Carol Goodman Kaufman

Family history

A Tried and True Thanksgiving

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Here we are on the eve of Thanksgiving and the house is filled with fabulous aromas from a wide range of dishes. And while I spend most of the year trying new recipes and experimenting with new foods, both for my newspaper column and in researching my book, when the holidays come I rarely deviate from the tried and true.

Thanksgiving is one of those holidays that demand the tried and true. Comfort food is what the family wants, and of all the traditions that surround the holiday, turkey is almost universally the centerpiece. Everybody (except the vegetarians) demands turkey. (I did go on strike one year and serve chicken, but was almost disowned for that faux pas.) For me, the only reason the bird exists is as a vehicle for stuffing. I love stuffing. And since tiny changes are sometimes allowed,  a couple of times I’ve tried to stuff kasha into my turkey, but frankly, the tried and true bread stuffing is really my fave.

This year’s tiny change is that I am bumping the green beans for Brussels sprouts. It turns out that hubby never liked green beans (we’ve only been married 38 years and now he tells me). But, the kids demand both pumpkin pie and Grandma Cele’s Jello cranberry cherry mold. (These kids probably think Jello mold was served at Plymouth.)

As for mashed potatoes, this is not a dish anybody in my tribe has ever served on Thanksgiving – on any branch of either hubby’s or my family. But, when my hairdresser Shannon cried, “What?” You can’t have Thanksgiving without mashed potatoes!” I felt this might be the year to try them, perhaps because she was so passionate about the potatoes – or perhaps because she was holding a pair of sharp scissors at the time. I can’t be sure.

However, considering that the preparation of said dish is a major pain in the tuchus, I delegated the task to my first-born child, who accepted the assignment with great aplomb.

Luckily, he is as good a cook as he is a sport.

So this year, mashed potatoes will be on our family Thanksgiving table, squeezed in among the turkey, stuffing, Brussels sprouts, cranberry sauce, Jello mold, squash soufflé, apple crisp, and pumpkin pie.

Time to let out the waistband. That’s tradition.

 

The Best-Laid Plans

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Well, the wedding was fabulous. Although it had rained for two straight weeks preceding — and the two days immediately following — the sun came out in time to dry out the backyard for the Big Day. And it was a glorious day. The sky was a robin’s egg blue. The thermometer showed a high 70s. Virtually every flower in the yard was in bloom – all shades of pinks and purples and yellows.

More important, the bride and groom radiated bliss. After a few pre-ceremony tears of nerves for the bride, she giggled as she walked down the aisle. The parents kvelled. Surrounded by our family and friends we danced for hours, to music so fabulous that our neighbors sat out on their decks to listen. The food was scrumptious (although I didn’t get more than a couple hors d’oeurves – the best part of any catered affair).

But, no wedding goes exactly as planned, and it is the unexpected things that make the event memorable. My own is a case in point. We should have anticipated that when a six-foot-four-inch groom walks under a six-and-a-half-foot huppah, the kippah will get knocked off.

Knowing all this, I was prepared. Or, so I thought. It is no secret to family and friends that am a big crybaby. So, well in advance of the wedding, I made sure to note on my lengthy to-do list to place a box of facial tissue on the table under the huppah, right next to the kiddush cups and the glass for the groom to break. The morning of the wedding, I brought it outside to the tent, and there it was, sitting at the ready for the copious tears sure to be shed by the mothers of the bride and groom. After the photographer was finished taking the formal family pictures, we all went inside to wait for the signal to begin the processional. (Nota bene: Photographers like to move things around to make pretty pictures.)

The music began, Adam’s parents escorted him down the aisle, followed by Joel and me on either side of the glowing, giggling bride. Once under the huppah, Joel began to officiate (no, he is not a rabbi and, yes, one can get a one-day celebrant permit from the Governor of the Commonwealth).

I turned to get a tissue for myself, and one for Barbara, my mehuteneste (my son-in-law’s mother – only the Yiddish language has a word for this relationship), to hold in the event of certain blubbering. No tissue box. I looked around me, trying to locate it. There it was, sitting on one of the dining tables — about fifteen feet away. In a panic, I tried to catch the eye of my sister-in-law, Diane, who was busy videotaping us (quite professionally, I might add – the quality of her work was fabulous). Diane did not see me, despite my wild gesticulating, but the video camera certainly did. There I am, eyes open wide like a crazed gunman’s and my head maniacally jerking toward the box.

