Odyssey In A Teacup

by Paula Houseman

  The interior walls and doors were painted with a faux finish. Some of the walls had a rag-rolled effect; others had a stippled, textured finish. The radiata pine doors were painted with a pseudo woodgrain effect. An exposed, brick feature-wall in the lounge was covered with wood imitation wallpaper. The carpet Joe had chosen was a mess of swirls and flowers in various shades of brown, mustard and yellow. We had a dog (Mitzi the Maltese terrier) that used to pee and poop on it. Her droppings blended well with the colour scheme.

  All of this was telling. Sylvia was preoccupied with image and overly concerned with what the neighbours would think; Joe, who was impervious to others’ opinions, came across as a genuine, down to earth bloke. But the only realness I’d witnessed behind veneered closed doors and within those four walls with their bogus finishes was the dog and the carpet: Mitzi wasn’t an approval junkie. She didn’t care what anyone thought when she soiled the carpet. And the carpet might have been horrid looking, but it was 100% pure wool.

  With all the fauxness, there had been little hope of being parented by mature adults. I hadn’t. I’d been raised by adulterated children in grown up bodies. And when Sylvia struggled in vain to adulterate me with her ridiculous rules, she turned on Joe.

  ‘Oeuf! I’m the disciplinarian and you’re Father Christmas!’

  This had been puzzling. To my young mind, Joe had become God. But this now meant he was both God and Santa. I loved Santa, but after hearing this, on the odd occasion when I copped a spanking after the just-wait-till-your-father-gets-home crap, well, Father Christmas could shove his jolly ho-ho-ho fat arse back up the chimney, and choke on the soot!

  And the idea that Joe was also Santa further distorted my image of God. Where other kids my age had a vision of God as an old hombre with a long white beard, bushy white hair, dressed all in white, my vision of God was now that of an old hombre who had a long white beard, bushy white hair, and was dressed in red with a white fur trim. And fat, which for a cacomorphobe is a problem in itself.

  Having Santa for a father might have sounded exciting, and Santa did bring gifts—Joe was very generous with Myron and me—but in reality he wasn’t there that often, which I’d also come to realise about God. And Joe. And not only was Joe’s Sunday morning practice of hiding behind the newspaper testament to this, I eventually learned it was a fine example of the way he and Sylvia jockeyed for dominance over each other.

  On this Godless day, these two blended with the ugly décor. He, slopped about on his chair in the lounge wearing a green towelling burnoose over his red, Holeproof, waffle-knit pyjamas; she, hair in curlers, dressed in a gaudy muumuu and pink Jiffies, a slender tortoiseshell cigarette holder with a lit cigarette inserted, which dangled from her lips as she thrashed around in the kitchen muttering ‘oeuf’ under her breath. I used to pray for the doorbell to ring so people could see what Carol and Mike Brady were really like. Pointless. It was Sunday. But when she let loose with ‘merde’ (‘shit’), it indicated she was supremely pissed off about something he had or hadn’t done.

  Merde was menacing. It meant there was a hurricane on the horizon (the horizon had become tainted very early in the piece). Sylvia knew that when Joe took cover behind the newspaper, she’d end up shadowboxing because he refused to engage her. She’d stomp off to their room and lie across the bed (always across, with her head at the nine o’clock position and her toes at three o’clock. By covering both his and her side of the bed, it was as if she were rebelling—impinging on his territory as a means of taking back control). But Myron and I knew that this action was the calm before the storm, and there would be approximately a twenty-four hour turnaround before the merde hit the fan. When we got home from school the next day, we were only allowed fruit for afternoon tea, nothing good like biscuits or cake. Merde! This was the prelude—the storm warning. Then she called us for an early dinner. Although this was fine because fruit doesn’t fill you up, it was the tempest itself that no broadsheet-screen could stave off. Merde! Sylvia was a good cook, but under these circumstances, we were about to be force-fed slops.

  If she burst into the dining room and put the plates down firmly in front of us, it might be fishy tasting fish or greyish, stewed lamb with unstrung green beans. Or stuffed capsicums. If she slammed the plates down and yelled, ‘EAT!’, then even without looking at the plate, I knew it was bumya.

