2022-05-09 - Hamantashen

It's early in the afternoon on another averagely nice spring day (not hot, not cold, not particularly wet or windy or sunny: just average) when Una Irving's somewhat battered bicycle makes its way up Spruce and weaves carefully out of traffic to pull up in front of the Steelhead Service Center. The redhead swings her leg off of the bike and begins wheeling it forward, ready to stow it in a convenient out-of-the-way corner while she hunts down her quarry. There's a tupperware in the front basket of the bike, though not for long: it gets swapped for her bicycle helmet, the box tucked under her arm instead.

The place is surprising for a small town mechanic. It's small too, but it looks like a high end European garage, with glass bay doors and a gracefully arched roof. The sides of the place are covered in a gorgeous mural of a stream running through a forest, the view partly underwater, showing a run of steelhead salmon.

The bay doors are rolled open and Itzhak is standing on the concrete of the unoccupied bay. He's got his fiddle on his shoulder and he's playing something lively and bluegrass, eyes closed, but ripping right along to the tick tick tick of a metronome. The sound of his fiddle is loud as hell, rich and clear and sweet. That's a quality instrument he's got there.

It is surprising: a place Una's not had reason to visit, until now, and a place she might never have visited, except-- here she is. She studies the garage for a few moments, expression turned thoughtful, and then pauses, mostly (it seems), to listen: her eyes half closed as she does so, leaning in to the music from a position just outside the doors and to the side where she may not immediately be noticed, and thus be an interruption. She can wait.

Itzhak's eyes open. He doesn't miss a beat, but hikes his eyebrows at Una to inform her he knows she's there. Then he's heading into the crescendo, grinning a little to himself, boot thumping along to the metronome.

Wrapping it up, he plays a funny little coda, da da dun dun, DUN DUN! and drops both fiddle and bow from his shoulder, both swinging easily from one hand. "Whew," he remarks, "hey how's by you? What's up?"

Una picks that up, that hike of eyebrows, and it draws her smile into a grin, one she's still wearing as the song finishes and she draws herself more fully into view. "That was great," she enthuses, adjusting the the position of her tupperware beneath her arm. "The way it did-- I don't know any of the words. The thing." Her free hand does a little unhelpful wave as if to demonstrate, but it's unlikely to really illustrate much of anything.

"I brought you cookies," is what she says, then, blurting it out and looking a little abashed for the blurt. "Because... well the reasons don't really matter, do they, because that whole train of thought is long and complicated, but... cookies?"

"Yeah, the thing!" Itzhak is only too happy to enthuse. He makes the same gesture but when he does it, it means something, something driven and rollicking side to side. "I know just what you mean. Cookies? You brought me cookies?" His hands, which had been busy swooping around because the thing, come to a halt. He looks at the Tupperware. He looks at Una. "You brought me cookies?"

He seems touched, one big hand spread out above his chest before he lets it drop. "Hell yeah you can bring me cookies. C'mon in.

That thing! Was it that specific thing, Una was referring to? Who knows-- she nods enthusiastically enough all the same. The thing.

The halting hands turns her smile more crooked, not so much rueful as still a little abashed, but equally, pleased by the reaction. "Cookies," she confirms. "And I know it's the wrong time of year for them-- too late-- so I hope that's not considered inappropriate, but I figured..." Trailing off, she gives a little shrug, and follows through on the invitation, stepping forward.

"So I made snickerdoodles as well."

Itzhak takes the tupperware, frowning. "Wrong time of year? What did ya--"

Oh. He plucks up a delicate three corner cookie, filled with apricot. "You made me hamantashen," he says, and he sounds stunned. Looks it too.

Una lets go of the tupperware and now has nothing to do with her hands. They end up crossed awkwardly at chest-level, one pale hand sandwiched between her arm and her chest, the other wrapping fingers around her upper arm.

"... yes?" 'Stunned' is a reaction. It gives her a small amount of uncertain pause. "I hope that's okay and not... I don't know, presumptuous? I don't even know if they taste right."

"Let's find out," and Itzhak snatches one, tossing it into the air and catching it in his mouth. Chomp!

For a moment, Itzhak stands there, tupperware in one hand, head tilted back, eyes closed again. Then he swallows with a sigh. "I swear, tastes like Purim."

Una waits, watching Itzhak consume the cookie, her flush still in quiet evidence as she anticipates the verdict.

"That's good, right? That means they taste the way they're supposed to?" She's managing, now, to offer a quiet little smile, one that acknowledges, however subtly, that she's been deeply overthinking this whole thing-- not that that means she's stopped doing so, mind.

