Sweet and Sour

In the 1950’s, when I was in the sixth grade at Sheridan St. Elementary School in the Boyle Heights section of Los Angeles, California, Mrs. Horowitz lived in the bottom unit of an apartment building next to our house with her elderly mother. They seemed to yell at each other very night, starting right after dinner like clockwork. We could hear them through their closed windows. I could see into the sitting room of their apartment, through the pale gauze curtains. I could never understand what they were fighting about in that stifling, frayed yellow apartment with old and tattered furnishings. The gloom I felt looking at the tiny apartment could easily be inhaled. 

When Mrs. Horowitiz wasn’t in her apartment, she could be friendly and outgoing to a limited degree, tolerable I would call it. She often would come over when my mother was baking to (what seemed like to me) supervise.

My mother connected with her because they were both immigrants from Eastern Europe and had a similar heritage of food.  Mrs. Horowitz, with her dark, wavy hair and foreign profile, smacked of Old World habits – overly confident in her business acumen and roles as produce purveyor and bargain hunter. She enjoyed being referred to as a balaboosta, a skilled and all-knowing female head of a household.  My shoulders would stiffen when she entered, and I disappeared from the kitchen where she and my mother would sit and talk.  Mrs. Horowitz appeared to be an expert on everything and could easily become offended if major decisions were not run by her first. I could never figure out how she wielded so much, so much authority over the refugee community. But she had no authority over me.

When my mother baked desserts, our house was perfumed by the welcoming aroma of rising yeast.  Nothing has ever been as inviting or sweet-smelling.

Once, while visiting during a baking session when my mother was dissolving yeast and combing it with the sugar cookie batter, Mrs. Horowitz stuck her ruby-ringed middle finger into the mixture to steal a taste for approval purposes. Next, she popped that same finger in her mouth with a loud smacking of her lips.  My stomach turned, and without hesitation, I blurted out, “My mother told me never to do that.  Use a spoon!”

“Apologize to Mrs. Horowitz now,” demanded my mother.

“Why?”

“Because you don’t speak to guests that way.  That’s why.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

By the time I finished my apology, Mrs. Horowitz had gotten over the shock of my attack and told my mother she had already forgotten about it. I hadn’t.

Soon the sweet batter had been dropped by spoonfuls on a baking sheet and popped in the oven, and Mrs. Horowitz was back home.  I was enjoying the aroma of the baking cookies in the shapes of stars and kept asking my mother when they would be ready.

“Not much longer,” she reassured me, “But then they have to cool down.”

“Why?”

“Because if they’re hot, they could burn your mouth.”

“I could be careful.”

“No.”

Just as the cookies came out of the oven, the doorbell rang, and I ran to open it.  Mrs. Horowitz had returned, curious to see how the cookies had turned out.

“Come sit while they cool,” invited my mother.

Now we’ll probably have to give her some. I shouldn’t have answered the doorbell.

After about ten minutes of conversation with Mrs. Horowitz, my mother told me to go into the kitchen, wash my hands, and transfer the cookies to a plate.  Then I was supposed to bring the cookies into the living room to her.

A very simple, clear request, but not one I could carry out.  I transferred the cookies, even a slightly burnt one that had folded over on itself, being pressed up against the rim of the cookie sheet.  Instead of bringing out the plate as requested, I selected the burnt cookie for Mrs. Horowitz and a perfect one for her mother back in the apartment and brought out only those two, handing them to Mrs. Horowitz with instructions about which one was for whom.  I saw my mother’s face as I handed Mrs. Horowitz the cookies.  It had paled, and her speech was slow to return.

“Go back to the kitchen,” she neutrally announced when she found her voice, “and bring out the plate of cookies.  Now!”

“It’s okay; she’s just a child,” offered Mrs. Horowitz.  “She didn’t know what she was doing.”

Yes, I did.

I brought the plate of cookies out and handed it to my mother who grabbed it out of my hands.  “Now go to your room,” she said.

“What about my cookie?” 

“Now!”

There probably won’t be any left after dinner with Mrs. Horowitz here. I went into my room to pout.

Dinner with my parents that evening was unusually quiet as we passed each other overly well-done meatloaf, peas, and mashed potatoes.  I was hoping I would get a cookie or two after dinner.  I wasn’t sure my mother had shared any of what had happened today with my father.  Everything felt okay.  My mother cleared the dinner plates and brought the cookies out for dessert.  She offered me two.  An innocent smile spread across my face.  As I took a bite of my first cookie, we heard a knock at the door, which turned out to be a neighbor returning a pan. But before we knew that, I said without thinking, “I hope that’s not Mrs. Horowitz back for more cookies.”

“No more cookie business,” said my mother, clearly with no patience left for any more references to Mrs. Horowitz and the cookies.  “Go finish your second cookie in your room.”

I was happy to leave with cookie in hand.  I left the door to my room slightly ajar as I started nibbling on my second cookie.   After a while, I could hear my mother recounting for my father the day’s events and my starring role in them.  As she described how Mrs. Horowitz had stuck her finger in the batter and what my reaction had been, my father started laughing and said, “Mrs. Horowitz deserved that. I hope she learned her lesson.”

I could hear my mother laughing as well, repeating how gross it had been to see her stick her finger in the batter.

“Not only that,” continued my mother, “but your daughter offered her a burnt cookie afterwards!”

“That’s my daughter,” beamed my father.

I smiled and ate the last crumbs of my second cookie.

(First Place,  Marin County Fair, 2026)