A NEW YEAR’S CALL: GO TEACH!
Here we stand at the eve of another Rosh Hashanah – Jewish New Year – and the introspection to which we are called by God leads me back to recollections of equal measures of elation and grief. Such is this memory:
When I was in the throes of my deepest depression, I would lie in my bed and watch reruns of Rhoda at 2:00 in the afternoon. If you know about clinical depression, we lie in bed not because we want to, but because life, as we perceive it, has left us no option.
Out of its depths, though, I took a nanosecond of faith to spend a weekend in Brooklyn, with a Chasidic friend who was an adherent of the Grand Rebbe of Lubavitch. There would be no pressure. We would stay with his parents. His father, serendipitously, was private secretary to the Rebbe. If nothing else, it would be an insight into an arcane world, surrounded by empathic people.
The Rebbe was imputed by his disciples to have supernatural powers, and to be granted an audience was regarded a metaphysical encounter. My friend’s father arranged such an encounter for me. It would take mere moments and its primary gift would be the Rebbe’s blessing, which, he assured me, contained influence above.
Whether or not you are a believer, the Rebbe radiated an aura of ethereal sunlight. But, apparently he stopped short of a blessing for me, at least in so many words. Instead, he stroked my arm, peered through crystalline eyes, and spoke to me softly: “You should teach.”
Upon my departure, my friend’s father asked almost accusatorily, “So what did the Rebbe tell you?”
“He said I should teach.”
“Did he bless you?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Listen, he blessed you. So when will you start to teach?”
I hemmed and hawed: I had no students. I had no way of getting any. I had no space. I had no energy.
“The Rebbe said you should teach!” His voice was now bellicose. He is asking me to buy into blind faith, I thought. The Rebbe communed with God. The Rebbe knew the antidote, whatever it was to be.
“What?? Where?? Whom??”
“The Rebbe said you should teach! Even if it’s one person in your bedroom! Go teach Talmud! You have a good kop (head)!”
“OK, I’ll try.”
“Don’t try! The Rebbe said you should teach!”
The conclusion to the story is eerily supernatural: At Sabbath’s end, my voicemail held a message from a rabbinical colleague from whom I hadn’t heard in ages. Just popped up out of the ether. “Please call me as soon as you can,” he said.
Anxious, I returned the call.
“My congregation is starting an adult education program, and the committee and I want to know if you’d like to teach. We’re thinking Talmud, since you have such a good kop.”
Ya gotta be kidding, I thought. This was not smoke-and-mirrors. This was the real thing. I’d had had the metaphysical encounter with a man connected by his holiness. He told me to teach, and poof, in spite of my self, I’m teaching!
Whether or not you believe in miracles, what happened in Brooklyn had at its core the message that most restores the human soul: To be healthy, we must turn our energies outward. Nothing is more uplifting to the mind, heart, and spirit than to give something precious of ourselves to others who need it – to reach out with wisdom, wherewithal, energy, compassion, empathy . . . in a word, to “teach.” And nothing is more devastating to the spirit than to implode our all our energies into ones self and preoccupations.
Good meds and psychotherapy have helped greatly. No more, thought, than the pivotal moment when I listened to Rebbe, threw depression to the wind for the quickest second, started to teach, and thereby began relearning the patterns of giving, not subsisting.
Now we celebrate a new year – a time we believe is the “Birthday of the World,” particularly the human species. For all of us, then, an occasion of rebirth, renewal. If only we could take our lives so far as to get out of bed, shut off Rhoda, and reach outward, our deadly, depressing isolation would heal, and this would become a truly blessed new year for all of creation. Now, go teach!
September 13, 2009
September 10, 2009
WACKY ON THE WATER
If you have nothing to write after a cruise, you know you have attained a new level of writer’s block. OK, the ports of call – Newport, Boston, Halifax – were memorable. The food, as always, defined conspicuous consumption. The service created a weeklong illusion of luxury the likes of which we rubes would never enjoy, were it not for a blitzkrieg infusion of cash.
What’s left to tell about my cruise? As a Boomer of the ‘60s, I dare not gloat too lavishly, lest I be perceived as bourgeois. But, as an almost-senior in 2009, I dare not be too critical, lest I be perceived as a cynic and a crank. So, let’s say that that it was neither an orgy of giddy abandon, nor an experience that would turn sweet cream sour.
After three cruises, I finally realized that the word that was missing from my vocabulary to describe the milieu was “wacky.” Everything you do on a cruise has a patina of “wack,” intended or not, perpetrated by crew, voyagers, or the basic ambiance.
