By Danila Botha,
My fingers are slick with oil, the counter and sink full of metal graters with bits of onion or potato stuck inside their serrated holes. There’s been infinite pressure to recreate something, tiny bowls of sour cream, full fat, half fat and vegan, unsweetened apple sauce, cinnamon to sprinkle on top. I even bought those awful chocolate coins that taste like soap, and little neon plastic dreidels to put in the centre of the table.
I couldn’t remember where we kept our tablecloth. It was bright pink with white daisies, garish in its cheerfulness. It used to belong to her grandmother, the only member of her family to accept her, even if it was tacit. She always gets depressed at this time of year. Before me, her partner was technically Christian, and they had a real pine tree, those little multicoloured flashing lights that have always reminded me of hard candies, gingerbread and presents.
It would have been simpler if once Allison came out to them, her mother had disowned her, sat shiva like my Orthodox parents were advised by to do but didn’t. Instead, her mother hugged her, then scrutinized her closely and never brought it up again. When Allison tried, she changed the subject. It would be okay, as long as they never had to talk about it. As long as they could pretend that the girl who sometimes came for Friday night dinner and stayed over afterwards was just her friend.
Girls have sleepovers, her mom had said. I used to be really close with my girlfriends when I was your age. In time Allison had started questioning everything about Judaism, starting with the way the morning prayers included men thanking God for not making them woman. Once she started, she couldn’t stop, until there was nothing left. Except for Chanukah.
Chanukah had been the holiday that her and her cousins had celebrated together, where they always left with pockets of cash, strawberry jam from their grandmother’s donuts staining all their shirts when it came squirting out as they each took bites.
It was not a major holiday in the Orthodox world, and my parents said they resented the way people tried to turn it into Christmas.
Allison liked artisanal candles in swirling lavenders, squeezed into a kitschy pink menorah she was given for her bat mitzvah.
She’d been working late a lot, so I decided to throw a party for our closest friends. I’d underestimated the work. I had a burn mark across my left arm from taking a tray of latkes out of the oven too fast. I didn’t know if she’d find it invasive or thoughtful, but she got home she looked at me with love, her blue eyes swimming like the centre of the flames, her gold hair framing them.
“Chag Sameach”, she murmured as she kissed me on the forehead, and it felt like all the miracles and magic I’d never even dreamed about experiencing.
Danila Botha is the author of three short story collections, Got No Secrets, and For All the Men… which was a finalist for the Trillium Book Award, The Vine Awards and the ReLit Award. Her new collection, Things that Cause Inappropriate Happiness was published in 2024 by Guernica Editions.
She is also the author of the award winning novel Too Much on the Inside, which was recently optioned for film. Her new novel, A Place for People Like Us will be published by Guernica in 2025. Danila holds an MFA from University of Guelph in Creative Writing. She teaches Creative Writing at the University of Toronto SCS and is part of the faculty at Humber School for Writers.
