My Jewish Grandmothers

I had more than the requisite number of grandmothers; ours was a Modern Family way before it was fashionable… Many of my childhood memories of them include memories of food, both good and bad.  Though they were all technically Jewish grandmothers, my assortment of grandmothers really ran the gamut.  There was my maternal, cold, austere, well bred Nana;  my grandfather’s second wife whom I called Aunt Blanche and was a true Southern Belle; my stepmother’s mother Yetta, an opinionated, socialist, and brilliant character, and my father’s mother Harriet, a typical Jewish Bubbe, short, round and annoyingly cheery who spoke predominantly in homilies, and cooked rich, bland mountains of food. 

I recall standing in my grandmother Harriet’s steamy kitchen in Jackson Heights, Queens as she made matzoh ball soup.  She wasn’t a very good cook, but she made traditional Jewish fare. Harriet was famous for her thriftiness and ability to stretch a dollar.  There was a family legend of my mom taking Harriet to the fish store. When it was her turn, she asked the fishmonger for cod collars.  She was handed a huge package and charged about $3.00 (this was the late 1960’s) the woman behind her said “I’ll have what she got” but my grandmother had gotten them all, and we, my family of six plus her, ate the spoils of this purchase for one whole week as fish salad, and chowder.  Now cod collars are in style, and made into dishes like fish ribs, who knew my Bubbe was such a trend setter?

My maternal grandmother couldn’t have been more different from Harriet.  She was an only child raised by her doting parents, and maternal grandmother.  Unlike most Jews in the early 1900’s they were well off, and had servants and a beach house.  My grandmother was aristocratic in her tastes.  Before their divorce she had traveled on cruise ships to Europe with my grandfather (who turned out to be a gambler and lost everyone’s money in the crash of 1929).  She would take me to places like Schrafft’s where I would have chicken pot pie, and a hot butterscotch sundae for dessert, and Patricia Murphy’s in New York City where waitresses walked around with large baskets filled with steaming hot popovers and handed them out generously. The only things I recall her cooking were scrambled eggs with Lawrey’s seasoned salt, and once she broiled a steak covered in peanut butter…. memorable, though not very tasty.

 image courtesy of mcny.org

Blanche was lovely, and visiting her and my grandfather in Baltimore was an annual treat I looked forward to all year.  I adored them both, and they indulged us magnificently when we visited.  They had a couple who worked for them and Virginia would cook me special treats, especially a cinnamon küchen (coffee cake), warm and layered and buttery.  Dinners there were served in the dining room, and there was a bell on the table to ring for each course.  Blanche would let me ring the bell, and though now it feels embarrassing to mention it, at the time it felt so special and regal.  Meals were so calm and elegant, not what I was used to at home.

Yetta didn’t come into my life until I was nine.  When my parents married in 1967 in addition to getting two sisters, I got a grandma and grandpa (by that time both my other grandfathers had died).  Yetta didn’t cook, which was a mercy.  As an adult I went to stay with her after my grandfather died, and the meals she served me were just awful.  She once made me a tuna sandwich using the tuna packed in oil, and she didn’t bother to drain it before mixing it with mayonnaise. She did love to eat, but she and my grandfather were partial to take out food. From the deli’s in Cedarhurst where they lived. 

With this legacy I’m not sure why I’ve always cooked, I don’t think it’s genetic.  For me it has always been a way to express myself that felt universally appreciated.  I loved to draw too, but that was discouraged, cooking was practical and helpful, and from the start, if I cooked I knew it would taste good; way better than steak slathered with peanut butter!