"You made the pareve ones, right?" Itzhak's still standing there, savoring. "No butter. That way you can eat them after a fleishig dinner. I grew up eating these on Purim. Could never make 'em myself, dough without no butter, you know? My ma is an old hand at it though."

He finally opens his eyes again and smiles an unusually brilliant, sweet smile at Una, one that crinkles the crow's feet on his hard-used face. "They're perfect."

'Pareve' doesn't mean anything to Una, but her eyes light with comprehension a moment later: no butter, of course. That's nothing on the way her whole face blossoms in reply to that smile, enough that her arms uncross and her shoulders draw back, too; a quiet pride.

"Because you don't mix meat and milk," she murmurs. "I read that; I remember. I had to read a lot of recipes to try and find one that seemed right. And they are? You're not just saying that. Oh good."

"It's considered disrespectful to the animal." Itzhak is already taking another one out. This one he offers over though, on a flat palm as though Una was a horse. "Please, I never just say that about kosher food, it's either good or believe me it ain't. I don't keep kashrut anyway, but, well, it's great to taste home, yannow?" He's still smiling at her, eyebrows up like she's not going to let him eat all these by himself, is she?

Una hesitates to take the cookie in the first instance, but that smile, those eyebrows; they win her over, and she reaches out to pick it up, fingertips barely brushing past Itzhak's hand in the process. She examines it before she eats it-- and turns her attention back to him, too. "Good," she says again. "Food is all about home for me. It's the whole point. We can live on just about anything, really, but those few bites of something that makes us feel something in return? That's what really matters."

She eats the cookie. She grins.

Itzhak's palm is wide and callused like a tradesman's. He holds very still, and when Una takes the hamantash (singular!) he grins at her like attagirl! "Can't say I disagree. So what's up? Is this a bribe, because let me tell you, it's working."

He's not greasy or indeed even wearing coveralls, like he's just been playing fiddle all day in here. So he rolls on over to the little sitting area on the elderly rug and beckons Una to come sit down. "You want I should pour you some coffee?" He nods towards the 'sideboard', in its past life known as a dresser, where there is coffee. Then he promptly stuffs another cookie in, this one a snickerdoodle.

"I will accept coffee," answers Una, with a little, quirked smile that suggests she's being deliberately a little grandiose in that acceptance. Certainly, she's happy enough to accept the offered seat, and to make herself comfortable, watching Itzhak.

"Not a bribe. I don't think I have anything I need from you worthy of a bribe... Though maybe I should consider this more seriously. No, I just like to feed people, and today was your day. Besides," she tilts her head, just slightly, "I like taking a moment to get to know the people who move in my circles, and you count there."

Itzhak doesn't even set the container down, instead managing to pour Una a paper cup full and himself a mug. The mug is bright blue and is covered in Yiddish insults in bright yellow. PUTZ and many more.

He brings both over in his one huge damn hand and sets them down on the table, then he's washing down the one cookie and taking another. "You should consider very seriously what I'm willing to do for good Jewish pastry," he says, flashing those eyebrows at Una, just cheeky as anything. "But hey, you like to feed people and I like to get fed, I'm okay with this!"

Una reaches forward to pick up the paper cup, nursing it between both hands so she can breathe in the coffee smell; her favourite. "Thank you," she says promptly, looking up over the paper rim to consider Itzhak again.

Her cheeks go pink, though; the cheekiness doesn't remove her smile, but it does twist it slightly further. Ha. Ha ha. "See, it works out for everyone. I'm not sure there's anyone who doesn't like to be fed-- well, no, that's not true. But I think people can mostly appreciate the thought and care involved, even if they don't care for the food itself. Even Ravn likes being fed, as little as he actually eats."

"What's that face for?" Itzhak doesn't immediately stuff this cookie in his own face, gesturing at Una's general head region. He's looking at her, but not quite in the eyes, somewhere around the top of her hair. It gives the general impression that he's looking at something just behind her.

Una immediately widens her eyes: face, what face? "That's just my face," she insists, firmly.

She turns her head, too, because-- what's he looking at? What's there?

Itzhak laughs, distracted from cookies. "Well, it's a pretty nice face so keep it up." Una turns and then Itzhak is the one coloring up, though he doesn't do it nearly so prettily. "Uh, if you wanna get to know me, first thing you probably oughta know is I'm autistic. I got trouble with the," a flick of his forefinger to indicate his gaze line and Una's. "Whaddaya call that. Eye contact. So I avoid it a lot but I ain't avoiding you, promise."

What's back there, although he didn't mention it, is a huge terrarium built into one wall. It's full of thick branches, foliage, and a very large white python dappled with brilliant yellow. Very, very large. Itzhak adds, "Oh hey, that's Lemondrop."

