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A Recipe for Disaster
An outrageously hilarious novelZ.C. Berry
A Recipe for Disaster
"Hilarious! Just what the Jewish book market needes!"
Mordechai Schmutter, Hamodia Humor Columnist
What happens when you mix 2 shviggers on a mission, a bumbling contractor, a cash-strapped husband, and a harried housewife who’s harboring a 13-year secret?
It’s a recipe for disaster!
In this outrageously hilarious novel, fiction writer Z. C. Berry offers a refreshing mix of humor and wit that redefines the art of homemaking and money management. Starring an organizationally-challenged, kitchen-phobic mom and her well-meaning but hassled husband as they attempt to make their first simcha. Whether it’s Dudu the contractor who was supposed to “finish the job” in the ast decade, or interesting “business” dealings with the Mafia Loan Gemach, Tzippy, Izzy and co. have their hands full maintaining sanity as each disaster strikes.
An extraordinarily entertaining story with a comical cast of characters who take catastrophe to a whole new level.
Book Excerpt from A Recipe for Disaster
 |
A Recipe for Disaster:
This
outrageously hilarious Jewish novel from talented new author Z.C. Berry
zooms in on the harried, juggling -- and often hilarious -- lives of
Jewish women and their families.
|
Tzippy’s Mother Has an Idea
“TZIPPY?”
“Hello, Ma.”
“IT’S YOUR MOTHER!”
“I know.”
It couldn’t be anyone else. I hold the receiver away from my ear. My mother doesn’t really believe that the tiny cell phone can carry her voice across the Atlantic, so she bellows into the receiver loud enough for everyone within a mile to hear. Which is fine, unless you’re sitting next to her on the subway, or walking with her in the grocery store or…anywhere really.
“Tzippy, are you there?”
“Yes, Ma. I’m right here.”
I’m in the middle of folding laundry in my Jerusalem apart- ment. Did you ever try folding laundry while talking on the phone? You get a crick in your neck holding the phone between your ear and shoulder, and the phone keeps slipping anyway. You’re trying to concentrate on what the other person is saying, but all the time you’re hoping the phone won’t fall while you’re trying to fold the sheets into those perfect rectangles like your sister somehow does.
“I have wonderful news!”
“That’s great, Ma.”
Whaaaaa! It’s the baby. Oh, nuts. She should still be asleep now.
“Look, Ma, the baby’s crying. Can you hold on a minute?”
“We’re coming for the bar mitzvah!” my mother blurts out.
“What?” All thoughts of crying babies and laundry fly from my head. Suddenly I feel dizzy.
“Yes, we’ll be able to make it for the bar mitzvah after all.”
“Listen, Ma, can I call you back?”
I hang up the phone and brace myself on the back of the highchair. Then the baby falls silent, so I run to make sure she’s still breathing. She must have found her pacifier and put herself back to sleep. Looking at her, under her fuzzy, cottoncandy pink blanket, sucking contentedly, I feel myself calm down.
Everything will be all right. Yes, everything will be just fine. It’s not that I don’t love my parents. I do. And I appreciate everything they’ve done for me, especially now that I’m raising kids of my own. And I really would like for them to visit. Since we live in Israel, and they’re in Flatbush, I don’t get to see them much. But…
But I was hoping they would bow out of this occasion.
Counting on it, really.
My parents can’t really afford to come for all of our simchahs, and the next bar mitzvah will be coming up in another year. So we decided that since Mona, my mother-in-law, would come to this simchah, my parents would come to the next one and bring a special gift for my oldest, Akiva, then.
It’s the perfect solution.
It’s the perfect way to keep Mona and my mother away from each other.
Izzy’s mother is…well, different from mine. Not different in a two-headed-cow sort of way. She’s different in an English sort of way, even though she was born and bred in New York. Izzy’s mother is cultured. Mine is not. Izzy’s mother is always very polite and never really says what she is thinking (although I’m sure her thoughts are very benign). Ma always says exactly what is on her mind.