A quick example: The after-dinner entertainment is notorious for its cheesiness. But when the show hopscotches instantaneously from a little-too-energetic medley of “Hair” to an unctuous tenor crooning a dewy-eyed rendition of “Danny Boy,” you know that we have wandered just a little too far into the Kingdom of Wack.
You know what else is wacky? The inability to divest ourselves of our cellphones when we’re upon the high seas. As we (and I mean “we,” as in “me”) draw nearer to the coast, we check our reception as frantically as a nicotine fiend grabs for his next cigarette. Why? To check our voicemail, of course. Or, to call Cousin Birdie about the food. (“Terrible . . . and such small portions!” as the Yiddish joke goes.) That, and call into the office to sweat some new crisis. And, not to be outstripped by lo-tech, checking our email is also irresistible, fetched from a place ominously called the “Internet Café.” I failed to resist for eight measly minutes, and it cost me $22.50. And, yes, the whole ship is rigged with wi-fi, so that you see folks constantly pecking away at their laptops poolside, balancing one of those frou-frou banana daiquiris in their free hand. Wacky? You tell me.
The reputed leisure of cruising is also fraught with wack. Yes, the food and portions are legendary. But, so is the pushing, shoving, and butting in the buffet line, the likes of which make Times Square feel like a croquet match. And the din? One day, a this was a mother to her daughter at 100 decibels above the madding crowd: “Did you remember to call your Cousin Sharon?? She’s having a cyst removed from her ovary.” Next day, another mother/daughter, same scenario: “I had a little headache, but at least I didn’t get diarrhea!!” And, where else can your otherwise well-behaved dinner partner get up the wack to run her finger through the majestic Baked Alaska and lick it off, just before you were going to do the same? Wacky, no?
Five years ago, after my first cruise, I wrote a piece that dripped with cynicism. Could there be that much difference in aging from 55 to 60? This time you will not hear a snide word. The voyage was just what my therapist ordered: Asian waiters dressed like Venetian gondoliers, who actually called you “Signore.” Fluffy drinks with teeny umbrellas. Bumbling magicians. The black-out Baked Alaska sparkler-lit caravan. Table talk about surgeries and scars. The Internet Café. The Brobdignian buffet, somehow always served on the “Lido Deck.” Elderly women with their wheelchairs pulled up tight to the slot machines. Having your picture taken hugging a lobster.
The profound moments of a cruise will more than identify themselves – a magnificent view, historic site, a lover’s kiss. But, whenever the profundity subsides, the real way to enjoy a cruise is to savor it through the glasses of wacky. You will be neither disappointed, nor cynical, nor bored.
So call me neither bourgeoisie nor misanthrope. I’ll stand now and forever for the appellation of “wacky.” I had this confirmed thousand-fold the moment we disembarked in New York and I was greeted by a stevedore who told me in no uncertain terms to “f*** off,” because I had chosen someone other than him.
Ah, back to terra firma and its unvarnished realities, pining for just one more frou-frou daiquiri and another day of wacky.
If you have nothing to write after a cruise, you know you have attained a new level of writer’s block. OK, the ports of call – Newport, Boston, Halifax – were memorable. The food, as always, defined conspicuous consumption. The service created a weeklong illusion of luxury the likes of which we rubes would never enjoy, were it not for a blitzkrieg infusion of cash.
What’s left to tell about my cruise? As a Boomer of the ‘60s, I dare not gloat too lavishly, lest I be perceived as bourgeois. But, as an almost-senior in 2009, I dare not be too critical, lest I be perceived as a cynic and a crank. So, let’s say that that it was neither an orgy of giddy abandon, nor an experience that would turn sweet cream sour.
After three cruises, I finally realized that the word that was missing from my vocabulary to describe the milieu was “wacky.” Everything you do on a cruise has a patina of “wack,” intended or not, perpetrated by crew, voyagers, or the basic ambiance.
A quick example: The after-dinner entertainment is notorious for its cheesiness. But when the show hopscotches instantaneously from a little-too-energetic medley of “Hair” to an unctuous tenor crooning a dewy-eyed rendition of “Danny Boy,” you know that we have wandered just a little too far into the Kingdom of Wack.
You know what else is wacky? The inability to divest ourselves of our cellphones when we’re upon the high seas. As we (and I mean “we,” as in “me”) draw nearer to the coast, we check our reception as frantically as a nicotine fiend grabs for his next cigarette. Why? To check our voicemail, of course. Or, to call Cousin Birdie about the food. (“Terrible . . . and such small portions!” as the Yiddish joke goes.) That, and call into the office to sweat some new crisis. And, not to be outstripped by lo-tech, checking our email is also irresistible, fetched from a place ominously called the “Internet Café.” I failed to resist for eight measly minutes, and it cost me $22.50. And, yes, the whole ship is rigged with wi-fi, so that you see folks constantly pecking away at their laptops poolside, balancing one of those frou-frou banana daiquiris in their free hand. Wacky? You tell me.
