Read A Midwinter Eve’s Tale to refresh yourself concerning their Bergintholdian holiday feast on Midwinter Eve.

“You look like Shang-Li on Midwinter Eve.” Beranger’s words brought Jonette back from her nostalgia.

She gave a low chuckle. “I was just thinking about Midwinter Eve, but not the old woman.”

Beranger said, “You were staring out the window so intently, just like she used to do every year. I always wondered what she was looking for.” After a moment, he added, “What were you thinking about?”

Jonette sighed. “Nothing really… just how it used to be. It’s not even cold here.” She studied his face. “You don’t miss it, do you?”

“What’s to miss?” her brother said. “I sit and eat. It was better when I could be with the children. But at the big table, I either watched Father sleep or Mother trying to out-polite Aunt Claennis. And Aunt Muriele was just creepy. It’s fine for you and Uncle Sigebard, dueling it out on the chessboard.” He shook his head. “The food wasn’t even that good. I can’t believe you insisted AnhLe make the boring old roasted pork.”

“I didn’t insist,” Jonette said, swallowing her frustration. “She asked, and I told her what I’d like. She is our cook, and we’re paying for it.”

Beranger scrunched his shoulders, seeming to cringe. “We’re in their house, Joni. You shouldn’t be so overbearing.”

“We’re paying to live here too, and I’m letting them have their traditional dishes.” Jonette arched an eyebrow. “Be glad I didn’t ask for the figgy pudding, which I have a hankering for.”

“Ha!” Beranger bellowed. “You hate figgy pudding. Why do you suddenly want it now?”

“Not hate,” she said. “Maybe I’ve never appreciated it properly… but it is my most vivid impression of Midwinter celebrations.”

“What is ‘figgy pudding?’”

They both turned to AnhLe, not having heard her coming up to them in the sitting room. Jonette jerked her head, chiding herself for slipping into Phuvalese again without realizing it.

Beranger grinned at the petite woman with the bright eyes and ready smile. “Oh, some vile cake mush that we used to eat during the holiday.” He proceeded to describe all the intricacies of the boozy dessert to her.

AnhLe listened with a bemused curve to her lips and yelped when he exaggerated the burst of flames at igniting the liqueur.

“It sounds interesting… and dangerous,” AnhLe said.

“Don’t worry,” Beranger said. “You won’t have to make it. We don’t have the right fruits and spirits.”

The Phuvian woman turned to Jonette, who shrugged and said, “It’s true. Your figs are puny and not nearly sweet enough. There are no currants, and raisins are rare. The peels of your sahn oranges are too thin, and they don’t have the right zing. And the muhn prunes are painfully sour.” Jonette shivered at the thought of the salty-tart flavor of the local dried plums.

“Blech!” Beranger said. “We certainly don’t need that, especially with yummy stuff like chung cakes and steamed fish.” He smacked his lips in anticipation.

Jonette tried not to roll her eyes. Beranger and his fish. He’d been looking forward to that dish since AnhLe told him about the Phuvian tradition of catching a fish and steaming it fresh for the Midwinter Eve feast. He was planning to go with Bao, AnhLe’s brother, on their old houseboat to catch the fish. The thought of that smelly, rickety vessel sent a wave of nausea through Jonette’s stomach. It reminded her how much happier she was in this house, no matter how crowded.

AnhLe frowned. “The feast is only five days away, and so much to do…” She met Jonette’s eyes and appeared abashed. “Sorry, I’m not complaining, Chi Joni. We will get it done. Tomorrow, we start on the chung cakes—give it a few days to sit, for better flavors. The whole family will help.”

“I can help too.” Beranger actually raised his hand to volunteer.

Jonette looked away before he could see her annoyance and caught a chagrined expression on the cook’s face, which AnhLe quickly covered with a perky grin.

“It’s not necessary, Ong Beranger. We cook the meal for you.” There was a subtle note of entreaty to her normally deferential manner.

It was lost on Beranger. “I’m happy to help. You know I want to learn to cook.” His eager face never wavered, though AnhLe’s smile did.

Jonette understood. Beranger abounded in enthusiasm and good intentions, but was all thumbs in the kitchen. Yet, AnhLe could not refuse him, as her employer. Jonette would speak up, but if she forbade him, it would only make him that much more determined to do it.

