I’

ve failed my grandmother. Don’t worry, I’ve failed worse and will fail worse. Still, it stings a little.

It happened when I tried to live like my grandmother did when she was my age, which meant going back to 1963. (Notice how I’m not telling you the year my grandmother was born, or consequently how old I am. I’m as old as you need me to be.) For two days, I left the 21st century, traveled figuratively back 56 years, and tried to live my grandmother’s lifestyle.

Before I give you the full report, let me tell you what this column is about. Basically, I do things you’re curious about but will never do (because you have some dignity). I’m your friendly human lab experiment reporting to you whatever it is you wanted to know about.

The challenge, rules, and exceptions in this adventure were as follows:

Challenge: My grandmother has Alzheimer’s, the bad stage. She’s wonderful, kind, and sweet, but has no memory or real capacity for speaking, so all my research was based on conversations with my mother and uncles and going through my grandmother’s home and looking through old pictures.

Rules: I could only use products from companies that were established in 1963 or prior. Everything had to be culturally appropriate for a Hungarian housewife.

Exceptions: E-mail check twice daily for time sensitive material (like revising chapters of my current serial), the right to drive and use Waze for my commute, and accessing Google for my teaching job or to find out if I can use or do something. Oh, and last, I couldn’t majorly inconvenience my husband and kids.

So, you ask, what was the world like in 1963? Part of me feels like it wasn’t so long ago; both my parents were born in the ’50s and they’re not old — or are they? JFK was assassinated that year, the Beatles came to America, the Verrazano Bridge opened, and lava lamps were invented. There was of course no Internet, cell phones, or texting. Sounds like a fun thing to try, no?

My grandmother was the clichéd Hungarian balabusta. Her house was immaculate, her cooking simple and divine. When it came to baking, she was a perfectionist who loved to patchkeh — we’ll get to that soon. So even if some conveniences were available to consumers (disposable plates), there was no way my grandmother would use them. My grandmother never worked a day after she married and was the consummate wife; people talk of her marriage and devotion to my grandfather in hushed tones of reverence.

And me? Ummm, yeah, I’m very much a part of the 21st century. Unhealthy relationship with my phone, drive too much, work too much, clean too little. I’m more of an “oiben spritz unten shmitz” kinda gal (that’s Yiddish for on top you spray, on bottom it’s dirty — a.k.a., a surface clean — yes, of course it sounds better in Yiddish, say it ten times fast). I make supper in 30 minutes, because ain’t nobody got time for that.

My big question in going into this was not if I could handle the tech deprivation, but rather, if I could measure up to my grandmother “balabusta” wise.

It began on Sunday, the day before I planned to time travel.

I did a little meal planning: two nights of supper, so I went with classic dishes like goulash and chicken paprikash. I realized at the meat section that quartered chicken wasn’t standard, so I’d have to butcher my own chicken. Most women had to clean their own chickens as well, so I asked the butcher, Aaron, of the Meat Maven located in Seasons for his hairiest chicken.

It’s a good thing he knows I’m a bit odd, or he’d have thought I was crazy. He informed me that most companies clean their chickens at the factory, and all he does is clip off a stray big feather if he sees one. I’ll be honest, I was relieved he couldn’t help me. I bought a whole chicken and stew meat and headed home.

Sunday night I plugged in my clock radio that I can’t remember the last time I used. My phone is usually my alarm clock, but no more phone. I think I set the alarm for seven, but I never did figure out how to work it. I was ready for the coming day.

Guess what, the alarm didn’t go off. But my phone did, so I still woke up. Phew! I brushed my teeth with Crest instead of Aquafresh (my preference) because Aquafresh only came out in the ’70s. The next challenge was to make lunches for everyone, particularly my husband. Now I make my husband and kids lunch every day, so why was this day different than all the other days (the Pesach motif is still on my mind)? Simple answer — love.

“Bobby made the best sandwiches, and she put such love into them. The way she took care of Zeide…” my mother said.

So I couldn’t just make a sandwich — it had to convey… something. I went with tuna. I rarely make tuna sandwiches though everyone loves them. Opening the can, mashing, mayo, the smell, too much work for the morning, cream cheese is easier. But for love I made tuna and added lettuce and cucumbers to it, and on the side, I cut up more vegetables and packed a bag of chips. Out of love, I used bagels and not culturally appropriate bread or rolls; my husband likes his bagels. Bobby would approve.

