CHAPTER ONE Sweet Semester, 1945
"Fifth grade with Miss Fitzgerald is going to be the best grade ever!" I said to my friend Sunny Shapiro as I tried balancing myself along the curb. "Imagine! Being in a real newspaper."
"And becoming famous!" said Sunny.
We were on our way home after our first day of school, still filled with the exciting news Miss Fitzgerald had given us just before dismissal.
"Class," she began, "even though it's only September, I want to tell you about a tradition that I follow every year at the end of the semester in January. Some of you might already know..."
Before she even had a chance to finish the sentence, the kids shouted out, "Sweet Semester, Sweet Semester!" Everyone in school knew about Miss Fitzgerald's popular event held each year.
"That's right, class. Sweet Semester. To celebrate the end of what I hope will be a sweet semester for all of us. And I'm telling you about it now so that you'll have plenty of time to prepare for it. Plenty of time to give it lots of thought."
She then went on to tell us what I already knew from my brother, Artie, who also had Miss Fitzgerald when he was in fifth grade three years ago.
Sweet Semester is a contest and here's how it works. We each bring in a dessert that we've made by ourselves, along with the recipe, and an essay about why we chose to make that particular dessert. Then everyone gets to taste each entry and vote on the winner. Miss Fitzgerald chooses the winning essay.
Just when I thought Miss Fitzgerald was finished telling us about Sweet Semester, she added something unexpected and wonderful.
"Class, this year, for the first time, I plan to invite a newspaper reporter and a photographer to come here and join us. And the winner -- or winners -- will have their pictures taken, and be written up in...the Chicago Daily News!"
The whole class went wild. We were yelling "Yippee!" and jumping in the aisles. And by the time the bell rang and we ran out of the building, Sunny and I could practically see our pictures right there in a major Chicago newspaper, shaking hands with Mayor Kelly.
"I just thought of something," I told Sunny as I hopped off the curb. "I can't cook and I can't bake."
"Come to think of it, I can't either," said Sunny.
"My cakes fall and my cookies look like pancakes."
"Same here, Dorrie. And don't forget. We have to write that essay."
"I'm not worried about writing the essay. I've got lots of erasers. But you can't erase a bad cake. I don't know what I'm going to do."
"Me neither," said Sunny, "but let's not worry yet. The end of January is a long way off. And in the meantime we can experiment."
"The one thing I know for sure is that I'll make something chocolate," I told her. "It definitely has to be chocolate."
"What did Artie make for Sweet Semester?"
"He piled three marshmallows on top of each other and called it a snowman."
"He made one snowman? How was that enough for the whole class?"
"It wasn't," I said. "And he didn't win either."
When I walked into the kitchen I found my mother pouring hot cocoa for Artie and me.
The cocoa was really good this time. Not like usual when she boils the milk so hot that skin forms on the top. There's nothing that makes me gag more than floating skin on top of milk.
"Miss Fitzgerald told us about Sweet Semester today," I said as I sipped the cocoa. "And guess what! This year the winners will get written up in the Chicago Daily News, with their pictures and everything."
"Ah, I can see it all now," said Artie, putting his cup down on the table and swiping the air in front of him in a grand motion. "Right on the front page...Dorrie Meyers wins Sweet Semester with pineapple upside-down cake!"
"I hate pineapple," I told him. "And I don't have to be on the front page. I'd be happy to see myself right in with the want ads. Or the crossword puzzle. I just want to make something wonderful. And original. Only I don't know what."
"I'm sure you'll think of something when the time comes," my mother said as she put on an apron.
"I can help you make a marshmallow snowman," said Artie.
"Great idea, Artie. But no thanks."
I brought my empty cup over to the sink and turned to Artie. "By the way, when you wrote your essay, what did you say about your reason for making a marshmallow snowman?"
"I wrote that marshmallows are fun to eat and almost everyone likes them and this was a unique way to make a snowman any time of the year and it wouldn't melt and you wouldn't even need any snow."
I shook my head and laughed. In a way, I wished I could be more like Artie. Not worry so much. Just do any old thing without thinking about it or caring, and whatever happens, happens.
While I was washing out the cup, my mother was rummaging in the cupboards, pulling out her Mixmaster, mixing bowls, measuring cups, and all kinds of ingredients. I could see she was getting ready to do some serious baking.
