A Place at the Table: Chapters 1–7

Cooking is painful. Sitting at the back of an afterschool cooking club I didn’t sign up for is even worse. And listening to a bunch of whiny white kids complain about the cooking club is actually excruciating.

“Now, class, please settle down and join me at the table,” Mama calls politely, her hijab slightly askew, sweat shining on her forehead.

From the way they keep throwing suspicious looks at Mama, it’s clear they don’t think anyone can replace their teacher, especially not some foreign lady in a hijab.

I stifle a sigh.

Thank God I’m not part of this stupid club, I think as I stretch out my legs on the floor and lean against the wall. It’s an inconspicuous spot at the back of the kitchen, near the metal refrigerator.

Some residents can trace their families back generations; others are transient, moving every time they get a new job.

Mama literally dragged me to this detestable cooking club because she thinks I’m not old enough to stay home alone.

Time for some intervention. I lean forward and stare the loud girl down until her eyelids flicker.

Suddenly our kitchen went from one pot on the stove to three or sometimes four huge cauldrons of steaming food cooking all hours of the day. Biryani and chicken korma on the stove. Samosas in the fryer.

I suddenly miss Rabia like a craving for that mint chutney Mama used to make when I was little.

She hacks at the potato I’ve just peeled.

Mrs. Hameed ignores the chatter and goes on teaching without getting frazzled.

I already know how to bake challah and some other breads, but my older brother says he needs meat to put meat on his bones.

She reprimands me, her tiny frame rigid with indignation. “Our parents used to eat paratha and eggs every day in the villages of Pakistan, and they lived to be ninety.”

She reprimands me, her tiny frame rigid with indignation. “Our parents used to eat paratha and eggs every day in the villages of Pakistan, and they lived to be ninety.”

Mama gives me an exasperated look.

The neighbor’s cat is climbing awkwardly on a high branch, its claws gripping the wood as if it’s petrified.

Her face is warm and flushed, but the little creases in the corners of her eyes always make me smile back.

I’ve seen that prim, frowning expression before.

I breathe in the smell of fragrant rice and succulent lamb.

When David is home, he’s holed up in the garage tinkering with engine parts or tweaking his team’s robot.

British people love those things: a plate for the Queen’s birthday, a plate with the prince’s wedding portrait on it. They’re not for eating. Mom hung ours up in the hallway with the rest of our family photos, which makes it seem like Elizabeth II is my honorary grandmother.

Mom is sad about losing Nan, and probably she misses Aunt Louise. She might be pining for England, like always.

Thank goodness we don’t keep kosher. If we did, my brothers would probably starve. Ninety percent of Hot Pockets have bacon in them.

As Micah comes bounding up to us, Maddy yanks the zipper closed, hiding all evidence of feminine products.

The colorful bangles on her arms—there must be twenty at least—jingle like noisy bells.

“People, take your time,” Mrs. Newman trills.

There’s a sheepish look on her face.

A loud, tinny voice attacks us from behind. Her words could wake the dead with their harsh, judgmental tone.

I think of the way Mrs. Kluckowski spoke to Mama outside the FACS room before the rest of the class showed up, all snide and superior.

Here I’d been assuming they’d made me switch schools because Poplar Springs was so much closer. Here I’d been acting like a martyr all these weeks.

“As I explained in our last class, onions form the base of most Pakistani curries,” she intones like a college professor.

But her comment still cut, reminding me of the thorns I drew in my garden sketches. Raw, and doubly painful because they’re attached to flowers. Barbed comments hurt more when they come from a neighbor or a friend.

Mrs. Kluck—I decide to use the nickname, although I would never say it in front of Mama—bustles into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

She has a soft, lilting accent.