Aruchat ha Boker

[Arabella Porter]

 Breakfast on the widow has changed because of the following sgtory, making me happy EVERY morning since last week.

 

  I crashed my way into the galley of our target, the terrified chef in the galley, spinning around. Outside, my men were making immature battle cries and I jumped a little when I heard Dominique shooting a crew member some distance behind me. I smiled,

“Ani rotzah l’echol mashehu.” I want to eat something, I told him before the smile washed quickly from my face turning my mouth into a scrunched knot. I marched over and gripped my hand around his shirt. “achshav,” now.

  “sebaba, sebaba,” he said in understanding, taking a deep breath and turned around when my hand slid off of him.

 “bemet?” really

“ken” yes  He went over to the counter and took a tray of what would be the most delicious breakfast food I would ever have the honor to taste. He brought it to a table and sat down, gesturing an open hand to the tray.

 Inside were what appeared to be these golden square and triangular shaped pastries with a flaky crust and sesame seeds sprinkled on top. I looked back to the chef.

“ma zeh?” what is it?  I asked. He widened his eyes and smiled.

“Brekas!”

“ma?”

“Brekas!”  He said excitedly. He then pointed to a square one, “aleh patuach adamah,” these are potato, then he pointed to the triangular ones, “aleh, how you say in english?”  amazed, I cocked my head to the side, jumping a little at another one of Dominique’s gun shots as my crew raided this man’s ship.  “mushroom!” He clapped once. I smiled, shrugged, and picked up one of the square brekas before sinking my teeth into the flaky outershell of crust that followed with a creamy inner filling of potato. “bevakasha, leshevet,” please, sit. He gestured across the table. I nodded, my head moving to the beat of the party being held by my tastebuds.

            “metzuyan” excellent, I said, taking a seat. He smiled.

             “az, lamma at poe? At tsricha café?”  so why are you here? Do you need coffee?  He asked standing and walking to the sink. I turned my head slowly to him.

“coffee?” I asked.

“coffee ship” He said in a thick Israeli accent. I now understood. This ship was a coffee trader. I frowned as a tea person. “zeh café arabi” it’s arabian coffee.

“kiloo ha nutcracker,” like the nutcracker my favorite dance in the nutcracker was arabian coffee. I remembered my father taking me to the ballet when I was little. He had solved an important crime for the Boston ballet using all of his skills in forensic science so they had given him free tickets. I sighed content, looking at the table before a cup of black liquid was placed in front of me. “lo,” no, I said. I liked tea and wasn’t really for coffee, especially black coffee.

“bevakasha,” please he said. “ aval, lo achshav. Rega lifnei at shotah.” But not now. Wait before you drink. So I did looking to the window of the galley where My captain had a wealthy merchant at gunpoint. “achshav” now, he said. So I picked up the cup of black coffee and took a sip. It was sweet and warm like a campfire and the taste was….silky. I don’t know how but it tasted like my tongue was being wrapped in a silk blanket. I drank more, now thinking to myself that I was a coffee person.

“what’s your name?” I asked the chef.

“ani shachar,” He replied in his raspy, smokey voice.

“ani Arabella. It’s nice to meet you.” I smiled content with my brekas and arabian coffee.