As Chava ate her waffles that morning, she wondered once again how her mother made the waffles. Like the mahn of antiquity, they tasted however you wanted them to taste. On that day, they tasted to Chava like cinnamon hamantashen. It was seasonally inappropriate, but oh-so delicious. Chava looked up at the clock. If she didn’t leave soon, she would be late to school. She ran upstairs to get her backpack. She had no time to pack a lunch, so she grabbed a few dollars to buy food from the canteen. When she came back downstairs, her mother handed her a lunch.
“What’s this?” asked Chava. Chava’s mother never made her lunch.
“Good luck on your midterms, sweetie.” replied Chava’s mother with a smile, “Your father wishes you also wishes you good luck” Chava’s father often visited Jewish prisoners. Chava admired his kindness, but she always worried about him. Chava realized that the bus was outside. She ran, so as not to miss it.
As Chava settled down in the bus (which can be more accurately described as a large van), she decided to look at the lunch her mother had packed her. To her dismay, her mother packed her waffles.
In fifth grade, Chava had learned about the Salem Witch Trials. Although they had been hundreds of years ago, Chava always worried about them starting again. She tried to keep her mother’s waffles a secret, but her parents weren’t making it easy. Her mother had served the waffles at her Bat Mitzvah, and continued to serve them to nearly anyone who crossed the threshold of their home. Unlike the mahn, the magic waffles worked whether you were a good person or not. Her father liked to give them to the prisoners he visited.
Suddenly, Chava realized that it was midterms, and she had forgotten to study…
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