Zucchini muffins. With blueberries. And maybe… a cream cheese frosting? She pictured the video, first on slow motion with the pastry bag circling over the muffin, then speeding up, faster and faster, as the entire tray of muffins got frosted, then dusted with cinnamon.

Hey, maybe she’d even give Katz’s new measuring cup a plug, measure the grated zucchini with that. Brilliant, kill two birds with one muffin.

Nechama toddled up to her with a bag of potato chips that she’d popped open, spilling the entire contents onto the floor.

“Fine,” Deena muttered. “Fine, we’ll bake chocolate chip cookies.”

She swept up the potato chips, sat the kids onto the counter and got the mixer out.

But then Nechama banged her head into a cabinet and started screaming, and suddenly, Deena was so, so tired. The room swam, her head was spinning, her eyelids weighed down heavily. She wanted to sit down on the couch, close her eyes, clear her brain. There were so many hours until bedtime, so many hours since she’d eaten anything normal, she was dizzy, she couldn’t do it.

But she did. She got the flour out, tossed ingredients into the mixer, let the kids toss ingredients in, lined sheets, and rolled balls, and, here we go, chocolate chip cookies.

More cookies. For her and for the kids. So many cookies, her stomach hurt, and yet she was starved, hungry for real food. Supper.

She checked the time. Five thirty. She pictured Shira peeling off the aluminum lid from the pan of lo mein, curlicues of steam rising up, a pungent aroma of onion and pepper spreading in her kitchen.

Shira was probably doling out portions, setting a plate in front of hubby, sitting down with her family — nothing like a piping hot dinner with family on a cold winter night — and digging in to the delicious food. Maybe they were even discussing, right this minute, how talented Deena was, I must take down this recipe and how was your day, did the whatever deal go through?

Well, even if Zev were still here, he wouldn’t have touched the food. He’d gone vegan the last year of his life, trying to believe a diet would save his life.

Deena had never believed it. She’d known her husband’s days were numbered. But just like with everything in their lives, she didn’t argue. She’d baked him vegetable patties and watched him wither.

Wearily, Deena took a loaf of bread out of the freezer and stuck a few slices into the toaster.

“Supper,” she announced. The word came out strangled, like it took every last bit of her energy to say it.

She slapped peanut butter on the bread, pulled a bib over Nechama’s head. The kids took a few bites. Then Miri disappeared from the table and Nechama started crumbling her sandwich and flicking the crumbs in every direction.

Through a fog, Deena bathed the two girls, got them into pajamas, and finally, finally, into bed.

Then it was back to the kitchen. The dirty mixer was still sitting on the counter. Bits of bread carpeted the floor. The table and counters were littered with a thousand Stuff.

Deena’s stomach grumbled. She mourned the lo mein once more and then turned away. Too bad. She refused to do this. Let the kitchen fly. She had a splitting headache.

The kids were quiet, hopefully sleeping. She went down the hallway to her studio and pulled her tablet out of the drawer. She should check her emails, respond to Katz.

But first, her post.

She tapped on Instagram, waited for it to load.

Nine hundred and thirty likes.

A small smile spread on Deena’s face. Hungrily, she scrolled through the comments, her smile growing wider as she filled up on the feedback. A comfortable feeling settled in her stomach.

Yochi Hersko knew his wife. Ten years of marriage had taught him a thing or two, one of which was that with the right amount of patience, ideas could and usually did grow on Pessie.

“I need more time,” he told Meir Binick when he called to follow up again. “I’m leaning toward saying yes, I just have to figure out a few things.”

“Wife,” Meir grunted.

“Stuff,” Yochi muttered. “Whatever.”

Meir said okay and hung up, but Yochi knew his patience was wearing thin. He’d met with Binick two weeks earlier for a year-end review, and Binick had confided that he was crumbling from stress. His partner, Simcha Lipshitz, was sick. Really sick, and Binick was on his own now, with several trips scheduled over the next few months.

They’d spoken a bit, Meir had shared what it took to get a tour successfully off the ground, and Yochi had been fascinated. When Meir had asked, jokingly, if he’d take over for Lipshitz, Yochi didn’t laugh.

They spoke many times after that, pretty seriously, until Yochi’s mind was made up. He was more than eager to finally leave the firm, and Binick was offering to match his pay, “as a starting point, you won’t stay at this number, don’t worry.”

The only problem was Pessie. And Binick was applying pressure.

What could he do? He hadn’t been able to spring this on Pessie out of the blue, he’d had to wait for the right opportunity.

And now he had to wait some more. He had to give Pessie space to process the idea, go through whatever number of stages it took. When she was done stewing, she would start bargaining with him, negotiate some kind of barter — I’ll let you do it, but only if you agree to look into phototherapy for Hindy, no, but seriously look into it — but she would accept eventually, he was pretty sure she would.

And from accepting to grudgingly appreciating was just a small leap.

Yochi lifted his chair an inch and rolled up to his desk. Binick’s proposal was exciting, but right now he was still employed at The Hartstein Group and there were tax returns to file.

He dove in to work and didn’t come up for air for three solid hours. After that, his knees protested and he stood up to stretch. The smell of tomato sauce wafted into his cubicle. Lunch, on the house. Anything to get the staff to stay.

Yochi went over to the conference room and filled up a plate with ziti and garlic knots. The room was empty, so he did what his smart shver, Big Boss Chananya Hartstein, intended for his workers to do: returned to his desk.

He was chewing on a garlic knot, washing it down with a can of Coke, when the email came in.

From: TTS Freight Brokers, Inc.

Subject: Audit

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 734)