My mother is a wonderful cook and baker. She is famous for her carrot cakes. But today when I saw her taking out the jar of honey, I knew what she was getting ready to bake. A honey cake for Rosh Hashanah -- the Jewish New Year. And this would be our first Rosh Hashanah since the war with Germany and Japan ended.
I love celebrating Rosh Hashanah, when relatives come over. We eat all kinds of sweet foods. Sweet kugels, sweet carrots, apples dipped in honey, and of course, my mother's honey cake. Sweet foods for a sweet year.
I think honey cake is okay for the adults. They seem to like it. But for me there is nothing like chocolate.
"Do you think you could bake a chocolate cake while you're at it?" I asked my mother.
"Another time," she said. "I'm so far behind. And there's so much I have to do yet."
So I just hung around and watched as her hands worked their magic: measuring, sifting, pouring. I thought maybe if I watched real hard every time she baked, really studied, I could learn something.
Maybe some of her magic would rub off on me.
Copyright © 2008 by Charlotte Herman
CHAPTER TWO Rosh Hashanah
Crash! Bang!
"No, no! Get away!" My mother was screaming from the kitchen.
At the sound of the crash Artie and I ran in from the dining room where we had been playing with my Uncle Jack's dog, Buddy. But Buddy got there first and in a flash he was attacking my mother's pot roast lying on the floor.
"No!" yelled Uncle Jack. "Drop it!" With one hand he grabbed Buddy's collar and tugged at him while my mother pulled the roast out of his mouth.
And as Buddy was lapping up the carrots and onions and gravy from the linoleum, my mother was drying her tears with her apron.
Artie and I cleaned up the floor with some wet rags, but there wasn't much to do because Buddy pretty much cleaned it up for us. He just stood there licking his mouth and wagging his tail like it was the best meal he ever had.
"You crafty canine," Uncle Jack said to Buddy. "Stop looking so smug."
Buddy is a black-and-white English springer spaniel with adorable floppy ears. Spaniels are good hunting dogs, so I guess that's why he was so quick to get at the pot roast.
"I don't know how it happened," my mother said. "The pan just slipped out of my hand." She sank into a chair.
"Don't worry," said Uncle Jack. "I can go out to the butcher shop and see if they have any more meat."
Even though the war was over, there was still a shortage of meat. And sometimes it was hard to get.
"No, don't bother," she said shaking her head. "There won't be anything left. And I have plenty of chicken." She let out a deep sigh. "I just don't know where my mind is lately. I can't concentrate on anything."
Uncle Jack sat down at the table next to her. He had stopped by earlier that Thursday saying he was in the neighborhood, walking Buddy. But I think he came over to sample some of my mother's cooking. He knew she was preparing for our big meal on Friday night. I guess he didn't count on Buddy doing the sampling too.
"I can't tell you how worried I am," my mother said as she sipped a cup of tea and wiped away some more tears. I didn't think the tears were just because of the roast.
They sat at the table, close together, talking softly. But I could still see and hear them from across the kitchen where I was gathering up the wet rags.
"I'm worried too," said Uncle Jack, digging into a piece of sweet noodle kugel. "The last letter I got from them was way back in 1941. I remember because it was the year I bought the Plymouth."
It's well known in our family that Uncle Jack, who is my mother's brother, measures time by his 1941 Plymouth. Everything that's ever happened in his life is either BP or AP. Before Plymouth or After Plymouth.
"That's when I last heard from them too," my mother said. "And ever since the war ended I've been sending letters to anyone I can think of, trying to find out what happened. Four months already and I haven't gotten any answers."
"What letters are you talking about?" I asked, recovering a stray carrot from under the table.
"Oh, we're just talking family talk," my mother said, which is what she always says when she thinks I'm not old enough to understand something.
"Well I'm family too, aren't I?" I took Buddy by the collar and led him back into the dining room. "Come on, Buddy. I guess we know when we're not wanted."
On Friday night the relatives came to celebrate the new year. Bubbie -- my grandmother -- came with Uncle Jack and Aunt Esther, who is my mother's sister, and a pot of stuffed cabbage. Uncle Louie and Aunt Goldie, who are on my father's side of the family, brought sweet and sour meatballs. Nobody brought anything chocolate.
When we sat down at the table, my father said the blessings over the wine and challah bread, and passed around slices of apples that we dipped into honey.
"L'shanah tovah! To a good year!" we wished ...