Oh look: Una blushes again. Her gaze half slides past the terrarium, though mostly it's because she's hastily turning her head back so that she can-- well, not meet Itzhak's gaze this time, but certainly look more in his direction. "Okay," she says, easily enough. "I'll remember that."

She pauses. Maybe it's that last comment, or maybe her brain has put the pieces together-- or more likely, a combination. "Wait," she says, glancing around again. "That's... oh. Hello. Lemondrop?" Her tone's just a little tentative: not frightened, not concerned, but a little less certain.

"Lemondrop," Itzhak confirms, "she's my baby girl." The whole system might be confusing at first glance, the wall of the garage in that direction seeming to open to a miniature jungle. The python is slowly climbing up a branch, unconcerned with anything else going on, with a kind of reptilian majesty. "Now that it's gonna warm up I'll take her out sometimes, so don't be scared if she is. She doesn't think people are food."

Maybe he's a little anxious about revealing his disability, as he fidgets with the mug.

Maybe it's Itzhak's reference to Lemondrop as his baby girl that really does it for Una, her whole face blossoming into a brilliant grin. She takes another quick sip of her coffee, the cup now held in just one hand, and shifts her body so that she can get a better look at the snake. "Okay," she agrees. "I don't have a lot of experience with snakes, but if I can get used to this town, I can get used to her too. What is it she does she think is food? Mice? She's beautiful."

Anxiety is no stranger to Una; maybe that's why she focuses her attention elsewhere, keeping her side of the conversation flowing with a certain amount of firm determination. See? Everything's fine.

Things might be awkward but Itzhak brightens up. Talking about Lemondrop! "Rabbits, whole chickens. You gotta feed 'em the entire thing, fur and claws and everything, they get sick and malnourished without it. Not alive, though. See," leaning forward, he sets aside his coffee so he can start talking with his hands. "See, you don't wanna feed a live animal to a reptile. They'll fight. You get them frozen and thaw them out in warm water. She eats two rabbits a month, sometimes I swap out for some big rats. Variety keeps their guts healthy. I got a blue tongue skink too, she lives at my place, but I couldn't get a place big enough for Lemondrop. So she lives here. Yeah uh, well," reining himself in. "Anyway. You probably weren't interested in all that."

Una brightens, too: clearly, whether or not she's interested in Lemondrop specifically, the fact that Itzhak is enthusiastic is a good thing. Instead of reassuring, she gives Lemondrop another cautious and thoughtful glance. "Rabbits! Actually, I had no idea about that. I just figured you... dropped in live animals and there you go. Defrosted makes sense, though, and somehow that's... I'm not sure I could feel okay dropping a live animal in for another animal to eat, even though I'm perfectly comfortable with the fact that that's how it works in the wild."

She turns her attention back on Itzhak. "How long have you had her? I've never had a pet. My housemates and I, we're talking about cats."

"Nah, dangerous for the reptile and inhumane for the prey. I had a snake who I'm pretty sure was wild caught, even though the guy I rescued him from said he wasn't, and he'd only take live. So I rehomed him, didn't wanna deal with it." Okay, so Itzhak can talk for days about reptiles.

He practically looks scandalized when Una says she's never had a pet. "What? Seriously? Never?" How long he's had the big python will have to wait.

Una makes a face for the poor wild caught snake (or possibly the prey; it's hard to tell), and shakes her head. "I can't blame you for that. I hate... the idea of catching wild animals and holding them captive. I realise that all pets are inevitably descended from animals that were wild, but..." She waves an idle hand for the inconsistency of it; it's just the way it is.

"Never," she confirms. "Single mom, tiny apartment, no money. I mean, she might have tried to make it work, if I'd pushed for it, but I knew better than to do so, you know? You learn pretty quick that it's not fair to put that kind of pressure on someone who is already doing everything she can to just keep a roof over your head."

"Yeah. Know how that is. My pop died when I was fifteen. We were stretched kinda thin before, and after? Things were tough after. You don't throw anything away. You don't ask for nothing. You get ya clothes from the thift store and you keep your mouth shut about it. And if you're me, you outgrow 'em before you can afford more." Itzhak salutes Una with the coffee and drinks.

Una returns the salute with one of her own, and then takes her own sip. "Exactly," she agrees. "All of that. You pretend not to care. Hell, I still buy most of my clothes at the thrift shop, even though I could finally buy new. It's habit. Conditioning. And then, conversely, it makes me want to give things to other people, too, because random gifts-- not just 'you're poor, let me give you hand-me-downs' gifts, but the other kind-- made a huge difference to me, once upon a time. So."

