My Aunt Mildred loved nothing more than scouring antique shops whenever she visited me in Connecticut. She sold small trinkets and treasures in her stall at a busy flea market in SoHo, New York City, and was always on the lookout for teacups and saucers, delicate pieces of crocheted lace, and costume jewelry she could resell. One afternoon, as we wandered through a large second-hand store packed with a mix of treasures and trinkets in Plantsville, Connecticut, we split up to explore. That’s when I saw it: a hammered aluminum tray.
It was round, about sixteen inches in diameter, with elegantly scalloped edges. A wreath of flowers was hammered into the aluminum at its center, surrounding a smooth surface that had likely held countless cups of coffee, plates of cookies, or glasses of tea over the years. The two curved handles, made of the same lightweight metal, sat atop open prongs on either side. If you dropped something onto the tray, it gave off a distinctive tinny sound—like a faint echo of the past.
These kinds of trays became popular after World War II. They were durable, lighter than china, and affordable, making them a favorite for wedding gifts. But to me, this wasn’t just any tray. The moment I saw it, I was transported back to my childhood in Grandma Minnie’s Bensonhurst apartment in Brooklyn, New York.
I lived there with my parents and younger brother until I was five. Hanging on the kitchen wall was an aluminum tray similar to this one. I can still picture it, shimmering slightly under the kitchen light as I twirled and danced on the kitchen table, playing Tzena, Tzena, Tzena by The Weavers over and over and over again on our record player. That tray was my silent audience as I performed, lost in the music. The memory was so vivid, I could almost hear the song crackling from the record player, smell the rich aroma of schmaltz sizzling on Grandma’s stove, and taste the sticky, gooey taiglach she made with such care.
For years, I wondered what happened to Grandma’s tray. When my family moved out, her younger brother, my Uncle Harry, moved in. After Grandma passed, he kept the apartment, filling it with his own memories. Then, in 1973, during Shiva for my father, Uncle Harry told us he had just given up the apartment and was moving to Florida. His voice was heavy with regret. I wanted to ask about the tray, along with a few other things I had cherished in that apartment, but I couldn’t bring myself to add to his sorrow. I let the questions remain unspoken.
Standing in that antique shop decades later, I knew this tray wasn’t Grandma’s. But that didn’t matter. It was close enough. It carried the same spirit, the same echoes of my childhood. So I bought it. Today, it sits in my bedroom, holding spare change, sunglasses, and little odds and ends. And every time I see it, I smile. Because in that simple piece of metal, I see my always-smiling Grandma Minnie, the woman I adored and will never forget.
Additional Information
- To learn more about my Grandma Minnie, here is Minnie’s page: https://trothman.com/laber/minnie/
- To learn more about Grandma Minnie’s apartment, read about the House of the Four Sisters: https://trothman.com/laber/the-house-of-the-four-sisters/
