In so many ways, Grandma Beryl was the matriarch of our family and a wise dignified figurehead. She was almost always immaculately turned out, her hair a halo of wispy-white cotton-candy with not a strand out of place. Her elocution was invariably poised and precise, graced with a slight Mancunian lilt, and as mellifluous as any a Radio 4 presenter.
Through the best part of ninety years, us children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren would congregate at Grandma’s each week, her home bursting alive with the sighs and squeals of newborn babies, the pitter-patter of toddler feet, children trampolining on the sofa, kids taking penalty kicks in the lounge, and grown-ups sporadically crying out “Mind the ornaments!”, all accompanied by the constant clang and clatter of cutlery and plates as they materialised on and off the dining-room table.
Of course she loved all this, the hubbub of family coming together. And ultimately she yearned for nothing more than her family to be happy and well. To that end, she connected deeply with each and every one of us, like the gravitational pull of a warm radiating sun round which all our lives orbited.
And when it came to my Grandpa Reuben, well she was beyond devoted. He’d been her rock, and she his; a husband she’d lovingly served in an old-fashioned way, a couple and a home steeped in Jewish tradition. (“Call me old-fashioned” was in fact her favourite refrain.) But even after he died, the family would continue to come, week after week, and she remained the constant, the glue, the fabric, by which our family were reassuringly held.
On second thoughts, ‘matriarch’ isn’t quite right. The word conjures up images of haughtiness and detachment which couldn’t be further from the truth when it came to Grandma Beryl. She was a warm, loving, generous soul, totally unassuming, always smiling, gentle in her humility, yet strong in her own way.
A real ‘people person’, she loved snatching a conversation here and there, with everyone and anyone, from taxi-drivers to Big Issue sellers. And she was naturally gifted with a wonderful sense of humour, somehow both knowingly cheeky and yet brilliantly bone-dry, radiant even until her very last days.
For 10th October 2016 was her very last day, when her life was no more and she was finally at peace.
It’s ok really.. deeply sad of course, and I miss her just so much, and I keep thinking she’s still around and that I need to give her a call. But she lived a good life, and she was just ready to go. Occurring just a few months after my Grandma Marilyn, this year has felt like a real end of an era.
Throughout my life Grandma has gifted me with so many joyful memories. Many of which are food related. Even when I was a toddler, her traditional fluffy chremsel pancakes were so good that I’d have total meltdowns in hungry anticipation of them: I’d literally pound my fists on the floor, wail up to the heavens in exasperation, and demand at the top of my voice: “PANCAKES AND JAM!!”
But if there’s one dish to remember Grandma by, it’s chicken soup. Because – and apologies to my own mum here, for pinning chicken-soup allegiances risks opening the Jewish version of Pandora’s Box (‘Pinchas’s Tefillin-Bag’, perhaps) – she made the world’s finest.
Now, when it comes to judging chicken soup, pay heed to this apocryphal Yiddishe parable. Once, a traditional Jewish wife finally had enough of her husband’s unappreciative whingeing over her cooking, and set about perfecting her once-stodgy kneidlach soup-dumplings. Experimenting with various recipes, she made them successively lighter and more refined, but her husband continued to complain miserably. Eventually she couldn’t bear it any longer: “That’s it Hershel, why do I even bother!” And so, unbeknownst to him, she reverted back to making the same old stodgy kneidlach. “Ahh!” he cries out at last, after his first bite, “Now you’ve got it!”
So, it may well be that my fond memories have been souped up by dint of familiarity; nostalgia is such fine seasoning after all. Still, the flavour of Grandma’s soup was undoubtedly deep and true, its soul steeped in the essence of chicken. Slices of carrot studded the crystal-clear golden broth like a bejewelled crown. And in between bobbed immaculate white baubles of kneidlach – large, regal and stately – and metaphorically and literally brimming with schmaltz, there being no coincidence that this term refers both to a sentimental kind of love and to chicken fat.
Every Friday she’d make it. And every Saturday she’d serve it, just after the kiddush prayers over bread and wine, and just before a traditional roast chicken dinner. Grandpa Reuben, who was otherwise the gentlest man who’d ever lived and the epitome of politeness, would slurp it down louder than a torrent of water gushing over Niagara Falls, enjoying every spoonful with such gratitude and gusto. Uncle Harry meanwhile would first dissect all the kneidlach into equal-sized chunks before even tackling the soup; ever the artist, his bowl resembled a cross between a Mondrian and a Japanese zen garden.
In this regime was embodied the routine of family life and the rituals of Jewish tradition. For Grandma was very much a creature of habit – as perhaps we all were – and such predictable trajectories gave her, and us, much comfort and happiness.
