"There's no such thing as a Jewish Mama anymore," snapped my own Jewish Mama. "She was a frightened, uneducated immigrant from Eastern Europe struggling for existence in a strange country. The Molly Goldbergs of yesterday just don't exist.

"It's Shabbous tonight. I made chicken soup for you. Do you want to eat it here or should I bring it over?"

"I can't come over today, Ma," I answered. "I'm going over to Edith's. If you want to drop it off, I'll leave the door open."

"Don't do that; it's too dangerous. Maniacs are roaming the streets these days," said my mother. "Besides, I have a key, remember? I'm going to the grocery store later so I'll leave the soup in your icebox. Put it on a low fire as soon as you get home."

"Yes, Ma."

I had barely put the receiver down when the phone rang again. It was my sister. "My God! I'm doing it! I'm screaming at Elizabeth just like Mama yelled at us!"

"You don't understand because you're not a mother. I swore I'd never be a Jewish Mama to my kids. That 'smother mothering' we had causes one neurosis after another. But I get more like Ma every day. I direct; I command; I push."

"I wouldn't worry about it," I said. "We're not neurotic are we? I'm on my way out. I'll call you when I get home. By the way, Ma made chicken soup, today. Be sure to stop by and get some."

As I drove to Edith's I started thinking about this Jewish Mama business. I couldn't see why it was such a terrible thing. My mother had been a Jewish Mama all right; in fact, she still is, and I thought it was kind of cute. Take food, for instance: She always cooked enough for ten armies with plenty left over for a village of starving Armenians. I remember one night my uncle and his six business partners came over at six o'clock just as we were sitting down to dinner. Mama insisted they stay to eat with us.

"Nothing fancy," she insisted as she put the gefilte fish on the table and I set the seven extra places. "Just what we're having. I made blintzes for dessert. You like blintzes?"

After everyone had eaten until their eyes popped, we had enough leftovers for our lunches all the next week. "No one ate anything!" moaned my Mama as we hauled everything off the table. "Do you think maybe the chicken wasn't spicy enough?"

Our own eating was a source of never-ending pleasure to her. My sister had a unique way of attacking grapefruit with such gusto, she showered us all with the juice. Every time my mother planned to serve it to her, she called up her two sisters to hurry over and watch. "You've never seen anything so cute, Hazel. Hurry before she finishes."

And my embarrassed sister would confront her grapefruit with six loving eyes kvelling at each slurp.

Mama was a great one for education. School came first for us; the teacher was second only to God. "If I could have afforded to go to college, I could have been something!" she'd tell us. "But I had to go to work. You can be anything you want to be if you have the right education. So go do your homework. Now."

The month before I was born, Mama bought a combination set of literature and an encyclopedia for $20.00 down and $l.00 a week. She read to me every night from the books and every Monday, she mailed in that dollar. "I didn't need an extra pair of stockings this week," she'd say as she sealed the envelope.

Mama gave the arts equal billing with academia.

"If my mama could have afforded to give me singing lessons, I would be a great opera star today. I just hope you appreciate how much your father and I have to give up so you can be exposed to the finer things in life," she told us.

My sister and I never had time to play after school. If we weren't taking a lesson, we were practicing for something. We studied ballet, elocution, piano, singing and modeling. We took tap dancing, ballroom dancing and art appreciation. We struggled through tennis lessons, golf lessons and weekly horseback riding instruction. We both spent summers at camp learning to swim and continued our swimming with weekly lessons at the Jewish Community Center.

Mama could do none of these things. She had never been on a tennis court. A golf club was a place you went for dinner. She didn't swim at the beach. She sunbathed and supervised us. However, she dragged my father to our every recital and exhibition to tell us how to improve our presentation. After one of my piano recitals, she said, "Why do you slouch like that at the piano? Eleanor sat straight as a ramrod while she played . . . and with such enthusiasm! Her mother told me she just loves to practice. She sits at that piano for hours every single day."

Later, I heard Mama talking to Eleanor's mother on the telephone. "Your daughter did very nicely, Thelma, very. Of course, we were proud of Lynnie, too. She doesn't have to spend so much time practicing. She has a natural talent. Did you notice that she played "The Minute Waltz" in thirty seconds? I timed it."

The piece I had played was "Valse Triste."

Mama's biggest worry with me was my feet. I walked with my toes out. "It just isn't graceful," said my mother.

