6 Bitter, bitter! Make it sweeter!

It’s Friday, and the flour is flying.

I am at work, but I am not making pies today. The bakery is busy with orders for an unusual number of wedding cakes. So instead of baking with the berries, I’m cooking with the cousins — the Ukrainian cake cousins:  Diana, Darina, Marta, Maria, Veronika, Victoria, Yana, and Yeva.

“Alma! Flour!”

I don’t understand much more than that, but that is enough. They need more flour. So I get more flour. The flour comes in a big bag. It is heavy. So I wrap my arms around its middle. I give it a big squeeze like I’m giving it a bear hug. It’s a lot of flour, but the cake cousins need a lot of flour. They have many wedding cakes to bake.

I wonder why there are so many weddings this weekend. I start to imagine one of the weddings. I start to picture in my mind the party. I can see the people. I can taste the cake. I can hear the music which makes me want to dance.

I am a graceful dancer—much better than my partner, the bag of flour. I hold tight and start spinning and spinning until I close my eyes so I don’t get dizzy and—

“Alma!”

The loud voice startles me. When I stop and open my eyes, the bag of flour slips through my arms and drops to the floor. It lands on my foot, which makes me twist my ankle and fall down.

Ouch!

Diana and Darina gasp, drop their spatulas, and rush to my side and help me up again.

Marta and Maria let go of their rolling pins, wipe their hands, and together drag the bag of flour to the table.

Veronika and Victoria each bring me a chair. At first, I don’t know what to do. Then I sit in one chair, and I put my foot up on the other chair.

Yana and Yeva laugh. They join hands and start dancing. The others start singing a Ukrainian wedding march. Yana and Yeva whirl around the bakery as if it were a ballroom in a grand hotel. It takes my breath away. Soon everyone circles around us, and they throw flour in the air like rice at a wedding.

I don’t always understand what the Ukrainian cake cousins say, but I see what they do, and it fills me with … love.

My lips are pinched, my nose is scrunched, and my eyes are squinted.

I am lost in my thoughts again. I am distracted by my thinking. But this is important. So I repeat it to myself: I don’t always understand what the Ukrainian cake cousins say, but I see what they do, and it fills me with love.

As if it were planned, bells begin ringing. However, they are not wedding bells. They are the oven timers. The first cakes are baked and ready to come out of the oven.

The cake cousins laugh and return to work. I try to get up from the chair, but it’s not easy. My foot is fine. But it takes me a little longer to stand and walk to my table.

Darina sees this and says, “You stand up last.”

Diana smiles and concludes, “Not good.”

“Not good? Why?” I ask.

Maria says, “Tradition.”

“Stand up last, get married last,” explains Marta.

I laugh.

“Jump up or sit alone for the rest of your life,” says Veronika, who is not smiling. I guess she believes this tradition is true. I don’t think she is married, so maybe this happened to her in the past.

“That’s just a wedding party game,” I say.

Just then, Victoria whispers in my ear: “10 years.”

Victoria is my favorite cousin. So I whisper back, “She sounds bitter.”

Although I whisper, Yana and Yeva overhear my comment. They look at each other for only a moment before chanting together “Hirko! Hirko!”

Hirko? What’s hirko?

I look at Victoria. She smiles and explains. She says, Hirko means “bitter.” And it’s part of another Ukrainian wedding party tradition. People shout “Hirko! Hirko” and then the bride and groom must kiss. The tradition says that if something is bitter, then kissing will sweeten it.

Veronika looks around the bakery and then looks directly at me. She says, very plainly, “All bride, no groom.”

Ouch! Now that hurts more than a bag of flour on my ankle!

Nobody pays attention to her until more bells ring. This time, the sound comes from the little bells on the front door. We have a visitor. It is Quang.

Quang! I’m blushing. I can feel it. My cheeks are warm and must be raspberry red.

The Ukrainian cake cousins—all eight of them—pull Quang into the room and toward me. They circle us like an inside-out octopus. Yana and Yeva have started clapping and singing:

We won’t drink vodka;
it is very bitter.
Let the bride and groom 
make it a little sweeter. 
Bitter, bitter, 
make it sweeter!
Bitter, bitter, 
make it sweeter!

Diana and Darina wave their hands to get us to face each other. Marta and Maria kiss the air again and again. Veronika and Victoria chant “Hirko!!” while Yana and Yeva clap their hands. Quang laughs and laughs … but he does not kiss me. So I take his face in my hands, and I kiss him.

Quang is very confused, but now he is also very amused.

The oven bells ring again. The cousins cheer and clap and slap each other’s back. The fun is over; it is time to go back to work. And as I cut a piece of extra wedding cake for Quang, Victoria whispers in my ear. “This is the kind of song you need to write for Quang.”

“Victoria,” I say quietly and with great respect. “This is not my song. This is your song.”