ONEThis Cookie Won’t Crumble
I know things are bad when even donuts betray me. Because there I am, sitting on my bed, rewatching every episode of The Great British Bake Off on Netflix, a box of six donuts from You Drive Me Glazy on my bedside table. Six donuts that I helped Ammu and Abbu create. And the moment I bite into the first, chocolate-hazelnut filling gushes out all over the front of my shirt.
I can only groan and pull myself off the bed where I had finally found a comfortable position. The judges of GBBO are on my laptop screen explaining the challenge to the contestants, but I’m a little too busy slipping out of my gross chocolate-stained shirt to pay attention.
My phone buzzes by the box of donuts, and my heart almost leaps out of my chest. Tossing my shirt on the floor, I lunge toward the phone, hoping—
But it’s just a text from Fatima.
Fatima: can I call?
I don’t reply. Instead, I slip on a new shirt—one without any stains on it—close the lid of my laptop, and hit VIDEO CALL.
Fatima picks up almost immediately. There’s a grin on her face but she says, “You look terrible” as a greeting. There’s something almost delirious about that being accompanied by Fatima’s delighted expression.
I pull a face and tug at the strands of my hair, trying to shift them into something that doesn’t make it obvious that I’ve spent the past few days barely moving from under my duvet cover.
“Thanks, Fatima.”
“Sorry.” But she doesn’t sound particularly sorry as she flicks away a strand of her long, ink-black hair out of her eyes. “Are you still in bed?” There’s an accusatory note to her voice, so I try to fill the whole screen with my face so she can’t see that not only am I in bed but that my bed is also a mess. Plus, the half a dozen donuts still by my bedside.
“No…”
I obviously don’t sound very believable because Fatima lets out a frustrated puff of air. “Shireen, I know things haven’t been easy but you can’t just, you know—” She waves her hands around her like that’s supposed to indicate something. But somehow I know exactly what she means.
“Why did you want to call?” I ask, instead of addressing Fatima’s pretty valid points.
“Because I read your blog post,” Fatima says.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” She leans forward so I can almost see up her nostril. Not a pleasant sight by any means, but considering I’ve known Fatima pretty much since I came out of the womb not an unfamiliar sight either. “First of all, I hope you saved me some cookie dough/brownie ice-cream sandwiches because it’s so bloody hot here that just the thought of them made me seriously consider buying a plane ticket and fleeing this country.”
“Fati—”
She holds up a finger to silence me. “But second, and most important, you can’t tell people in your blog that you’re not going to crumble because of your breakup but then spend all of your time in your bed, watching what? Episodes of The Great British Bake Off?” She raises an eyebrow, and I’m annoyed that she’s guessed exactly how I’ve spent the past few weeks. Ever since …
But that’s the last thing I want to think about, even though it’s difficult to not think about it. And it’s definitely the last thing I want to talk about.
“The Great British Bake Off makes me feel better!” I say defensively. In fact, with Fatima gone to Bangladesh for the summer and my ex suddenly out of the picture, it’s the only thing that makes me feel better. Well, that and donuts, when they’re not leaking out all over my shirt.
“You know what else makes people feel better?” Fatima asks. “Getting out of bed, going outside, taking in the sun, hanging out with real-life people, not people inside your computer screen.”
“First of all, you know living in Ireland means taking in the sun is not an option, and second, Nadiya Hussain, the only successful Bangladeshi person in the food industry, is a real-life person, even if she is inside my computer screen, and she’s way more inspiring and motivating than any real-life person can be.”
“Even me?” Fatima asks, though I know from the almost inhuman screech in her voice that she’s not being serious.
I roll my eyes. “Okay, not counting you.”
She smiles, though there’s still a little bit of worry in her eyes. “You can’t spend the whole summer like this, Shireen,” she says after a moment. Softer, this time, so I know she’s really worried about me. When there’s really nothing to worry about. Because I’m okay—or I’m going to be. Like I declared in my blog post—this cookie (and I’m the cookie) won’t crumble. Even if it might get a bit disheveled.
“I’m definitely not going to spend the whole summer like this,” I say, but Fatima doesn’t exactly look reassured. “Tell me about Bangladesh.”
Fatima sighs and leans back. “Did I tell you about the heat?”
“I have a thousand texts ever since you got off the plane.”
“And the noise. Even at night!”
“Literally a thousand texts since you—”
“And everyone tells me that I speak Bengali with an accent. My cousins literally called me a bideshi. Me, a bideshi!” she says, like the idea of it is preposterous even though Fatima had never even stepped foot inside Bangladesh until a few days ago. It is a little funny that so many of us South Asians call ourselves desi, but the people in our homelands are quick to call us bideshi, just because we don’t live in South Asia anymore. Because we have a different kind of culture, a different kind of life.
“You know, even Ammu says she gets called bideshi in Bangladesh,” I say, hoping it’ll make Fatima feel a little better. “And she was born there, went to school there, spent pretty much her entire life there.”
“Until she decided to move to Ireland. And we shouldn’t be punished because our parents wanted that life for us!”
I let out a chuckle, but even I know it sounds hollower than usual. Before Fatima can jump in her worry wagon once more, I launch into the only thing (other than GBBO) that has been keeping me occupied this summer. “I should be hearing about the Junior Irish Baking Show soon.”
“Shireen, don’t get your hopes up,” Fatima says. I know she means well. She doesn’t want me to face crushing disappointment. But I know there’s no way I’ll face crushing disappointment. There’s nobody more qualified to be on the show. They have to accept me as one of their contestants.
“I know it’s your dream to open up your own dessert shop,” Fatima keeps going. “And to have your own cookbook and your own baking show, but reality TV is … complex.” She says it like she knows a lot about reality TV, when Fatima has never even watched a single episode of GBBO or Cake Wars or Nailed It! Not even Love Island.
“I’m not getting my hopes up,” I say. “My hopes are exactly where they should be.”
Fatima sighs like I’m a lost cause and begins to tell me all about her annoying cousins and all of the ways in which she’s made to feel like a bideshi in her own family. From not understanding all of the Bengali words that her cousins use to all of their in-jokes and references that she doesn’t have a hope of getting. “And Ammu gets annoyed if I’m not always hanging out with them, even though they’re horrible to me.”
Text copyright © 2023 by Adiba Jaigirdar. Donut illustrations © by Naddya/Shutterstock. Sprinkle illustrations © by Tamara Luiza/Shutterstock. Whisk illustration © by Anna Beatty/Shutterstock.
