"Indesachew balemoya yelem," I'd hear people say. It made me smile. It was, and still is, one of those things that gives me pride and a sense of elation - that she chose a career which she not only does to perfection, but one she does with such an intense pleasure. I can't think of many people blessed with such a combination. itiyE has run a restaurant for as long as I could remember, always involved in every aspect of the work, from shinkurt aqulualto weT mesrat to gEsho Tilo Teg meTmeK, from gebeya w'to TEf megzat to checking on the guests when she felt the need to do so.

We loved spending Saturdays at her house. There never had to be a special occasion for the house to fill with people, making us feel like life was forever in the midst of a'nd moK yale digis. We would follow her around from the weT bEt to the m'ad bEt, from the Teg yemiTemekibet bEt to lamochu yemitalebubet bEt ... Somehow, we seemed to have found the time to escort her all over the place, play, fall, laugh, cry, get dirty, and get bored (even if for only a moment) all in the same day, and still found the time to go with whoever was ready to deliver whatever has been cooked at the house to the restaurant, and come back with whoever was coming back to the house for more of this or that - sometimes, several times a day.

"Inante ligoch, aydekmachihum?" itiyE would say to us, knowing very well that the answer would never be yes. Of course, later in the afternoon, when she decided that we were tired, she would find a way to make us all get in the house and rest. She would have a glass of birz for each of us, and she would stretch on the couch to take her nap. We would sit there during her nap and talk to her, - I think our noisy chatter must've been like a lullaby because if we stopped talking thinking she was asleep, she'd open one eye and say, "minew zm alachihu, ligoch, teCHawtu ingI". This never failed to make us laugh, and we would sometimes fall silent on purpose. Any initial annoyance at having been interrupted from whatever game we were in the middle of would soon be replaced by a silly giggle session.

This was a Saturday that started out like many others. We had arrived at itiyE's in the morning, and as usual, followed her around telling her our week's worth of life story as she went about her work with a nod and a smile and an occasional question or reply. Although she seemed busier than most other days, we didn't leave her side until we were satisfied that she heard all we had to say. And then we went outside to play.

As usual, later in the afternoon, we were summoned into the house, away from the dust and keTerara Sehai, megemeria belimena and then beKuTa, - only this time, itiyE continued working and wasn't going to take her nap because she was expecting guests. It was a routine that rarely changed and we didn't know what to do with ourselves - the concept of ireft itiyEn keben sanawera was completely foreign to us.

Needless to say, we became restless.

ItiyE, well aware of our restiveness, decided to send one of our older cousins with us to keep us out of trouble and make sure we weren't sneaking outside. He was a joker, and kept us entertained for a while, until, we remembered, we hadn't had our birz that day. And at that point, already goaded because we were having to go through this without itiyE, and having spent a busy day eza Sehai lai, we were just tired enough meneCHaneCH lemegemer.

"InE birz ifeligalehu", became every other sentence, and in an effort to keep us calm, our dear cousin went to get some birz for us.

He came back in a little while, only to announce that everyone in the kitchen was busy, and "lik sirachewin endeCHeresu, yimeTalachihual". What? And just how sweet did he think we were, anyway? For all those days he called us "y'tiyE molKaKoch", he was about to witness some true molKaKinet in action.

Timat was no longer quenched with water. "Mirinda lamTalachu?", he tried.

C'mon now, there's a time and a place for everything, and we'll ask for mirinda when we know we can't get it. Right now, however, we want birz. But wait a minute, ok, a'nd mirinda, just one. But the rest of us still want birz.

He himself didn't care for birz, so he couldn't quite grasp our obsession over it. Not that we liked it all that much - we drunk it usually because it was given to us as a "better" substitute for the other sugary stuff we couldn't have. At this moment, however, we simply want it because we sense complexity in trying to get to it...

