“You like it? Take it!”

 

characterizes Ethel, my mother, just as surely as Eat, darling, eat did Esther, her mother. (I wonder what my family will quote when they refer to me - probably: tu me fais chier!)

 

Because of this, we have to be really careful when pointing at any object in Ethel's house, or expressing too appreciative a comment about something. Before we know it we're leaving the premises with arms full of the most incredible stuff.

 

It actually does come in handy, because whatever you need is there, waiting to be pointed at.

From a champagne cooler to a set of dumbells, a bicycle saddle or a samsonite suitcase: it's in stock. You name it, she's got it.

This doesn't mean she'll replace that suitcase the next time she visits the thriftshop. The weird thing is that she picks up stuff according to a completely random system, often without even knowing what the object is meant for. On one instance she bought six little shiny cones, for a guilder a piece, just because they looked so beautiful and well-made. When he saw them Martin gasped. They are used for stereo equipment, cost a fortune, and of course immediately went home with us.

 

Of course she really collect things for herself, too. Here the randomization is less obvious - though i have my doubts about the camera's - but then, she can see things we don't see, like a cat.

 

Which brings me to a second trait: the wildness. If you think Ethel is such a quiet, peaceful person, you've got it all wrong. Under the soft, friendly exterior lurks a savage animal. Whoever has dined at her table more than once may have witnessed the inner-Ethel. Watch her face as she fiercely cuts the bread. Stay well out of range as she hacks away at a piece of Dutch cheese. Avert your eyes and cover your ears while she cracks chicken bones with her powerful canines. And never, never call her slow. It takes a lot to get her annoyed, but once she is, she's swift as quicksilver. I'll never forget the whirlwind that passed through my teenager's room and threw the contents of my unkempt chest of drawers out the window of our fifth floor Paris apartment. It was awesome.

 

I think this wild streak runs in the family on Ethel's side. I associate it with being Jewish and from Russia (those siberian steppes of Ulaykit-Taykit). Probably it has been watered down in mixing with gentile Dutch blood, because my brother is a truly gentle person. And I, of course, am meek as a sheep.

 

But what she is not, is a Jewish mother. Her lack of critical sense towards her own children is nearly embarrassing. The amount of 'masterpieces' produced by both Gabriel and myself is incredible. Our genius is undeniable. We possess hidden talents waiting to emerge as soon as we would (if ever) embark in this or that profession. Our choice of partners has been infaillible - over many years and many partners. We always did brilliantly at whatever we tried. And we've tried just about everything.

This has brought us to be wary of her praise, which is a shame, because it is heartfelt, and genuine. Our Jewish Mother never pushed, never controlled, never meddled, never schemed. Our Jewish Mother is a loving mother and grandmother who has had the sense to let us lead our own lives. I hope I will be able to do the same.

 

                                                                                                Hepzibah