I hit a snag with my lunch. Ziploc bags only came out in 1968. I had to brown-bag it — you have any brown paper bags? Turns out my husband brought home cookies as a Rosh Chodesh treat — in a brown paper bag. Phew! Authenticity saved.

Getting dressed was tricky. I didn’t have authentic clothes, so I just did a modified version of the shirt, sweater, necklace, and full skirt thing I’d seen on a picture of my grandmother. My collar wasn’t big and long enough nor was my skirt full enough — in fact, I looked pretty cute that day, but it was in the spirit. I wore a sheitel instead of my fall and beanie hat. I don’t think my grandmother would have ever been caught in a beanie — even one without a pom-pom.

When it came to makeup, I knew my grandmother didn’t wear a lot. Also, practically all the companies whose products I use didn’t exist in 1963. So I was left with L’Oréal mascara (lash paradise for those curious, and no, it definitely didn’t exist in 1963) and a Revlon lipstick I had left over from Pesach. That was all the makeup I wore for two days. I felt washed out but no one asked me if I was feeling okay, so I guess it wasn’t that bad.

Teaching was uneventful, though I was careful to save my brown bag for the next day. The experience would start again once I got home. I picked up my son at 2:30 and got to work right away. First things first, I changed. I didn’t have a housecoat, so I put on one of those maxi dress shmattehs you get from Amazon for $20 bucks. I also swapped my chenille snood for an old pre-tied I had from when I first got married. I looked shnasty, but I was comfortable. Next priority, I put up my goulash, then polished all my silver. That has never and will never happen again — all the silver done on a Monday.

I realized I had a problem when I looked in my kids’ armoire: My oldest son had no more pants. I’d have to do laundry, but my grandmother, although she did have a washing machine, had no dryer. I had intended to do no laundry for two days, but alas, I’d have to figure out the drip-dry.

Apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment, for I stuck a huge load in the washing machine. When it came time for drying, I managed to get all the shirts and pants onto the drying rack, but all the socks, pajamas, and unmentionables needed to go somewhere. My eyes darted around for places to hang stuff. People wouldn’t be home for a while — I could do this (no fist pump included)! I draped the clothes all over my dining room chairs and over the bars of my sons’ bunk bed. Most of it was dry and folded by the time the boys came home after four, but they still gave me a few looks. The only complaint I fielded was from my son the next day — “My clothes are so crunchy!” I assured him it wouldn’t happen again.

My goulash had been cooking for two hours, but there was still too much liquid. Regular Esther would have said, “Eh it needs to reduce, but I don’t have time for this.” Balabusta Esther has standards, so I cooked it for at least another half hour on a higher heat. It was delicious, and everyone but my middle son was happy (he refused to try it), but it took way too long to cook. I repeat way too long. And get this, I used REAL dishes and of course discovered that I only have three glasses left — the rest had broken long ago, who knew?

Keeping up the balabusta streak, I planned on polishing everyone’s shoes after supper, because apparently Bobby was very on top of the sitch. I took out the polish and tried. Do I get credit for effort? The polish was totally dried up. When was the last time I used it? People still polish shoes? Oh well, no Balabusta of the Year award for me.

I had other grand plans for the night; scrub, iron, dust, repeat. I usually spend too much time on my computer and phone, writing, surfing, chatting, playing. But I had a headache, and bed won over cleaning (shocker, I know). I was sleeping by 9:30. I know you’re jealous. When I showered, I thought bathing products might be a problem, but Dove, TRESemmé, and Cetaphil were all around before 1963 — bless them. I couldn’t use my usual moisturizer though. I hope my skin will forgive me (it doesn’t like me very much these days).

I thought the next day would be easier, but the alarm clock didn’t ring, and my phone was in my teaching bag. I somehow woke up at 7:30. I was late, but I dunno, it was calm, and I wasn’t rushed. There was no weather to check, no e-mails to ponder, no group chats to chime in on, and no podcasts to distract — just what had to be done. And I did it.

Today’s “Loving Lunch” was cheese sandwiches: Muenster cheese with lettuce and tomatoes with a dollop of mustard. Packed with other veggies and chips. I was done. I was starving though and needed breakfast. Cereal seemed like a wise option, but between Reese’s Puffs and Cinnamon Toast Crunch I knew it was a no-go timewise. Then I spied the Honey Nut Cheerios — a quick Google search told me they only came out in ’79, but regular Cheerios came out in the ’50s. Tough noogies experiment, I needed breakfast, and Honey Nut Cheerios it was.

