| Fiction |

White Flakes

By Esty Heller | February 8, 2017

Frumet reaches for the dips again, and my smile wanes. I can’t — she can’t take refills. It’s just… gross. Doesn’t her mother teach her table manners?

T he girls are squealing over the personalized placecards at their seats when I enter the dining room with the tray. “Fish?” I ask.

They laugh. Little girls don’t eat fish especially not at Bubby’s house when nobody’s forcing them. A chorus of “eew”s follows and the younger division — Matti Shaindy Nechama —launch the food survey game. “Do you like broccoli? Sushi?” They cry “ugh” and “yum” alternatively with the mention of each food.

“I want fish.” That’s Frumet nasal voice dull over the babble. Dandruff coats her slumped shoulders white specs glistening on her navy velour Shabbos robe. I smile thinly and hand her a portion. Her hand reaches gauchely for the sectional tray of dips and I watch as she spoons a dollop of techina onto her plate then dill dip and chrayonnaise and marinated eggplant.

This is why I prepared the food right? I want the girls to enjoy every minute of their Bubby’s girl-Shabbos. We’ve been talking about it for weeks.

“Black jelly beans?!” Nechama’s eyes goggle with horror. I chuckle slipping into my seat. I take a bite trying to keep my eyes on my food but my gaze keeps shifting back to Frumet’s plate. It’s a palette of paint dips bleeding into each other as she swipes chunks of challah around.

I chew trying to tune in as Riva posits the injustices of having two tests in one day. She’s a drama queen Riva like her mother. Black eyes flash theatrically as she mimics Mrs. Schondorf. Everyone’s in stitches.

Frumet joins the laughter. She’s chewing with relish raptly following the little ones who are still going strong with their favorite and worst foods. Spittle dribbles from her mouth as she cries “yuuuuum” when Nechama mentions farina. I push my plate aside.

From the head of the table Eli teases Riva. “Gotta lodge a complaint. It’s illegal stressing young brains out like that.”

Riva’s lips pucker. “Totally. I bet we could win a million dollars on this case. It’s child abuse.”

Eli winks at me. “Nine going on nineteen,” I murmur grinning.

Frumet reaches for the tray of dips again and my smile wanes. I can’t — she can’t take refills. It’s just… gross. Doesn’t her mother teach her table manners? I know Batsheva isn’t a native Fleischer and maybe the etiquette my own children are schooled in is extreme but… licking fingers chewing with an open mouth… The basics.

After the meal I bring out refreshments and a huge pile of photo albums. The girls are ecstatic shrieking at the hilarious pictures of their parents growing up. I laugh along.

The girls attack bowls of chips the licorice and bonbons. A warm fuzz fills my heart. My years of forcing suppers down throats and campaigning for clean rooms are over. It’s just nachas now all fun and love and MSG without the toil that’s childrearing. My eyes flit from child to child. Shana all squinty eyes quiet but not shy just dreamy and lovable. Riva a clone of my Nechama. It’s like watching my daughter growing up all over again. Dena my dashing princess too old for my too-frequent hugs but I can’t resist. Matti Shaindy Nechama stifling yawns and battling to keep their eyes open and stay up with the “big girls.” And Frumet… only Frumet… The fuzziness ebbs as I watch her munch stuffing her cheeks with abandon. Nobody fights to sit next to her. She talks too loudly bulky frame sagging. I can’t help noticing the way she touches people when she talks.

Of course I love her. She’s my einekel like the rest of them. I lean over her chair. “That’s your father see? I can’t believe I got him to look up from that book long enough to smile at the camera.”

“I hate reading.”

Excerpted from Mishpacha Magazine. To view full version, SUBSCRIBE FOR FREE or LOG IN.

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