The next day, AnhLe sent Beranger to look for banana leaves and to prepare them for the chung cakes. She impressed upon him that they needed very many of them, and it kept him busy all day. The day after, the cook set him to making the sauce to marinate the pork belly. It went fine except for a few spills. But then she let him cut shallots.

“Ouch!” Beranger cried.

AnhLe mother exclaimed, “Aiyah, he is bleeding in the sauce!”

“Oh, sorry—”

“Here, wrap this on your finger, Ong Beranger.”

“Thanks, AnhLe, but I’m alright. I can keep cutting.”

“No, no! Tell him to leave and bandage it. We cannot have blood in the food.” Co Tieu, AnhLe’s mother, must have forgotten that Beranger was now fluent in Phuvalese.

“It’s alright, Co Tieu, I can work around it and be careful.”

In the sitting room, Jonette imagined Co Tieu’s ire in the sullen silence. The woman mumbled a few words Jonette couldn’t catch.

“Ong Beranger, please let me help you bandage it. It is not safe for you.” AnhLe’s voice sounded thin and strained.

Jonette threw down the hopeless embroidery she’d been working on and went to the kitchen entrance.

“I’ll do it,” she said. “Come on, Beranger. They’re busy enough without worrying about you.”

He set his lips in a mulish line and clutched the cleaver tighter. Then, he glanced at Co Tieu and AnhLe. Their distress must have convinced him. He put down the chopper and followed Jonette out.

Beranger sulked until AnhLe set him to building the spit outside for roasting the pork. That occupied him only for the rest of the day. They would not roast the pork until the day of the feast.

Jonette was dreading more drama from him tomorrow, but everything changed then.

The fierce whispering in the kitchen stopped as Jonette drew near. Both AnhLe and her mother stared at her as she entered. Co Tieu clamped her mouth like it had closed on a mouthful of rotten eggs. Conversely, AnhLe showed too many teeth in her smile.

“Good morning, Chi Joni,” AnhLe said.

“Is something wrong?”

Mother and daughter shifted their eyes to exchange a look. Then, they sighed in unison.

AnhLe said, “I need to help Bac Danh with the cooking. It is the first year since her daughter married and went to another village. But today is wrapping day for the chung cakes. Mamay does not like it that I will not be here.” She glanced at her mother. “It is a family tradition to do it together, and it’s a lot of work.”

Co Tieu sighed again. “But it is kind of AnhLe to help a neighbor. I should not be selfish. We will take longer but can manage.”

Jonette twitched her lips, not wanting to speak the offer she knew she should make.

Then she heard the words behind her. “I can help.” Beranger bounded into the kitchen, beaming.

Both Phuvian women took a breath and held it, as if caught between two fires.

Jonette exhaled in a huff. “Well, if it’s a family tradition, I’d better do it too.”

At first it was chaotic, with Beranger trying to sample the fillings. Bao and Chu Tieu, AnhLe’s father, ate some too, but just the mung bean paste. It was the only thing that was cooked. Beranger found out the hard way with the rice. Fortunately, he recognized the raw pork belly slices.

Once they’d established a work pattern, Beranger settled into reasonable competence, and Jonette didn’t mind it either. First, they laid out the banana leaves for the cakes. Then, they added the following layers to each: a base of soaked rice, a thin circle of mung bean paste, two pork belly slices, another coating of mung bean paste, and a final topping of rice.

Jonette really took to the wrapping. There was a logic and art to folding the banana leaves around each cake and tying the twine just so to form a perfect square. She quickly realized there was a competition in wrapping the best cake—firm, neat, and shapely. Jonette threw herself into the fray, giving the champion, Co Tieu, a run for it. They commented on each other’s cakes, at once jeering and cheering. Jonette exercised her searing wit and took the returned barbs in good humor. In the end, they all agreed Co Tieu still reigned, but Jonette had impressed everyone.

Jonette did not notice the hours passing and felt flushed with pleasure when the cakes went into the boiling pots of water. Now she understood AnhLe’s sadness at missing this event.

The young woman returned late that day and was gone most of the next one. She seemed worn out with the work she was doing at the neighbor’s house.

With AnhLe’s absence, Co Tieu finally accepted Beranger’s repeated offer of assistance. The rest of them tried to help too, but the men quietly took themselves off when the matron grew more verbose in her frustrations with Beranger. Jonette was offended for him, but he shooed her out of the kitchen and kept at it.

