As soon as my family finished eating dinner for Rosh Hashana, the Jewish new year, my mother immediately began setting the table for Passover-a holiday falling roughly two seasons and seven months later. In between these meals, however, our dining room resumed its museum-like status. I was convinced that anyone who tried to enter would be incinerated by laser beams like those trying to pass through the facing Sphinxes at the Great Riddle Gate in the Neverending Story.
My mother took little comfort though in her advance preparations: she rushed through the cooking to get to the dinner, only to rush through the dinner to get to the cleanup, which only gave way to the setup for the next dinner.
My mother’s particularity and diligence resulted in the exact same Passover seder every year: the kitchen was a hub of nervous energy as my mom and my aunt spent the day rolling matzo balls and wondering if the honey cake would come out of the pan in one piece. Once finished we all sat down at the table where someone invariably spilled her wineglass and we all debated who had been the spiller last year. My brother did his impression of the Ten Commandments while my cousin made me laugh by telling me repeatedly to stop looking at the shank bone. My mom would yell out boils as we ran through the plagues, telling us kids they were her favourite one. Returning to the table after slamming all the kitchen cabinets hiding the Afikomen, she would then hurry my dad through the non-eating part of the meal so the brisket wouldn’t get cold. Our dinners proceeded so quickly that they often wrapped up before other’s even started, allowing my husband and I to conveniently eat the full meals with both our families.
Whatever their speed, holiday dinners in the dining room felt familiar and homey. I only wish they had lasted longer because there is something about losing a matriarch that fundamentally changes things. Each holiday since my mother’s death, I find myself missing her and her dinners, more and more. It’s not like my mother had any secret recipes or anything, passed on from generation to generation. Her egg kichlach that I loved so much came right out of the Second Helpings cookbook owned by every Jewish woman from time immemorial. I can make all the recipes. I can slam all the cabinet doors. I can use all her beautiful serving dishes. My brothers and I can talk about her and tell her stories. But I cannot replace my mother’s incredible spirit. And without it, things just aren’t the same. The holidays will never be the same. Boils can never be my favourite plague. Sitting around the table now with so many loving family members, I feel an emptiness that my father’s delicious kugel and my mother-in-law’s tasty chicken just can’t fill. I miss my mother’s kichlach. I miss my mother shooing me out of the kitchen while she cooked. I miss my mother taking my plate away with one hand and serving dessert with the other. I miss my mother’s restlessness. I miss my mother’s laugh.
The year she died, we knew it was going to be her last Passover. Even though she was in the hospital, I was determined to soak up all I could of her. My brothers and I brought food to her tiny, shared room, hoping to enjoy together what we could of our last holiday. Unfortunately my mother’s roommate received bad news that evening. My mother hurried us out so we could make it to other people’s seders and give her roommate quiet privacy. “Go on,” my mother said kissing my cheek, “She doesn’t need people here eating chicken soup and you’re going to be late for dinner.” But I wanted to eat chicken soup with my mother. I wanted to drink it down slowly and savour it as best I could. I wanted to go back to the last holiday dinner when my mother was well, so I could know it would be my last time tasting her food and hearing her chuckle as she banged kitchen doors. I wanted to know I was eating my mom’s last kichlach. My mother could not live in the moment, and now the moment was gone.
Before the end, my mother was preparing for the end. And before she was preparing for the proverbial end, my mother was preparing for the end of something else: the end of the day, the end of a phone call, the end of my teenage years, the end of a book, the end of my brothers’ medical school, the end of a line, the end of her marriage, the end of a movie, the end of summer, the end of her bottle of perfume, the end of a holiday dinner. No matter the task at hand, be it joyful or tedious, my mother was always looking ahead, preparing for the next and then the next after that.
There’s a line at the end of Pat Conroy’s Prince of Tides that I love. Resigning himself to his traditional life Tom says:
“At the top of the bridge, with the stars shining above the harbor, I look to the north and wish again that there were two lives apportioned to every man and woman.”
I read this and wish it most for my mother. I wish so much that a second life could be apportioned to my mother so she could sit back in her dining room with a piece of honey cake, on any day of the week, and enjoy the sweet rewards of all her hard work in the first.
A beautiful tribute.
Thanks so much Ryan!
This a a beautiful tribute to your mom. The only thing that I will add is that people derive pleasure and rewards in different ways and I am sure that your mother was the happiest when you where all together. Honey cake does not taste so good if it is not shared. Keep her memory strong and that is the best way to honour her and her (crazy) traditions. Thanks for sharing and Chag Sameach. You are welcome to join me in a piece of cake anytime.
