What You Say Sonny?

It’s the day before Thanksgiving and all through the house are sounds of food prep and table

decorating. I’m a big fan of setting a beautiful table to lessen the focus on food. You see, I'm not

a wonderful cook. I inherited my mothers cooking skills. Well, not quite that bad. She couldn’t

even boil water. I’m busy looking for all those hidden treasures I’ve stowed away after the last

holiday. Where did those damn napkin rings go? I must have tucked them away with Nana’s

handmade napkins and the crochet table cloth. Retrieving all these goodies releases lots of

memories for me. Like that one of the crystal green stemmed wine glasses that my mother tells me were a wedding gift from the manager of the Plaza Hotel, along with a few ornate silver trays. Knowing my mother who has delusions of grandeur they probably were bought at a resale shop many years ago. I love them nevertheless. The boys are taxed with the task of silver polishing, That’s Matt, age 6 and Adam, age 4. After polishing I plan to have them slide across the wood floors in the dining room. I’m thinking with a few polishing cloths and they can buff up a shine. This all starts one day before the holiday along with my food prep.

The big day is here and our table shines like a scene out of a Victorian era soap. My

brother in law and his wife Tanya arrive early; they've driven in from NY. My husband Bill is on

his way to pick up Freda, his mother, a very religious Jewish immigrant from Poland. So, i’m

trying to make this meal acceptable for her. That’s a no win no matter how I try - starting back at

our very small wedding when she entered dressed in black. Going to greet her I said, “Oh Freda

you look so lovely” to which she replied “It’s a very old dress”. You get the idea – doomed from

the start. She couldn’t even call me by my name, Sondra. “SAAndra” it was, no matter how many times she was corrected. Sorry, I digress.

Now it’s dinner time. Our boys sit across from Freda, their Grandmother, I’m at the head of the

table with easy access to the kitchen. Bill is seated across the table from me with Cal, his

brother, next to Freda (because she always liked him best) . And Tanya is next to me to help serve.

Now the fun begins. I'm carving the bird in the kitchen when I hear a loud clank...something

heavy must have hit the newly polished wood floor perhaps the ornate silver salad fork. Then a

small voice is heard “God Damn Fucking Son of a bitch.” A pregnant pause before Freda says

“Sonny what you say” in a thick yiddish accent. “No”, Matt says, correcting his little brother. “ It’s

god damn mother fucking son of a bitch, is’nt that right Daddy”. No answer... Tanya retreats to

the kitchen, stifling a laugh. We’re doubled over in laughter. Now her sons have to figure out how to rescue the day. “Sonny, sonny you should never say that”. “Never take God's name in vain.” She’s so deaf that The “mother fucking son of a bitch” part never registered. Were we saved or did she decide to ignore it?  We’ll never know. When leaving, her parting words were “Next time at my apartment we’ll have a real holiday meal.”