The day before Midwinter Eve, AnhLe gave them bad news. The cooking at Bac Danh’s house was taking a lot more time than she’d anticipated. She would not be able to help with any of the cooking at home tomorrow. Beranger offered to cook the pork roast on the spit. It was not complicated, but he must stay with it and could not go fishing with Bao.

“That’s not all,” AnhLe said, casting a nervous glance at her brother. “I don’t think I can go with you to the boat. You will have to cook the fish yourself.”

“What?” Bao’s usually calm face popped with alarm. “I’ve never done it before.” He turned to his mother. “Can I just bring it here for you—”

“No,” Co Tieu said. “I need both stoves for the braised pork, duck eggs, vegetables, and sweet rice balls. You must do it on the stove in the boat. It’s easy. You’ve seen me steam fish many times.”

“I didn’t pay attention,” Bao whined.

“Maybe we don’t need the fish,” AnhLe said.

“No!” Beranger and Bao said at the same time.

“We have plenty of food,” AnhLe said, not sounding convinced herself.

Beyond Beranger’s fascination with it, a fish dish was an important part of any celebration in Phu Valon.

“I don’t see why Bac Danh and her husband should need so much food,” Beranger said. “Isn’t it just the two of them this year?” Suddenly, he widened his eyes. “I know—why don’t we invite them to our feast? Then, AnhLe wouldn’t have to go there anymore, and she can cook the fish.”

Co Tieu and AnhLe stared at him, then at each other. Chu Tieu and Bao seemed to be  looking at them too.

“What?” Beranger said. “Is there something wrong with that? Is it an insult or something?”

“Y-Yes,” AnhLe said. “It is hard enough for her not to have her children with her this year, but not to make her own meal also? It is too much.”

“Have you asked her?” Beranger said.

“I couldn’t,” AnhLe said.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Bao said.

“That’s because you want your fish,” his sister said.

Bao twisted his lips into a pointed smirk. “Yeah.”

AnhLe dropped her eyes and hunched, looking defeated.

Looking at her, Beranger equivocated until he finally said, “You’re right, AnhLe. We can always have fish another day.” His forced grin became more genuine when AnhLe smiled gratefully at him.

Bao turned on him and sputtered, “But it’s Midwinter Eve; we need a fish—”

“Alright,” Co Tieu interrupted. “It’s late, and we have a lot to do tomorrow. Let’s just go to sleep and deal with it then.”

Bao looked like he wanted to argue more, but a stern look from his mother cut him off.

Jonette didn’t sleep well that night. She couldn’t tell if she’d had a terrible dream or a bad idea that kept her up. She rose early, trying to forget it. The kitchen was blessedly silent.

She spied Beranger and AnhLe through the window, talking by the roasting spit. Jonette couldn’t hear what the Phuvian woman was saying, but Beranger stared at the ground and wore a resigned pout on his face as he listened. She tugged his sleeve, and he lifted a corner of his mouth up in a weak smile. AnhLe walked away toward Bac Danh’s house, and Beranger went around out of sight. Shortly afterward, Jonette heard wood being chopped.

Jonette crossed her arms and heaved a grunt. It hadn’t been a dream and was now plaguing her. She headed outside and found Beranger slaughtering a log. Jonette paused out of range of the flying splinters.

“Was it a mortal insult, then?” she said. “Did the trunk affront you with its brazen bark or lewd leaves?”

Beranger answered with another crippling whack on the mangled timber.

“What did AnhLe say?” Jonette asked.

After three more chops, he said, “She told Bao how to cook the fish, but he won’t try it. Probably just save it for her tomorrow, a day old.”

Horrors.

Jonette reined in her caustic thoughts. “I could order AnhLe to abandon the old woman and do what I pay her to do. But I don’t think you’d like that. You’re always in favor of altruism and thinking of others first these days.”

A growl rumbled in his throat. Whack! Whack!

“Would you like me to roast the pork, so you could go with Bao and cook it together?”

He favored her with a withering glare and went back to the log.

Jonette scowled. She’d hoped he would accept that idea. It seemed the better alternative.

Bao came over and listlessly dumped more logs onto the pile. “I’m off now.”

You’d think someone died, looking at these two.

“Setting out early to catch the best one?”

Bao stood up straighter, and Jonette regretted her sharp tone. “I’m going to the market first to get the vegetables and seasonings,” he said. “No one’s cooked on the boat for a while.”

