Matzah Brie

Mother breaks another cracker into jagged bits and stirs in the egg mixture, leaving it to soak while the burner heats up the pan. Her elbow grows a shade pinker each time she levers her arm to draw large oil circles over its surface. She’s making Matzah Brie, a breakfast tradition she describes as French toast’s Jewish cousin.

The morning rays beam a spotlight on her shapely hips that jerk underneath a floral frock, her curlers clanking against one another with the swing of the sixties. I watch her cook from a reasonable distance, shadowing her moves as she shimmies the mixture from the bowl and into the hot pan. Mother doesn’t like me hovering near her stove, or anywhere in her kitchen for that matter.

I inch closer, my breath shallow. It’s difficult to see around her waist, a “healthy” frame as she likes to say. I run my palms down my sides, checking for any indication of a curve. Sensing my proximity, she orders me to get the salt from the cupboard, her eyes never straying from her work. I prefer sugar, like any eleven-year-old would, so I take that out too. Careful not to spill, I hold one in each hand and place them within reach on the counter where I wait for her next instruction.

She scrapes the edge of the bowl, shoveling the mixture’s gooey remains into the frying pan, sizzling as it strikes the hot oil. Its toasted scent carries with it the familiar warmth of summer.

Mother slices through the burning batter with a spatula, shuffling the handle across the pan like a hand on a ticking clock, then lays it to rest at a point in my direction. Without a word, I hear her voice in my head, denying me. When you’re older, she often tells me, like an indefinite rule where I will never be old enough.

But I’m old enough to babysit. I’m old enough to ride my bike to the corner store. Just never old enough to interfere in her kitchen.

I stare at the way she leaves the spatula perched on a branch like forbidden fruit, daring me. Maybe she wants me to make the first move. Maybe she’s been waiting for me to be big enough to ask.

I glance at her profile, assessing the crease around her eye and the point of her chin for clues. Mother’s mood can be difficult to read. Her face always looks about the same, like she’s practicing for the card games she plays so much.

I decide, maybe next time.

Later, Father takes me to Coney Island to feast on his favorite Nathan’s hot dog and fries. The boardwalk is swimming with people. We eat standing up, the ground quaking under the rollercoaster and the Parachute Drop casting giant shadows over us as the cables rise and fall. Father, once a military man, gleams at the training towers and its panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean. He is a handsome man. His bronzed skin soaks in the light while his slicked back hair glistens in it. He wears a content expression, a stark contrast to Mother’s. He brushes a napkin against my mouth as I swallow the last bite of hot dog, then points to something in the distance. He leads me through the crowd and over to what looks like a weird phone booth. He slides a coin into a slot and the door opens like an episode from The Jetsons.

Father gives me one of his signature winks. “Go and sing. You love to sing.”

I give him a reluctant smile.

He nods, encouragingly. Father has this way about him, a gentle kindness—in his eyes, in his grin, in his voice—that makes me want to be like him.

I sing Qué Será, Será, Mother's favorite.

When I’m done, out pops a small record of my song. I have never seen anything so amazing. I can’t wait to get home and listen to it.

The drive through Brooklyn takes as long as I can stand. I race up the steps of our Brownstone, burst through the door, and toss my Mary Jane’s to the mat, then quickly straighten them out again so that Mother doesn’t call for me.

I sit in front of the den’s record player, my knees tucked under me, and lower the needle onto the grooves. When it plays back, I’m surprised. I always imagined my voice would sound the same on the outside as it does from the inside.

It doesn’t.

It sounds better! Look out Doris Day, here I come! I begin to hum along with the melody, to the music I made myself. I play it again. I play it more times than I should.

Tonight, I catch a rare rhythm in the sway of Mother’s hips as she cooks dinner. The way they shift one, two, three times on beat—Qué Será, Será. The way her curls casually bounce with her movements.

She’s in a good mood. This is a good day.

I approach the stove with small tentative steps. Without a sound, I position myself beside her as she slips the spatula under each tenderloin, checking their undercolor for just the right amount of brown. She turns up the heat and leans the spatula on its edge, grease popping and crackling like embers.

I tap a timid fingertip on the rubber handle, my gaze steady on Mother’s reflection in the stovetop. “What will happen if I flip it?”

Mother cuts me a look so sharp that it could slice an apple. “I’ll smack your hand, Barbara Sue, that’s what I’ll do.”

A lump lodges in my throat and I wonder if I’ll be able to swallow dinner.

Father sits at the head of the table sipping from a bottle of Coke. Mother salts the items on her plate. I trace my fingers over the pattern in the tablecloth as I chew on chicken and the promise to myself that When I am older…I will be like him.

Many years later, after both Mother and Father had passed, I came across the old recording while going through their storage boxes. It was warped and melted. I could no longer hear the song, but I could still hear my father say, “Go and sing. You love to sing.” I could still see the glint in his eye when he winked at me.

I tossed the record and held on to his words. I remembered the rule I swore I’d never break on that near perfect day—I’d grow up to be like my father. I imagined my voice would sound the same on the outside as it does from the inside.

It doesn’t.

It sounds like her.