  Bumya is okra, Turkish style, served in a tomato-ey sauce, which doesn’t kill the flavour; it enhances it. This noxious vegetable should never be served anywhere other than prison. And only on death row. Feeding okra to a prisoner on death row would help him accept his fate—welcome it, even. Okra is gross because it has a bristly texture, and five o’clock shadows should be reserved for blokes, not vegetables. I firmly believe that a petty criminal made to eat okra has serious grounds to appeal his sentence.

  On these hellish bumya nights, I sat staring at the plate, the cutlery remaining on either side, untouched. The dialogue unfolded predictably.

  ‘Oeuf! Eat your bumya! Pest!’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘I don’t care. You are not leaving this table till you finish what’s on your plate!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then no dessert!’

  ‘It’s a small price to pay.’

  ‘EAT IT!’

  ‘But I haaaaaate it!’

  ‘Too bad. There are children starving in Africa.’

  ‘Well then, can I put it in an envelope and send it to them?’

  Slap.

  Even though she always won, at least I put up a fight; goody two-shoes Myron did as he was told. But with his sensitive gag reflex, every mouthful of bumya would make him retch, which of course would get me going. These fun evenings with the two of us gagging throughout the meal had become a little too regular. The crap that was dished up to our parents in the homeland became a source of punishment for us.

  But our ritualised Saturday lunch had been Sylvia’s redemption. Even though we were Jewish, and the consumption of pig meat was forbidden in Judaism, bad mood or not, she used to cook roast pork. I so loved the crackling. Although, while Myron was studying for his Barmitzvah, Sylvia made a quasi-attempt at observing the High Holy days in that for the eight days of Passover, we ate matza (a mix of wheat flour and water that’s flattened and baked and comes out cracker-like). On Sundays, she served cold, leftover pork sandwiched between two pieces of matza (no matter; God wasn’t watching). We were supposedly Orthodox Jews but clearly, our parents’ observation of Passover was unorthodox. Yet, everything else in their lives remained orthodox.

  And five months after my twenty-fifth/twenty-first birthday weekend away, it was same old same old. The only difference was that this year, for the first time, Sylvia and Joe would be holding the Seder, the ceremonial Passover dinner that commemorates the Jews’ exodus and liberation from slavery in Egypt. Isaac and Miri usually hosted it because they had the biggest house, but they were away (they’d taken the whole family to Hawaii). A warm night was predicted so Joe decided a Seder barbecue would be in order. Not exactly tradition, but who doesn’t like a barbecue?

  Reuben and I were now a solid item, so he was invited. All up, there would be sixteen of us, including Albie, Norma, Ralph, george and Stella, simon and Miranda, Louwhiney and her husband, Jimmy (these two had married a year earlier). Louwhiney was pregnant with her first child. george and simon had no children. Apparently, simon and Miranda decided they didn’t want any, and george and Stella were having trouble conceiving. That neither of his brothers had children pleased Ralph no end.

  ‘We’re here to make a difference and leave this world a better place.’ He felt that george and simon were making a most significant contribution to this cause by not breeding.

  Reuben’s sister, Iris, was also invited because their parents were overseas. Iris is the same age as me and I just love her. Just shy of six foot tall, this warrior woman (no doubt descended from the Amazons) is a kick-arse kind of gal and just the person you’d want
to go to bat for you. And if I were to bat for the other team, I would probably go for Iris (rather than Maxi, who’s more like a sister to me. It would be morally wrong to go for someone you feel related to).

  Also included in our Seder was Myron’s girlfriend, Tammy. They had only been together for a couple of months, but things looked serious, so Sylvia thought she should be at the family Seder. A tall, voluptuous girl with a pretty face and long blonde hair, Tammy sounded like the staccato yip of a Tommy gun when she laughed: ‘A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a’.

  And Tammy was a ‘nice’ girl in her youth. Rumour had it that her name, phone number, and ‘good root’ were rag-rolled on the back of the boys’ toilet doors at school (Joe would have been impressed with the texture).

  I shared this little titbit with Sylvia after Myron confided in us that he thought Tammy was ‘The One’ and that he’d probably propose once they’d been together for a year.

