KATZ FamILY

Carol

The column on the right contains an excerpt from one of the short stories I have written.

I am an archivist by profession and a guitarist, artist, writer, singer,
dancer and actress by creation. I began composing poetry and stories 12
years ago and love the freedom that writing affords. It has opened my mind
to a wealth of ideas and has helped me cope with difficult times. I find
myself delving into uncharted territory and loving the journey. Several of
my poems and short stories have been published in various journals, both in
hard copy and online.

I get my inspiration on bus rides. You might call it "writing in motion."

Contact me for any addition information. See contact page for email information.

Or, click here to go to my own site.

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Carol has just published her first children's book, titled: "Zaidie and
Ferdele: Memories of My Childhood." Written by Carol Katz and illustrated by
two Canadian artists, Shira Katz and Sandra Levy. Publisher: Deux Voiliers
Publishing. It's about growing up in Jewish Montreal in the 40's and 50's.
The title is Yiddish for Grandfather and his female horse.

It can be ordered directly from me or from amazon.com .

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Click here to see a book review by Carol Katz, emerging writer and amateur guitarist, published in Poetry Quebec, no. 13. The review is in pdf format.

A sample of my writing

MA’S KITCHEN

Ma was a homebody. She loved her small apartment that she shared with Daddy, my sister, Rona and myself. She woke up at 6:00 A.M. every morning, including Saturdays and Sundays. By the time I awakened at 7:30 A.M., each room was dusted and mopped, the kitchen and bathroom floors were washed, and a hot breakfast was waiting for us.

The kitchen was her domain. It was small and narrow and held a brown, arborite tabletop. The four silver-coloured straight legs gave the table its sheen. The four plain, padded chairs hardly fit around this table. Ma always covered the tabletop with a vinyl greenish-blue tablecloth, without the flannel backing. The table was set against the wall of the adjoining bedroom. And old gas stove and a Westinghouse fridge completed the furniture. The two white sinks, the tiny counter space filled with a bread box, a Sunbeam mix-master, various dishes and bowls that could not fit into the kitchen cupboards gave this room a claustrophobic feel.

But to my ma, this room was magnificent. The table was mahogany, the chairs made of dark, stained wood with steel silver legs, and the pink linen tablecloth with matching napkins were ready to be shown to guests. Ma did all the cooking. Although Daddy was barely earning enough at the women’s factory, we had meat every day and juicy, red rib steaks once a week. We were never allowed to remain in the kitchen after meals. She shooed us out to the living room and did all the clean up herself. I never saw her eat with us. However, occasionally I peeked into the kitchen and noticed that she was eating our leftovers.

One day, as I was peering unnoticed into “her” kitchen, my eyes widened and I began to tremble at the sight. There was Ma, dressed in all her splendour, a diamond crown on her reddish orange wig, white frilly neck and wrist ruffs, and necklaces and bracelets of diamonds, rubies and sapphires. Spic and span shiny, sterling silver knives were floating in the air, clanking against each other. I kept on staring as a lemon-meringue pie suddenly appeared. A pie cutter began to cut the pie in perfect, triangular slices. Ma grabbed a slice from the air and wolfed it down in seconds. Then I saw four bone china dinner plates, decorated with a maroon, floral pattern. Ma reached out for them, placed a piece of pickled brisket on each and garnished the plates with scalloped potatoes and sautéed vegetables covered in a tangy mango sauce. She then proceeded to serve the food to each of us. She gestured towards the living room and called us to the kitchen. And she actually ate with Daddy, Rona and me.

Then, without warning, a dark shadow fell over my eyes. When it finally lifted, I fixed my gaze on Ma. There she was, the straw-like orange wig on her head, dressed in her green housedress, ripped nylon stockings rolled down to her ankles, and furry torn slippers. She was, singing her usual Yiddish folk songs and smiling, as she washed our dinner dishes over the white porcelain sink. But to me, she was still the queen of our kitchen.

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