Julia’s Kitchen Page 10

  I poured the cereal, but then I changed my mind. The peanut-butter cookies Marlee and I’d made yesterday sat on the counter, tempting me. I remembered the day of the funeral, when I’d sworn not to eat another dessert again. I’d thought then that Mom would never bake with me, but I was wrong. Mom was with me all the time. Not in a way I could see or touch. But in a way I could feel. In my heart. And just like that, I knew it was time. I stuck two cookies in the microwave for seven seconds, just enough to warm and soften them. I poured myself a tall glass of milk. Then I sat at the kitchen table and took a bite.

  Oh, delicious! Nutty, and buttery, and sweet. The cookie melted in my mouth, and the cold milk washed it down perfectly. A little piece of heaven. Thanks, Mom!

  As I ate the cookies, my mind started spinning. I needed to take care of Thunder. And talking to Dad last night had helped me figure out how I could honor Mom and Janie’s memory with the money from Julia’s Kitchen. I could give it to the fire department, and they could use it for safety education. Plus, it was Friday—tonight was Shabbat. Mom had always made sure our Shabbat dinners were extra special when we were celebrating something—a birthday, their anniversary, the end of the school year, whatever. I felt that Dad and I had something to celebrate, too. A new beginning.

  So after I finished eating the cookies, I called Bubbe.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Bubbe.”

  “Well, good morning, love! How are you, Cara, dear?”

  “I’m good. But I need your help with something.”

  “Oh? What can I do for you, sweetheart?”

  “Well … I want to bake Mom’s challah.”

  “That’s terrific. Zayde and I were just talking about planning a trip to see you this summer. We can do it then.”

  “But, Bubbe … I want to bake it today, after school. I need to bake it today.”

  “Oh…” Bubbe said, and silence filled the air. I pictured her on the other end of the line. Was she sitting down in her yellow kitchen? Or was she in the beige living room with her bright paintings covering the walls?

  I had looked at Mom’s challah recipe dozens of times before, but unlike her other recipes, this one was extremely vague. One part said, “Add 9 to 11 cups of flour slowly until dough forms ball and bounces back at touch.” There was a huge difference between 9 cups of flour and 11. How was I supposed to know what kind of ball it should form? Or how bouncy it should be? The recipe was just a sketch. If only I had made the dough with Mom. Instead, I would have to rely on Bubbe.

  Thankfully, Bubbe didn’t ask me why it had to be today. She didn’t tell me baking challah was too hard to explain over the phone or that she’d have to call me after her hair appointment, or golf game, or anything.

  She simply said, “I see … Well, in that case, let’s start from the beginning.”

  She was a good teacher. I scribbled detailed notes on the back of Mom’s recipe. And during our conversation, I filled her in on Julia’s Kitchen and things with Dad. It was so easy to talk to Bubbe. I had forgotten how good it could feel. Before we hung up, I promised her I’d call more often. And I meant it.

  I glanced at the clock and saw I’d be late for school. So I ran out the door, promising Thunder I’d introduce him to his new family later that afternoon.

  At school I told Marlee everything that had happened after she left yesterday. She was as excited for me as I was. But she was really sad about Thunder.

  “Are you absolutely, positively sure there is no way you can keep him?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Even if Dad said yes, I couldn’t do that to him. But I’m going to see if the Wittenbergs will adopt Thunder.”

  A smile spread across Marlee’s face. “Oh, that’s a good idea. Janie would like that.”

  As soon as I got home, I made the challah dough. It would need to rise for an hour before I could braid it, so I emptied everything out of my backpack and put Thunder inside, leaving it unzipped just enough for him to stick his head out if he wanted.

  I slipped my backpack over my chest so the pouch faced forward, and I headed outside. The fresh cool air blew across my cheeks as I strode off toward the bus stop. Taking a bus wasn’t scary at all for me anymore. Thunder poked his head out of the backpack, and I pretended I was a mom carrying my baby in one of those baby-sling-thingies.

  The number 4 bus let me off at the corner of my old street. My house stood, boarded up and lonely, with a FOR SALE sign out front. I supposed someone would buy it, knock it down, and build something new. “What do you think, Thunder? Should we try to look inside?”

  Thunder didn’t respond.

  “You’re no help,” I said.

  I stared at the house. If I went inside, would all my good memories of our home before the fire be erased by what I saw? Or would I maybe find something important—something Dad missed when he was here last time? I decided I had to know. I made my legs walk in the direction of the house even as my brain was telling me to stop.

  I stepped over the sagging yellow caution tape, my heart pounding. I pushed on the wooden board that had replaced our front door. It didn’t budge. I pushed harder. I kicked it. Then I noticed it was nailed to the doorframe. I walked around the house, but the back door and all the windows were boarded up, too. Maybe it was meant to be this way, I decided. Maybe it was better not to go inside.