Rosie
I miss you mother at passover too. I think about how I would come over sometimes as a kid and she would try to make me not miss her pizza bagels by making matza pizza. It was an awful substitute, but a valiant attempt on her part. Chag Sameach.
So sweet, but yes, matza pizza is a terrible substitute for pizza of any kind!
Cool! That’s a clever way of loikong at it!
.. Allah e7aafeeth-ha ensahll aoo ekhaaleehaa men elthooreeyaa elsal7aa yaa raab.. yaa saalma 😛 the wording 3aajeeeb 😛 did you take her with you to Japan ?
Toutes mes félicitations Voisine. Voilà une chose que je n'ai encore jamais tenté. Pas si compliqué que ça… Comme toi, j'aime trop aligner les bocaux. C'est pratique certains soirs, juste à mettre les pieds sous la table. Je note précieusement. Becky adore, c'est peu dire.Bises
I miss your mother every day. Nobody can
or will ever replace her.
Jackie
She was definitely one of a kind.
I miss the banging of the cupboards too. That was one of the things I looked so forward to at sedar.
I miss her too so much.
I love you too and your writing.
MyMy
Absolutely the funniest part! Thanks so much!
You’re the one with the brains here. I’m watncihg for your posts.
omg you honestly look SOOO beautiful! how did you do your hair? i've always wanted to know how to do the wispy, blown out effect :)amazing dress too
asc dhamaan inta fikir kadhïibatay & jimcaale o ah qofka kaliya e bulshada cabashadoda so bandhigo. Awalan walaalaheygow waxaan idin kula tali nayaa in aad sameesaan dadaal si . Aad uga gudubtaa dhibaatoyinka. Allaah ha idiin yasiro culeel walbo waxaa ka damben dono fudeed. Insha allaahU codee: 0 0
without a helmet there would have been no brain to pull anything out of! She made a full recovery but it took 18 months including 6 months in icu. Suit yourself and God’s Speed!
what's with the automatic defence of infants? they don't have jobs, they cant work, and they make to much noise. they shouldn't allow babies in restaurants at all, maybe even in public.
Ã… fÃ¥ en diagnose er (oftest) veldig godt, spesielt om man gÃ¥r i det uvisse og det ikke er noe “hÃ¥ndfast” som feiler en.Lykke til med undersøkelsen Har forresten vært umulig Ã¥ kommentere hos deg i det siste, kom bare feilmeldinger.
I am only 20 weeks but I like the full panel 100% better then the demi panel pants that I have. The demi panel give me love handles. I am still able to wear a lot of my pre-preg shirts but I have a couple shirts with the ruched sides and I really like those so far.
What a wonderful article, it brought tears to my eyes and made me think of my own memories with my mom and her traditions that although I do carry on they will never be the same without her!
Big hug
xo
Thanks Aurea! That hug was just what I needed right now.
Oh Wends,
This is the most beautiful article.
What about the orange?
You are brilliant.
Yes, the orange on the seder plate! I think it was my cousin Jenn who originally read the article and I love that we did that too. I certainly come from a very long line of strong, outspoken women.
Such a lovely tribute Wendy. I’m sending it to my mom.
May we all allow ourselves the pleasure (and sometimes pain) of being in the moment when that moment is actually happening.
I find it so hard to live in the moment and it’s something I am working so hard to learn how to do.
Wendy, this is amazing (as always). I’m sending it to my mom…
Thanks Sara! I hope she likes it.
Of course I cried at your article. Your mother is also: of joy & pride. Beautiful! Cherish those memories. This was her and she would probably never change her traditions.
I still miss my mother & father and every Passover I still look for a gefilte fish that can match their homemade works of culinary art. Another thumbs down this year, maybe next.
Thanks so much Francine. My fingers are crossed that you’ll eventually find the perfect gefilte fish (is there such a thing!?)
Paul D Lovely article about my cousin Patty :)! I can easily conjure up her voice and the sheer speed at which she thought and spoke, at an instant. Warmest wishes to all of you from Melbourne, and thanks for posting… My Mom, cousin Elaine, just loved this!
Thanks for this beautiful article about you and your mother. It reminds all of us that it’s the memories that we create during family times. I too miss my Mom and Dad and Mother-in -Law, especially when the holidays roll around.
So beautiful Wendy, your best piece yet.
xo