Yiddishe Mamas (25 page)

The place? The MGM private dining room. The food? Chicken soup. Not just any chicken soup. Mayer’s Mama’s! Louis B. Mayer insisted chicken-matzo ball soup—supposedly a duplication of his mom’s—was served daily. In Joan Nathan’s
Jewish Cooking in America,
Daniel Selznick, Mayer’s grandson, explains his grandfather would send back the soup if it didn’t include fresh-killed chicken. He had a very developed palate because his father-in-law was a kosher butcher.

Many Jewish mamas remain serious about our bagels. I’m one of them. Not too long ago, I had (non-Jewish) guests over for brunch. I served a variety of bagels, cream cheese, and lox. Much to my horror, one of them grabbed a cherry bagel, upon which he shmeared blueberry cream cheese. Yecch!

As our foods have become Americanized for all palates, we’ve seen a metamorphosis that would make a purist gag. A jalapeño bagel, for example. Oy! Then there’s a certain deli chain that serves kosher-style corned beef and pastrami. Double oy! Those Jewish moms who have moved away from large Jewish population centers would give an eyetooth for “the real thing.” Oh, and good Chinese food.

OK, true, the Jewish mother “food-kvetcher” is not what I would consider part of the ethno-type, and certainly other ethnic groups, particularly Italians, share this peculiarity, but so many adult Jewish sons and daughters have mentioned it that I’ll give it a little shrift.

Some Jewish mothers have been known to be—a little picky.

My brother, Joshua, a veterinarian and stand-up comic, tells the story of one Jewish mother he knew who was never satisfied.

“She’d order a chef’s salad and here’s what she’d say: ‘Listen … I want a chef’s salad. BUT … leave out the tomatoes, I hate chicken, no cheese. I’m allergic. Also forget the ham. And also, include croutons and Caesar salad dressing.’ I’d say to her, ‘Why don’t you just order a Caesar salad? Her answer? ‘Because I want a chef’s salad!’”

I, too, have seen my share of Jewish mothers who spend a meal kvetching, “It’s too cold (about iced tea), it’s too hot,
I’m
too hot, it’s too rare, it’s too well-done, it’s stringy, it’s lunghy. Why did we come here? Let’s move to another table,” and on and on. One mother in particular could drive more waiters into rest homes than (God forbid) TB.

On coming to America, many a shtetl mom took on American values that simply couldn’t work with shtetl food values. In a word: “weight.”

Once a zaftig (plump) child meant health and prosperity. But then she grows up. And in America, never more than today, should a female fail to resemble a Q-Tip, she’s “fat.” And “fat” doesn’t make for a good image, or marriage prospect.

Oy, what to do … what to do?

In 1972, Gail Parent wrote the funny, poignant classic humor novel,
Sheila Levine Is Dead and Living in New York,
of an overweight Jewish girl in New York who can’t find a husband. When her mother questions whether she’ll get enough to eat after Sheila announces she’s going on a diet, Sheila reassures her that in her life, she’s eaten enough for the whole city of Trenton. In fact, if she stopped eating for one day, one could feed all the starving people in India.

Social worker Karen L. Smith in her article, “Jewish Women and Eating Disorders,” believes that the Jewish female body is rarely genetically predisposed to fit the current beauty ideal. The Yiddish word
“zaftig,”
once a complimentary reference, is now associated with the overbearing Jewish mother forcing unwanted nourishment/advice/love into her children. She goes on to describe the dilemma of Jewish mothers wanting to “feed” their children the richness of their heritage, yet also wanting to help them fit into the mainstream culture. So, many straightened their daughter’s “kinky” hair, or allowed their sixteen-year-old daughter to get a nose job, or even encouraged endless dieting.

“My mother’s tall and skinny—an ex-runway model—size two. The only thing on me that’s size two is my navel,” quips editor and comic Lorrie Cohen. “Obviously, my mother had a one-nighter with Danny Devito. She expected a daughter who looked like Uma Thurman, and I expected a mother who looked like Estelle Constanza.