To make matters worse, I couldn’t remember if my mascara was waterproof or not, and my dress was lemon yellow. Weeping would be a bad choice. So, I decided I had better suck it up and not sob. Just as I had settled on that course of action, who should then choke up? My husband the officiant, who was trying very hard to pronounce the couple husband and wife “with great joy,” but couldn’t get the joyful words to exit his mouth. At that point I got pretty misty, but miraculously did not shed a single tear. Success!

That is, until the toasts offered by the couple’s siblings had me laughing so hard I cried with sheer joy.

The mascara was, indeed, waterproof.

Searching for Bubbie

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As a child, I loved hearing my mother’s stories about growing up during the Depression. I was fascinated as she recounted how every Thursday, her mother, Sarah Dvorah, would place the chicken that had been living in their yard into a burlap sack for her to bring to the shohet, the ritual slaughterer. The next night that chicken would appear as Shabbat dinner.

I also loved hearing about the buying trips to New York. Sarah Dvorah would occasionally take my mother along with her and, once business was concluded, they would visit with relatives in the Big City. How exciting this was to me.

Since we lived in the same small town in which my grandparents ultimately settled, I could actually go back to the old neighborhood where immigrants lived when they got to America, and even to the very street where my mother lived.  Several of my dad’s cousins still lived down on John Street, an exotic place where one of the elders made blintzes in the kitchen while her sons operated the junk business out back and I played with my cousin, Gail, who would visit from another exotic place – New York.

As I have gotten older, I have developed a gnawing hunger to gather and record stories about the family. How did they live?  What made them laugh? What did they do for fun?  I am especially curious about those people I never knew, such as my maternal grandmother, Sarah Dvorah. Scary how few of us ever thought to ask questions of our parents and grandparents when we were young and they were alive. Not one of her nine grandchildren ever knew Sarah Dvorah. She died in 1932 when my mother, the youngest of five children, was just a teenager, but even the oldest cousin born of the oldest of Mom’s siblings was born well after Sarah Dvorah died.

Along with the stories, I thought it would be neat to gather photos and recipes so that we and our descendants could have a bigger picture of our ancestors’ history. What did they eat? What was considered a special treat? For example, I know from my mom that Sarah Dvorah made her own bagels. Did any of my aunts or uncles inherit that recipe, and perhaps hand it down to their own children? No, not a one. If Sarah Dvorah was anything like my paternal grandmother, Sarah Feyge, she never wrote down her recipes. Other than the bagels, chicken, and soup, I don’t know anything about Sarah Dvorah’s cooking.

And, as for photos, one of the most disappointing discoveries in my quest for family history is that there is not one picture of Sarah Dvorah. Not one photo or sketch among all the cousins. I knew the family was poor, but to have no pictorial record of my grandmother’s physical existence is so sad. What did she look like? Was she tall or short? Fat or thin? Brown hair or black?

So, this summer I am planning a little trek to all the places my grandparents lived in America. I am hopeful that there might be a photo among the archives of the Jewish communities where my zadie, Dov Aryeh, taught heder, religious school. Perhaps I will find a newspaper clipping of Sarah Dvorah having served on a charity committee in Willimantic, Connecticut, or maybe a line about the birth of three of her five children in Ellenville, New York. Those are small towns with what I am hopeful have great potential for success. But what about Brooklyn, New York? What is the chance that I will find a family needle in the haystack there? Is there the slightest chance that a distant cousin or two may still live there and remember Sarah Dvorah’s visits – and even have a photo documenting them?

Is there a chance that somebody out there in the cosmos might read this blog post and recognize the name Sarah Dvorah Katz, daughter of Shrayge Feivel Cohen?

Stay tuned. This could be either a rewarding summer, or a fruitless search.

A backyard wedding

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Our daughter, Elana, has chosen to be married in our backyard in a “simple” wedding. Her father and I were, admittedly, not enthralled with the idea. Images of monsoon-like rain, lightning, tenting, catering logistics, and porta-potties danced in our heads, and the word “simple” just didn’t jibe. But, a backyard wedding is what she wanted, and she asks for so little that we could hardly say “no.”

On reflection, our backyard really is the perfect place for this marriage ceremony and celebration to take place. Elana came to this house when she was two days old and she played in its backyard virtually every day of her childhood. On our lawn she played soccer and softball, badminton and volleyball, sandbox and tea parties, and, doing so, she learned valuable social skills such as teamwork and cooperation in playing with her brothers, the neighborhood kids, and her friends.

Elana and her Adam are a unique couple. While their marital website shows a humorous photo of her hugging him as he hugs a tree, they are truly huggers of people. Their chosen career paths, as well as their leisure activities, mirror their love of humankind and nature.