I don’t think I believe in life after death. And yet, whenever I glance into a glimmering pool of chicken soup, once the components have settled and the broth becomes crystal-clear, I see my grandparents reunited again, side by side, warm smiles on their faces, and love shining all around.
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As well as this tribute to my Grandma Beryl and her chicken soup, I’ve also written a homage to my Grandma Marilyn, and the beautiful city of Vancouver she lived in: ‘Cinnamon Buns and Childhood Memories‘.
Dearest Aaron, Reading your beautifully written tribute to Grandma Beryl has literally brought me to tears. She was the heart and soul of the Vallance family and her kindness, graciousness, sweetness and humour are sorely missed. Although she was your mum's mother-in-law, as your auntie, I was immediately included and embraced as an honorary member of the Vallance family. I am so grateful to have been able to spend time with her in October before she passed away. Your image of your grandparents together is so precious. I think they were the happiest married couple I have ever known. I cannot wait to try out this recipe and I promise not to compare it my sister's !!! Love and hugs, Auntie Marla xxxxx
Aw Auntie Marla, thanks so much for your lovely words. Yes, Grandma was such a kind soul and a treasure. Loved her neverending sense of humour, no matter what. And her chicken soup was just amazing – mine's not a patch on hers! (Not sure though what her secret was..!) Lots of love, Aaron xx
I didn't even know your grandma and I feel I fondly towards her! You do have a gift for evocation, Aaron.
Thanks so much Deb for your kind words. Anyone who met Grandma immediately warmed to her, she was that kinda lady.. X
This is such a touching, open and lovely post! I'm so sorry for your loss but glad you have such gorgeous memories and appreciate you sharing them with us! Having grown up in an area with a large Jewish community I am more than familiar with that type of chicken soup – it really does fix everything (and am desperate to find somewhere to get some near me or replicate it myself).
Thank you so much Laura for your kind words! Chicken soup really does fix everything – there are even medical reports attesting to this! Thanks so much again, and look forward to meeting you soon..
Honestly Aaron, if you ever decide to give up the day job, you would have no problems at all making it as a professional writer. All your posts make for such engaging reading and this one, in particular, as I think you made all your readers feel almost as if they were in that living room and part of Grandma Beryl's extending family. She sounds like such a warm, caring and witty woman and although I didn't know her obviously, I get a little hunch that she may have been really very proud and happy to know that her chicken soup brought so much love and joy and that it has been immortalised on the web here for all of us to see (and wish we could try!) Sorry for your loss Aaron but glad it was a peaceful end for her.
Shikha, thank you so much for your lovely words. I'm actually really touched. So glad too that I've managed to capture some of Grandma’s warmth and wit, she really was such an incredible lady, and much loved..
Aaron, I have just read this…can it be that I have missed it? Hardly possible. Perhaps I was too distraught at losing her at the time. But reading it now has made me cry. I miss my ‘blister’ so much. We used to talk to each on the phone at least twice a day…she in Manchesterand me here in Wirksworth, Derbyshire. I keep her photo on my window sill and her beautiful smile …yes, she was a beauty…gives me comfort,especially when I want to share some of my family news.
Thank you, Aaron.
Here’s wishing you, Sophie and the boys a very happy and peaceful 2018. Love, Auntie Stella xxx
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Hi Auntie Stella, thanks for your lovely message. Yes, she was such a treasure wasn’t she. And her presence is still strongly felt. I was also touched to have been able to recite this post at her gravestone unveiling last year. Hope you and the family are keeping well, and all good things to you all for 2018! x
Aaron, this is the second post of yours that I’ve read and it’s as beautifully written as the Babka post. Thank you for lovingly writing about your family. It makes me wish that I had been a part of it. You have a gift with words, for sure.
merrill
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Thank you so much for getting in touch, Merrill. I’m glad that you liked the post. You may be interested to know that I’m currently working on a piece about Beryl’s husband, my Grandpa Reuben – it’s already one that is having a lot of meaning for me, so something to look out for! Thanks so much again!
Aaron, I do believe that our grandmothers were soul sisters. Quite a possibility if you can imagine a tiny, Sicilian woman that handed out home made Italian bread like loaves of love and a Jewish lady with soup ladle in hand discussing their large and much loved families then they must be fast friends in the after life. Everything really does change when the miniature matriarchs are gone. I like to think that I at least keep her memories alive through my cooking. I am quite enamored with your blog.
Oh wow, what a beautifully written story and very touching too!!
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Thank you so much for your kind words..