Ben's Bakery and the Hanukkah Miracle Page 6

  Adam shook his head. “You only had one—”

  Ben laughed. “I know what they taste like! Go on. We still have to light that candle, you know.”

  As good as the latkes were, Adam had to slow down to finish them. It was nice, really, sitting in the kitchen and savoring the latke with the splash of the water in the sink as a backdrop. He might have never sat in an industrial kitchen before, and it might have been Ben’s only slightly off-key voice humming in the background – but it felt comfortable. Almost homey, even.

  No latkes at home, Adam remembered with a jolt. Dad’s definitely not getting latkes this good, either. Probably soggy, fried-three-hours-ago latkes. Without powdered sugar, because the nutritionist is hard-core.

  “Bring me your plate when you’re done!” Ben called from the sink. When Adam looked down at his plate, he was surprised to see he’d already speared the last bite. The only latkes left were the eggplant variety, and a few of the sweet potato version that Adam didn’t particularly care to try again.

  “On my way,” Adam called back. He shoved the last bite into his mouth and gathered as many dirty dishes as he could carry.

  “Did you lick the plate?” Ben teased him.

  “Almost. I hope you don’t have dessert planned, I can’t eat another bite.”

  “Not really. Just leftover cookies, but I can send those with you if you want.”

  Adam shook his head. “I might be a coach, but that doesn’t give me leave to eat everything in sight.”

  “Unless it’s a latke.”

  “Hey, there’s still eggplant and sweet potato out there.”

  Ben shrugged. “I’ll add them to the boxes.”

  Adam frowned. “Boxes?”

  Ben jerked his head to the door, where there were four to-go boxes already waiting. “There’s a couple of homeless guys in the area. I try to make sure there’s leftovers for them, set them out before I go home for the night.”

  For some reason, seeing the white to-go boxes gave Adam a pang in his chest. “I’ll pack them for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  It took another ten minutes to finish cleaning up the kitchen, but finally Ben pulled off his apron and tossed it into the bin with the used dishcloths. “Thanks for your help. That goes a lot faster with two of us.”

  “Of course.” Adam followed Ben into the front half of the shop.

  It looked eerie with only the light from the street to illuminate it. The glass case had been cleared of the day’s selections, the chairs were overturned on the tables, and the chalkboard had been wiped clean. The tip and donation jars had been cleared of their money. Even the display in the window looked a little bit lonesome. The blue-and-white glow didn’t really hold up to the red-and-green lined street, though it certainly was as bright as could be.

  “We should’ve lit it first,” said Adam. “We’re going to leave tracks all over your clean floor.”

  “Yeah,” said Ben regretfully. “I always forget that part, the first couple of days. We’ll have to do better tomorrow.”

  Adam glanced at him. “We?”

  Ben blushed. “Well. If you want.”

  “Yeah,” said Adam before he could think.

  Ben shrugged, resigned but not particularly upset. “Come on, it’s not like it won’t get dirty tomorrow morning anyway.”

  The street was quiet, with only a couple of cars making their way down Mass Ave. The silvery white glow illuminated Ben’s face as he reached into the window display. His hand hovered over the bulb. “Do you say prayers over an electric menorah?”

  Adam shook his head. “No idea.”

  “I only sort of remember the Hanukkah-specific ones, anyway,” confessed Ben.

  “I know them,” offered Adam, bracing himself for the inevitable comments about being a rabbi’s son.

  Ben surprised him. Instead of amused or teasing, he just looked impressed. “Do you mind?”

  Adam reached for the light – and then pulled his hand back, his heart twisting in his chest. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling, not with his stomach as full as it was. “You light it.”

  Ben nodded and rested his fingers on the bulb. “Go on.”

  Adam opened his mouth – and for a horrifying, terrible moment, forgot every single word. He could hear his mother reciting the prayers, the cadence of her voice as it dipped into song every few words. The glow of the candles, increasing steadily as she warbled to the blessing’s conclusion.

  He’d never really appreciated it, as a kid. He’d always been anxious for her to finish, so he could open his presents or scarf down his dinner or get out the door for that night’s practice...

