A Place at the Table: Chapters 15–24

“Remember the time we made those stuffed bears at Build-A-Bear Workshop and strutted them around the mall, so proud of ourselves?”

At the food court, we get slices of gooey cheese pizza and find a table not too far from where Mama’s sitting, engrossed in her folders.

“It’s so hard to find what my mama calls modest clothes in the regular stores. You know, long enough to cover your butt, half sleeves or longer, not so tight you can’t even breathe.”

“It’s going to take longer than one helping of bubble tea to explain the intricacies of the TARDIS,” I say. “That’s Doctor Who’s time machine,” I tell Rabia.

“Desi people love mangoes,” Rabia tells me with a wry grin.

Sara studies the dark tapioca bubbles at the bottom of her cup suspiciously. “Tea isn’t supposed to have chewy bits.”

Chef Morgan is the author of three acclaimed cookbooks and host of the local television show Let's Get Cooking! on WBAL.

Stephanie cheers and says something about raising awareness and peas—huh?—but Maddy looks sullen and grumpy.

Our potato tikkis have browned beautifully on both sides, sizzling with the aroma of cilantro and olive oil. Mama passes around dollops of mint chutney to put on top.

“The less the competition knows, the better.”
“My taste buds are neutral territory, I swear.”

If you set me loose in the kitchen without a plan, I’d end up with some weird, barf- inducing concoction.

“I’d like to give Mrs. Kluck a barf-inducing concoction,” Sara says under her breath.

Rabia’s quietly dropped bombshell the day before has sucked out all the usual happiness of my favorite holiday, but I focus on the delicate embroidery at the edge of my tunic sleeve and reply, “Sure, are you?”

The street is a cul-de-sac with lots of trees and almost identical groups of five townhouses on each side.

On one side of her neatly made bed is a bureau with Doctor Who figurines, and on the other a chair filled with stuffed animals.

The kitchen is a little shabby, with old-fashioned white cabinets full of handprints, unwashed mugs on the counter, and a sink full of dishes. Nothing a good cleaning can’t fix.

“As soon as they cool down, peel the potatoes like this, Justin.” I demonstrate, feeling just like Mama in front of her cooking club. He hurries to comply. I wish Rafey and Tariq were so obedient.

“If you had cilantro and cumin, you could make this even yummier,” I say, scraping the scrambled potato-egg mixture onto a plate and handing it to Justin with a flourish.

His feet are propped up on a small ottoman and there’s a teacup sitting on his belly.

“Escaping tindas!” Sara shouts. “Look out, they’re making a run for it!” Then we’re both laughing and picking up gourds, making sure none of them have cracked.

Mrs. Newman asked me to make a sign for the International Festival. These are preliminary designs.

“My parents don’t think art is a viable career option.”

“She’s the best! She wears bright colors and funky jewelry and her hair is all spiky. Mom says I get my sense of style from her.”

“They live in Pakistan. I don’t see them very often,” I say slowly, trying to conjure them in my mind.

Then we traveled by train to Lahore, where my dadi lived on a sprawling village farm outside the city, complete with chickens, cows, and fields of turnip greens.

My mom is tall and regal.

Usually when I’m sad, Dad’s deep voice resonates in my chest, soothing my hurt feelings.

I thought you wanted Mom to be an American, so she can vote, and go through Customs with us at the airport, and stay here forever.

Dad’s forehead furrows.

I add a dainty flowered teacup and some English digestive biscuits to the breakfast tray so Mom can have tea in bed.

Fragile rice cooked with spices. Chicken adorned with garlic and ginger.

Pizza changes to suit the culture of the people eating it. It’s basically like America itself. We all come from different places, and then we settle here and try to be American, but still retain our distinct flavors.

We boil milk, sugar, and spices, as if we’re making vanilla pudding. Then Sara squeezes fresh lemon juice and water into the mixture and, as promised, it curdles.

I don’t say anything to Sara, but the mixture we just made looks vile, like pale gravy full of lumpy flour.

A shiny silver contraption emerges from the box. I know what that is. An ice cream maker, the rapid-freeze kind they use on television cooking shows.