Ava met Yakov on Bingo night at Beth Israel Senior Center.
She helped him find the words on the board and they got to talking.
Yakov had lost his wife, Clara, a few months before.
Ava had been a widow for five years.
They discovered they were both from the same region in the Ukraine and had lived in Brooklyn
for about the same length of time.
Yakov had food stains on his shirt and old tissues stuffed in his pocket.
But what really got to Ava was a pitiful margarine sandwich Yakov extracted from the inside of his jacket.
She asked if he'd like to come over for dinner and he said yes.
It was good to have someone to cook for again.
With Sam, her late husband, they had such wonderful meals.
Cooking had always been a passion, but cooking for Sam was especially satisfying as no one
was more appreciative of her creations than he.
He smacked his lips and licked his fingers, declaring her the best cook in all of Brooklyn
or possibly even the whole of New York.
Now, stirring plump Frikadelki in golden broth, Ava imagined Yakov's exaltations
and her heart expanded.
Yakov arrived with a bouquet of flowers.
He was full of compliments for her apartment – how clean it was, how tastefully arranged.
He examined the photographs of her grown grandchildren, pronouncing them handsome and bright.
He was helpful too, setting the table while she ladled the soup into bowls.
She watched him take a spoonful, then another, gulping the soup down with eagerness that
suggested it pleased him.
But he was oddly silent, no exclamations of delight or words of appreciation.
"How is it?" she asked.
"Em,"
"Thank you very much."
She served the main course – chicken breast with a side of rice and a nice green salad
– all to the same effect.
Yakov consumed his portion with relish but said little more than thank you in response.
After dinner he told her about his childhood as a son of party activists.
How at a very young age he had learned to take care of the house, cleaning and cooking
(mostly noodles) in time for his parents' return.
"You poor thing," Ava said, recalling the homemade delicacies her mother had put out for her.
Yakov smiled at that, "Sometimes I thought so too.
Other times, I didn't mind so much."
They made tea and Ava served dessert.
"I hope you like jam rolls," she said.
"My mother's recipe."
"Em, thank you," was all he gave her.
"Thank you for inviting me," he said when it was time to go.
"Would you like to come again Tuesday?"
"I'll make borscht."
So it went for several weeks.
Chicken soup, meat patties, pierogi with mushrooms and leeks, olfactory memories of life past
permeating her apartment.
"It's been so long since I've done real cooking," she said to Yakov over a plate of pelmeni.
(These are dumplings.)
"It's not fun to cook just for yourself."
"You can cook for me any time," he declared.
She waited for him to say more, praise the quality of the food and her skill as a cook.
He didn't, but nodded enthusiastically when she asked if he'd like some more.
She wondered why he was so tight lipped when it came to her cooking.
He seemed quite capable of complimenting her on everything else.
For someone who'd grown up on noodles, he turned out to be exceptionally hard to please.
Thanksgiving they spent at their children's.
Seizing a quiet moment alone with her daughter, Ava confided her fears.
"What if I'm not as good a cook as I thought I was?
Who knows what he was used to with Clara?"
"It's not the middle ages, Mama.
There's more to relationships than food."
Ava frowned.
Of course food wasn't everything, but it wasn't nothing either.
These days women thought they could get away with take-out and frozen.
What they failed to understand was that a home cooked meal was more than nourishment.
It was family and belonging, a taste of childhood, a kind of love.
She didn't say any of that to her daughter.
Instead she said, "I want my efforts to be appreciated.
Is that so bad?"
"Why don't you just ask him outright what he thinks of your cooking?" her daughter said.
"Or, if you must, ask him if you cook as well as his wife."
"Are you mad?"
"I could never.
I'll just have to try harder, that's all."
She came home determined.
If everyday meals didn't do the trick, surely her specials would.
Upon his return Yakov was treated to her famed brisket and tzimmes.
(That's a kind of a sweet stew with carrots and prunes and some people put meat into it as well.)
Back in the day this very dish had marked a turnaround in her relationship with her mother-in-law.
"You must love my son very much," the matron had said to Ava with tears in her eyes.
If she could melt her mother-in-law's heart, at the very least she should be able to elicit
a word of acknowledgement from Yakov.
"Are you expecting company?"
Yakov said when she uncovered the brisket.
"No, just you."
"Well, this is … thank you Ava," he devoured his portion and nodded when she offered more.
"Good?" she demanded.
"Em," he shoved another forkful into his mouth. "Thank you."
Why won't he just say the word?
"They didn't feed you at your son's house?" she asked.
He seemed not to notice her sarcasm.
"My daughter in law doesn't cook," he explained then added with a chuckle,
"they said I've gained weight since they last saw me."
So now her food was too fattening?
"Did Clara cook low fat?" she inquired, more than a little peeved.
His expression changed.
"No," he said, so miserable she regretted saying anything.
"Eat, eat," she added tzimmes to his plate.
"If it's any consolation, I think you look good."
He smiled, "not as good as you."
She wondered if her daughter was right.
She enjoyed his company and he enjoyed hers.
Wasn't that enough?
But when she tried to let go of it, it wouldn't let go of her.
His refusal to utter anything more than "em" and "thank you" felt unnatural,
as if he was stopping himself from saying something he'd regret.
For days she agonized over her options.
At last, she had an idea.
"Why don't I cook for you at your place this Friday night?" she said to him.
The things Ava could not ask would be revealed once she'd stepped into Clara's kitchen.
A woman's culinary interest, her skill, manifested itself in her work space,
and who better than Ava to pick up on those subtle indicators.
