A Catholic Jewish Child: Leftovers and Therapy – A Memoir

Guest Author Frannie Sheridan

I grew up in a house where nothing was ever wasted. We didn’t have leftovers.
It was ancestral energy trapped in Tupperware. My folks were survivors who never totally got over the war, food was life. Leave the fridge open, and instead of it beeping—you’d hear a bomb shelter siren.
And there was always that one container lurking in the back of the fridge like a witness in protective custody.
“What’s in there?” I’d ask.
My mother, in her German-Yiddish accent, would snap, “Don’t touch that. It’s important!”
Important? It looked like it needed a lawyer.
Some things need to be released—with love, a prayer, and maybe an exorcist.
 
My parents fought constantly. My mother wanted to be Catholic, my father wanted to be Jewish, and I wanted to be adopted—preferably by wolves. At least wolves take turns howling.
My mother’s rebellion came out in her cooking and cocktails. My father would take one sip and recoil.
“Liesel! What did you put in this? It’s revolting!”
And she’d say, completely unfazed, “Uch Bernie, it’s delicious. I spiked it… with
Manischewitz!”
Nothing says Christmas like kosher wine and resentment. Even Baby Jesus would have been like, “You know what, I’m gonna wait in the car.”
 
My father, bless him, could have used more fun in his parenting style. He was Austrian. Very regimented, very serious, and not from a culture famous for spontaneous whimsy. There’s a reason you’ve never heard of a comedy chain called Himmler’s Ha-Ha Hut. And if you did, you probably wouldn’t feel safe ordering the schnitzel.
 
Because my parents had survived the war, food was survival. Which meant, when my mother cooked a chicken, she cooked every last molecule. I didn’t know chickens had toenails until I had my mother’s soup pot.
Crunchier than corn chips, yumyum. Nothing says comfort food like needing a tetanus shot.
We also never had junk food, so Halloween was a problem. American children would ring the doorbell dressed as pirates, superheroes, and tiny witches, expecting candy. My mother would fling open the door, admire the costume, and deposit a chicken neck into their pillowcase.
“Oh, vunderful Batman! Here. A real treat!”
Kid screams.
“And for little Sally—a gizzard! And a foot!”
Little Sally would age three years on the spot.
Then my mother would chase the fleeing children down the block yelling, “Wait! I forgot the best part—the head!”
 
The next day at school the kids all thought my mother was an actual witch. Which, honestly, was fair. Our house on Halloween looked less like a family home and more like a poultry crime scene. Chalk outline, chicken carcass, non-stop screaming, parents arguing in mixed European accents—it was basically KFC on acid. No sides, just fear.
 
Therapy wasn’t a thing in our house. Not in a practical sense. So, I had to get creative. At one point I realized the only people who could interrupt my parents’ fighting were Jehovah’s Witnesses. Suddenly both my mother and father would fall silent to avoid opening the door. It was the closest thing to peace we ever had. And that’s how Switzerland was formed.
 
My parents were Jewish, but they raised me Catholic. Only they were so Jewish at church that it made everything even more confusing. During communion my father would mutter, “I can’t eat this cracker. It’s too dry. Needs a schmear. And I don’t mean to criticize Jesus, but couldn’t he have sprung for a toaster?”
So, I never knew which religion I was disappointing. Catholics had sin. Jews had guilt. I was double-booked. One day I disappointed Jesus, the next day my mother. It was a full social calendar.
 
And since my father had studied under Freud, I took an early interest in psychoanalysis. By kindergarten I was running a private practice at nap time. I diagnosed classmates for candy.
“Sally, your inability to choose a favorite Barbie indicates a neurotic disparity between your id and your superego.”
“Frannie, how many M&M’s do I owe you?”
And that’s how I became addicted to the red ones.
Later I attended twelve-step meetings for the free cookies, which of course led to a cookie addiction. But now when somebody annoys me, instead of saying “piss-off” I just say, “Wanna cookie?” Which is growth. Jewish growth—but growth.
I was also an extremely anxious child. I thought people could read my thoughts, so I tried to think only pleasant ones—tough when you’re staring at your father’s tense face noticing his pursed lips look like your cat’s Tuchis. And then I was like “OMG He thinks I’m comparing his face to a litter box!”
 
Food remained our family’s emotional support system. Jews and Chinese food belong together, like holidays and elastic waistbands. Chinese food isn’t just cuisine—it’s therapy you can chew. I firmly believe Moses parted the Red Sea while holding a takeout container. That wasn’t divine intervention. It was duck sauce.
The tablets didn’t say “Commandments.” They said, “White rice or brown—it’s a mitzvah if you mix. Don’t be rice-ist.”
And finally, after all the leftovers, guilt, poultry trauma, and identity confusion, I learned the most useful spiritual principle of all: not everything old is sacred. Some things are brisket from the Carter administration—and need to go.
 
Also, not finished with the Chinese, because if synagogues started serving sweet-and-sour matzo balls, attendance would skyrocket.
So yes, I come from a long line of people who saved everything. Chicken feet. Religious confusion. Emotional debris. But I like to think I’ve updated the family tradition. I still believe nothing should be wasted. Not pain. Not absurdity. Not even a childhood that occasionally felt like a hostage video directed by Freud.
Because if you season it right, even trauma can become humorous.

​Frannie Sheridan 30+yrs internationally performing solo mayoral awarded shows/stress management workshops disguised as fun, attracting Hollywood interest (Legendary Director Arthur Hiller who attached himself to direct Frannie’s film), as well as having been invited to the Capitol as an honored guest. Frannie Sheridan’s traditionally published memoir (MOSAIC Press) Confessions Of A Jewish Shiksa was the darling of the Frankfurt Book Fair, and her play (IRT) The Waltonsteins have been included as part of the educational system’s must read.
Frannie is the creator and narrator of I Tried to Be Normal But It Was Taken! audiobook/kindle being released on ACX/AMAZON this month.