Sybil Finally Succumbs

See George this is how you do it, look no water around!!

“What’s that?”

“Matzo ball soup.”

“Who made it?”

“Rosa made it,” replied George trying to inject some humour into the situation, but as usual he miscalculated badly.

“Rosa!” shouted Sybil trying to sit up in bed and then collapsing. “Rosa,” she croaked her head splitting.

“No darling, I’m just kidding. It was Julia.”

“Whose recipe did she use?”

“I guess yours,” George wasn’t sure at all but it seemed to be the right thing to say. Julia appeared in the doorway and shook her head vehemently mouthing the words no, no, but it was too late, the damage had already been done. Gently Sybil sat up in bed and after putting the bowl of soup on the bedside table, he tried helping his wife prop up her pillows.

“I don’t need you to help, you’ve done enough damage,” she replied sounding angry. But for those who know Sybil and know her well, she was putting on an act believing that was required of her as a Jewish mother and wife. She reached over for the soup and before she ate any of it, Sybil brought it up to her nose and took a deep sniff. She coughed. “No this is not my mother’s recipe. This is out of a packet!” At that precise moment she caught a glimpse of her eldest daughter standing in the doorway. “Why couldn’t you make my recipe?”

Julia’s mind wasn’t quick enough and she didn’t know how to answer her mother. Yes, she had bought a box of Manischwitz’s matzo ball soup mix from the local grocery store and wanted her mother to enjoy it. Well, her mother didn’t enjoy it. In fact she didn’t even get that far. Sybil put it down immediately and George who was salivating at the smell, immediately picked it up and began to drink it. He had smile on his face. “Don’t you dare say it!” Sybil could see by the look on his face he enjoyed it.

Rosa made her appearance. “Mummy,” she said sounding sad, “why do you sound like a dying frog?” George giggled, Julia laughed once and Sybil glared at her youngest daughter.

“What do you mean by sounding like a dying frog?”

“Yes mummy,” repeated Rosa, “that’s what you sound like.”

“See what you’ve done,” Sybil turned to face her husband. “You’ve made me sound like a dying frog.”

George didn’t know what to do other than dig a deeper hole. He smiled sheepishly and replied, “you don’t sound like a dying frog to me.”

“Yes she does!” answered Rosa adamantly and then with a quick sweep of her arm, Julia made sure Rosa kept walking towards the kitchen.

“Why don’t you have some soup with Timmy,” added Julia. Sybil groaned and lay down again, and then just for effect, let out a loud cough. George sat down on his wife’s bed and began to rub her wing. That’s pleased Sybil.

“Why don’t you do things like that anymore? You used to when we were first married but you don’t do those sorts of things anymore. You know,” she directed the rest of her sentence at Julia who remained standing in the doorway. “You know your father used to be the most romantic Sandpiper I have ever known. When we used to date….” and there she suddenly stopped because the thought of her first love now a Democratic Congressman from Passaic, New Jersey, was enough to throw her into a fit. George had heard the story before and wasn’t fazed by it. He looked at Julia and shrugged his shoulders.

“Her mother didn’t like him,” he mouthed but not quietly enough for Sybil not to hear.

“They didn’t like you either did they George?” He knew it was time to leave and leave he did. “Just let me know if you need anything else my love,” and with that, he was gone. Julia followed him. “That was good soup,” he told her as they went into the kitchen where Rosa and Timmy were sitting eating their soup. It was nearly all gone.

George collapsed on the window ledge and looked outside at the blue skies and strong sunlight.

“Anyone want to go fishing?” he asked knowing he would have no takers. “At least the tide is out,” he added hopping off the ledge and walking out of the kitchen.

It had now been twenty four hours since Rosa had jumped out of bed declaring she was fully cured and that it was time to go to the park and jump on the swings. However, one look at her mother told her that time in the park was not on the day’s agenda. “Mummy you look ill, are you ill?” Rosa asked.

“Blame your father,” replied Sybil.

“He made you ill?” asked Rosa not quite understanding the connection.

“Made me ill, made you ill, made Julia ill…”

“Julia never got ill Mummy,” interjected Rosa.

“It’s only a matter of time,” Sybil added. “We will all get ill just because your dad had to stand outside on one leg in deep water. And after all that, we are still staying here.”

“Do you want to go to Snead’s Ferry Mummy,” Rosa was even more confused.

“No I didn’t want to go there for Rosh Hashanah either, but we were made to.”

“Julia and Timmy made those plans Mummy. We didn’t have any food made so I think it was very nice of those foolish people to invite…..”

“Falasha, Rosa, Falasha, not foolish! Oh my head hurts,” and with that Sybil’s day of emulating Rosa began.

“George, George, where are you? Oh don’t make me shout again.”

“Mummy’s calling you,” Rosa told her father who at that moment was helping himself to his second matzo ball.

“That’s it all gone,” said Julia. George looked disappointed. He put his half-eaten matzo ball down to tend to his overly dramatic sick wife, who at that precise time in history was behaving worse than Rosa.

“Yes my dear, what can I get for you?”

She beckoned him to come closer. “I don’t want to say this out loudly,” she whispered, “is there any matzo ball soup left?”

Well, George wasn’t sure what to do. He knew there was only a half eaten ball left but no broth, and he really wanted that but… “there’s only a half eaten matzo ball left my dear.”

“That’s it?” she asked rather loudly.

“But darling you told me you didn’t want any because it was out of a box.”

“I don’t, but there’s nothing else in the house.”

“I can go to the deli and get you something.”

“All the way to Surf City?” Sybil groaned dramatically.

“There aren’t any closer my dear.” George walked out of the room and returned a few seconds later with his bowl and the half eaten matzo ball. He propped his wife up in her bed and placed the bowl in front of her. At first she screwed up her beak but then sniffed it. It was a well worn routine known to George. A second later she had taken a bite.

“Who’s is this?” she asked.

“Manischewitz I believe,” he replied.

“No wonder. It’s not as good as Streits.”

George rolled his eyes. He knew taking care of his youngest daughter was so much easier.