Carol’s Column

Every mother needs a full stomach in her life

LIKE a pack of vultures they descended on the house. Ravenous, open-mouthed and noisy.

My two oldest unmarried sons and their friends.

On vacation, they chugged in from Cape Town in their ancient jalopy, with its spark plugs missing, engine grunting, emitting snorts, squeaks and whistles.

Leapt out, hugged everyone and attacked the fridge. In 10 minutes they demolished Betty's banana cake, four crunchy chicken thighs, one small tin of olives, a beansprout, red pepper and chives salad, one French bread and peanut butter spread and two left-over Vienna sausages.

"Ma, you won't believe this," said Barry, "we were starving."

My Jewish motherhood quivered with joy.

Oh, it was wonderful having the house whole again. The joy of four tapedecks shrieking away. The sounds of the Beatles, Moody Blues, Madonna and Juluka singing simultaneously.

What a pleasure to find every toilet occupied by a Lazar offspring, to have the phone working overtime, and to find the keyhole of my car missing. "Oh, Ralph's just taken your car for a moment."

Day and night, there were bodies everywhere. Lolling in chairs, lying on the floor, sitting at the diningroom table, jostling at the fridge.

"Hello, Mrs Lazar," they said. "Isn't it great having Barry and Ralph home again?"

In the morning, en route to the bathroom, I'd meet strangers.

Tousled, sleepy-looking strangers with screwed-up eyes and stubbly beards.

"Good morning, Mrs Lazar," one tall young man said brightly.

"Hi, hi," I replied.

"Don't you recognise me?" he asked with a smile.

"Well ..." I murmured.

"I'm David Dembo," he said charmingly.

"Ah, well. I didn't recognise you without your clothes on," I muttered as I stumbled onwards.

One morning there was a crisis.

We sat at the table munching our get-fit-quick cornflakes and nuts-for-roughage cereal, my spouse, my two youngest children and me.

"Ma," said Jamie casually, "Barry's sleeping with three girls."

"What?" I said. I was horrified. What would their mothers say. Here, in the midst of the oaks and jacarandas of Parkwood, I was encouraging sin and iniquity.

I sprung up like a banshee on the prowl.

"Ma, relax," said Nicky, "where are you going?"

"Three girls?" I almost choked on the nuts.

"Ma, they're just sleeping," said Jamie.

"Yes," said Nicky, "they're not misbehaving. No one is being deflowered. They're just sleeping, things have changed since your day."

I looked at the 14-year-old authority on sexual behaviour and took another spoonful of cornflakes.

When they'd all departed, I crept up to Barry's room and peered inside. In my son's bed, alone, was a long blonde. While spread, independently, over the floor, were four other humps, all snoring away.

I looked carefully at the long blonde. It was David Dembo. I sighed with relief. They were all alone, sex and sin still hadn't reached Parkwood.

Catering has become a logistical exercise. Betty and Marion are baking around the clock to beat the eat deadlines. Good friends are like steel wool. Indispensable.

My mother-in-law has been inspanned and is providing apple crumbles by the boxful.

In one week we've demolished seven sheep, 18 chickens and 93 chicken pieces, crumbed.

Last night we sat down to dinner and there were 20 of us, including David Jammie in a hat and Johnny Sacke who came late.

What joy, for what could be better than having 20 mouthholes to fill with wholesome food? What could be more satisfying than having 20 cavernous stomachs to fill with chicken soup and knaidels?

Indeed, it is the Jewish mother's great dream.

I feel fulfilled.

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