Elana and Adam will be married under a huppah, or wedding canopy. Over the past few years, I have been working on making one that will, I am hopeful, serve our family for generations. I began painting the silk for brother Seth’s marriage to Elena, but decided that for this marriage, the addition of a few more fruits and flowers would add needed color. Perhaps for every additional wedding in our family I will add another feature, as long as I am able.  This huppah is not by any means a work of art (Elana told me after Seth’s wedding “From 15 feet away it looked good, Mummy.”). It is one of love.

The huppah represents a shelter open on all sides. It is a tribute to our ancestors’ Abraham and Sarah, whose tent was always open to visitors, both planned and unplanned. Elana and Adam’s wedding will be welcoming people from all walks of life, as well. Witnessing the marriage vows will be guests representing not only every branch of Judaism but also friends of the Muslim, Hindu, Bahai, and Christian faiths, including Mormon, Quaker, and Eastern Orthodox.

The huppah holds no furniture, but teaches a lesson that the basis of home and family is the people within it, not its possessions. Another thing learned in our backyard: sharing. Elana and Adam represent the polar opposite of consumerism and, in fact, didn’t register for wedding gifts for themselves. Rather, they have asked their guests wishing to make gifts to register with Heifer Project International, so that less fortunate people a world away can have the opportunity to make a life for themselves and their families.

Yes, I think the backyard is exactly the place in which this wedding should take place. “Simple” it is not. Perfect it will be – even with a monsoon.

Gathering the stories

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Every Saturday of my childhood, I went to Bubby’s house for lunch after services. Since Bubby was strictly Orthodox, she would not cook on Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath, so everything had to be prepared in advance of sundown on Friday. Foods simmered on top of the stove or in the oven overnight. Consequently, the heavenly aroma of chicken soup, brisket, and stuffed cabbage permeated the house and filtered all the way out the front door, beckoning visitors and tempting passersby.

By my late teens I became interested in cooking myself, but realized that I had no idea how to make her standards. The summer of 1971, Bubby fell gravely ill with shingles. Every day I would go to St. Luke’s Hospital to spoon-feed her, as she didn’t want to eat. Perhaps she feared that the food would not be kosher, or maybe she just didn’t feel well enough. Or maybe, she was just used to her own cooking, which was fabulous. (Bubby was such a good cook that the visiting cantor who stayed with her during the High Holidays told me years later that he blamed her specifically for his huge weight gain. He couldn’t resist her challah, strudel, mandel breit, lockshen, etc. I understood; nobody could.)

Somehow I must have known that I might never get the chance to ask her questions again, so one day as I was helping her with her lunch I asked, “Bubby, will you give me your recipes?”

“I don’t have them written down.”

“You can dictate them to me. I’ll write everything down. ”

“Only if you write in Yiddish.”

“But I don’t know Yiddish.”

“You have to do it in Yiddish.”

“Bubby, if you were so interested in having me learn Yiddish, why didn’t you teach me?  Why did you only speak it when you didn’t want me to understand? Bubby, I’m going to live in Israel. I speak, read, and write Hebrew!” (The “speak” may have been a bit of an exaggeration at the time, but, hey, we were talking about food here.)

“Yiddish or nothing.”

Needless to say, I got the “nothing.”

I have now spent virtually every Friday of my adult life attempting to replicate her challah. Several years ago, when my dad was still alive, he was with us for dinner. Whether a Shabbat or holiday I can’t remember, but the meal did feature challah. After we had completed the blessings over the wine and the bread, my father startled me by saying, “This challah is better than Bubby’s.”

I doubt that was true, but will take that compliment with me to the grave.

As for all her other scrumptious dishes, I have never attempted to make egg noodles (hers were like silk), and I can’t stuff a cabbage leaf to save my life. My brisket with tzimmes, however, is identical to hers. When it comes to the desserts, I have never tried to duplicate the strudel since, in the attempt, I would end up the size of a house (remember Cantor Albert). Mandel breit is a once-a-year experiment and, while not bad, it’s just not Bubby’s.

In large part due to my failure to ask questions when I had the chance, today I ask lots of them. Slowly, I am gathering stories and recipes from my own relatives to publish a family memoir.

The moral of this story is to ask questions while your elders are alive and healthy. Get as many stories from them as you can. Write down the recipes and try them out, preferably with their source. And remember to share both.

And, if they expect you to learn the language of your ancestors, find out sooner rather than later.