  ‘See? Even “nice” girls get married. Looks like your theory’s been blown out of the water,’ I added smugly. I got a dirty, filthy look for that one. But because Tammy is Jewish, Sylvia was prepared to overlook the girl’s reputation.

  Tammy came across as gullible. I sensed otherwise. She played the damsel in distress, which is undoubtedly what hooked Myron, because then he could play at being her white knight. Personally, I thought Tammy was foxy, and managed to outwit my family; Ralph just thought she was a foxy mama, but a halfwit.

  Ralph turned up early on Seder night under the guise of wanting to help, but he just wanted to get away from home.

  ‘Why don’t you just move out? Why do you stay?’

  The fact we were both still living at home was something we hadn’t yet talked about.

  ‘Because my mother thinks the sun shines out of my backside. She’s good to me.’

  This seemed like a strange reason to stay, particularly seeing as Albie was so bad to him. There had to be more to it than that. Before I could ask him, he asked me, ‘Why are you still here?’

  Why was I still here? I had a job and could afford to move out. From the other side of the lounge, Tammy’s voice drowned out my thoughts. She had also arrived early to help out.

  ‘Here ya go, Sylvia.’ As (non)observantly Jewish as my family, Tammy handed Sylvia a tray of rissoles. ‘Mince, egg, breadcrumbs, parsley. But nooooo milk!’ Tammy said proudly.

  Ralph shook his head and whispered, ‘Intellectual giant.’

  Meat and milk aren’t eaten together according to Jewish dietary law. That Tammy had kept to this was neither here nor there, because we don’t follow these laws. Her inclusion of breadcrumbs as a binder presented a problem, though. Bread is a no go zone at Passover, as is anything that is leaven. The reason for this is that because the Jews had to leave Egypt in a hurry, there was no time to let the bread rise before baking it. So, Passover became a feast without yeast, and the bread we eat is unleavened (we still eat bread, but certainly not at the Seder).

  ‘Maybe she got kicked out of Sunday school classes, too,’ I whispered to Ralph, trying to justify why Tammy wouldn’t know this.

  ‘I’d say not. Even with your limited time in the classroom, you know that leavened stuff is forbidden. Personally, I think it’s because she’s half-baked.’ Maybe Ralph was right about her.

  Sylvia—she who cooked pork—wasn’t in a position to pass judgement. She smiled indulgently at Tammy. ‘Let’s just keep the addition of breadcrumbs between us.’

  ‘We heard it.’

  Sylvia silenced me with a dirty look.

  Tammy had also volunteered to put together the Seder plate, which contains six symbolic foods. Each of these has special significance to the retelling of the story of the Exodus. Although there are various interpretations, from that limited time I’d spent in the classroom, I learned that parsley represents the coming of spring; the egg is a symbol of life; bitter herbs are a reminder of the bitterness of slavery and suffering in Egypt; the roasted shank bone is a reminder of the sacrificial lamb that was offered at the temple in Jerusalem before its destruction; and charoset—a mixture of grated apple, nuts, cinnamon and red wine—represents the mortar the Israelites used to bond bricks when they were enslaved in Egypt (odds on that bloody brickwork wasn’t varnished with Estapol).

  Tammy realised too late she had forgotten to buy a shank bone. The butchers were closed, so she’d substituted with a bone-shaped dog biscuit. Crafty. Maybe I was right about her.

  Everyone else arrived on time, each bearing gifts of flowers or chocolates. Iris, on the other hand, came bearing a remote-controlled whoopee cushion that she’d picked up in the States. Joe loved Reuben’s sister as much as I did.

  Joe and Myron had butted together two large, flat, solid pieces of timber, six and a half feet long by three and a half feet wide, to form a tabletop resting on trestles—like the makeshift table at Albie’s birthday celebration ten years earlier. (Hopefully, this would be the only similarity to that fateful afternoon.) Set up in the back yard, this ran perpendicular to the varnished red brick and black grouted back wall of the house, and parallel with the side paling fence, which was lined with a profusion of star jasmine and pink ivy geraniums in full bloom (Joe had recently taken to gardening).

