To Bubbe's house we go!
By Ted Roberts
MY OLD BUBBE on my mother's side wore high-top shoes and black dresses that covered her shoetops. She moved in a mist of cologne that simulated, with incredible fidelity, the scent of stewed chicken and onions. Or maybe she didn't wear cologne -- maybe she carried that tantalizing scent honestly -- due to long hours over a dutch oven full
of chicken and onions.
"Let's go see Grandma," my mother would say. That's another thing that's changed -- the title itself. We never called her Bubbe. How "old-fashioned" -- that was a word for greenhorns, not first-generation
Americans like my mama. My pals all used the term "grandma," except my
flaky friend, Herb, who called his mother's mother "Noodles" --- short
for her Noodle Kugel. Herb's favorite meal. But even Herb never said
"Bubbe."
A visit to Grandma meant I would be put through a personal inspection accenting posture, cleanliness, and general physical health. To go or not to go. On one hand there was that oniony chicken or maybe homemade
Gefilte fish. (Even Sarah, Rebecca, and Rachel -- all mothers in Israel -- didn't make homemade gefilte fish. At least it's not recorded in Genesis.) On the other hand, if I had even the slightest sniffle, I
might end up on Grandma's couch with her rubbing chicken fat on my
chest. If I was lucky, her supply of schmaltz had been used up frying
onions, and my poultice was Vicks Vaporub. Vicks had a piney scent of
menthol that came off after a couple of days of steady bathing before
and after meals. The chicken schmaltz took a week, unless it was rancid, and then you were branded for life (or at least until you escaped
adolescence) and picked up a nickname like "Schmaltzy."
After the rubdown, the conversation would go as follows:
Grandma: "Teddy, have a nice bowl of chicken soup -- you'll feel better."
Teddy: "I feel great, Grandma. Besides, it's July -- the tires are melting on my bike. It's 98 degrees in the shade and..."
Grandma: "Uh, Teddy, it's either the soup or another chicken schmaltz rubdown. Your choice, bubbele."
Teddy: "I'd love a bowl of chicken soup, Grandma. And gimme a bowl
to go for my little brother."
At Grandma's house, there was always a lot of chicken by-products --
soup, fat, fliegeles (wings) -- to be consumed.
This symbiotic relationship between Bubbes and the chicken species I understood even then. Grandmothers cull the herds. If chickens were left
alone, they'd overpopulate their natural range, thereby reducing
drumsticks to the size of match sticks. And if not for the frying,
stewing, and baking of fowls, Jewish grandmothers would have been on the
phone all day with nervous daughters-in-law. "So what will you cook for
Irving's supper tonight that he won't hate like last night? Oh, sure he
called me -- MY BOY IS SUFFERING."
Unlike the bubbes of today who read Cosmopolitan and have not time for
chickens, my grandmother never took me to a baseball game or fast food
restaurant. And not once did she ask for a play-by-play account of my
date with Sharon McKovsky.
Ah, how the years work their transformations. Now, I have neither a
grandmother or bubbe, but I'm married to one. Four grandchildren with no
respect for a Zayde's sensitivity to age, call my wife "Bubbe." And
sometimes, with a nod to modernity, "Bubs."
Of course, the only thing worse than being the hubby of a Bubbe is the title of Zayde. That's where I draw the line. A Zayde is a guy with 2 or 3 teeth who plays pinochle and smokes a pipe. The last grandchild who
called me Zayde got a rigged, plastic dreidel for his Chanukah present
that was inscribed "you lose" on ALL sides. Zayde I'm not ready for.
My old Bubbe had two sayings I'll never forget: number one, "Always wear
clean underwear. You never know, G-d forbid, when you'll be in an
accident." Number two: "If you gotta talk about your problems, tell 'em to a stone in the backyard." Not an attitude appreciated by
psychotherapists or repentant druggies, or the confessional junkies
of our blabbermouth society.
Like I say, Bubbes ain't what they used to be. Times have changed. See
if you don't agree with the following chart:
BUBBE PREFERENCES
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Take your Bubbe to lunch today. I wish I could take mine. And if Zayde wants to go, tell him to bring his wallet.