  Ben’s face, lit only by glow of the lights, was knowing. “I’ll say it with you. Baruch ata—”

  Adam breathed in, the flavor of latkes and sugar still on his tongue. The smell of the candlewax, the rustling of the worn and crumpled paper his mother had always used as a never-needed cheat sheet. The way the candles flickered in the dark room.

  He opened his mouth and sang.

  Baruch ata... melach ha-olam...

  His voice shook, his head spun, and his heart beat painfully in his chest.

  Ben turned the lightbulb; its small glow didn’t add a noticeable amount to the window, but Adam found himself blinking as he stared at it anyway.

  “There,” said Ben softly. “Happy Hanukkah, Adam.”

  Adam pulled his eyes away from the light just in time to see the shine in Ben’s eyes. Ben was so close to him, Adam could smell the lingering scent of oil that had surely embedded itself in his clothes. He thought he could smell the powdered sugar too – maybe in his hair or dusting his collar.

  Kiss him, thought Adam again – and this time, it wasn’t the chorus of hockey players in the back of his head.

  It was his own voice, his own feeling deep in his gut, the question of whether or not Ben’s lips would taste like the latkes they’d eaten, or if they’d have a flavor all of their own.

  It was all he had time to wonder, before Ben lifted up on his toes and kissed him instead, on the corner of his mouth. A light kiss, a little kiss, the kind one might try on someone new and uncertain.

  Which Adam certainly was. He couldn’t move, as much as he wanted to. Not when Ben lowered himself back down, his face still lit by the window, not looking disappointed or elated or anything but mildly expectant and hopeful.

  Like he was hoping Adam might kiss him back.

  (Happy Hanukkah, Adam, his mother had said, kissing his cheek, smiling, lit by the candlelight, smelling of cooking oil and her own perfume.)

  “I can’t,” whispered Adam. “I – I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  Ben’s smile was thin. “Okay. That’s okay.”

  “No. It’s not. It’s...” Adam closed his eyes tight in a grimace. “I... my mother. She...”

  Ben’s breathing was a bit heavier. “She didn’t approve of you being gay?”

  Adam’s eyes flew open. “She didn’t know. I never had the chance to tell her. But she wouldn’t have cared. My father doesn’t mind.”

  “The rabbi for my congregation doesn’t care, either,” said Ben. “I know some rabbis don’t like it, but—”

  “I don’t want to be your Jewish fling, okay?” snapped Adam.

  Ben went stiff.

  Adam exhaled. “I get that you’re trying to find your religious and cultural roots, but I’m not the one to show them to you. I’m sorry.”

  “You think I only invited you here because I need an official Jewish opinion on my latkes?” said Ben’s voice, growing cool.

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No! I’m glad you like them, but I wouldn’t have cared if you hated every kind. I was sort of hoping to get to know you a little better.” Ben snorted. “Maybe I just did.”

  “I’m sorry if you aren’t impressed.”

  “Yeah, well.” Ben turned and went to the door, throwing the locks so hard the door shook. “Thanks for the official Jewish stamp of approval on my nan
a’s latkes. I’d like you to leave now.”

  It was hard convincing his muscles to move – and when he did, he was increasingly aware of the heaviness in his stomach.

  How the hell did I mess this up even more than I did this morning? he wondered.

  Ben was looking at his feet when Adam paused at the door. “I’m sorry,” Adam repeated.

  “Me too,” said Ben stiffly.

  The door slammed behind Adam the moment he was through it. He turned just in time to see Ben walk back to the rear of the shop.

  Great. Now I feel even guiltier, thought Adam, and turned to begin the long walk back to the hotel.

  Chapter Three

  On the third night of Hanukkah...

  Ben’s leg throbbed the next morning when he woke up, as if every beat of his heart was sending waves of low-level pain straight down to the offending limb itself. Ben grimaced as he sat up and tried to rub the ache out of the muscles, already dreading the cumbersome, limping hop he’d have to make to the bathroom.

  He'd just rubbed the worst of the ache away when his alarm started to blare. Ben reached over to turn it off with a sigh.

