The flower store lady is juggling
two vases, marigolds, keys, and the tail of her sari. When her husband rushes
to help, his yarmulke falls to the ground. In a distant language, she upbraids
him. He allows the door of their shop to slam, leaving squashed foliage and the
odor of turmeric outside. I am tired of cottage cheese. I have Basmati rice. I
will go to Jerusalem, buy spices, and make curry for Shabbat.
Only thirty days an immigrant to
Israel, this is my first outing to Jerusalem’s Machane Yehuda market – the Shuk.
Even before I step up the stone
stair to Spices by the Brothers Chamami, roughly, the Hot Brothers, a teenage
boy waves his arms like I'm radioactive. He calls out, not taking his eyes off
me, to a chubby middle aged man, who intercepts me and leads me to a chair. I
plop my stuff down, my Trader Joe's bag on top, and wonder if anyone suspects
I'm American.
I ask for cardamom, cumin, and turmeric
in Hebrew, from my cheat sheet. I ask for chili pepper, except I get the vowels
wrong. The owner grins over his scooper. I've asked for a Talmudic discourse,
chili style.
Mr. Hot is gracious; he asks me
in English how many scoops. I'm confused. Instead of little plastic bottles,
he's digging deep into burlap sacks of spice. I buy by the kilo, and make a
curry for Shabbat that’s almost too hot to eat.
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