With the best intentions, of course.
A few years back, Aunt Pearl redid her house in minimalist decor. Then she hosted the whole family for Pesach in her newly decorated abode. Everyone was very complimentary — it was kind of nice if you go for chrome and glass and lots of white. But in the middle of yachatz, my mother suddenly announced that she felt like she was sitting in a hospital ward. If we didn’t finish the Seder soon, she might have a heart attack.
Later, I tried to explain to her that the decor was very fashionable.
Ma got a hurt look on her face. “What did I say? I only meant she should add a little color, a few fluffy cushions.” She really thought she was being helpful. My mother-in-law, on the other hand, would have complimented Aunt Pearl with the rest of them.
My wedding was almost a disaster. I say “almost” because we realized pretty quickly that we’d better keep the machateinestes apart if we wanted to get through sheva berachos. Don’t get me wrong. They don’t dislike each other. They’re just not on the same wavelength. Like cats and dogs, like litvish and chassidish, like potato kugel and lasagna, like…well, you get the picture.
To be honest, since my father-in-law passed away a few years ago, Mona has grown a bit…cantankerous. I don’t blame her. It’s hard to suffer a loss like that. But Mona and my mother clash worse than ever.
The point is, we’ve somehow managed to keep my mother and Mona apart until now. I give a little shiver at the thought of them being at the bar mitzvah together. In the same room. Oy vey, my hands are shaking. I drop a pair of Gavriel’s pants, and a hundred marbles fall out of one of the pockets and roll off into the laundry room’s nether regions. Usually, that would drive me crazy. In a house full of boys, you find marbles everywhere — they clank in the drier, they clog up the drains, and once we even found a couple of marbles cooked in the cholent. But I can’t think about marbles now. I have bigger problems to contend with.
Breathe, Tzippy, breathe.
My mother is expecting me to call her back. I’ll just tell her that…
I’ll tell her that the bar mitzvah is canceled! Yes! People cancel parties all the time, don’t they? Even weddings sometimes! Yes, this is a good idea.
No, that won’t work. You can’t cancel a bar mitzvah. He’s turning thirteen, come what may. I have to think of something else.
Okay! Okay! I’ve got it!
I dial my parents’ number. My mother answers. I take a deep breath.
“Listen, Ma, I…”
“Tzippy, I’m sorry, I’m out the door. I’m on my way to the sheitel macher. I want to make a good impression for all your friends, and, after all, it’s not every day your oldest grandson is becoming bar mitzvah. So I ordered a custom sheitel! I spent a little more than I had thought and we might have to push off our retirement plans for a year or two or maybe go on welfare, but nothing is too good for my daughter!”
“But, Ma…”
“No, no. Don’t be embarrassed. I know how you hate it when I get emotional. But I want you to know, Tzippy, that we love you, and we want this bar mitzvah to be the perfect simchah. Now, what was it you wanted to tell me, dear?”
“Oh, well… Oh, it’s nothing, Ma.” I laugh nervously, hoping she won’t notice the slightly desperate and maniacal tone.
“Just…I love you, too.”
“Well, dear, I’d better go. There’s a custom sheitel waiting for me! Not that I know what a custom sheitel is. How can something be custom-made if it comes out of a box? Never mind. Now you go and get some rest. You sound a bit frazzled. Well, that’s understandable with a bar mitzvah coming up, and your first one, too. I’ll call you soon to let you know when our flight is coming in.”
Click.
I stare at the phone, wondering what just happened. I was supposed to convince my mother that now is not the best time to come to Israel. That she would be much better off sticking to her original plan and waiting for Shaya’s bar mitzvah, which is in the summer, rather than Akiva’s bar mitzvah, which is in the beginning of the spring. It had something to do with global warming…or an ice age. Whatever. Anyway, with all her talk of sheitels and sacrifice, I just couldn’t do that to her.
I need a doughnut break.
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