Yiddishe Mamas (23 page)

M
y own late mother ran her home like an operating room. The Mayo Clinic had shoddier standards. She even sent bath towels to the Chinese laundry. They came back perfectly folded, with a width of one-half an inch. Her towel strategy developed so she could fit them into the closet neatly—even though it was like drying yourself with a loofa. My dear cousin, friend, and best-selling author, Stephanie Winston, the organizing guru, swears that those of us who live in a sty are rebelling against our surgical nurse mothers. (Which of course, wouldn’t account for my son, but that’s another story.)

It was not only
schmutz
(dirt) that offended, but clutter. A friend recently heard a Howard Stern show where he was complaining that once, when as a youngster, he returned home, he found all his comic books gone. Now, these were particularly valuable, having covers drawn by his cousin, Jack Adler. His mother’s response (I’m paraphrasing) was, “I don’t like clutter.” His protests that he owned them didn’t register. She thought he was “too old” for them, so she gave them to a neighbor.

Oy.

What I wouldn’t give for my “clutter,” which included the very first line of Barbie with that striped bathing suit and little see-through high heels. If my mother hadn’t been so “tidy,” I’d be writing this from a beach in Barbados, with two native lads cooling me with palm fronds.

But again, to the Jewish
baleboste
(homemaker), cleanliness and order was a duty. And a spotless home where anyone could drop in (for an operation, maybe) elevated the status of the Jewish mother. In fact, many a Jewish daughter, Sandra Bernhardt included, recalls her mother cleaning up for the maid.

The next time your Jewish mama tells you to wash your hands after leaving the washroom, it’s more than just cleanliness (though not a bad reason). There’s also a religious basis. After using the bathroom, Jewish law requires the washing of hands and reciting (excerpted/adapted): “Blessed are You, O Lord, who formed man
in wisdom and created within him various openings and orifices. Should one that should be closed, open, or one open, close, one could not remain alive before You for an instant.” This blessing not only thanks God for creating a well-functioning body—but made Jews less vulnerable to disease during the Middle Ages.

And cleanliness itself should lead to health. Right? Of course.

Health is not merely a Jewish obsession, it’s a religious obligation. One verse in Deuteronomy begins,
v’nishmartem m’od l’nafshoteichem,
“carefully guard your lives.”

Indeed, Judaism teaches that health care is the responsibility of our entire society. Maimonides listed medical care first on his list of the ten most important communal services that a city is required to provide to its residents. In the Mishnah Torah, Maimonides quotes the famous passage from Leviticus: “You shall not stand idly by while your neighbor bleeds.”

Which no doubt explains the reverence many Jews feel toward the medical profession.

But there’s more. In returning to the shtetl Jewish mother, where conditions were harsh, food was scarce, and worrying about the children (and no evil eye) paramount, health was of primary concern—and remains so today.

So, How are you? Don’t ask…

For many Jews, including me, it’s quite normal to assume that a splinter of the toe could be
(shhh)
an
early warning sign.
Whether this is because “Guess who died last night?” often follows “Hello,” or we have a morbid fear of the evil eye smiting us, there are many who have some difficulty, especially over fifty, admitting they feel good. Optimists, we’re not.

Rebecca, in Los Angeles, called her great aunt Rivka in the Bronx.

“So,
Tante
[aunt], how are you feeling?” she asked.

“Don’t ask. Terrible!”

“Oy … and how long has this been going on?”

“In three weeks it’ll be a month.”

“Give him some chicken soup!” cried the
bubbe when
an actor died onstage. “It wouldn’t hurt.” So goes the Jewish joke. But Jewish mamas have “the gift” (however odd).

Seymour (Sy) Kleinman, lawyer and raconteur, recalls Mama Kleinman on illness. According to author Tim Boxer, when Sy was sick, she’d say, “Pull your eyelids three times and spit.” No good? OK, they needed a consult—with Mrs. Moskowitz, whose credentials was a husband who washed windows at Mount Sinai Hospital. When Sy’s brother Ira took a bunch of aspirin, the maven suggested, “Tell your mother to give Ira a headache.”