“On the
phone
she’ll say, Lorrie, you
sound
like you’ve gained a few pounds. She visited Australia for awhile. All I know is, ‘the women are so thin there, you can’t find a Sweet ‘N Low anywhere.’ I have no idea about Australia—except for their calorie intake. That was my mother’s
cultural
intake.

“Then there’s the birthday countdown: ‘Only sixty-seven days to lose weight!’ And the promises. Like an anorexic Bob Barker, Mom promised, if I lose, I can ‘come on down’ and get a whole new wardrobe and a trip!’ I shoved a cheesecake down my throat.

“Should I ever get down to a pencil—and die—she’ll put on my tombstone: ‘OK LORRIE’S DEAD, BUT WAS SHE
THIN.’”

Feeding vs. fat was a lifelong issue in my house. I’ve now defined this food
mishegoss
as a two-stage process. I was born a mere five pounds and lost weight at home. Oh, the hysteria. From that point on, my childhood was one of stuffing myself. Clap clap, hears the child. “Look, her cheeks are so chubby!” Chubby cheeks are cute— under age twelve. Then stage two kicked in. No longer “adorable” at 175 pounds, the next goal was to make me marriageable. My late mother was always overweight—and worried that I should face the same fate. After all, how long could she get away with calling it “baby fat”? (I was fourteen.) One summer at camp (which I detested) took care of that. I’d gone, without knowing, from “Chubbist” (my nickname) to Marna-bones. Of course, I also developed athlete’s foot. Today, I call those extra pounds “bloat.”

Cooking kosher, or at least obeying some laws and traditions pertaining to food, are still practiced by many Jewish mothers, even those who are “lite-Jews,” and reserve custom primarily for holidays.

“I suppose it would be nearly impossible to go through an entire week of Passover for Reconstructionist and Reform Jews, not to mention eight days for the rest of you, without the profound experience in practically every pore of your body that Jewish identity is inextricably bound up with food,” said Dr. Steven Carr Reuben, Senior Rabbi of Kehillat Israel, the Reconstructionist Congregation of Pacific Palisades, California, in a sermon entitled “Jews, Food, and Holiness.”

“This past week of Passover … has reminded me that when it comes to Jews and food, it’s really no laughing matter. Judaism and food—a contemporary reinvention of food as a vehicle for holiness in everyday life. What is now called ‘eco-kosher’ represents what Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan would have called ‘transvaluing,’ the powerful notion … that the food we eat provides a daily opportunity to experience the holiness inherent in our relationship with sustenance….

“Each time we make conscious choices of what we eat based on Jewish values, we elevate food and the act of eating to the level of holiness.

“Some of us will choose to follow the laws of
kashrut
as they are written in the Torah. Others follow the later rabbinic interpretations of the biblical laws. Still others see ourselves as partners in the evolution of Jewish civilization and make dietary choices designed to sanctify our lives and the spiritual consciousness with which we eat every day.”

The Sabbath prohibits lighting a fire. So how do you prepare hot food? The solution? In advance. And so
choient
— a slow-cooked stew of beef, vegetables, beans and barley—became a Sabbath specialty!

In Fred A. Bernstein’s
The Jewish Mothers’ Hall of Fame,
Florence, a Holocaust survivor and mother of rock star Gene Simmons, shared her Yiddishkeit with Gene’s pop-star pals:

One year Gene brought Cher and her family to his mom’s home for a Passover Seder. Mom was thrilled. “I said, ‘Gene, you’re bringing Cher? She’s such a fancy, schmancy lady.’ And Gene said, ‘No, she’s just an ordinary, nice person.’ And Gene was right.” All wore yarmulkes for the services, led by Gene. Gene’s chauffeur also attended. “I always invite him in,” said Florence. “What’s another plate?”

