I pour the juice into two tall glasses, and cover each glass with a saucer, and slice the yeast cake I baked yesterday. Whoever wakes and wants can eat and drink. Because there’s plenty.

And there will be tomorrow too. I take out a glass bowl and pour a cup of sugar. Quietly, so as not to wake them. And crack four eggs and stir them into it. And slowly add half a cup of flour, stirring all the time, and half a cup of sour cream from the refrigerator, stirring all the time, and a grated lemon rind, stirring all the time. And all the time purring to myself. And now, but not all at once, two-and-a-half cups of flour, still stirring strongly to break up the lumps. And pour it out slowly so that it doesn’t spatter into the electric baker that I greased with margarine and plugged in with the heat on medium. I have forty minutes to wait for it to brown.

I fixed Yoni’s brown jacket while he told me about the taiga and the tundra. And then he said he was going away. But he never went. Yoni, I said, I can listen while I embroider. And there’s a concert on the radio too. And I told them both what I read about the Kikuyu, who put out jugs of water when the moon is full to catch and save its reflection for the dark nights to come.

I’ve washed and dried the dishes and put everything away in the closet. The match I stuck in the cake didn’t come out dry, so I’ll let it bake some more. Meanwhile I’ll see who needs to be covered. It’s good that they’re both down with fever. It’s high time. And have to stay in bed. And put up with some peace and quiet. And stop climbing walls like little turtles. Because when we went on that hike two days ago with Udi and Anat, and they attacked the village on the hill and captured that mosque with no one in it, they all came down with the flu.

Now the cake is done. Anat told me that Udi’s sick too. I’ll sit down to embroider. And play a record softly so they don’t wake up. If they do, there’s cake and juice. Whoever wants can eat and drink. Maybe Albinoni? No, not him. Maybe Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Or else more Bach.