But mama wasn’t finished and had other important advisories.

But sometimes, mama is very right. “My appendix was rupturing,” says Joanna Gleason. “It was my mother who came and got me to the hospital. She knew not to let it go.”

Given our penchant for bucking authority, even doctors are not immune to our critical humor.

“Every Jewish mother knows the best doctor in her hometown, like my mother who lives in Winnipeg, yet,” says Lorrie Cohen, editor with the
Tucson Citizen
and stand-up comic. “Her child could be seeing DeBakey, but the doctor has to be a Jew—and in Winnipeg—where she knows someone better.

“My brother in San Francisco had a minor heart problem. This is the conversation I had with my mother:

“‘I feel so much better,’ my mother said. ‘I called Irving Kornmel here in Winnipeg … you know Kornmel… you may not know who he is but … you know
of
him. So I asked him, … who’s the best cardiologist in San Francisco? Of course I didn’t tell him why … but anyway, so Irving says he’ll get me the name as soon as he gets back from his bridge game. I feel so much better now.’

“Meanwhile, my brother was already taken care of,” says Lorrie.

Sheva was kvetching to her son, Myron, the doctor, about feeling out of shape.

But what of the “truly” unusual?

If all fails, there’s always plans to be made—and hope.

F
ood! For the Jewish mother, could there be a sweeter-sounding word? One of the strongest (and strangest) memories I have of my grandmother, Bella, was her
“setchel”
(satchel). People thought the immense bag with the brass lock was just an old lady’s purse, but we knew better. It was gram’s magical microuniverse. All we had to do was conjure up a culinary thought and Poof! food jumped out from grandma’s “satchel.” It hung from her arm like a third appendage. No mere pocketbook, she shlepped
a bag that would be considered “cargo” on the
QE2.
Like Felix’s magic bag of tricks, it both delighted and frightened with its ability to refill itself with all sorts edible goodies: Cheesecake, chicken, Borscht, noodle pudding, kishke, oranges were all neatly wrapped in a hanky—dipped in My Sin perfume. To this day, I can’t eat chocolate cream pie without a little cologne chaser.

Even then we knew that “setchel” was security. It held rations for a Jewish family on the run. The satchel, with its old, odd cache—was, and always would be …
safety.

The importance of food to the Jewish mother has been honed by thousands of years, and for many reasons.

Who among us boomers didn’t hear, “Eat! Finish your plate! Children are starving in Europe.” For the shtetl mother who was starving in Europe, on the run, or … in the Camps, food came at a premium, and what little there was was often given to the
kinder
first.

I would argue that hunger, as a core need, is one of our strongest and longest-held memories—and deep, abiding hunger, the basis of some of our greatest fears. The desire to feed and keep feeding our children remains with ethno-typical Jewish mothers.

The taking of food, so connected with family and socializing, when put together with argumentation can make a Jewish meal with family and friends a noisy affair.

Food, then, was synonymous with love. The ethno-typical Jewish mother who feeds everyone—OK, overfeeds—is also offering up a huge side dish of love that fills mama with satisfaction. When not taken, it can upset, or even offend.

Many a Jewish child, even at the youngest ages, has figured this out—and used it as a manipulative ploy. Acceptance of mama’s food is love; rejection is, well, rejection of more than strained peas. But many a mother will also see this as a “health” issue.

“You’re not sick,” is many a Jewish mother’s diagnosis. “You’re hungry. Eat!”

Our kosher commandments have been a critical element in separating Jews from the rest of the world and establishing a unique group identity. The primary responsibility for keeping a kosher home rests with the mama. Not only can Jewish mothers pass on their cultural and religious heritage, but also, while doing so, history, anecdotes, and other prized remembrances are shared, as mother bonds with daughter—over making chicken soup.