  I started back toward the front of the house, but out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something—a small hole in one of the boarded-up windows. I ran to the window and stood on my tiptoes. I peered through the hole. Nothing. I saw nothing. It was too dark. Even though I knew I was looking at the family room, I couldn’t see a thing.

  So I walked away. And I remembered our family room. I remembered playing games, watching movies, just hanging out together. “We had a lot of fun there, Thunder,” I said. “You would have loved it.”

  I walked five houses down, to Justin’s house, and I rang the bell.

  “Hi!” I said when Justin answered the door.

  “Hey, Cara. What are you doing here?”

  “Well,” I said, smiling proudly, “I have a surprise for you.” I stepped inside, reached into my backpack, and lifted up Thunder.

  Justin’s eyes opened wide. “Is that Sport?” he asked in a whisper.

  I shook my head. “No, this is Thunder, Sport’s long-lost twin.” I put Thunder in Justin’s arms, and Justin smiled, showing off new braces.

  “Janie would have wanted you to have him.”

  “What do you mean?” Justin tilted his head.

  Just then Mr. Wittenberg came to the front hall. “Cara, what’s this?”

  “It’s a stray cat—Thunder. I found him, but I can’t keep him. And I thought Justin might want him. If it’s okay with you.”

  Justin looked up at his dad, reminding me of Janie that day at the animal shelter. “Please, Dad? Please?”

  Mr. Wittenberg screwed up his face. “A cat? Are you sure?”

  “Not just any cat, Dad! It’s Sport’s long-lost twin!”

  Mr. Wittenberg looked at me. He looked at Justin. He looked at Thunder. Then he reached out and rubbed Thunder’s head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ve always been a softie for pleading eyes, and I see three sets of them right here. Okay, Justin. You can keep the cat. But he’s going to be your responsibility.”

  “Yes!” Justin said. “My own cat!”

  I let out a big sigh, feeling happy and sad all at once.

  “Do you want to stay for a while, Cara?” Mr. Wittenberg asked.

  “I can’t today, I’m kind of in a rush. But I’ll come by another day. Take good care of Thunder!”

  I dashed to the bus stop and got there just as the number 4 pulled up, and I hopped on board.

  Back at the apartment, I was greeted by the sweet smell of rising challah dough, reminding me of home, Mom, and family Shabbat dinners. The dough had doubled in size, and it was time to punch it down and braid it. I sprinkled a big board with flour and gent
ly eased the dough out of the bowl and onto the board. Then I punched it, wham! My fist left a big depression in the middle, but the dough began to spring back. I kneaded it for a few minutes, loving the feel of dough in my hands. I divided the dough into three sections for three challah loaves, two for Shabbat and one for the freezer. Then I divided each section into nine pieces, rolled them into long snakes, and braided them. Beautiful. I set the three braided challot on the counter to rise again. I would have just enough time for my last errand.

  I went to my room and counted out my money from Julia’s Kitchen. I had $95! I put the money in an envelope and stuck it in my pocket. Then I headed to the Walden fire station. I walked up the steps to the brown brick building and through the front door. A round-faced woman with short black hair sat behind the front desk and hung up the phone as I approached. “Can I help you with something?” she asked, smiling.

  “Um…” I said, not nearly as sure of myself as I wanted to be. “Is there someone here who takes donations?”

  “What kind of donation?”

  “The—um—money kind?”

  She laughed, and I felt heat rush to my face.

  “Why don’t you take a seat, honey, and I’ll have the chief out in a minute.”

  I turned around and sat in one of the gray plastic chairs lining the walls of the small waiting room. Suddenly I wondered if this was a good idea.

  It wasn’t as if I was simply putting a dollar in the tzedakah jar at Hebrew school or raising money as part of a school effort. This was my personal money, and I was handing it over … personally. What if they didn’t want it? What if I had to fill out all kinds of paperwork? What if the money just sat and sat and never got used? Or what if it got used for something totally stupid?

  And then the worst thought of all occurred. What if they made a big deal out of it and called the newspaper and I got plastered all over the place as a goody-goody? I could just imagine the headline: Girl Loses Mother and Sister in Fire; Donates Life Savings to Fire Department. Ugh!

  I got up to leave. I would mail in my donation anonymously with a note about how to use the money. But just then, a tall African American man wearing black slacks and a white button-down shirt came into the foyer.

  “Sorry for the wait, young lady. I’m Chief Peterson,” he said, shaking my hand. He looked at me closely. “And you’re … Cara Segal, right?”

  “Yes, but—how did you know?”

  “Come into my office,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder and leading the way.

  I was stuck. His office was a small wood-paneled room with one window, a desk, and two chairs. There were papers all over the desk and plaques all over the walls. I sat down, clutching my envelope, trying to figure out how he knew my name.

  Chief Peterson looked at me for a while before he spoke. Then he said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  I opened my mouth. Closed it again. Shifted in my seat.

  “I was at the hospital.” He paused and looked down at his desk. “And at the fire.”