Jonette didn’t need his shifting eyes to know what he meant. The boat’s kitchen wouldn’t have the proper staples because she was the last one to cook there, and she’d only used salt on her food.

“I’ll go with you,” Jonette said. “I could use a walk and a change of scenery.”

Bao blinked at her, then nodded and set off. She rushed to keep up, suspecting he was trying to lose her.

“So, will you try it?” She asked him.

Bao jutted out his lower lip, but didn’t answer. No wonder he got on so well with Beranger. He was just like him.

Jonette spoke before she could change her mind. “Alright, here’s the deal. I’ll help you cook it.”

Bao stopped, and she ran into him. “Sorry, Chi Joni… What did you say?”

“I’m coming with you to that stones-forsaken boat to cook your confounded fish.”

Bao flinched. Jonette took a breath and smoothed her meisam. When she looked back up, all his deferential trepidation was gone, replaced by hope.

“Do you know how to do it?” he said.

Jonette said, “I’ve seen it enough times when Beranger used to go out with his fisherman, giving him all the fish as long as he cooked one for him. Then he would bring the thing home to eat it. It smelled up the boat, and I had to stare at the dead eyes the whole time.”

“He should have eaten them first—wait… You’ve never cooked it before, either?” Bao’s face began to droop again.

“Honestly, how hard could it be?” Jonette said. “Your sister gave you the instructions, right? We’ll figure it out.”

He eyed her, but she stared him down with her most imperious face. Nobles were good at bluffing, if nothing else.

At the market, Bao expertly picked out the scallions, ginger, cilantro, and mushrooms. Jonette grew more nervous with each item. She remembered they should be sliced into small pieces. Her knife skills had been competent for producing large chunks, and she had taken considerable time doing it. Jonette couldn’t imagine how long it would take to julienne all these vegetables.

After picking up the siyu sauce and rice wine, Bao said to her, “Do you have a wak and steaming rack there?”

“We have a wak. I boil everything in it. It should be large enough for the fish,” Jonette said.

He stared back for a long time before finally blinking. “We’re steaming the fish, not boiling it.”

Jonette cast about in her mind and lifted her chin. “Is there a difference?”

After coming out of his stupefaction to answer her, Bao wanted to give up. She wouldn’t allow it. Pride and stubbornness egged Jonette on. They bought a bamboo steaming rack and everything else he thought she needed. On the way to the boat, she forced Bao to explain everything he knew about cooking the fish, no matter how basic.

Her head hurt from the information, and her face ached from trying to remain impassive. What had she gotten herself into?

In the boat, Bao checked to make sure the cleaver was still sharp and there was enough wood for the stove.

“It’s best if you prepare all the vegetables and sauce before I catch the fish,” he said. “That way we can gut it alive and cook it right away—so fresh.” His tongue swiped the lips at the thought of it.

“Gut it?” Jonette said. “Am I expected to do that?”

“No, I’ll do it. That’s no problem.”

“Out of curiosity, why can’t you cook it?” Jonette asked. “You seem to know a lot about it. I understand men often cook in this culture.”

The man looked sheepish. “Mamay always tells Cha and me that we should learn. And we agree. But with Mamay and AnhLe spoiling us with such good food, we get lazy and put it off. Knowing in the head is not like having the love in the fingers.”

Jonette swallowed, realizing all she had was head knowledge.

“Well, it’s a good job that you’re forced to learn now,” she said.

Bao left her to steer the boat a little further out to sea, looking to stake a good angling spot. He’d told her that if he didn’t catch a large enough fish, they would have to cook more than one.

Though she had lived on this boat, they had never sailed it before. Bobbing in place at the harbor unsettled her enough. Now, Jonette’s stomach lurched and dropped with the swells they rode. It was all she could do to hold in the breakfast buns she had eaten at the market until the swaying felt anchored again.

She finally heaved herself off the stool and made her way to the little kitchen.

Jonette gave up trying for delicate little strips of vegetables after narrowly missing her fingers with the blade several times. She decided that the flavors would still be there no matter how it looked. After what seemed like hours, she had the chunks and shards of ginger, scallions, and cilantro in separate bowls. Not recalling any specific proportions for the sauce, she used her judgment, deciding on more siyu sauce to drown the fishy taste. When Jonette finished all she could do, she finally realized how late it was. Where was her fish?

She walked out on deck to find Bao hunched over a casting rod. Beside him, a bucket held about ten hand-sized fish.

