Life was perfect as I ran into my aunt’s small and cozy apartment. My three-year-old brother and I stepped into the warm kitchen. As usual, we would plead with our aunt to hand us the frozen noodle packet, but this time it felt different. An unexplained aroma circled the apartment. Our task was to break the noodles into smaller pieces, as they first came in a brick. I carefully pulled the plastic bag and revealed a cream-colored brick. I snatched a light green bowl from the dining table, ready to start my work. My brother, two years younger than I, mimicked all the things I did as we sat on the white, messy floor. He followed my every move, eyeing my hands as I ground the hard brick into the shiny bowl. The crunchy sound echoed. It was magical. I tried to reach the counter, but I was unsuccessful Steam fired in the kitchen as my aunt prepared a delicious meal for my mom. A ray of sun poured into the room, lighting up the white walls and warming my back. It almost seemed as if the couch was enjoying it, too. Elegant animal decorations embroidered the brown pillow on the mahogany couch. Horses galloped across the pillow—for a second—but were only an illusion. I looked down to my tiny fingers and realized I had almost finished breaking the noodles. I tried to reach the counter, but I was unsuccessful. My aunt took the bowl away from me and filled the boiling bowl with the noodles. It was a great feeling as the warm steam touched my chin. The aroma filled my entire body. Some may think it was plain. Ordinary. But to me, it was a pleasure to gobble down that bowl of noodles, in front of the television, watching Dragon Tales. Its simplicity just filled me with delight. Indescribable. I left the apartment, full of content, and skipped along the sidewalk. There was nothing to worry about. I was loved. I was happy. I was free. The world was a castle, and I was the princess. I headed forward. Life was moving on. And it still is, in a different way… Noor Adatia, 11 Farmers Branch, Texas Lydia Giangregorio, 12Gloucester, Massachusetts
Family
Flying Solo
The thin colored stripes seemed as if they were painted across the sky I slipped the headphones onto my head, glancing out of the window at the big airplanes in red and white. The huge hunks of metal reflected the dim sunshine of the afternoon, with a special surprise, a rainbow. The thin colored stripes seemed as if they were painted across the sky. They sparkled a little, twinkling in the evening light. I slipped out of my shoes, locking my knees to my chest, and rocked back and forth. What if… what if… my thoughts trailed off and I locked my eyes on the rainbow. The sun illumined the pane of the window and I felt the warmth on my face as I shut my eyes. “A good omen, we can all see it,” I imagined my mother’s voice. “I can see it too,” I would have replied excitedly. I looked over to my right, expecting to see my mother or father, but it was a stranger. I bit my lip, looking away quickly, back to the window, back to the rainbow, and back to the terminal where I knew my family stood. They were waiting for me take off, probably staring through a glass pane like I was. Looking away, I remembered I was flying solo, like an adventurer, like a hero. Yeah, right. It was like something I read in a book. What was that book called? I frantically racked my memory for distractions. I knew I was doing anything to get away from my bad thoughts, but they won. Suddenly my brain was filled with images of myself at home with my family, curled up on my bed with a book. The image made the fact I was all alone too clear. All alone, for two whole weeks, I thought again. Nervous butter-flies swarmed in my stomach. Two whole weeks was a long time. Since it was summer, every day contained around twelve whole hours to spend with family. And twelve hours times fourteen days equals… When I realized it was more than a hundred and forty-four hours I stopped calculating. That was too long. Every day I would miss the joyful shouts of my curly-haired brother, the perfect advice from my mother’s mouth, and the feeling of family my father created. My chest burned and I realized I was holding my breath. I exhaled and watched travelers zoom around in the faraway terminal. They moved with such urgency, their miniscule legs going a mile a minute. Two whole weeks, two whole weeks, two whole weeks, my brain chanted. I broke my gaze on the terminal and focused my attention to my iPod that was resting on my lap. I pictured my mother looking through the glass, but it just wasn’t, wasn’t… enough. I tried to hear the comforting words she would use to soothe me. What would she say? My mind wandered, searching for the sounds that would form her words. I was tired, my eyelids started to droop. I shook my head and looked down. With a sudden surge of energy I scrolled through my files quickly until I found a playlist. The playlist was my reinforcement, my solution. The playlist was titled Mama y Papa and filled with messages my Papa had taken so long to record… just for me. Blinking a few times to clear the tears that invaded my eyes, I pressed play. I jammed the play button down hard. Instantaneously, my Papa’s voice, loud and gentle, but promising and strong, filled my ears. I let my breath out and listened. “Hola, domicella.” I felt relief wash over me as I heard him say my name, in that special Spanish way. I listened harder as bits and pieces imprinted in my mind… “Recuerdate de yo y mama siempre estamos con tigo y te amamos mucho.” Remember that me and your mama are always with you and love you a lot. Both eyes filled with tears. I hung onto every word of his message. Every sound filled me with warmth, but then the last line came. Too soon, too soon, I thought frantically. “Nos veremos y ahhh… cuidate y te amamo mucho, te amo, ciao, tu papa.” See you soon and ahhh… take care of yourself and I love you a lot, I love you, bye, your papa. The tears showed no mercy, streaming down my face. Wanting what was over, I reached to replay the message, to stay strong. The tears had already taken over though. Mixed emotions of sadness, nervousness, pride and anger all making rivers down my cheek. Why did they make me do this? I thought, Why? I was proud, my heart swelled, my mother and father are proud, they think I can do it, they believe in me… but