Joan Nathan, the preeminent expert on Jewish cookery and its historic roots in an article entitled, “Family Treasures Hold Kosher America’s Roots,” describes a wooden bookcase in a West Side apartment where a box is filled with recipes and handwritten cookbooks. The oldest, covered in fabric and handwritten in ornate script, dates from 1879, just eight years after the first kosher cookbook was published in America. Its author, whose initials appear on the title page, was Justina Hendricks Henry, a New York homemaker and the daughter of one of the founders of Jews’ Hospital, now Mount Sinai. Mrs. Henry’s great-granddaughter, Ruth Hendricks Schulson, is legally blind, but she has memorized the recipes. Stuck in one of the cookbooks [is] a list for Passover, written in 1963 by Rosalie Nathan Hendricks, Mrs. Schulson’s mother. Like Sephardic Jews throughout history, Mrs. Hendricks made her Passover and Sabbath wine from raisins. She also jotted down five boxes of raisins for charoset. Mrs. Schulson still makes the charoset balls with her daughter and grandchildren.

Ms. Nathan also describes a suitcase in a closet in Marion Mendel’s house in Savannah, Georgia, equipped with a fork and knife belonging to her eighteenth-century ancestor, the famous Mordechai Sheftall.

While Christian families, for example, may often serve turkey or ham for Christmas and Easter, our choices, in the blending of religious readings and their relationship to specific foods (the seder plate, for example), tend to follow tradition, even in assimilated homes.

Warmth, togetherness, and the knowledge that Jews around the world, and over thousands of years, have said the same or similar words over similar symbolic dishes, is a continuing source of pride, strength, and continuity for Jewish families. The Jewish mother was, and remains, in the center of it, as matriarch, fulfilling her duty to light up the house with joy—and legacy.

“We do the holidays together,” says Melanie Strug. And she adds her “children are passing these holiday traditions onto their own children.”

The recollection of a young pioneering Jewish boy in Arizona reveals the earnestness with which Jewish pioneers observed Passover.

Linda Mack Seldoff, author of
Prairie Dogs Weren’t Kosher
(1977), describes a scene in preparation of Passover. “Before the holiday, his mother, my sister, and he would get the house ready, which included whitewashing the walls and scouring the floors. His mother made the utensils kosher for Passover with scalding hot water. The furniture was carried down to the [slough] and scrubbed and allowed to dry.”

The holidays made remaining a practicing Jew in the old Southwest difficult. The lack of Jewish synagogues in the region forced families to depend on each other to maintain tradition and share observances.

In
Keeping Passover
(1995), Ira Steingroot describes how Jewish families would come together and celebrate the sacred observance in one house in Nogales, Arizona. All holidays were celebrated at home, where the baked goods were made. Families went to Sonora, Mexico, to buy the fish for the gefilte fish for Passover. The matzo were bought in Tucson.

Faye Moskowitz, author of the
And the Bridge Is Love
and
Her Face in the Mirror: Jewish Women on Mothers and Daughters
described closing her eyes and thinking of her grandmother tasting a bit of her childhood each Hanukkah when she prepared the latkes as her mother had made them before her. The memories of her family—mother, grandmothers, aunts—floated
back to her, young and vibrant once more, making days holy in the sanctuaries of their kitchens. These rituals connect her to the intricately plaited braid of their past, and looking down the corridor of what’s to come. She sees herself join them as they open their arms wide to enfold her children and grandchildren in their embrace.

“The Irish and Italian boys had Christmas once a year; we had exultation every Friday,” wrote Hutchins Hapgood in
The Spirit of the Ghetto.

“In the … neighborhood … rent by the shouts of peddlers and the myriad noises of the city, there was every Friday evening a wondrous stillness. … From the synagogue you could hear … the murmured prayers of the congregation. Once the service was over, you came home to find your mother dressed in her wedding dress with a white silk scarf around her head. And your father told you all the sufferings throughout the centuries were dedicated for this moment, the celebration of the Sabbath.”

In
The Jewish Festival Cook Book,
Fannie Engle and Gertrude Blair beautifully describe the Sabbath evening. There’s a holiday air about the house when the mother spreads the dinner cloth. Two loaves of challah have been placed at the head of the table (representing the twelve tribes of Israel). The Sabbath candlesticks have been placed in the center of the table. The mother lights each candle, while the children watch silently. She stands, hands spread toward the flames, then places them over her eyes. Silently she
recites a benediction, looks at the candles and adds a prayer. For centuries Jewish mothers have reverently observed this ceremony.
“Gut Shabbas!”
The greeting breaks the quiet as mother and children greet each other after the lighting of the candles.