“Are these all you got?” Jonette tried to keep the panic out of her voice as she calculated how many she must cook to feed the whole family.

Bao grunted. “Maybe it’s a bad spot or too many people fishing today.”

Jonette scanned the area and saw boats dotting the water every fifty yards or so around her. She looked up at the sky and judged it to be around two or three hours past midday.

She gritted her teeth. “Should we just use these?”

Bao shook his head. “They’re too small to taste right. We would have to fry them, and I really don’t know how to do that.”

Jonette kneaded her temples. “We’ve got to do something or admit defeat.”

“Just give me a little more time,” he said. “I know there’s a big one in there—”

His line jerk and went taut. Bao got up with a whoop and leaned back. “This is it!”

He gave a strenuous yank, and the boat pitched. Jonette turned to grab the railing and twisted back to a salty spray and a slimy slap on the face. Bao’s fish had come in fighting and flapped its tail at her.

“Ugh!” she shouted.

“Sorry, Chi Joni, but look at it! It must be almost three pounds!”

“Lovely,” Jonette said, trying to wipe the muck from her cheek.

Bao pulled the catch close to his grinning face, oblivious to the dousing from the frantically wiggling creature. “Is the water heated? I can get it ready in a few ticks.”

Jonette realized she had forgotten about that. She hadn’t even lit the fire yet.

“Give me a moment,” she called back as she ran for the kitchen.

Tiny bubbles had begun forming at the the edge of the water when Bao came in, holding the limp fish with a large gash along its side. He laid it on the cutting board.

“I’m going to clean up a bit outside. I’ll be back to help you put this on the rack,” he said.

Jonette pulled out the largest plate she could find. She wasn’t sure the fish would fit. In fact, it might be too big for the wak. She considered cutting off the tail, when an inspiration hit her.

Bao came back in. “I was wondering if it might be too big—argh! What did you do?”

Jonette proudly held up the headless fish. “I’ve always hated how the eyes stare at me. Now it won’t, and it fits perfectly.”

Bao stood frozen, unable to get words out. Finally, he squeaked, “You cut off the head? Why would you do that? It’s the best part.”

Jonette rolled her eyes. “What nonsense. Here, I’ll put it to the side to steam with the fish. You can eat it as a snack, but it doesn’t have to ruin the feast with its hideous ogle.”

Bao gaped at her much like the dead fish. “A snack? I would insult my father if I ate it. It is the best piece reserved for Cha, the head of the family. He always shares it with us, but that is his privilege and honor. We cannot take it from him.”

It was Jonette’s turn to stare. “Really? All that from a fish head? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think anyone would cut off the head.”

“Alright, we’ll put it back and cut off the tail. Is that sacred too?”

Bao frowned. “No, the tail is okay, but…”

“Now what?”

“We use the eyes to tell us when the fish is cooked. It turns white.”

“Well, the eyes are still here, so what’s the problem?”

“I don’t think it works the same when it’s not connected to the rest of the body.”

Jonette was fed up. “I don’t see why not. Let’s just do it.”

When Jonette finally straggled off the boat, the sun was setting. She was too tired to hold the covered platter. Bao gripped it with both hands and wouldn’t look at her. She couldn’t care anymore. That last hour didn’t bear thinking.

Their home came into view, and the first thing Jonette saw was the large table set outside near the empty spit. The roasted pork sat on the table, along with many other dishes. She saw no one else except an old man leaning over the centerpiece of the table.

Jonette said, “Is that…?”

“Ong Danh,” Bao said, giving their elderly neighbor a nod of greeting.

“Ah, Bao, you are back at last, and Chi Joni too. Ong Beranger is worried, almost ready to search for her.” The man turned to the house and called for his wife.

People started coming out of the house. Beranger first, running up to her.

“Where have you been? You never said a thing,” he said.

“I went with Bao,” Jonette said. “You were there.”

“I thought you would come back after the market,” Beranger said. “But I didn’t notice until all the preparations were done.” He spied the dish that Bao slid into a spot on the table and broke into a smile. “Did you make the fish, Bao?”

Bao pressed his mouth into a thin line. “Not exactly.” Darting a glance at Jonette, he pulled off the covering.

“Aiy!” The cry was echoed by several voices. Co Tieu was the loudest, followed by AnhLe.

Jonette saw that they were all there, including Bac Danh.

