Final Memoir

Abby Calef

Dr. Heinritz

ENGL 208

11 October 2016

Chicken and Barley

The smell of chicken and herbs fill my room as I wipe the sleep from my tired, puffy eyes. I jump right out of bed as my mouth waters and my tummy starts to grumble. I always had to nap on days like this. I remember so clearly- my mom would lather me up in 85+ SPF sunscreen and drenched me from head to toe in a white, thick paste that smelled exactly like coconuts… But definitely not the good kind, the kind that could actually stand a chance against the hot Texas sun. Later I would find out that truly nothing could stand a chance against Texas sun.

Hopping down the stairs, one pigtail higher than the other, I know exactly what’s for dinner. It’s Friday night so I bet there is already chicken and barley in the shiny, purple, translucent pan that always seems to hold gooey goodness.

After fumbling down the stairs, I start my nightly jog, alerting everyone in the house that it is almost dinner time, my most important job. I hear loud, pinging noises decorated by the clicking of buttons coming from the room with blue walls and wooden shelves. Probably Link or Zelda, but hopefully my personal favorite, Princess Peach. I only like to play with the girl characters. Joshy never likes to play with the girl characters, he says they’re not as strong as the boy ones. I don’t get why, they’re much prettier than the boy characters. Don’t worry, my brother didn’t grow up to be sexist, thank God. It’s scary how early some things are embedded into our adolescent brains.

After pulling on one of my brother’s blonde curls, I decide it would probably be best to pick up my pace a little. Running into the kitchen, bare feet on the cold tile, I let my mom’s voice carry me to the table. My mom is always singing. I can never quite tell what she’s singing; usually a song from the Sound of Music, or maybe something from the Beatles. Whatever it is, it’s usually wrong and exaggerated and the words are almost always made up or backwards or forwards. I love hearing her sing.

I hear my dad’s car pull up to the drive way and I start to bounce even more, hopping to the front door. I have to be ready for when he gets here, I can’t let him walk through the door without being the first to hug him, that would be horrible. After lifting my feet up off the ground and half squeezing me to death, my dad quickly walks to the kitchen, dress shoes clacking on the ground. It’s mom’s turn.

My Dad was always tired when he got home from work. He still, to this day has the longest hours imaginable, but I specifically remember seeing it in his eyes. Somehow he was always so enthusiastic when he got home, never hesitating to play with me and bounce me around the house. It was almost as if he hadn’t just been at a desk for the past for ten hours. It wasn’t forced at all.

After dad starts up the stairs to change into his “play clothes” I hear mom make a “pssst” noise and I quickly follow the smell of Sabbath to her food covered hands and apron. She hands me a little white bowl of chicken and barley-- just enough for three bites. The steam skyrockets out of the bowl and mom quickly takes it back to blow on it, just like she’s read my mind. Once my food has been properly taken care of, I take my first bite. My teeth sink into the hot chicken, sending warm kisses throughout me. I always save the barley for last. I love the way the barley tastes just like the chicken. My mom cooks them together, so the barley has just as much flavor, if not more somehow. I love the way the chicken juice tastes over my chicken and barley, so salty and fresh. I love it. I didn’t know that the chicken and barley would have to go after we moved to colder climates, or that we’d soon have less people living in our house.

After we’ve all gotten to the table, yes, Josh finally put down the PS2 controller, we all look at each other smiling. Mom’s chicken and barley makes everyone smile. My mom lights the candles and recites a prayer. I know it best; I’m still in Hebrew school. My smile gets bigger as the light from the candles covers the faces of my favorite people, illuminating their smiles and eyes. I can’t help but hum. Friday nights were so special.

Joshy hates it when I hum at dinner. I’ll be honest, sometimes I do it on purpose. Sometimes I think it’s funny to make him mad and stir up drama at the kitchen table. We never really have anything else to fight about, besides the TV remote, and maybe who gets the better looking scoop of blueberry cobbler for dessert. This stuff’s the best. You have to get the piece with the most buttery crunchy bottom part and the least amount of blueberries. I mean, I love the blueberry part, don’t get me wrong, but my mom puts like three whole sticks of butter in the crusty part! We never get to eat that much butter.

But, I’m serious when I say that sometimes I really can’t help but hum. I don’t even always hum a whole song, or even part of something that plays on the radio, I just make a noise. Sometimes it moves around, and other times I hum the same note. Well whatever the tune is tonight, Joshy surely doesn’t like it. He whines at me for a few minutes before Mom intervenes. As usual, we don’t listen, I honestly think that we enjoy the fight, and mom has to call “Steve!” so that he’ll intervene instead so she can take a break and actually enjoy her dinner. My dad looks up and tries to tell Joshy to be a little nicer to me and tells me that I can hum at all other meals, just not dinner. Or at least it probably went something like that. I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t listening. And neither was Josh probably.

Do you know that time in your life, the time where you really wish you could go back and give your adolescent self some advice? This is it for me. I wish I could have known that soon, Thanksgiving would be the only time I’d get to see both of my brothers at once. I wish I would have known that my oldest brother wouldn’t have moved with us to Michigan, and that we had to leave him behind. I wish I would have known that texts and phone calls would begin to mean more to me than presents on Hannukah and sweet candy on Halloween. I really wish I would have known.

I have another brother, too, Dustin. He’s much older than me, and went away to school when I was about three-years-old. He’s tall and wise and knows everything about everything. The fact that I hardly got to see him when I was young, makes every occasion now so sweet and something of “mark-my-calender” significance. However, he makes up for the age gap by intentionally annoying me just about as much as my middle brother, Josh.

Before we know it I’m back to humming and Josh is back to scarfing down his chicken and barley, barely chewing before he swallows. Gross. I guess he suddenly doesn’t care about my humming anymore. It’s about a fifty-fifty chance it’ll get him worked up or not. My humming takes me to another place after I play with my squishy Challah bread. I pull off little pieces of the egg- glazed shiny bread and squish them into tiny balls between my thumb and pointer finger. It tastes better all mushy and packed in tight. Julie Barnett showed me this cooking theory two Saturdays ago in religious school. Later, I would come to the realization that any food that is produced by a child’s fingers is, in fact disgusting and should probably not be consumed. I’ve heard you can also dip it in grape juice; that’s very good too. No one in my family believes that these renditions of Challah really taste better this way, but I promise you, you will not be disappointed. However, in retrospect, there is actually no scientific evidence of this and you probably shouldn’t trust my six-year-old self, I don’t seem to have the greatest credibility.

Once we’ve all cleaned our dinner plates, I let the sweet cobbler take over me, savoring every perfect bite, taking the smallest ones I possibly can. I ate so much chicken and barley, but like I always say: “I have two stomachs, one for food and one for dessert.” The cobbler is sticky in my teeth, gooey and sugary, each bite better than the last. The tartness of the hot melty blueberries makes my lips pucker, but the sweet, buttery finish relaxes my mouth and begs me for another spoonful. The cold ice cream hurts my teeth but makes my soul happy. My humming has reached its highest volume, notes I’ve never sung are filling my lungs. I miss my brothers.

Josh hums too.