She took me to a chiropodist and he taped my legs to force my toes to point straight ahead. Despite his efforts, my toes pointed east and west when I moved north and south. Mama decided to try her own power of persuasion. Every morning as I left for school, she would lean out the door and shout, "Feet!"

I would point my toes forward.

I would point my toes forward.

One day, I was toeing out as I helped her serve the Passover Seder. Mama automatically shouted, "Feet!"

I pointed my toes forward, lost my balance and dumped the tureen of chicken soup in the middle of the table. "If you'd watch the way you walk, we wouldn't be eating soggy matzos and dry matzo balls," said my mother as she helped me mop up the table, the guests and the Hagadahs.

I still get annoyed at the way Mama used to read our letters. "Anything you leave sitting around is everyone's property," she used to say.

"But Ma, that letter was under my slips in the back of the bureau drawer."

Mama drowned us in Loving Concern every day, seasoned with just a dash of implied guilt. When I was nineteen, she drove me forty miles to college, realized we had forgotten a bed pillow and drove home to get one. She returned with it that night. "I wanted you to get a good night's rest," she explained. "You have a big day, tomorrow. I'll call to see how everything went."

"If it weren't for our Jewish Mamas," our rabbi told me, "Judaism would have died long ago. Our mamas are our inspiration. They set the example for the kind of life we should lead."

"My mama doesn't give examples," I answered. "She gives orders."

I pulled into Edith's drive still mulling over my mama and the way she insisted on controlling us. Edith is a clinical psychologist who does family therapy. Her husband, Marvin, is a psychiatrist. They had only one son, David. He seemed a little willful at times, but very bright. At least, Edith said he was bright. David's every breath gave Edith exquisite pleasure. Yet, she had plenty of time left over from her mothering for a full time career outside her home.

"She must be super-organized," I thought as I rang the bell.

"You're late," said Edith when she answered the door. "What kept you?"

"I had a few telephone calls before I left," I said. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," said Edith. "But I was warming some coffee cake in the oven and it's probably all dried out by now."

"Never mind," I said. "I just ate. Edith, I've been thinking a lot about Jewish Mamas like mine. You know the kind: their kids are their careers and the center of their lives. Do the old-fashioned kind like that still exist today?"

"They sure do!" said Edith. "I see them every day in my practice, and they are a menace to their kids. Listen, there was one woman who still calls her mother every day . . . and she's 58 years old!"

"The mother?"

"No. The daughter. The mother is over eighty. Are you sure you wouldn't like some cake? It's my own recipe."

"Positive," I answered. "Listen, Edith, my mama doesn't make me call her; she calls me and she's very supportive."

"Is she? Mine never was. Be honest. Didn't your mother try to supervise you as long as she could?"

"Well, come to think of it, she was furious when I moved into my own apartment. She didn't talk to me for months and she never came to visit me until I had been living alone over ten years. The only reason she finally came over was to bring me chicken soup. I had the flu."

"How old were you when you moved out?"

"Thirty, and I had been married and divorced by that time."

"I forgot about your divorce," said Edith. "You must have been her big failure.

To a Jewish Mama, the only success for a girl is to marry well."

"Not to my mother," I replied. "Mama never pressured me to remarry. Oh, she did try to fix me up on dates a lot. She'd convince her friends to have their sons call me up and usually the 'nice Jewish boys' were either half my age or so old they'd collapse before they got to the bimma. But she's stopped all that now."

"When did she stop?"

"When I was in my middle forties."

"See what I mean? But it's the married daughter who really pays the price of having a Jewish Mama,"

Edith continued.

"How?" I asked.

"She becomes a Jewish Mama, too."

"Oh, come on. You sound like my sister! She called me today and was almost hysterical because she was treating her kids the way Mama treated us. She's not an old-fashioned Jewish Mama any more than you are but she's petrified that she'll become one. You had a Jewish mother didn't you? How did you break the cycle?"

"I split," said Edith.

"Split?"

"Yes. I left home and got out on my own. I proved to myself that I am a worthwhile human being in my own right. I don't have to live my life through David. I get all the ego satisfaction I need with my own successes in my practice. Besides, I'm very aware of the dangers."

"What dangers?" I asked.

"The dangers of using Jewish Mama devices to manipulate David. There's the materialism thing, for example. I make a great point of showing David that I love him just for himself. I don't try to buy his affection with gifts and I teach him that his own imagination is far more valuable than anything money can buy. One time, we both were in the supermarket and David wanted to ride the hobbyhorse they had in the lobby. You were supposed to put in a dime and the horse galloped until the money ran out. I told David that if I didn't put in the money, he could get on the horse and imagine he was riding for as long as he liked. When he used his imagination instead of a dime, his ride would never end."