She sighed. “It wasn’t him. I made the fish.”

“What!” Beranger, who had been staring dumbly, screeched his surprise. “You hate fish.”

“Yes, even more now,” she mumbled.

“Why is the head cut off?” Chu Tieu asked.

“That was a misunderstanding,” Jonette said. “Unfortunately, the head cooks faster when severed.” She avoided what was sure to be Bao’s glare. “I had to poke it to see if the rest was done. Being a very large fish, I had to do it several times.” Her accusatory tone was not lost on Bao.

“It was a beautifully large fish,” he said defensively. “Now it looks raked over or exploded.”

“The sauce is very dark,” Co Tieu said. She dipped a finger in and licked it. Her eyes rounded. “Lots of siyu sauce.”

“I didn’t want it to be fishy,”Jonette said.

“Why eat fish, then?” Beranger scowled.

“You tell me,” she replied icily. “I only did it for you.”

Her brother’s face dropped in confusion, then softened to a smile. “Really, Joni? Thanks.”

“Much good it did. I have been nauseated, slimed, and scolded only to produce a wreck. And I smell like I died with that recalcitrant beast,” Jonette said.

AnhLe came over. “I’m sure it’ll taste fine with a little bit of water. You clean up, Chi Joni. We’ll wait for you.”

Jonette turned to leave and caught a full glimpse of the dome-shaped mound at the center of the table. “What is that?”

AnhLe stopped in the middle of picking up the fish, her lips tweaking. “Er… I tried to make your figgy pudding. It was a surprise for you.”

Jonette opened her mouth but was at a loss for words. She looked at the squirmy young woman, then back at the brown, lopsided wedge. “How?”

AnhLe said, “I’ve been working all week to find substitute ingredients. That’s why I’ve been working at Bac Danh’s kitchen. She’s been helping me.” She swallowed and peeked at Jonette through her lashes. “I’d already invited them to our feast, in exchange for using her kitchen. But it was so hard to get dried fruit and to candy the sanh peels. It didn’t taste good and kept collapsing. Finally, I told Beranger this morning and ask him to help.”

Jonette looked at her brother. No wonder he was so grumpy—exchanging his beloved fish for figgy pudding.

Beranger shrugged. “I told her everything I knew and kept tasting it to see what was missing. It’s not the same, but I’m not sure it’s worst.”

“Everyone knew about it?” Jonette asked.

“I didn’t,” Bao mumbled.

“I had to tell Mamay and Cha, so I could go,” AnhLe said.

Jonette felt strangely warm behind her eyes. She cleared her throat and said, “Could I try it?”

AnhLe furrowed her brow. “Well, it’s a cake, so we were going to eat it after dinner…”

Ong Danh surprised them all by saying, “Oh, let’s taste it. I’ve watched it all week and the wife wouldn’t let me eat it. So many strange ingredients. I am very curious.”

“Me too!” Chu Tieu said.

AnhLe turned to Jonette. “Okay. I don’t know if you’ll like it. I think it tastes refreshing, not too sweet… but it’s different.”

“I’ll get a knife,” Co Tieu said.

“Oh, wait!” AnhLe said, suddenly remembering. “We have to do the fire.”

“This is the best part.” Ong Danh rubbed his hands with a broad grin.

AnhLe and her mother disappeared inside the house, returning shortly with a cup, matches, and a knife.

“We only have rice wine, so I got a lot and made it very hot,” AnhLe said.

There was some jostling among the men to be the one to light the fire, but they decided that Beranger most likely knew what to do without burning everything down. Jonette had her doubts since he hadn’t paid attention to the flambe in Berginthold for years.

Beranger lit the match and jab the flame at the wine as soon as AnhLe stopped pouring. A puff of blue burst up to a chorus of ahs. They laughed and clapped, but the flames sputtered and died. Except for one spark which slithered to singe the cake. Beranger smacked it out with his palm, then grimaced and rubbed his hand on his pants.

They gave Jonette the first piece and watched her eat it. An explosion of sour sweetness immediately puckered her lips. They had used the muhn prunes. She chewed and relaxed a bit when the cinnamon and nutmeg mellowed the bite. Eventually she noted the hints of herby figs and floral citrus, but the expected sweetness never came.

It tasted terrible and nothing like home. But looking at their expectant faces by the light of the glowing lanterns, she thought maybe it did, of a different kind of home.

“It’s wonderful,” Jonette said.

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