When I was a little girl, my father had a Gemara Shiur-- a
Talmud study group--of fellow professors. They met every Shabbos afternoon,
about 15 men, and they rotated houses. When it was our turn the dining room
table was laden—and I mean laden—with all sorts of goodies that my friends and
I khalished over: seven-layer caked, sugar bowties, real bakery cookies with
the jelly in the middle and colored sprinkles on top, fresh grapes and dried
fruit, licorice, salty nuts, and my absolute favorite—chocolate covered
almonds. All parve, of course.
My father would lead the shiur around that table, the
enormous brown leather books open in front of all the serious men, a sea of
sacred surrounding a profanely colorful spread.
All the wives would come too—and sit—with their own nosh—around the
kitchen table, tsittering.
But here it is: at a certain point would come The Time To
Serve The Tea. Daddy would signal from
the dining room and Mommy in the kitchen would jump up and Serve The Tea with
all its fixins in frankly reverential silence. The women would wait, hushed.
These were all their husbands and they did the same when it was their turn to
host. Then—tea served—the tsittering would begin again.
Fast forward to when I was a young wife in Scarsdale . Robert organized a shiur, also with
all the husbands we socialized with. As I set out the seven-layer cake, grapes,
cookies, nuts and dried fruit I said, “Tell me when it’s time to serve the
tea.”
Why, he said.
So that I can Serve The Tea.
He gave me a funny look.
“I don’t need you to serve the tea. I can serve the tea”.
He turned and started stacking up the china cups, got out
the Chai, the Camomile the Peppermint, khopped the sugar bowl, and even cut up
a lemon.
And just like that—I became not my mother.
Until… now. Maybe.
Every Shabbos afternoon after services we have a kiddish
lunch here at the Temple .
While I make the Friday night dinners for everybody, there are other people
responsible for the Saturday kiddish. I’m grateful, because it’s pretty
elaborate, with everybody sitting around the table-- Rosario passing plates and—hallelujah!--cleaning
up.
Sruli has just finished doing services that started at 9:15
and he is the opposite of a morning person so by the time he sings V’shamru and
makes Kiddish over the wine, designates the usual designee for the Challah, he
plops down at the table. I take a plate, fill it with egg salad, regular salad
and anything else I think he will like, and set it down in front of him. I keep
an eye on, to make sure his water cup is full, and jump up when I think he
needs seconds on the egg salad. I hustle to make sure the pepper shaker is
within his reach. I carefully select a non-chocolate cookie and piece of cake
for his dessert.
I throw some grapes on that plate, too.
Of course I also make sure to Serve Him Tea.
I’m a modern, educated woman who can support herself on the
open market, runs a small business and deals with the world. All the women in
this shul are modern, educated, and self-supporting. They are equal. They are
wonderful and we have become friends. If I described how on tenterhooks my
mother was (and IS—because she still does it!!) how alert she is, waiting for
the signal to serve, how careful to do
it right—and how frankly elegantly she does it--they might laugh. Or worse,
shake their heads.
Every time I serve Sruli, and it’s pretty obvious, every
Shabbos afternoon at that kiddish, I don’t
say anything and none of my new women friends and congregants say anything.
But I see them watching.
