It was Friday morning, and Miriam’s kitchen was a whirlwind of chaos and cumin. Shabbat was hours away, and she’d been up since dawn, determined to make this one perfect. The challah dough was rising under a damp towel, the chicken soup simmered with a golden sheen, and the kugel—oh, the kugel—was going to be her masterpiece: sweet, crispy-edged, and packed with raisins she’d soaked overnight. She darted between the stove and the counter, apron dusted with flour, muttering her checklist aloud. “Candles, wine, tablecloth—where’s the good tablecloth?” Her husband, Avi, poked his head in, saw the frenzy, and wisely retreated to polish the kiddush cup.
The plan was simple: a quiet, sacred Shabbat, just the two of them. A day set apart, a bubble of peace after a relentless week. She’d even splurged on a bottle of sweet red wine, the kind her grandmother used to pour. But as the sun dipped lower, the universe had other ideas.
First came the knock. Mrs. Levy from down the hall, her voice trembling through the crack in the door. “Miriam, I’m so sorry to ask—my oven’s out, and the kids are coming tonight. I’ve got nothing cooked.” Miriam’s heart sank. She glanced at her kugel, still bubbling in its dish, and sighed. “Take it,” she said, pressing the warm pan into Mrs. Levy’s grateful hands. “Shabbat Shalom.” One masterpiece down.
She rallied. There was still the soup, the challah, the roasted vegetables she’d seasoned with rosemary. She could pivot. Then the phone rang. It was her cousin Leah, breathless. “Miriam, I’m stuck at the shop—last-minute orders. I haven’t baked a thing, and the girls are expecting challah.” Miriam pinched the bridge of her nose, eyeing the two perfect loaves cooling on the rack. “Come by in ten,” she said, and when Leah arrived, flushed and apologetic, Miriam handed over one loaf. “Shabbat Shalom,” she called as Leah dashed off.
The clock ticked louder now. Avi poked his head in again. “Everything okay?” She waved him off, stirring the soup with a vengeance. Then the doorbell buzzed—Mr. Katz, the widower upstairs, shuffling in his slippers. “I hate to bother you,” he said, “but the market was out of chicken, and I… well, I don’t have much for tonight.” Miriam’s chest tightened. She ladled half the soup into a container, the steam curling up like a sacrifice. “Shabbat Shalom,” she said, handing it over with a smile she barely felt.
By the time the sun was a sliver above the horizon, her kitchen was a shadow of its earlier glory. Half the food was gone, gifted to neighbors and family who’d stumbled into her orbit. She stood over the sink, hands braced on the counter, staring at the single challah, the diminished pot of soup, the lonely plate of vegetables. Avi slipped in beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re a tzadekes,” he said softly—a righteous one. She snorted. “I’m a fool who can’t say no.”
But there was no time to sulk. The candles waited. She smoothed her hair, washed her hands, and set the table with the good cloth she’d finally found crumpled in a drawer. Two candles flickered to life as she struck the match, their glow steadying her frayed nerves. She waved her hands over the flames, drawing the light toward her, and covered her eyes. “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam…” The blessing flowed, and with it, a quiet settled in her bones. The day was here, imperfect and generous, messy and holy.
She uncovered her eyes, met Avi’s gaze, and smiled. The fridge held just enough—soup, bread, a few vegetables. They’d make it work. And somewhere in the building, Mrs. Levy, Leah, and Mr. Katz were sitting down to their own tables, her hands woven into their Shabbat.
“Shabbat Shalom,” she said to Avi, then turned her heart outward, to you, the reader, across the miles and moments. “Shabbat Shalom.” May your day, too, be set apart, even when the plans unravel and the gifts spill beyond your walls.
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