  So that was it. He must have been one of the firefighters who had tried to save Mom and Janie.

  “It was a terrible tragedy,” he said, shaking his head. “How are you and your dad holding up?”

  “We’re doing … okay,” I said. And then, trusting him, I said, “I wanted to make a donation to the fire station. I was hoping this money could go toward education. So that people would know things like you shouldn’t leave your toaster oven plugged in, and you shouldn’t try to save your pets, and—and—”

  “And you shouldn’t ever run back inside a burning building,” he said, finishing my sentence for me.

  I looked at Chief Peterson’s brave, serious face, and I knew he understood. I nodded, relieved.

  I knew he would use this money well. He would do whatever he could to prevent another tragedy like ours. And I knew now that people prevented most tragedies—not God. It wasn’t as if I was letting God off the hook, though. It’s that I realized God works his magic by giving us the strength to handle just about anything that comes our way. And for what we can’t handle alone, he gives us friends and family.

  I handed Chief Peterson the envelope, then checked my watch. I had to hurry home. Dad would be there, and the challot were ready to go into the oven.

  glossary

  Bar Mitzvah: At age thirteen, a Jewish boy is considered mature enough to be responsible for fulfilling religious law. To commemorate this growth, the boy is called to the Torah (a scroll of parchment containing the first five books of the Hebrew Scriptures) to recite blessings and to lead the congregation in prayer. Parents express their joy at this time in their child’s life by throwing a party. Both the boy and the party are called a Bar Mitzvah.

  Bat Mitzvah: At age twelve, Jewish girls are considered mature enough to be responsible for fulfilling religious law. However, many Jewish girls today wait until age thirteen to celebrate becoming a Bat Mitzvah.

  challah: braided bread eaten on Shabbat and other holidays

  challot: plural form of challah

  keriah: the act of ripping a garment or a black ribbon as a sign of grief

  kiddush: prayer said over a cup of wine or grape juice to sanctify Shabbat and other holidays

  kugel: casserole dish or baked dessert

  mezuzah: case affixed to the right side of the doorways of Jewish homes, containing a small portion of Deuteronomy handwritten on parchment

  mezuzot: plural form of mezuzah

  motzi: blessing over bread

  mourner’s kaddish: prayer of comfort for the soul of the departed, recited by mourners after the death of a loved one

  Shabbat: the Jewish Sabbath, or day of rest and worship, which begins Friday evening before twilight, when women traditionally light candles, and ends Saturday after sunset

  Shabbat Shalom: a greeting that means “Sabbath Peace”

  Shema: an important Jewish prayer, which proclaims the belief in one God

  shin: twenty-first letter in the Hebrew alphabet, often seen on the outside of mezuzot because it stands for Shaddai, one of God’s holy names

  shiva: a seven-day mourning period when friends and family visit and comfort mourners

  tzedakah: literally means righteousness, justice, or fairness, but is also understood as charity

  * * *

  Cara’s Chocolate-Chip Cookies

  2½ cups sifted flour

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 cup packed light brown sugar

  ½ cup granulated sugar

  2 sticks unsalted butter, softened in microwave for 20 seconds

  2 teaspoons vanilla extract

  2 large eggs

  12 ounces semisweet chocolate chips

  In a medium-sized bowl, sift together the 2½ cups flour with the 1 teaspoon baking soda and 1 teaspoon salt. Stir and set aside. In a large bowl, beat together the sugars with the softened butter until creamy. Add the 2 teaspoons vanilla extract and the 2 eggs. Mix well. Add the dry ingredients and combine until just blended. Stir in the chocolate chips. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Drop heaping teaspoons of dough onto ungreased cookie sheets and bake for 10 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove cookies onto cooling racks.

  Makes approximately 50 cookies

  * * *

  Acknowledgments

  I could never have written this book without the help of so many people. Kathryn Jensen Pearce at the Institute of Children’s Literature taught and encouraged me from the beginning. Rachel Glasser and the Sydney Taylor Manuscript Award committee acknowledged this story when it was still a work in progress. Carol Grannick and the other members of our critique group constantly pushed me to do better. Rabbi Alex Felch of Congregation B’nai Tikvah and Director Keith Patterson of the Deerfield Fire Department answered all my questions, no matter how many times I asked the same ones. Julie Learner gave me valuable insight into the pain and beauty of grief. And Beverly Reingold made my dream come true when she sai
d, “Welcome to FSG.” Thank you all for the roles you played in bringing Julia’s Kitchen to life.

  A special thank you to Mom and Dad for raising me to believe I could accomplish whatever I set my mind to and to Micky for being the world’s best sister and friend. Jacob, Faith, and Sammy, you are delicious. And Alan, how blessed we are! For your love, laughter, and support, I am eternally grateful.

  Copyright © 2006 by Brenda A. Ferber

  All rights reserved

  First edition, 2006

  www.fsgkidsbooks.com

  eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  eISBN 9781466890053

  First eBook edition: December 2014