Jessica Soffer

“Sassy, brash, acrobatic and colorful . . . I want to read it again and again.” —Time“Impressive . . . Soffer’s style is natural and assured.” —Meg Wolitzer, All Things Considered, NPRLorca spends her life poring over cookbooks to earn the love of her distracted mother, a chef, who is now packing her off to boarding school. Desperate to prove herself, Lorca resolves to track down the recipe for her mother’s ideal meal. She signs up for cooking lessons from Victoria, an Iraqi-Jewish immigrant profoundly shaken by her husband’s death. Soon these two women develop a deeper bond while their concoctions—cardamom pistachio cookies, baklava, and masgouf—bake in Victoria’s kitchen. But their individual endeavors force a reckoning with the past, the future, and the truth—whatever it might be.In Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots we see how food sustains not just our bodies, but our hopes as well. Bukra fil mish mish, the Arabic saying goes. Tomorrow, apricots may bloom.“A profound and necessary new voice. Soffer’s prose is as controlled as it is fresh, as incisive as it is musical. Soffer has arrived early, with an orchestra of talent at her disposal.” —Colum McCann, author of Let the Great World Spin“Moving [and] extraordinary.” —Atlantic“A work of beauty in words . . . Soffer is a master artist painting the hidden hues of the human soul.” —New York Journal of Books

Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots

angie

 Any face can become enchanting if you stare at it long enough. 

No one longing to cradle me while the warmth of life began flickering out. Alone, I’d be, in a bed with sheets stiff with bleach and a faint smell of apple cider vinegar and no heartbeat beside mine fierce enough to jolt my heart back into action.

the imagery in this book 👨🏽‍🍳💋🤌🏼

The sky was dark gray and splintered like an expensive countertop. Snowflakes had begun to make their way down in inconsistent clumps. It felt as though the sky were shedding its skin.

I told myself I was hurting so they could hurt less.

It was eleven o'clock. I hadn't been up this late for ages. 

She said, "Are you tired?" And without thinking, I told her, "No.

My goodness, my word, my heart. No, I'm not. I could do this forever. Please stay. Please stay, little child.

You'd think such feelings would grow irrelevant in time: the jealousy, vanity, hate even. They don't. They simply find fewer occasions on which to present themselves and when they do, it's as if they've multiplied in the dank, unlit place where they've been dormant. 

There were tears the size of grapefruit pits rolling down her face and when she finally looked up at me I noticed that her irises turned a pale gray when she cried. Like a peaceful bird. Like mine.

And that's what love is, I suppose. The one thing that is most worth hoping for, and the one thing that's most surprising when it lands. Because it's better. It exceeds hope, makes hoping near sighted. For me, and forever, Lorca was the world’s evidence of love.

“But learning how to be both feminine and powerful is the best thing a woman can do for herself. It's an art, really. It's the only reason I survived." 

pages 284-285 actually ripped apart my soul 

I’d posed the challenge to him silently, constantly: Love me, despite. Despite my heart of mud, love me. Despite my distrust of New York, love me. Despite my anxiety, love me. Despite my anger. Despite my fear of losing you, love me.

Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots quotes

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