  Two extra minutes of sleep gone, he thought. Thanks, leg!

  Not like it’d been good sleep. It had taken forever to fall asleep the night before, what with all the anger-fueled adrenaline from his argument with Adam. Or non-argument, since it hadn’t really been an argument exactly. Just a... weird misunderstanding that hadn’t yet been corrected and was weighing heavily on Ben’s shoulders as a result.

  Is he right, though? Am I just using him?

  Ben hobbled to the bathroom. The rational side of his brain informed him that there was no reason why he couldn’t put weight on his leg. The irrational, pain-addled part was screaming about how that was a bad idea. In the fog of early morning, Ben was inclined to trust the irrational side more.

  If it’d been a Saturday morning, Ben would have filled up his tub with steaming water, added a few of the bath bombs that were his favorite splurge, and soak until the ache went away. Instead, it was Wednesday, and Ben needed to be in the kitchen, prepping the day’s pastries for sale. Long, hot baths would have to wait in lieu of a short, hot shower that would help but not entirely alleviate the ache.

  It’s Jewish because you made it, was what Nana had said when Ben had first asked about “real Jewish recipes.” You think whoever came up with blinis and bialys and bagels came up with the recipes wanting to make a real Jewish food? Of course not! They made them because they tasted good, and the bakers just happened to be Jewish. That’s it.

  Ben wasn’t so sure the rest of the world – particularly the parts that had larger Jewish populations – saw it quite that way. Even if to him, Nana’s theory made sense.

  Mostly.

  I bake Easter cakes, but that doesn’t make the Easter cakes Jewish. So why would the latkes I make be Jewish? Doesn’t follow.

  ‘Course, by that logic, you could put bacon in a latke and still call it a latke. That doesn’t follow, either.

  Shower done, Ben dressed by the soft light of his bedside lamp. Even living alone, it seemed wrong to turn on every single light against the darkness of early morning. He pulled on a sweater and his boots, shoved a hat on top of his head, and glanced outside the front windows to see if there’d been any snowfall as predicted overnight.

  Mass Ave was dark, except for the few streetlights that shone white against the leftover slush. Most of the red-and-green lights in the shop windows had been turned off, though Ben could see the glow from a few places: the hardware store, the bookstore, the breakfast diner just down the street.

  Most importantly, no new snowfall, which at least would make Ben’s short commute easier.

  Ben dropped his curtain back over the window and went to the back door. He pulled on a coat and slipped outside to the outside landing. He went down the weather-worn but sturdy wooden staircase that desperately needed a new coat of varnish. After a few minutes of fumbling with the lock, he let himself into the bakery kitchen.

  Thus ended Ben’s commute.

  “Morning, Ben!” called Helen over the roar of the industrial mixer. “Slept in, did you?”

  Helen made the same joke every morning. She also showed up a full hour before Ben did to bake the bread that had been rising overnight. She’d been doing it for ten years and even though her salary was a hefty chunk of Ben’s monthly income, he knew there was no way he could manage that end of the shop and keep up the rest of it too.

  “At some point,” the previous owner had explained to him, “sleep is more valuable than money.”

  “Worth it,” Ben told Helen, and meant it. The only day Helen didn’t come in was Sunday, when she headed for church. Every Sunday, Ben had to listen to customers sigh as he reminded them of Helen’s day off, and he renewed his internal pledge to continue employing Helen for as long as she was willing to come in – and double her salary if she ever tried to leave.

  Helen pulled trays of rustic peasant bread out of the oven in smooth, graceful moves, sliding the finished loaves onto the cooling racks. The bread landed on the racks, tappa tappa tappa. Each one looked browned and perfect, filling the kitchen with the smell Ben had come to associate with mornings.

  “Butter’s on the counter,” said Helen as she loaded the ovens up with loaf pans. “I found some frozen cranberries in the back of the freezer. Do you want them for muffins, or can I use them for a quick bread?”

  “Ooo.” Ben settled on a stool, pulling out the pad of paper and pencil he kept in a drawer. “I thought I’d used all of them last month for the Thanksgiving compote.”

