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One Grandma Was Mustard, the Other Whipped Cream
Delicious, just not together
Growing up, I was lucky to have two grandmothers — the born-and-bred American grandma, and the grandma whose family had lived in Morocco for centuries. Funnily enough, their names were nearly identical: Esther and Estrella. They looked nothing alike, though: Esther was tall and slender, and before she dyed her hair flamingo red, could be mistaken for Vivian Leigh, while Estrella, who was short and round and dyed her swept-up hair blond, looked like a plumper Zsa Zsa Gabor.
They were objectively gorgeous well into their seventies and eighties. Still, even if they’d been homely as homemade sin, I would’ve adored them anyway. I needed them both to make up for the ways my mother couldn’t, well, mother. There’s no way I would’ve turned out normal if these two grandmothers hadn’t been in my life.
My Casablancan grandma was planets away from the other grandmothers in my Silver Spring, Maryland enclave, where diversity was decades away, if it ever came at all. I bragged to my Hebrew Academy classmates that she’d been a seamstress in the king’s palace in Morocco, and I’d show them the cute skirts she’d sewn for me.
She threw big bashes in her tiny apartment where twangy Middle Eastern music played in the background while she milled among the…