I wore an old khaki green corduroy shirt dress; it could have a dated vibe if I accessorized it right. And when I came home ready to change into my Amazon getup, I realized that when I took off my belt, the dress looked like a housecoat, so I left it on.

Midday I cheated and Googled symptoms of strep in adults (I was hoarse, had a headache, and my son was on meds for strep). How did people live before Dr. Google? Maybe they were less anxious — I don’t know about you, but Google has predicted a possibly early demise for me more times than Professor Trelawney predicted Harry’s death.

My balabusta plans for the day were to make supper and then prove my womanhood by making a dessert my grandmother used to; I’m sure there’s a proper name for it in Hungarian but my grandmother called it freezer-taster. I grew up on it (my grandparents lived next door), it was kept in the freezer (hence the name) and was a confection of layers of nutty cake and chocolate cream.

I thought it would be a bigger patchkeh, but it wasn’t that difficult, and for the first time in my life, I felt that thing people talk about when they make something that is generational — a continued gift to their children. Maybe because my children only know Great Bobby as the lady in the recliner, but now I could tell them — this treat was hers. My sister Malky who gave me the recipe told me that if I was really going to be like Bobby, I’d have to take out the yardstick and measure off perfect slices. I was going to, until I discovered I don’t even own a ruler. Sorry Bobby.

I have dessert in my freezer now, layered neatly between wax paper — just like Bobby’s. It should last a few weeks, but I will never make it again; I never knew that there were a dozen eggs, 4 cups of sugar, and 4 sticks of margarine in that recipe. How did I just EAT it as a kid? The adults downed it too. I hope eating too much freezer-taster in childhood is not going to give anybody a heart attack at some point. At least I used the trans-fat free margarine.

Hungarian cooking requires you to be a SAHM or at least a part-timer; I don’t have that kind of time. I started supper at 3:45, but dessert was only ready after six. At least it was divine. I quartered the chicken myself — and the pieces almost resembled quarters. Often when you make chicken paprikash it’s an “eh” experience. This was nothing like that; the water had reduced and the potatoes had released their starches, leaving behind a rich and unctuous stew consistency.

I made kasha for the first time in my life to go underneath — another never again. I’ll be kind and call it animal food; I had more choice descriptions that day. But score: My son who never eats anything for supper and calls me the worst mommy ever at least once a day ate an insane amount! (The only way he was persuaded to try it was because he wasn’t willing to give up soda two nights in a row, so he caved in to my no-soda-if-you-don’t-eat rule and sampled it.)

Post-supper demands called for balabusta-level scrubbing of my stovetop — steel wool and elbow grease engaged, not the usual Windex wipe down. If I did this regularly, I’d have beautiful biceps. I should have vacuumed, but the kids were around and then they were in bed, but I did get down on my hands and knees like my grandmother. She would pick up imaginary specks of lint from the carpet; I picked up non-imaginary pieces of Reese’s Puffs and Cheerios from breakfast. No judging.

We played a family game of Uno after supper. I tried to get out of it because it only came out in 1971, but my husband wasn’t buying it. Thankfully two kids tantrummed after about ten minutes so that was over (I hate Uno).

I was supposed to iron again (shirts, pant, linen, undergarments) like my grandmother, but I still had a headache, so once again I found myself in bed by 9:15. I had thought to play either Othello (1888) or Stratego (1947) with my husband — my grandparents were avid Rummikub players (they had the weirdest and hardest rules) — but I weighed it in my hands, game, bed, game, bed. Bed won.

And so, it ended. How did I fare, you ask? I didn’t do half the things to half the standard of my grandmother, so fail there, but I think I’ve got other things going for me. If my self-worth is based on how well I keep house, I’d be in poor shape. So, thank G-d I live now and not then.

While my days were much more relaxing and calmer with few distractions, there was a lack of stimulation. The next day, though, I put do not disturb limits on my phone to save me from myself, even though I already have all notifications off. While I may prefer the 21st century, I can appreciate the small lessons learned, although I think I’d prefer to not have learned how much margarine my childhood treat contained.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 641)

Is there something you’ve always been curious about but never had the guts to try? Esther just might do it! Send your suggestions to Life Lab at familyfirst@mishapacha.com