  “Mmm,” grunted Helen, shoving the oven door closed. She turned and wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Must’ve missed a couple of dozen bags. You could make more compote, plenty of people have turkey for Christmas too.”

  “Yeah,” said Ben, tapping the pencil to his paper. “I still need another filling for the sufganiyot.”

  Helen grabbed a loaf of bread on the far cooling rack and began to slice into it. It’d been sitting long enough that steam didn’t rise as she cut out four slices, but it was still warm enough that the butter melted before she handed two of the slices to Ben.

  “Pardon my French, Ben,” said Helen frankly, “but cranberry-filled donuts sound disgusting.”

  Ben chuckled. “Why is cursing always in French?”

  “Maybe they swear a lot, I don’t know, I’ve never been to France.”

  “They speak French in Canada, too,” said Ben, thinking of the boys who chattered away in French, and their dark-haired coach who could probably whisper extremely dirty things in French into Ben’s ear if he’d wanted. Ben wouldn’t have complained.

  “Never been there either. I had three more people ask me yesterday when you’re making the poinsettia cookies.”

  “Next week, after Hanukkah. If people want them sooner, they’re welcome to put in a special order,” said Ben, eyeing his phone and wondering what would pop up on a Google search for “cranberry Jewish foods.”

  Helen looked at him thoughtfully while she ate. “Christmas is coming up. Lots of foot traffic.”

  “Foot traffic’s usually happy with whatever’s in the case already,” said Ben.

  “Not if what’s in the case is cranberry-filled donuts.”

  Ben sighed. “Okay, I won’t fill donuts with cranberries. The raspberry were popular, maybe I’ll just do those again.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Helen. She shoved the last bite of bread in her mouth and slid off her stool. “We’re running low on whole wheat flour.”

  “The order should be in on Friday.”

  “All right then.” Helen’s voice carried over the sound of the running water in the sink. “Last batch of bread is out in twenty.”

  “Thanks, Helen!”

  “Just keep paying me!”

  Ben tapped his pencil on the paper again, but he wasn’t thinking about cranberries anymore. He wasn’t surprise
d that Helen was beset by questions regarding Christmas treats; every other year, he’d had Christmas-themed cookies and muffins and cakes on display long before now, almost as soon as the last of the Thanksgiving pies had been delivered and eaten.

  This was the first year he’d decided to focus on Hanukkah exclusively before turning his mind to Christmas. Helen had been thoroughly supportive, as had every customer who’d asked Ben directly about when the Christmas items would be available.

  “Always thought Hanukkah had the short shift,” said Helen in her practical way, right before she dove into baking the cinnamon-apple challah that kept people coming in droves on Friday, Jewish or Christian or Muslim or nothing at all.

  Anyway, it wasn’t as if anyone really cared if the cookie was a red poinsettia or a blue Mogen David. It still tasted the same.

  (When it came to five-year-old boys, Ben thought the stars sold better anyway, on account of the possibility of having a blue tongue from the icing.)

  Everyone had been supportive, true... at first. Now, nearly halfway through December, Ben thought he could detect a somewhat strained note in their voices when he explained why there weren’t any Christmas decorations on his cupcakes.

  “Oh,” they said, their eyes darting here and there. “That’s very nice.”

  If Ben didn’t know better, he’d have thought they sounded almost worried – as if he might decide not to make their treasured and anticipated Christmas trifle at all. Or maybe stick a dreidel on it.

  Ben shook his head. As if he’d skip an entire holiday of baking just on principle! Most of the Christmas treats were among his favorites to make – and a good portion of them were Nana’s recipes, too.

  (“Chocolate crinkles are Christmas cookies only on Christmas,” said Nana. “Any other time of year, they’re just a cookie. A delicious cookie,” she’d add, right before popping one in her mouth, leaving a dusting of powdered sugar on her fingers.)

  Ben set to work. There were quiches to make, donuts to fill, muffins to mix, cupcakes to decorate. It was still two weeks to Christmas. Plenty of time to get started on the Christmas cookies and scones and muffins and cakes. Plenty.