The Many Mysteries of the Finkel Family

her sister as a liar. Frowning, Caroline opened her sketchbook. Wrestling with the not-rhinoceros was more appealing than trying to make sense of her sister and Aviva’s relationship.
She glanced out the window. Sunset wouldn’t be for another few hours yet, but they’d probably start Shabbat dinner soon anyway. Technically, people weren’t supposed to start Shabbat until sunset on Friday night. But Ima said that Seattle summers had so much daylight that dinner couldn’t possibly wait for the sun to finish its business. Caroline’s growling stomach quite agreed.
As Ima and Noah and Aunt Miriam joined everyone else in the kitchen, Caroline relaxed her shoulders. Yes, Lara was acting weird, and yes, she and Aviva had some kind of ridiculous feud going on. But for now, Caroline just wanted to enjoy Shabbat with her family.
She’d watch out for a good mystery during dinner.

CHAPTER FIVE: IN WHICH A MYSTERY PRESENTS ITSELF
LOCATION: Kitchen (5:00 p.m., Shabbat)
EVENT: Dad got angry about something that involves string beans. Very Bad Words were involved.
QUESTION FOR FURTHER INVESTIGATION: Probably nothing. I really wish there was a better mystery around here. It’s been days since I put up my flyers and absolutely nothing has happened yet. Blech!
The Finkels chanted the Hamotzi their way. Which is to say that Benny was a half-beat faster than everyone else, while Caroline’s British-lady computer voice strayed several measures behind. Just about everyone sang in a different key, making it impossible to say who was or was not in tune. (Lara thought Aviva sounded even more out of tune than the rest of them. Very nicely, she kept the thought to herself.)
Once they completed the blessings, pandemonium broke out as everyone rushed for the food. Lara placed a generously sized helping of brisket on her plate. On the other side of the table, Aviva frowned at the food.
Lara glared at her cousin. It would be just like Aviva to say something nasty about Dad’s undoubtedly delicious food.
In the Finkel household, it was an established fact that whenever Dad made Shabbat dinner, it would taste good.
“More Ashkenazi food, I know,” Dad said. “I’m still working on perfecting my Sephardic cuisine so I can make it for you guys. In the meantime, no one wants to eat deconstructed spanakopita.”
He looked at Aviva and Aunt Miriam as he spoke. Ever since arriving from Israel six months ago, Aviva hadn’t exactly been subtle in expressing her opinions about American food. Or anything else, for that matter. According to Aviva, the falafel was warmer in Israel. The street music, livelier. The pillows, fluffier. (Well, okay, so Aviva hadn’t actually said that last one. Yet. It was probably only a matter of time.) Personally, Lara thought Aviva should just go back to Israel if everything was so much better there.
“The food is excellent, I’m sure,” Aunt Miriam said in her melodic accent. “We are becoming used to America, and that means Ashkenazi food.”
Aviva coughed from her end of the table, and Lara glared at her once more.
Lara knew that brisket was an Ashkenazi food. So was matzo ball soup and noodle kugel and all of the other Jewish foods Dad made for them using Grandma Lynne’s cookbook. Since Ima and Aunt Miriam were Sephardic Jews, they had recipes for grape leaves, walnut spice cake, and other delicious things. The difference was that Dad’s grandparents came from Russia, while Ima had immigrated to Israel from Turkey as a child. Ima told Lara that they were descended from Jews who were expelled from Spain and Portugal in 1492. Dad’s family came from a different group of Jews. “We are different branches from the same tree,” she had explained.
That meant that the Finkel children—Lara and Caroline and their brothers—were like the base of the tree, where the Ashkenazi branch and the Sephardic branch came together. Lara always thought that was pretty cool. Noah called them “Ashkephardic.”
Regardless, Lara could not understand why Aviva had to be such a snob about brisket. So maybe moving to a new country at the age of twelve wasn’t easy. Fine. But that didn’t give Aviva the right to be so very annoying.
“I’m sure your food is absolutely delicious, Dad. It always is.” Lara made sure to look in Aviva’s general direction as she spoke.
Yet when Lara put the first forkful of brisket into her mouth, it took all of her willpower to avoid spitting it right back out.
Biting into the meat felt like chewing on a dirty sock—not that Lara had ever done such a thing, of course. But she imagined that a sock might also flap around unpleasantly in her mouth, infecting her taste buds with its foulness.
The brisket tasted too salty, yet it also lacked flavor. The meat felt too dry, the sauce too watery. The edges of the brisket were completely hard, while the center looked practically raw. The whole thing was, quite simply, disgusting. Horrible. Gross.
A quick look around the table revealed that everyone else knew it too. Noah downed a glassful of water. Caroline pushed her plate several inches away. Aviva twisted her face up into an unmistakable grimace.
As usual, Benny said what everyone else was thinking. “Dad, this stuff tastes like something Kugel spit up. Guh-ross.”
Dad didn’t deny it. “I’m so sorry, everyone. I have no idea what happened. Probably just a bad ADHD day for me.” His eyes darted around the table, a weak smile struggling to stay on his face. “Lucky that we have so much other food here!”
Only they didn’t. Not really. The noodle kugel turned out to be overcooked, while the string beans reeked of lemons. That left them with a whole lot of salad and not much else. Lara held the very sensible opinion that only having salad for dinner was a full-fledged tragedy.
“I’m sorry, guys,” Dad said, over and over again.
“It is all right, Joseph,” Ima said. But her accent thickened, as it always did whenever she was worried. Lara frowned.