"What a good way to teach him that money can't buy pleasure!" I said.

"No, thank you. Mama left some chicken soup for me and, if I know her, the chicken will still be in it, along with a few matzo balls and some grievenes."

Just then, the door opened. "I'm home, honey," said Marvin and he walked into the kitchen. "What's for dinner?"

"Brisket," said Edith as she turned her cheek for his kiss.

"Did you pick up David's gym shoes? He needs them for nursery school. And the cleaning? I want to wear the navy blue suit when I give my presentation to the Ladies' Club. Did you have time to talk to the orthodontist? I know David is a little young, but his teeth are sticking out and I'd like to get them fixed before they ruin his expression. He has such a darling expression."

"David is only four years old," said Marvin. "Why don't you wait until he gets his second teeth?"

"We'll discuss it later," said Edith. "Marvin, go talk to Lynn while I fix dinner. I'll be in as soon as I get the meat in the oven. Do you want baked potatoes or latkes?"

"Latkes," said Marvin and he joined me in the library.

"Well, what were you ladies talking about today?" he asked.

"Jewish Mamas," I said. "Tell me, Marvin, do you see any in your practice?"

"Do I see any?” answered Marvin. "My God, I'm living with one . . . and I think she's great! Look at Edith. She's bright. She has a good education and she's very sensitive to the feelings of others."

"Edith says Jewish Momism can cause terrible problems in the children," I countered.

"Perhaps in a few extreme cases," said Marvin. "But for the most part, Jewish Mamas create strong, self-confident kids, stable and self-disciplined. They are the achievers of this world."

"Lynnie," said Edith as she entered the room with a plate of chopped liver and some crackers. "If you won't stay for dinner, at least have a little forschpice with us."

"Thanks, Edith, but I think it's time I left you to your dinner so you don't starve to death. Where's David?"

"Oh, he's at his tuba lesson. He'll be home in about five minutes," said Edith.

"Tuba lesson? Edith! He's only four years old!"

"It's never too early to expose him to The Graces," said Edith. "I'm sorry you won't join us for dinner, but here's a little something to take home. Drive carefully and call me when you get there. It's getting dark."

As I drove home, I smiled to myself about all my conversations about Jewish Mamas. The men I had talked to thought Jewish Mamas were great; it was only the women who resented their mothers. Yet, look at my sister. Look at Edith. They turned out to be the same kind of mothers their own mothers were. "Thank goodness I don't have to worry about things like that," I thought to myself. "All I have to care for are a few dogs and cats."

I parked the car and opened the door. "Kinderlach!" I shouted. "Mama's home!"

My little animals gathered around my feet as I went to the icebox. I hauled out a tremendous pot filled to the brim with two boiled chickens, carrots, k'nadlach and onions floating in a jellied broth. There was a note pinned to the cover. "Put this on a low fire right away. There are some grievenes in the pie plate on the top shelf. Put them in the oven, uncovered at 250 degrees. I had a few extra potatoes, so I made you a little kugel. It's in the casserole covered with foil next to the soup. Put that in the oven with the grievenes.

"I fed the animals while I was here. They looked hungry.

"Call me as soon as you get home."

"Mama's shana kindt!" I crooned. "Just wait until you taste what Aunt Edith sent you! Chopped liver! Brisket! And Bubbe made a little soup and chicken just for you."

I set out the soup in a little bowl for each animal. I put in one k'nadlach and a little parsley. I divided the chopped liver into four portions. "Come, my zyesser kindt!" I called. "Enjoy! Enjoy! It's Shabbous."

Silently, they hurried to their little bowls and I returned to the kitchen. I set the table in my best linen cloth and bentsch licht. Then, I sat down to eat. I lifted my spoon and the telephone rang.

It was my mother. "Why didn't you call? I was worried sick! Did you get home all right? Did you find the chicken soup? Did you wait until the kugel was brown on the bottom? Did you bentsch licht?"

"Yes, Ma."

"I'm sorry you were too busy to come over here for dinner. Next week, you'll come. I'm making kishke. Your sister stopped by before I left and I gave her some of your soup. Did you have enough?"

"Plenty, Ma."

Shabbous. Call me tomorrow, first thing."

"Yes, Ma."

And she hung up the phone.