As predicted unable to get to the birz, he came back with a couple of bottles of mirinda, a couple of bottles of pepsi, and a box of cookies, for all of which we would've loved him - any other day -, but not this day. The one who had agreed to go for the mirinda earlier changed her mind. "birz n'ew yemifeligew", she said shaking her head when he handed her what she had asked for just minutes before. He stared at her with disbelief and what I now think may have been disgust until he heard another girl say, "pepsi ina mirinda sidebaleK iko yiTaf'Tal". Well, anything to shut them up is I'm sure what went through his head, so he quickly opened one of each and mixed in a glass a'nd Kushasha yemesele meTeT. Assuming our momentary silence to be one of joy, and obviously proud of his concoction, he looked at the girl who had come up with the idea, one colossal grin on his face. It was like watching a slow motion movie, as he turned looking at all of our this isn't what we wanted faces one by one, his smile turning into an expression of anguish as if some unknown force was pulling out his hair.

Looking back, I'm now absolutely sure that at time moment, he wanted to give each one of us a'nd a'nd yeKarya T'fi....

We wanted birz - indE, how difficult could it be to just get us a glass each and get it over with? "iNa hEden inamTaw," we suggested, to which he quickly shook his head and told us not to dare leave the room. Fine, then, "ante amTalin".

He gathered the bottles and glasses he had just carried in and left again, muttering something under his breath that we couldn't really hear but understood perfectly well. From the window, we could see him in the kitchen explaining to the others and no doubt telling itiyE, "anchi batamolaKiKyachew noro...".

They were still busy in the kitchen. "ingidih yeteKeda yelem" one of the women said. "Koy, istii, manesh - Belaynesh, birz Kigiina amCHi leligochu. bezaw'm l'weizro almaz yetesenadawin yizesh ney". And with a look of relief, he sat down to wait for Belaynesh to come back with this liquid jewel.

Belaynesh came back shortly, set the two trays on the small table and left, with a brief "yeligochun birz wised, Tariku" as she waked away.

Oh, how he ran up with a tray of glasses to make us guzzle e-v-e-r-y drop in each one! He set the tray down by the window and handed each one of us a glass. "TeTu," he said, wegebUn yizo.

After one sip, "yaak," I said. "ayTafiTim". The rest of them echoed me. "yimeral".

He kept staring down at us. This is unbelievable. His eyes opened wide and his veins looked like they were ready to pop. He took a deep breath to compose himself and sat down slowly on the edge of the table. He spoke very calmly. "inezi birCHiKowoch a'nd Tebita indayterfachew!" He crossed his arms. He took his time looking into each one of our eyes, making sure we knew he meant what he said. No one dared a reply.

We knew we were in trouble. None of the grown ups would save us now - they're too busy. And he was, after all, bigger than us. Fear set in, along with confusion, and of course, good old ilih. itiyE came into the room at that moment, hurrying to the phone but not without noticing the tension. "minew, ligoch, min honachihu?" she said as she passed us, for which she received several replies all at once...

"itiyE, ayTafiTim..."
"ayesh, itiyE, keza hUulu behuala, birzun liabakinu new..."
"yimeral..."

She signaled us to stay quite until she was done talking on the phone, but then on her way out, she must have felt Tariku's frustration - she said, "birz, birz, bilachihu asmeTitachihu yelem? belu tolo TeTu."

Didn't look like we were gonna win this one. Before we could counter her decision, she was out and gone and the door closed. Tariku was now looking at us with a satisfaction of a child who's just been granted his biggest wish.

Fiitachinin akosatren, Quaq iyalen, CHeresnat. And we all stared at each other, wanting to throw up, but not quite sure, tears in our eyes, watching him collect the glasses with a look of victory written all over him. Then he opened the door and, HUH?, WHAT are they saying salon bEt?

"...indEt Tiru birz new, itiyE..."

And then came itiyE's dengeT yale dimS, "birz new indE yameTachiu... ay Belaynesh, Teg biyat?..."

And then came Belaynesh... "Teg iko new yameTahUt, itiyE... birzUn ima leligochu Tariku wesede..."

And then came itiyE running to the bedroom... "wiy, bemotkUt, ligochun..."

It all gets fuzzy after that point. I remember a few things, like trying to go to the bathroom and not quite... trying to laugh but what was funny? Loud - everything was loud and funny... my stomach too, it was feeeeeling fu-unny...

And I do remember Tariku having the last laugh... even today...

"birz yimTa, ligoch?" he says whenever he sees us, "ummm... ymiTafiT birz..."