The reputed leisure of cruising is also fraught with wack. Yes, the food and portions are legendary. But, so is the pushing, shoving, and butting in the buffet line, the likes of which make Times Square feel like a croquet match. And the din? One day, a this was a mother to her daughter at 100 decibels above the madding crowd: “Did you remember to call your Cousin Sharon?? She’s having a cyst removed from her ovary.” Next day, another mother/daughter, same scenario: “I had a little headache, but at least I didn’t get diarrhea!!” And, where else can your otherwise well-behaved dinner partner get up the wack to run her finger through the majestic Baked Alaska and lick it off, just before you were going to do the same? Wacky, no?
Five years ago, after my first cruise, I wrote a piece that dripped with cynicism. Could there be that much difference in aging from 55 to 60? This time you will not hear a snide word. The voyage was just what my therapist ordered: Asian waiters dressed like Venetian gondoliers, who actually called you “Signore.” Fluffy drinks with teeny umbrellas. Bumbling magicians. The black-out Baked Alaska sparkler-lit caravan. Table talk about surgeries and scars. The Internet Café. The Brobdignian buffet, somehow always served on the “Lido Deck.” Elderly women with their wheelchairs pulled up tight to the slot machines. Having your picture taken hugging a lobster.
The profound moments of a cruise will more than identify themselves – a magnificent view, historic site, a lover’s kiss. But, whenever the profundity subsides, the real way to enjoy a cruise is to savor it through the glasses of wacky. You will be neither disappointed, nor cynical, nor bored.
So call me neither bourgeoisie nor misanthrope. I’ll stand now and forever for the appellation of “wacky.” I had this confirmed thousand-fold the moment we disembarked in New York and I was greeted by a stevedore who told me in no uncertain terms to “f*** off,” because I had chosen someone other than him.
Ah, back to terra firma and its unvarnished realities, pining for just one more frou-frou daiquiri and another day of wacky.
July 27, 2009
A FORTY-YEAR OLD TALE OF MY OWN “PROFILING”
At the outset, let me make clear that this is not a missive about “who’s got it worse.” The discrimination that Jews have suffered here at home, however egregious, holds no comparison to that of African Americans, from slavery, to Jim Crow, to racial profiling. As a product of the Jewish upper middle class, though, I cannot resist relating my own experience with “profiling” – at least in an attenuated sense – however like or unlike that of Henry Louis Gates.
Four decades ago, I was one of the protesters who marched through the streets of Chicago during the infamous 1968 Democratic National Convention, albeit that I was pretty clean-cut and respectful, as befitted a yeshiva bochur (orthodox Jewish seminarian). In the convention’s aftermath, I attempted to attend the equally infamous Chicago Seven trial, at which leaders of the protest were tried for everything from disturbing the peace to sedition. The mood was, as one might expect, a frenetic, highly-charged mix of courtroom angst and countercultural buffoonery.
A spectator’s seat was nearly impossible to procure, but I waited my turn and was seated for an afternoon session. I remember dressing neatly; appropriate to the behavior of a yeshiva bochur, down to the yarmulke (skullcap) I always wore back then, a mandatory sign of devotion of the orthodox Jew to the One Above.
Upon being called to order, courtroom-tension as thick as ever, a marshal pointed to my yarmulke and signaled to remove it. I moved to the aisle to explain.
“Take off the beanie.” The marshal was adamant.
“It’s not a ‘beanie.’ It’s . . . “
My explanation was cut ominously short.
“I said, take off that beanie.”
But, giving me no time to either explain or remove it, he wrenched my arm and pulled me out of the courtroom, where a marshal grabbed me under the other arm and dragged me down a hall. At this point, I remember being only too willing to walk under my own strength, but every insistence just ratcheted up the dragging.
“Should we arrest him for ‘disorderly’?” one barked at the other.
“Too much trouble,” the other answered.
With that, they threw me in an elevator and boxed me into a corner. When we got downstairs, they slammed me against a wall and threw me through the door, warning me to “Get your ass out of here, and don’t come back, or you don’t know what hell is.”
The story made a box in next morning’s Sun-Times. I heard that Abbie Hoffman, the clown-prince of the conspirators, shouted out in open court, “It’s a shondeh for the goyim (a shame for the gentiles)! They’re taking a yeshiva bochur away!” for which he was cited for contempt.
That is the kind of tale you tell your grandchildren, worn like an achievement badge or a pair of tix to Woodstock – the day that Zayde got roughed up by the cops. Can you imagine that? Zayde? Truth be told, though, except for an occasional brush with low-grade anti-Semitism, I have lived a charmed life in which the cops have been my friends and no one has demanded that I remove my “beanie.”