what if I fail, what if I have an awful flight and I cry the night away and… I let it go. The butterflies in my stomach, my choked-up throat, I let it all go. I trusted in my papa’s deep, soothing voice. And suddenly I wasn’t afraid; the rivers of tears swelled but then receded because I felt brave. My whole family was urging me on, hoping, wishing, and thinking of me. They were urging me on, in the stands, telling me I could do it, and rooting for me. I knew they would always be there, so I took my adventure… The stranger sitting next to me saw my tears and looked up, alarmed. But he was too late. I had already been comforted. “Are you OK?” he asked, smiling sympathetically at me. I nodded as the tears reappeared with joy. I had overcome my fear. “I’m just happy,” I choked and sputtered, sounding like an old engine. “Well, if you need me, I’ll be over there. I’m changing seats,” he explained and then indicated where his friend stood, beckoning him. Barely hearing him, I smiled and nodded so he walked off. Why would a
Seventeen Across
“Seventeen across: ‘Meaning of happiness,’” my dad said, reading out a clue on this morning’s crossword puzzle. “How does that work? Doesn’t everyone have their own unique meaning of happiness?” “I agree with you,” I said. “Leave it blank for now and move on.” We were seated at the kitchen table before breakfast, the golden smell of baking dough wafting throughout the room. My dad was wearing a blue sweatshirt over his red plaid pajama bottoms. His salt-and-pepper hair was sticking out in all directions as he filled out his crossword puzzle. He was also trying to keep one eye on the oven, where this morning’s loaf of pumpkin bread was baking. “Do you want some eggs to go with your bread, Katie?” my dad asked. “Yes please,” I said. He put his pen down and walked over to the fridge. He pulled out two brown eggs, deftly cracked them into a pan, and tossed in some cheese and chopped ham. I love it when my dad cooks because he loves it, and that joy shows on his face. My parents, John and Ada, work together. My dad bakes breads and pastries and my mom travels around selling his creations in farmers’ markets near where we live, in McMinnville, Oregon. As my dad brought our finished omelets to the kitchen table, I inhaled deeply and watched the bread rise through the glass door of the oven. I was pleased that this loaf would stay in our kitchen and not go out to a stall in a market. Sometimes my dad’s too busy baking for the market to make baked goods for our family. “Mom isn’t up yet?” I asked. He shook his head and smiled. “No.” I laughed. “She’s a night owl, for sure.” I swallowed a bite of omelet and watched as my dad worked away silently at his crossword puzzle. I gazed out the window at our backyard. I watched the weeping willows sway ever so slightly in the crisp breeze and listened to the deep coo of the mourning doves on the telephone wire. The rich smell of espresso seeped into the kitchen, mingling with the cheerful smell of bread. The coffee pot began to bubble. My dad hopped up from his chair and poured himself a cup of coffee, then sat back down at the table, sipping it and filling out his crossword puzzle. I was hungry for one of my dad’s stories. “Tell me again how you and Mom met,” I said. “OK,” he said. And here is the story my dad told me. * * * My mom and my dad met at the Portland Farmers’ Market, halfway through March, 1997, on a brisk spring day. The market was outdoors, filled with soft smells and candy wrappers in the gutter, the sun glinting off the myriad canvas stalls. My dad was running a stall there, selling his flaky pastries and succulent chocolate cakes. No one was taking any notice of him because my dad is terrible at selling anything. He’s far too modest to be a good salesman. He eats too much humble pie. My mom was at the farmers’ market solely for the free samples. My dad and I like to joke that every single one of Mom’s teeth is a sweet tooth. It was about noon that my dad noticed her, standing outside his stall, checking something on her cell phone. The market didn’t close until two, but he wasn’t selling anything. He was frustrated, and he wanted to give up and go home. After a minute or two, my mom put the phone back in her purse and glanced up at my dad. They locked eyes and watched each other for a while. My dad said she looked smart and mysterious, in a red trench coat, with her brown hair in a long ponytail. “Listen,” she said, striding up to him, “you see that booth over there, the one selling cinnamon bread?” He looked over at the booth. It was run by a small Russian woman with a wispy blond bun. There was a group of people clustered around it, eating free samples and buying armfuls of cinnamon bread. The woman was grinning. Her pockets were filling up with cash with every loaf of bread she sold. “Now, you know why there’s a demand for her cinnamon bread?” asked my mother, leaning on the table in my dad’s stall. “It’s because she’s not afraid to tell people her bread’s good.” “OK…” said my dad. For the first time since he started a stall at the market, my dad smiled “I’ve got a proposal for you,” said my mom. “Anything you can bake, I can sell. I know what people who go to farmers’ markets like, and I know how to sell to them. I’m not afraid to tell people that your cakes are rich and moist, and that your pastries are golden and flaky.” For the first time since he started a stall at the market, my dad smiled. A shy little smile, but it was there. He stuck out a hand. “John Cooper.” She shook it vigorously, grinning. “Ada Smith. Glad to be in business with you.” They hit it off and dated for several months. They became best friends, trading secrets and slices of shoo-fly pie. On my mom’s thirty-first birthday, my dad got down on one knee in the middle of the farmers’ market, right on the spot where they first met. He held out a small blue cake box to my mom, and inside was a tiny ring made of sugar-coated pastry. “Will you marry me, Ada Smith,” he said, “and be my wife through sickness and through failed crumpet recipes?” “Yes, John Cooper, I will marry you!” My dad slipped the little pastry on her ring finger. He never bought her a real ring. They both believed bonds of bread, and not bonds of gold, were what brought them together and would keep them together.