Yakov seemed reluctant at first.
Ava would find it uncomfortable; the kitchen hasn't been used in a while.
Ava dismissed his excuses.
A change in scenery would do them both good, she said and handed him a list of ingredients.
She brought her set of knives and condiments and it immediately became apparent she shouldn't have bothered.
The kitchen was small but surprisingly well equipped.
Blenders, pressers, crushers, an assortment of spices she didn't know the names for
and a long shelf of cookbooks from Bulgarian to Southern French.
The ingredients she had asked Yakov to buy awaited her on the counter.
How plain her planned dinner seemed compared with the grand meals tucked in those pages.
It took all of Ava's strength to put her apron on and start chopping,
each turn of the knife making her wince.
It didn't help that Yakov kept pressing Clara's fancy tools on her,
"See this, it slices the egg just so, and this is for pitting olives."
"I'll do it my way, thank you very much," she wished she could shoo him out of the kitchen
but this was his home, his and Clara's.
At no time since she'd met Yakov did she feel so out of place.
They lit the Shabbat candles and sat down to eat with a photograph of Clara overseeing their dinner.
Clara's pleasant face wore a sad little smile, as if despite her best efforts
things hadn't turned out quite as she'd hoped.
Ava knew exactly how that felt.
She hardly touched the veal and cauliflower.
Long ago this very dish had her daughter's boyfriend returning until he'd finally proposed.
Now it tasted of caustic embarrassment.
"You're not hungry?" Yakov asked with a mouth full of food.
"No."
"You've tired yourself out with all that cooking," he said.
"Why don't you rest on the couch."
She complied, letting him take off her shoes and place her feet in his lap.
"I used to do that for Clara when she got anxious," he said, massaging her heel.
His hands felt good but Ava could not enjoy them.
"I was wrong to come," she said.
"This dinner, it must remind you of Clara."
"Remind me?
No.
With Clara it was different," he glanced sadly at his unfinished plate.
"Completely different."
That was it then, the terrible truth.
No matter how she tried she would always come short.
His eagerness that she'd mistaken for satisfaction was nothing more than a rush to be done with her food.
And she, the fool that she was, kept offering him second helpings!
She got up from the couch.
"I should go," she said, grabbing her coat and purse.
He seemed surprised but didn't try to stop her.
"I'll walk you home," he offered.
"Please don't. I'll be fine."
December wind chilled her all the way home, but she hardly noticed.
Her body was frozen in shame for her arrogance and stupidity.
She had assumed she was giving him something of value when in truth it was an ordeal for him.
He might have thought he was sparing her feelings by keeping silent, but he just made it worse.
He called the next morning.
She didn't pick up.
The day after he left three messages.
The last one sounded quite desperate.
"Call me, please."
She called him.
"Thank God," he said.
"I was about to send in a search party."
"No need, I'm fine."
There was an awkward silence then he said, "Tomorrow is the first night of Hannukah.
I thought we could light candles, eat some latkes.
Not that I want you to cook," he added quickly.
"God knows you've cooked enough.
They sell frozen latkes at…"
"I can make Latkes, Yakov," she cut him off.
"Of course you can," he agreed.
"Should we say five o'clock?"
"Five is fine," she hung up, fuming.
Latkes he wanted to spare her, latkes that she could whip up with her eyes closed and
both hands tied behind her back.
Oh, the wonderful latkes she used to make for Sam: potato and leek, sweet potato and
raisin, zucchini patties and bite sized fried Salmon balls.
Her husband never had to eat the same Latke twice…
But no sooner had she recalled her past achievements, than her gloom returned.
No matter what she did, the memory of Clara's cooking would always hover over Yakov
and her like a bitter aftertaste.
If only she could care less, put a little less soul into her cooking, but that was like
asking her to love with less heart.
She went to bed on an empty stomach.
In her dreams Clara was serving her latkes, golden and fluffy like Ava's mother used to make.
She awoke sore and morose.
By midday, when the time came to start frying, she was perfectly despondent.
She had cut herself twice on the grater, something she hadn't done since she'd learned how to grate.
She had poured too much oil and it hissed and spit, covering her bare arms with tiny burns.
She recalled how long ago when her teenage daughter rejected her cooking, her husband
had tried to console her.
"Sometimes love is knowing what's needed, not giving all you can give," he had said.
She was mad at him for saying that, as if she didn't know her own child, but he was right.
She wanted to make her daughter happy her way, just as she did with Yakov.
When Yakov showed up he found the apartment smoky and Ava in tears.
"What happened? Did you hurt yourself?"
She pointed at a pile of black bottomed latkes, "I was a fool, trying to impress you with
my cooking, when in truth I'm quite mediocre, certainly not as good as your Clara."
He stared at her, speechless, then burst out laughing, so hard she feared he might break a rib.
"Oh God Ava.
I miss Clara, I do, but her cooking," he picked up a scorched latke.
"This is the closest you ever got to Clara's cooking.
Clara was a wonderful, sensitive person but a terrible, terrible cook."
"But all those cookbooks, the tools!"
"She kept trying, hoping it would make a difference. It didn't.
It was her biggest disappointment."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't know I needed to.
Clara was so insecure about her cooking even compliments made her cry.
I learned to say thank you and nothing more."
He took Ava's hand and kissed the inside of her palm.
"I loved every single thing you made for me."
Ava cupped his face in her hands and kissed him for the longest time.
Tomorrow she would make spicy squash latkes to go with the second candle.
She had so much more to give.
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