A true story
authored by Dustfinger (my gorgeous, talented, fifteen-year-old sister)
As soon as I walked through the door that Friday afternoon, I was greeted by delicious aromas wafting through the air. I went upstairs, put my backpack down, and rolled up my sleeves. Time to prepare for Shabbos.
I walked into the kitchen, and looked at the list. Every Friday, my mother usually makes a list of things that still need to get done before Shabbos. The list was not too bad; it only consisted of about 15 to 20 chores that required completion. I didn’t have to do all of them either. My twin brothers and sister thankfully assisted me.
As the music played, and the cabbage soup steamed, and the food cooked, and the hustle and bustle of us workers continued, my mother called me over.
“Dustfinger,” she said, as she stirred some pot on the stove. “Can you please throw the leftover soup from the black fridge into the toilet? It’s old, and I need space in the fridge. Please wash the pot afterwards.”
“Sure,” I replied. I ran downstairs, brought the soup up, and took off the cover. It was mushroom barley. What a pity, I thought as I emptied the contents of the pot into the toilet. Such good soup. Oh well. I washed the pot.
Preparing for Shabbos carried on until my father and brothers, in their crisp black suits, left for shul. My sister and I gathered into the dining room, and watched our exhausted mother recite the blessing over the Shabbos candles.
“Good Shabbos!” we all exclaimed to one another. Hectic, annoying school and our ‘getting ready for Shabbos’ ordeal was finally left in the past for a while. All there was then was a quiet peacefulness that settled onto the *insert surname* household.
Before long, my father and brothers were knocking at the door, forcing all the ladies to halt on their reading and relaxing on the couch. We proceeded in singing Shalom Aleichem and Eishes Chayil from under the great sparkling chandelier in the dining room. The candles twinkled, the goblets filled with grape juice and wine waited, and the room was cheerful.
Soon, the delicious Breadsmith challah was sliced and salted, and the mouth-watering cabbage soup was served by my sister and I. The family eagerly sipped at the soup, and before long, the soup bowls were collected.
The main courses were brought out, including steak, a favorite of everyone’s, and we all helped ourselves. No one had really noticed that my brother had politely excused himself from the table.
Before any divrei Torah had been shared, or Zmiros sung, my brother returned to the table with a frown on his face.
“Daddy,” he said awkwardly. “The toilet’s not flushing.” With that, my father and brother left the table, while the rest of us resumed eating our scrumptious Shabbos meal. Several minutes later, my brother re-joined us.
Suddenly, my father’s incredulous voice rang out amongst the cheerful table. “Did someone flush bones down the toilet?!”
There was a horrific silence. Bones? Human bones? What? My brother looked terrified, wondering if in the process of relieving himself, he’d lost a few bones.
It was then when realization of what my father meant struck.
“Oh my gosh,” my mother gasped, gaping at me. “Dustfinger, did you flush the soup bones down the toilet with the rest of the soup?”
“O-o-oh my G-d!” I stammered hopelessly, in my mind banging my head against the wall, as Friday afternoon reappeared to me. “I think I did!”
You can imagine what the rest of Shabbos was like. Well, despite that one toilet was out of order on my account, luckily there were four others, so needing more toilets was not an issue. The issue was that I should have been more careful, checking the soup for larger ingredients to remove before disposing the rest. Till this day, only toilet paper goes down those toilets. What about soup? On some occasions, like when there’s only broth and beans, perhaps. Otherwise, into the sink or garbage it goes. You know why.