The Mother Lode and Mrs. Maisel by Caroline Aaron
T here is a knock at the door. “We’re ready for you.” I slip into my pointy high heels, position my Juliette hat, grab my gloves, pull at my girdle and open my dressing room door. A production assistant is stationed outside, waiting to escort me to the set. I have been on hundreds of sets, wearing all manner of clothes, over my long and varied career, but today is different. Today I am stepping onto the set of The Weissman’s apartment, the home of the titular character Midge Maisel in the series, “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.” I too am Mrs. Maisel, not the Marvelous one of the title, but Mrs. Maisel nonetheless. From the moment I set foot inside their apartment, I am not only going to work, I am also going back in time. Everywhere I look, there are signs of my own childhood triggering memories. Today we are shooting a scene where the two families are having a dinner together in honor of the Jewish holidays. I grew up a nice Jewish girl in the late fifties, sitting around this exact same holiday table year after year for the breaking of the fast after our Yom Kippur services. The director calls action and Shirley begins her relentless questioning of whether the table flowers are real–“they are so beautiful they don’t seem real.” And now I am back riding with my mother to pick up the centerpieces for our holiday table. The flowers are glorious, arranged in the heirloom vases
(L TO R) JOSIE, NINA, SAM AND CAROLINE ABADY
that my mother had dropped off at the florist earlier in the week. Our Zelda is Gladys, she is black not white, and instead of light fare to reintroduce our digestive systems to food after twenty-four hours of fasting, we dive right in to Gladys’ fried chicken, collard greens and a Jell-O mold with cherries and nuts. We were twice a year Southern Jews, certainly not devoted temple goers and no one fasted as I remember except between lunch and dinner. But I loved those holidays. Growing up, the High Holy Days were a chance to wear your very best. That meant a new dress for me and my sister and, in my mother’s case, her full-length mink came
out of storage. I remember the day my father brought home that coat. It was mythic. As my mother modeled it, I whispered to my father, “Can we afford that?” In my seven-year-old mind, a mink coat was on par with owning a castle or a private plane. He wisely replied, “We can pay for it, but that’s different than affording it.” Of course I had no idea of what hemeant until later when I became the poster child for living above my means, buying and paying for things I could in no way afford. When I put on that full-length mink Shirley wore as part of her summer wardrobe in the Catskills, I go back and feel my face buried in my mother’s mink as I sat next to her in WESTONMAGAZINEGROUP.COM 47
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