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Authors: Ayelet Tsabari
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again.
Ofra sighed at the ceiling. “Who cares?”
Reuma glared at her.
“Fine, then lie.”
Reuma looked at the photos on the corkboard, the strangers hugging her daughter, the photo of Ofra in the sheer dress. It was as though she didn’t know her daughter at all. What a fool she had been to think this trip would bring them closer.
From the kitchen she heard water running, dishes clattering. The smell of cooking permeated the room, growing familiar: turmeric and chilies, cumin and garlic. “What are you making?” Reuma said, her hunger awakening.
Ofra smiled. “Matthew wanted to surprise you.”
“Matthew?”
“He’s been making Yemeni soup every Friday. He even learned to make jichnoon. We have a whole Yemeni dinner planned.”
“Matthew cooked?”
Ofra nodded. “He got some recipes from Shoshi—”
“From Shoshi?” Reuma cried. “You should have gotten them from me.”
“Then it wouldn’t have been a surprise, would it?” She looked at Reuma. “Are you okay?”
Reuma didn’t answer. She looked at her lap, twirling her wedding ring on her finger. Ofra hesitated, then placed her hand on Reuma’s shoulder and squeezed. She left, her footsteps tapping on the stairs.
Reuma remained seated a moment longer, then went to the washroom to wash her face. She looked at herself in the mirror; her eyes were red, her skin blotched from crying. She threw water on her face, then pinched and patted her cheeks.
Downstairs, Ofra was setting the table with Yonatan strapped to her chest. Matthew poured salt into the soup and smiled at her over his shoulder. Any other time she would have been pleased by the pungent tang of Yemeni spices in her daughter’s kitchen, by the familiar spread on the table: a finely chopped vegetable salad, a bowl of schug, the cilantro in it smelling fresh, as though it had just been prepared, and even a bowl of hilbe, a spicy fenugreek paste none of her daughters-in-law had ever learned to make. But now Reuma slid into a chair, not offering to help, her hands resting in her lap. She couldn’t help it; knowing it hadn’t been her daughter who prepared the meal soured it for Reuma. These recipes had been passed down through the women of their family for generations.
“Thank you, honey.” Ofra walked by and kissed Matthew on the cheek. “It looks amazing.” She turned to her mother and saidin Hebrew, “Can you believe how lucky I am? And wait till you taste his jichnoon.”
“You know,” Reuma couldn’t resist. “My mother always said that women’s hands are better for kneading dough.”
Ofra raised an eyebrow.
“It’s true,” Reuma continued. “Our hands are naturally colder. Men’s hands are too warm.”
Ofra smiled, saying nothing.
Finally Matthew placed a bowl of steaming yellow soup in front of her, his face open and expectant. Reuma examined the soup. It looked right: a shiny film on top, a yellow chicken drumstick, a carrot, half a potato, wilted stems of cilantro. She raised a spoonful of it to her mouth, feeling the urge to criticize—it could have used more garlic, less turmeric—but holding herself back. It tasted different, but it was fresh and spicy.
“So?” Ofra said.
“It’s good.” She nodded, reluctantly, and Matthew grinned, recognizing the word.
Reuma said nothing until she finished the soup. Then she pushed away her bowl and leaned back, letting the heat settle in her stomach. Her daughter sat across the table, nursing Yonatan. Reuma knew she had to give it one last try. She owed it to Shaul, at least. “So what’s going to happen if you come back?” she said.
Ofra looked up. “Come back?”
“Did you ever think about what’s going to happen to Yonatan then? And in the army? He’ll always be different than the other boys. Everyone will make fun of him.”
Matthew glanced up from his plate quickly, tensely. Ofra looked at her as if she was studying her. “I’m not coming back, Ima.”
“Not now, but maybe
Ofra sighed at the ceiling. “Who cares?”
Reuma glared at her.
“Fine, then lie.”
Reuma looked at the photos on the corkboard, the strangers hugging her daughter, the photo of Ofra in the sheer dress. It was as though she didn’t know her daughter at all. What a fool she had been to think this trip would bring them closer.
From the kitchen she heard water running, dishes clattering. The smell of cooking permeated the room, growing familiar: turmeric and chilies, cumin and garlic. “What are you making?” Reuma said, her hunger awakening.
Ofra smiled. “Matthew wanted to surprise you.”
“Matthew?”
“He’s been making Yemeni soup every Friday. He even learned to make jichnoon. We have a whole Yemeni dinner planned.”
“Matthew cooked?”
Ofra nodded. “He got some recipes from Shoshi—”
“From Shoshi?” Reuma cried. “You should have gotten them from me.”
“Then it wouldn’t have been a surprise, would it?” She looked at Reuma. “Are you okay?”
Reuma didn’t answer. She looked at her lap, twirling her wedding ring on her finger. Ofra hesitated, then placed her hand on Reuma’s shoulder and squeezed. She left, her footsteps tapping on the stairs.
Reuma remained seated a moment longer, then went to the washroom to wash her face. She looked at herself in the mirror; her eyes were red, her skin blotched from crying. She threw water on her face, then pinched and patted her cheeks.
Downstairs, Ofra was setting the table with Yonatan strapped to her chest. Matthew poured salt into the soup and smiled at her over his shoulder. Any other time she would have been pleased by the pungent tang of Yemeni spices in her daughter’s kitchen, by the familiar spread on the table: a finely chopped vegetable salad, a bowl of schug, the cilantro in it smelling fresh, as though it had just been prepared, and even a bowl of hilbe, a spicy fenugreek paste none of her daughters-in-law had ever learned to make. But now Reuma slid into a chair, not offering to help, her hands resting in her lap. She couldn’t help it; knowing it hadn’t been her daughter who prepared the meal soured it for Reuma. These recipes had been passed down through the women of their family for generations.
“Thank you, honey.” Ofra walked by and kissed Matthew on the cheek. “It looks amazing.” She turned to her mother and saidin Hebrew, “Can you believe how lucky I am? And wait till you taste his jichnoon.”
“You know,” Reuma couldn’t resist. “My mother always said that women’s hands are better for kneading dough.”
Ofra raised an eyebrow.
“It’s true,” Reuma continued. “Our hands are naturally colder. Men’s hands are too warm.”
Ofra smiled, saying nothing.
Finally Matthew placed a bowl of steaming yellow soup in front of her, his face open and expectant. Reuma examined the soup. It looked right: a shiny film on top, a yellow chicken drumstick, a carrot, half a potato, wilted stems of cilantro. She raised a spoonful of it to her mouth, feeling the urge to criticize—it could have used more garlic, less turmeric—but holding herself back. It tasted different, but it was fresh and spicy.
“So?” Ofra said.
“It’s good.” She nodded, reluctantly, and Matthew grinned, recognizing the word.
Reuma said nothing until she finished the soup. Then she pushed away her bowl and leaned back, letting the heat settle in her stomach. Her daughter sat across the table, nursing Yonatan. Reuma knew she had to give it one last try. She owed it to Shaul, at least. “So what’s going to happen if you come back?” she said.
Ofra looked up. “Come back?”
“Did you ever think about what’s going to happen to Yonatan then? And in the army? He’ll always be different than the other boys. Everyone will make fun of him.”
Matthew glanced up from his plate quickly, tensely. Ofra looked at her as if she was studying her. “I’m not coming back, Ima.”
“Not now, but maybe
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