She preheated the oven. She pulled out a bag of fine white rice flour, cornstarch, tapioca starch. She cut cold butter into the dry mix with a pastry cutter, the way her grandmother taught her for pie crust. She rolled the dough thin—thinner than she thought possible—and cut out tiny circles with the rim of a shot glass. She poked them with a fork, brushed them with melted butter, and sprinkled them with sea salt.
The next afternoon, her sister unboxed a fresh sleeve of Ritz. The sound of the cellophane crinkling was obscene—a chorus of forbidden joy. The kids attacked them like tiny, happy locusts. Ingrid’s nephew offered her one, crumbs on his chin. “Aunt Ingrid? Want a bite?” are ritz gluten free
Twenty minutes later, she pulled a tray of golden, shatteringly thin rounds out of the oven. They were not Ritz. They were smaller, a little lopsided, some edges darker than others. She let them cool. She picked one up. It didn’t crumble. It held. She preheated the oven
She smiled. “No thanks, buddy. My tummy doesn’t like those.” She rolled the dough thin—thinner than she thought
“And what do you put the peanut butter on ?” Ingrid asked, already knowing.
Ingrid closed her eyes. She pictured her niece and nephew, fingers sticky with peanut butter, little teeth sinking into the salty, flaky discs of her former life. She pictured herself sitting across from them, nibbling her sad, dense impostor cracker, pretending not to watch.