Kukhlefl

It is August and Bubbe refuses to run the air conditioner. Since the divorce, she has cut back on things like air, cable stations, and dining out. Grandpa didn’t do her any favors when he left.  Bubbe even portions canned chickpeas to make them last for five lunches. 

In shlekhte tsaytn iz a peni oykh gelt. // In bad times, even a penny is money.

Today, we sit in her cramped kitchen. The old radio is stuck in static between the classical music station and a local college jazz station. On a good day, it bounces between Bach and Billie Holiday. Today is not a good day; we listen to the electric hum and crackle of the radio as Bubbe stands over us. She gives me a glare as I reach over to adjust the dial. 

Oif shpilkes. // On pins and needles.

Tonight’s goal is to polish silver. I carefully unwrap a crumbled brown bag containing three spoons. They are my share of the family set smuggled out of who knows where—because “our people assimilated.” It is my only inheritance. The bright blue velvet Chivas Brothers Royal Salute bag she gave me a year ago to protect my inheritance is already long lost. 

I roll up my sleeves, prepared to buff three generations of trauma off my tarnished heirlooms. Bubbe gives me a chiding smile. She must’ve seen the look on my face.

Vu men darf hobn moyekh, helft nit keyn koyekh. // When you need brains, brawn doesn’t help.

Bubbe fashions some old country science experiment as I lay the spoons out onto the table. Her concoction involves baking soda, an aluminum foil-lined pan, and some pungent liquid. Pickle brine, maybe? She drops my spoons into the hot liquid and nods. A rare moment when the old ways mean less work. As the spoons steep, Bubbe pours me hot water with tea leaves and serves kichel. Two bites in, and she already has gossip ready to share.

Apparently, the cute waitress in 7B has a new boyfriend. He’s dumb like a box of rocks, but he makes up for that with his evidently handsome looks and handy skills. Bubbe hopes that they’ll marry and have pretty babies. And, she hopes that he might help her with a rattling radiator. He wears a blue uniform with a name patch to work—maybe he knows his way around a wrench?

A ber lernt men oykh oys tantsn. // Even a bear can be taught to dance.

Bubbe doesn’t ask if I’m dating anyone. I don’t volunteer that I’m not. At twenty-five, I’m already tired of bars and booze and boys. This year for me is all about books and brownies and being by myself. Bubbe telegraphs her concern visibly and I can sense that she’s a bit unsettled. I’m the last of her unmarried grandchildren. 

Itlekhs tepl gefint zikh zayn dekl. // Every pot finds its own lid.

The tea is now done steeping and the cookies are done baking. The spoons are also ready now. Bubbe gently buffs them dry against her worn housecoat, humming a soft melody to herself. She then reaches into her pocket and reveals a purple Crown Royal bag, before holding it out in my direction. A new treasure for me. A second chance. Suddenly, I want to tell her all about my life. I want to tell her that I will most likely lose these spoons. That I am going to spend the next few years making one bad choice after another bad choice, but at least I’ll be having fun. But most especially, I want to tell her that I don’t want to end up as an eighty-seven year-old divorcee with a larder full of canned beans and regret.

But I say nothing as I gather up my new gifts. I hug her. I leave.

Az men makht dos moyl nit oyf flit keyn flig nit arayn. // If you don’t open your mouth, a fly won't get in.

Author's note: 

A kukhlefl means “cooking spoon” but is typically used to describe someone who is a “pot-stirrer” or busybody.

Johannah Simon is a corporate learning strategist by day and (sometimes) a creative by night. A Midwest GenX multi-genre writer, her pieces have appeared in The Hooghly Review, Fussub, Underbelly Press, A Sufferer’s Digest, Micromance, Fahmidan, and Janus Literary.  You can find her on X @JohannahWrites, @johannah.bsky.social, and at www.thewritingtype.com.