She looks a little rueful for that, as if maybe that's the first time she's put that together out loud. "But that means it's definitely time for me to have a pet, I think. Probably something more cuddly than a snake, though."

"Real presents, from the store, that nobody ain't had before." Itzhak considers the shiny reflective ripples in his coffee. Then he looks up at Una, smiling a complicated little smile in one corner of his mouth. "I still like those a lot. Maybe best when I can eat 'em."

Which calls for more cookies. Hope Una baked plenty, because he sure can put them away.

"Real presents, from the store, that nobody's had before," repeats Una, with a wry little laugh. "Yes. But my default will always be to make people things, I think, even things as simple as cookies." 'Simple' is, of course, completely relative. "That's why I learned to bake in the first place. Ingredients can add up if you want to make fancy things, but your basic cookie-- that's easy enough, and still sends the right message."

There are plenty of cookies, and Una's not shy about one thing in life: she positively beams, seeing them appreciated.

Nodding, Itzhak attempts to talk with his mouth full and explain by waving half a snickerdoodle. Then, swallowing, "Right, I mean, exactly. Stuff you can do or make, a lot more important than stuff you can buy." He adds, amused in some way at himself, "Or rescue. All my animals been rescues. So that explains everything about me," witness the garage and the violin and all that, "you know all my secrets now."

Certainly not true, but there's a challenging little gleam in Itzhak's eyes.

Una's enthusiastic nod falters for that last remark, but not in an overtly uncomfortable way: she hesitates, and then she laughs outright. "All of them, huh. Everything. Well that was easy, wasn't it? Clearly my evil plan worked. Cookies are like thumbscrews, you know: good at getting people to talk."

She's been deliberately trying not to focus too intently upon Itzhak, but she does give him a considering glance now; gleam noted.

Itzhak was waiting for that glance, or so it seems. He lets Una give it to him, meets her eyes for the briefest of moments, then he's looking down again. Weirdly bashful for a guy who's got a townwide reputation as a wild thing.

He grins when she laughs, holding up both hands like he can't help it, he's just like this. "I think this is the first time we ever actually talked, I'm just a little nervous and then when I'm nervous, whoo you ain't heard how much I can talk."

It's bashful, yes, and Una? She knows bashful (and nervous, and awkward, and any number of other related adjectives). She doesn't let her gaze linger, and instead just smiles. "Yeah," she agrees. "I guess that's why I decided to visit. I mean... I said that already, didn't I? No ulterior motives beyond that, okay?"

Which leads, after a moment's hesitation, to a somewhat shy admission, "I always find groups easier. Talking to people one-on-one is nerve-wracking. Less so, now, maybe. Because I'm trying to be better. But I'm always afraid I'll run out of things to say, and it'll be awkward. Or I'll say something stupid, and there won't be anyone to cover it up for me, and I'll just sit there, and want to dig myself a hole and just die." She's flushing, just a little.

"Groups are easier," Itzhak agrees, quieter. "Sometimes. Sometimes it's not so easy no matter what. Aww, listen, nobody says more stupid shit than me." He glances up long enough to take in the flush, which he sure seems to be enjoying. "No ulterior motives? Not even a little bit?"

"Sometimes it's really not," agrees Una, who makes a face, and rather tries to hide it in her coffee. And she was doing so well, too!

Maybe that face has more to do with that last thread of the conversation, though, given the way she hesitates over her answer, dark eyes lifting up again with an expression that suggests she's not wholly certain here. "Should I have an ulterior motive?" she wonders, then, straightening out her posture as if this will make a difference to something. "'Feed Itzhak and discover his secrets' isn't enough?"

"A pretty good motive, I grant you!" Itzhak holds up his hands lest he be accused of thinking that's not a good enough motive. "Who could ask for more, am I right? I just... well," the hands and the eyebrows do something in concert. "It ain't ever day a cute, curvy girl brings me cookies at work. You know?"

"Oh," says Una, almost automatically. It may take a moment or two more for this to actually sink in properly, and it's pretty obvious when it does: the immediate darkening of her blush, and the widening of her big brown eyes. "Oh!"

She's looking at him again, now, her expression less 'rabbit in the headlights' and more 'surprised and a little disbelieving'. "I guess I should've figured that one out for myself, huh? There's something to know about me: I'm pretty oblivious. And, not going to lie... usually when people call me cute they mean 'adorable, like a small child to be patted on the head', so."

Itzhak returns the look, almost note for note. Surprise, a little disbelief, that Una could be patted on the head in order to be called cute. Then he sits forward, hands loose between his knees, and smiles crookedly. "That ain't how I mean it."

The garage phone rings. Itzhak taps at the air, that crooked smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Hold that thought. I gotta get back to work."