Confessions of a Reluctant Dish Heiress

Ruth Efroni (narration): My mother doesn’t say the word “die.” Instead, she says, ad meah ve’esrim, “till a hundred and twenty.” And by that logic, she has another 35 years in the tank, which – to me – seems like quite a long time. But to my 85-year-old mom, it’s like the blink of an eye. At 85, my mother – a woman who packs her suitcase a week before a flight, who sets the Passover table three days before the Seder, and who sends greetings in the family WhatsApp group the day before a birthday – has already started checking her way down a list of tasks for “a hundred and twenty.” And I’m not talking about the usual items people put on their bucket list, like bungee jumping or having a threesome or swimming with dolphins.

No, her list consists of crucial tasks. She arranges all the drawers and cabinets. She sorts all the documents and scans all the photos from the old albums. And she divides up all of her belongings among me and my siblings. I imagine my mother thinks of the Angel of Death as a giant, grumpy, rather petty cleaning lady, for whom one needs to tidy up the house.

“Heat up some food for yourself,” I say to my son Hillel, “I have to go to Grandma’s. Your aunt and uncle and I are divvying up her dishes today.”

“That’s horrible,” Hillel says. “Don’t go along with that.”

“She’s making us do it,” I say, slamming the door in irritation.

I hate these “Inheritance Days.” I would rather have bungee sex with dolphins than line up for my mother’s handouts. First, because it’s against my religion – the religion of denial. I don’t like the “hundred and twenty” talk in general and certainly not the “hundred and twenty” talk of my parents. I’m pretty sure that despite the overwhelming statistics, I’m an outlier. It’s not going to happen to me, so there’s no reason to prepare for it or talk about it or even to think about it. Second, I hate to be reminded that underneath my ascetic-spiritual-anti-capitalist exterior, I am actually a materialistic bitch who would happily drown in a sea of beautiful, useless objects. Third, I always want whatever my oh-so-discerning siblings choose. Not before they pick them of course, only after, when they’re already theirs. Then, all of a sudden, the once-hidden beauty of their trinkets becomes apparent and I feel dissatisfied with mine.

At our childhood home, my brother and sister are already waiting. Six different sets of cutlery have been spread out on the dining room table as if the table has been set for phantom guests. “Ta-dah!” my father calls out, pointing to the table with the ceremoniousness of a circus ringmaster. “Welcome to The Good China!” He’s not sure how to handle these morbid rituals, and making me laugh has always been a good start.

Each collection of dishes is represented by a “delegation” of dinner plate, salad plate and soup bowl, all nestled together. Next to each set is a note in my mother’s handwriting, detailing the technical and biographical specifications of the dishware.

Take, for example, the Dansk meat set that my American grandmother bequeathed to them. It is all white, with relief patterns of fruit and curling vines. My grandmother brought the dishes to Israel with her when she made aliyah at the age of 90. “This set is complete, there are 14 settings!” my mother proclaims in admiration. This doesn’t surprise anyone. My grandmother was a scrupulously careful and highly-efficient woman. I remember her cutting up the pot roast on my distinguished and highly-capable grandfather’s plate as if he were a helpless baby. To this day I do not know if it was an act of indulgence and affection or an expression of passive aggression. My brother pronounces his scholarly architectural opinion that “this set is hideous.” My sister says he’s just saying that to lower the price in advance of negotiations.

“Now we’ll go in age order and everyone will choose the set they want,” my mother proposes. My sister chooses my mother’s beautiful, eclectic collection of blue china.

Second in line, I choose the pinkish ones we use for Yom Kippur eve. “Are you sure?” my mother asks, “there are only the dinner plates left and maybe some serving utensils, nothing else.” I know that this is the set my mother assembled slowly and surely for a whole year, when, for every purchase at the supermarket, she received a coupon for a single plate. I wasn’t born yet, my father was a medical student, my mother taught Hebrew at Sunday school. They didn’t have two pennies to rub together. I imagine her in a brown, itchy mini-dress, with a short beehive ’60s hairdo, hesitant, embarrassed, speechless, so far from her parents’ house in Afula, slinking around among the dishes in the aisles of an American supermarket in Baltimore.

“Yes, this is the set I want,” I reply.

When my brother’s turn comes, he excuses himself to go to the bathroom for a moment. My sister says he’s going to google the prices of the expensive set and consult his wife on what to take. I ask him if he’s going to do a number one or a number two because we don’t have all day.

Once all the good sets have been handed out, my mom serves soup on her everyday dishes. My brother says the silverware is already his, so we’d better be careful with the spoons. I say the used napkins are mine, so they’d better not toss them. This reminds my mother of the linen napkins and she asks if I would like to see them. “For God’s sake, why can’t we do this after a ‘hundred and twenty’ like normal people?” My mother replies that, after a ‘hundred and twenty,’ it’s just a division of property, but before a ‘hundred and twenty,’ it’s a gift. And she’s more about the giving, and the stories that come with it.

We’re silent.

I look up and see my family sitting around the table, chattering like we did when we were kids. Back when no one thought about a “hundred and twenty.” Suddenly I had the urge to see my mother’s embroidered linen napkins, but I’m too embarrassed to ask.

Then my dad asks who wanted dibs on his sweater. And we laugh again. I ask what else he has in the closet, and my mom says, “oh, the closets! Let’s clear out the cabinets now so you’ll have where to put the dishes after a ‘hundred and twenty,’” and we say, “forget it, mom, we’re going home.”

That night my mother called. It was already late and my heart skipped. “What’s wrong, Imma?” I asked.

“When we put the dishes back in the cupboards, a teacup fell and broke. I think it’s from your set, Rutie, I’m sorry.”

“Which set?” I asked.

“The very delicate china – thin as a napkin,” she said.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I replied. “Thank God – it’s from my sister’s set.”