked by anything else, I spotted something at the very bottom of the carton. I reached for it and gasped. Momâs black metal recipe box! I opened it and looked inside. All of Momâs recipes, in her curvy handwriting, in perfect order. Impossible! My hands shook as I held the black box.
I found my favorite recipe, chocolate-chip cookies, and read it. I had baked them with Mom about a million times.
I considered surprising Dad tomorrow when he got home from work with a warm, chewy cookie. He would smell the apartment from the hallway. He would think he was dreaming. He would walk in and see the cookies, Momâs cookies, and ⦠and ⦠I didnât know what would happen next. Would it make him happy? Or would it break his heart? Hadnât he seemed so sad when he said I would look like Mom when I grew up? Besides, hadnât I sworn I would never eat another dessert?
It was a bad idea. I could never make her cookies. Who did I think I was, anyway?
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
On Monday after Hebrew school, Dad and I ate spaghetti for dinner. Then Dad turned on the TV and I went to my room and tried on Momâs ruby necklace again. I gathered all the photographs, along with Janieâs journal and baseball cards and Momâs recipes. I got to work putting the photos in my scrapbook. In big block letters I printed AFTER THE FIRE across the top of a double page spread. I wished I could ask Marlee to write it, but she was definitely getting tired of my mourning. I hadnât even told her about the boxesâalthough Iâd really wanted to.
Next I matted the pictures of Mom and Janie. I mounted a photo of Janie in the center of one page and one of Mom in the center of the other. Around their pictures, I listed some of the things I wanted to always remember about them.
On Janieâs side, I wrote: Crooked Teeth, Great Athlete, Tomboy, Best Friends with Justin Wittenberg, Scared of Thunderstorms, Cat-Lover, Wanted to Pitch for the Cubs, Messy, Sweet, Sometimes Annoying.
On Momâs side, I wrote: Smelled Like Vanilla, Curly Hair, Hazel Eyes, Best Baker in the World, Helpful, Organized, Loving, Cool Mom, Sometimes Strict.
Then, across the bottom, I wrote: Died Way Too Soon.
To the next pages I attached all the rest of the photos, the baseball cards, and my favorite recipes. I even ripped out some pages of Janieâs journal to put in there. I thought about what it would be like to look at this scrapbook next year, or sometime far in the future. I wondered if I would ever forget Mom and Janie. Would they someday be just these pictures and items to me? Would I forget Momâs smell or the feel of her skin? Would Janieâs giggles fade away forever?
By the time Iâd finished everything, it was eleven-thirty. Dad must have gone to bed without saying good night to me, or maybe heâd fallen asleep on the couch. I knew Iâd be exhausted tomorrow. But if I skipped my shower in the morning and got my backpack organized now, Iâd be able to sleep a little later. So I checked my assignment notebook and my folder to make sure I had everything I needed. My folder was stuffed with old papers from school. Mom used to look at all the notes and graded papers, but now they just sat in the folder.
I grabbed the papers and walked to the wastebasket. It wasnât as if Dad would care about them. But one piece of pink paper caught my eye. It was a flyer about the Valentineâs Day Bake Sale. It would be this Friday, and everyone was invited to bring in baked goods. I thought about Momâs cookies from last yearâs sale. Janie and I had been so
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