  We all took our seats around the table. This was going to be interesting because nobody really knew what to do. Years of Seders had not made us any the wiser. Fortunately, though, Reuben’s family is semi-observant, so he offered to conduct the Seder. Joe took his seat at the head of the table with his back to the wall, and indicated that Reuben should sit at the opposite end. Sylvia normally sat across from Joe; the matriarch had lost some ground. It was the patriarch’s turn to get the dirty look. Ralph and I sat on either side of Reuben, with Ralph facing the fence.

  The table was covered with three large tablecloths. In the centre was the Seder plate, a bowl of salt water for dipping the parsley, and a plate containing matza. The salt water symbolises the tears shed by our ancestors during their slavery. In front of each guest there was a wine glass (which gets refilled several times during the course of the Seder), and a Haggadah, the book that contains the story of the Exodus. It sets out the order of the Seder, which is structured around four questions, although it’s really one question asked four times with four different answers. Each of the four answers explains why something is done differently during Passover. The question is, ‘Why is this night different from all other nights?’ The youngest person present at the Seder asks it.

  So, we got started. Reuben began reading, guiding us through the Seder. One of the early directives, shortly before the questions are asked, is that we lean to the left and drink the first cup of wine. So, sixteen bodies leaned to the left. On cue, and predictably, Joe activated the whoopee remote (at least that’s what he would have us believe, but I knew better). Everyone except Sylvia laughed. After the third ‘activation’, she petulantly ripped it out of his hand and made a production of taking the batteries out. Just when she thought she was back in control, the old man then farted (again). Ha!

  ‘Far out!’ shrilled Tammy. ‘It still works even without the batteries! A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a.’

  Maybe Ralph was right about her.

  A few minutes later, when it was time to ask the central question, all eyes were riveted on Louwhiney, the youngest at the Seder table. But she falsettoed, ‘I don’t wanna read, don’t wanna read, don’t wanna read!’ After the third intolerable high-pitched Louwhine, Ralph, as the second youngest, was left to take up the slack. He glared at his sister.

  ‘You know, you’ll never run out of dummies when your baby’s born. You just have to spit one.’

  I giggled. Louwhiney flipped the bird. Albie shot Ralph d-d-d-daggers (he even stuttered his non-verbal communication).

  Ralph then focused on the task at hand.

  ‘Why is this night different from all other nights?’ he dutifully asked.

  But before proceeding to read the answers set out in the Haggadah, he paused and slowly scanned the table, eyes ling
ering on each guest. Everyone squirmed. Albie was seething. This was not looking good. So typical of Ralph, though. I could hardly wait for what was to come. Then it came.

  ‘Can I give you my take on this?’

  Iris, Reuben and I laughed out loud but everyone else chorused, ‘NO!’

  Albie glowered. simon and george glowed—this sorry pair took some sort of perverse pleasure in knowing that Ralph would likely be Albie’s punching bag when they got home. But I loved it when Ralph ruffled feathers in the family setting. After years of beatings, he had developed a high pain threshold and as he often said, ‘If I’m g-g-g-going to get slapped around, I may as well do something p-p-p-provocative to earn it.’

  Thankfully, the rest of the Seder continued without incident. Twenty-five minutes later—record time—when the formalities were over and done with, and as we helped ourselves to the mashed egg, gefilte fish and chopped liver entrée, Ralph was at it again.

  ‘Oh, Aunt Sylvia, are you serving bumya tonight?’

  Go Ralph go!

  Myron started gagging on whatever he was eating, and the mouthful of drink I’d just swigged came squirting out of my nose. Sylvia glared at Ralph disapprovingly. Albie’s jugular vein bulged and throbbed ferociously. Ralph was in deep shit. He knew it, but just shrugged it off. The way Albie treated him seemed to be more of an issue for me than for Ralph.

  ‘Ralph’s staying over at our place tonight,’ I announced without thinking.

  No one asked why. It may not have been talked about openly, but Albie’s brutish behaviour was no secret. The heavy silence that followed was broken when Norma and I helped Sylvia clear the entrée plates from the table. Ten minutes later, we came out of the kitchen, each one carrying a large dish—mashed potato kugel (a kind of potato pudding), tsimmes (a kind of sweetened vegetable stew) and salad (a kind of salad). The delicious aroma of meat barbecuing filled the air, but Myron was sitting at the table.