Page 251 - The Legacy of Abraham Rothstein - text

Reminiscences

buried them in the cellar. At some point, new bills of a smaller size
were issued. There was a cut-off date for turning in the old currency
for new. So he unearthed the jars. Inside them, the money was
dripping wet! The moisture from hands had absorbed into the rag
content of the bills, which were like wet sponges. My mother had to
put each bill between folds of a towel to dry it, then iron it flat. I
guess they were exchanged after that without any problem.
Once the price of water went up, he began a battle with the lawn
in front: he tried to give it as little water as possible without it
completely dying. He took it personally: it was his adversary. Papa
had a gleam in his eye when he described the fight he had with that
lawn. He tried to find a balance between enough water and barest
subsistence of the grass: “I’ll starve it.” But he always gave enough
water to his dahlias, sweet peas, and vegetables.
He did love planting flowers at home for my mother. That he
would do. He grew very few vegetables around the house. My mother
would make very delicious pickles from the cucumbers he planted.
When the lot next door was empty, he grew corn, squash, and
pumpkins there. He carved our names (in Hebrew) on the small
squash and pumpkins, and the characters would grow with the plant.
When it came to eating, Papa liked having the food of his home in
the old country: borsht, herring, black bread, yogurt, noodles,
potatoes, and lots of fruit and vegetables. In the twenties he felt that
natural foods were best—no desserts. Only a cake (home-made) for a
child’s birthday. Later, he relaxed this attitude, and bought better cuts
of meat when he could afford it. He openly disapproved of good
dining, and was critical of overeating and fat individuals. But he liked
his nightly drink, which he fermented and distilled at home.
Later, when Mama became ill, she taught him to do a little
cooking. After she was gone, I would bring him food I’d prepared.
One time he liked some cookies I baked so much that he asked me
for the recipe. Well, he decided that it was nonsense to use so much
sugar, and nonsense to use all that butter, so he made them with
practically nothing and they were like eating hardtack. Everything had
to be s tripped down, minimal, plain; he was against eating a great
deal, anyway. He would say, “The more flesh, the more worms.”
Papa was not very tolerant of others’ shortcomings.
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