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LOUD MEMORIES

 

I hear the pounding of the metal pestle as it bangs against the mortar.
My mother and my Tante Sophie are like busy ants running all over the kitchen, opening cabinets, looking in drawers. 'Sarah,' my mother calls.
'Where did you hide Tante Lottie's rolling pin?' And I am pushed aside like a rotten tomato. 'Go outside and play, Child. There's work we grown-ups have to do now.' My mother stands in front of me and opens her angry mouth. 'You send my Millie out of my house? What a nerve you have. You go, not my kleneche.' If they could, they'd saw me in half.

 

Supposedly this is Happy Time in Brooklyn, but not always. Purim is still very much alive even if cruel King Hamen has been dead for hundreds of years and his Queen Esther is less than ashes in her grave.

 

The arguing goes on until I find Tante Lottie's rolling pin behind the box of ginger snaps in the pantry. I eat the last few, put the box in the trash and leave the pantry yelling to all of my aunts, 'Look what I found!  Here's Tante Lottie's rolling pin.' There are smiles but not a word of thanks.

 

My mother is the first to reach me. She kisses me and gives me a quick hug, lays the rolling pin next to the humongous piece of waxed paper on the kitchen counter. Tante Sophie sprinkles lots of flour on it and starts rolling, flipping, stretching the dough that was made last night. Before she is even half finished, she almost has a fit. 'Nobody turned on the oven?' My mother lowers her head in shame and sets the dial to 375 degrees.

 

'Mildred?' I hear my name called. 'Do you want to do something to really help?' I say, 'What?' Before I get a job to do, Tante Clara comes in, takes the old brass, very wobbly mortar and pestle, empties a bag of mun seeds in it, covers them with globs of Karo Syrup and starts pounding the gook into mush. The rolled dough has been cut into large squares and laid on more waxed paper. Two great big aluminum flat baking pans are ready. All hands, except mine, get busy folding the dough into triangles, pinching the sweetness inside. To me the hats look like pointed bellies that will soon explode. The house begins to smell sweet. While the hats bake, all of my Tantes clean every speck of  the kitchen and watch their watches so nothing burns.

 

The ancient brass mortar and pestle is back on the counter next to a big bottle of Manischewitz wine. My mother adds a little water into one glass of wine and lets me taste it. Ugh! The first two trays of toasty hats come out of the oven and two more go in. As the hamentashen cool, my aunts carefully fill all one hundred into cardboard boxes to be picked up by members of B'rith Shalom Synagogue for the celebration party.

 

I have a new dress and black patent leather shoes. I'm very excited, need my mother. She's upstairs in her room holding, caressing the brass mortar and pestle for maybe the millionth time. She believes it was once her great grandmother's. In turning it upside down she notices, for the first time in her life, tiny, tiny markings that seem to be Hebrew. A magnifying glass does not show her what she is seeking.  So she wraps the dull cracked mortar and pestle in a silk kerchief and lays it carefully in her bureau drawer. It will be forgotten until next Purim I think, but it isn't.

 

My mother is a great fan of the Antique Road Show on t.v. twice a week.  She thrills when someone brings in what seems to be nothing much and is shocked, is thrown into spasms of ecstasy when the near valueless, but beloved, painting is examined by a professional and turns out to be worth thousands of dollars. A light goes on in my mother's head . She investigates,  gets all the information of how to get on the show. And she does. Most lucky people, are almost speechless. They can barely say 'WOW'.  My Mom doesn't. All of my family is with her when her turn comes to show the old, broken brass mortar and pestle that must be 200 years old, at least. The expert spends quite a bit of time with it, pondering, turning, using a bright light and decides that it is very valuable. 'Mrs. Bass. Cherish this antique, leave it for your daughter, but the marks you tried to read are merely scratches, signify nothing.' No one says 'Wow'. They all groan, moan and go back to our house having had a great t.v. experience.

 

The mortar and pestle are forever after kept on the fireplace mantle,
with a small sign that says 'Antique Road Show- 2009.'