But my 40-year-old singular experience with thugs-at-law is also a cautionary tale. It means that estrangement from basic justice and the presumption of innocence, the violation of personal integrity and decency, are an ever-present danger to anyone who dares to be different – much more so by dint of the color of ones skin.
So you see, once upon a time, decades ago, I lost my own presumption of innocence to the profile of a timid, nerdy yeshiva bochur, just trying to explain that my “beanie” defined whom I was. Is it that too much unlike Professor Gates defining himself by the color of his skin as a source of pride, not shame nor suspicion?
At the outset, let me make clear that this is not a missive about “who’s got it worse.” The discrimination that Jews have suffered here at home, however egregious, holds no comparison to that of African Americans, from slavery, to Jim Crow, to racial profiling. As a product of the Jewish upper middle class, though, I cannot resist relating my own experience with “profiling” – at least in an attenuated sense – however like or unlike that of Henry Louis Gates.
Four decades ago, I was one of the protesters who marched through the streets of Chicago during the infamous 1968 Democratic National Convention, albeit that I was pretty clean-cut and respectful, as befitted a yeshiva bochur (orthodox Jewish seminarian). In the convention’s aftermath, I attempted to attend the equally infamous Chicago Seven trial, at which leaders of the protest were tried for everything from disturbing the peace to sedition. The mood was, as one might expect, a frenetic, highly-charged mix of courtroom angst and countercultural buffoonery.
A spectator’s seat was nearly impossible to procure, but I waited my turn and was seated for an afternoon session. I remember dressing neatly; appropriate to the behavior of a yeshiva bochur, down to the yarmulke (skullcap) I always wore back then, a mandatory sign of devotion of the orthodox Jew to the One Above.
Upon being called to order, courtroom-tension as thick as ever, a marshal pointed to my yarmulke and signaled to remove it. I moved to the aisle to explain.
“Take off the beanie.” The marshal was adamant.
“It’s not a ‘beanie.’ It’s . . . “
My explanation was cut ominously short.
“I said, take off that beanie.”
But, giving me no time to either explain or remove it, he wrenched my arm and pulled me out of the courtroom, where a marshal grabbed me under the other arm and dragged me down a hall. At this point, I remember being only too willing to walk under my own strength, but every insistence just ratcheted up the dragging.
“Should we arrest him for ‘disorderly’?” one barked at the other.
“Too much trouble,” the other answered.
With that, they threw me in an elevator and boxed me into a corner. When we got downstairs, they slammed me against a wall and threw me through the door, warning me to “Get your ass out of here, and don’t come back, or you don’t know what hell is.”
The story made a box in next morning’s Sun-Times. I heard that Abbie Hoffman, the clown-prince of the conspirators, shouted out in open court, “It’s a shondeh for the goyim (a shame for the gentiles)! They’re taking a yeshiva bochur away!” for which he was cited for contempt.
That is the kind of tale you tell your grandchildren, worn like an achievement badge or a pair of tix to Woodstock – the day that Zayde got roughed up by the cops. Can you imagine that? Zayde? Truth be told, though, except for an occasional brush with low-grade anti-Semitism, I have lived a charmed life in which the cops have been my friends and no one has demanded that I remove my “beanie.”
But my 40-year-old singular experience with thugs-at-law is also a cautionary tale. It means that estrangement from basic justice and the presumption of innocence, the violation of personal integrity and decency, are an ever-present danger to anyone who dares to be different – much more so by dint of the color of ones skin.
So you see, once upon a time, decades ago, I lost my own presumption of innocence to the profile of a timid, nerdy yeshiva bochur, just trying to explain that my “beanie” defined whom I was. Is it that too much unlike Professor Gates defining himself by the color of his skin as a source of pride, not shame nor suspicion?
July 09, 2009
INTIMATIONS OF USELESSNESS
Would you indulge me in this opportunity to wallow? I just received my Medicare card and first Social Security check. Maybe you’d wallow, too.
My mind for an eternal moment is lingering over the most irrational thoughts. So, please don’t tell me how much I still have to give to my family and friends and community. I know. Please don’t tell me how many productive years still lie ahead of me, if I would just exercise more often. I know. Please don’t tell me that, with deference to the poetry of Browning’s Rabbi Ben Ezra, “the best is yet to be, the last of life for which the first was made.” I know.
You see, I have read the word as “disabled,” but through the dyslexia of depression, I have perceived the word as “useless.”
“Useless.” In my most lachrymose times, I look at the card and check, and feelings of uselessness overwhelm me. No, I have not been able to find gainful employment for seven years. “Experts” have calculated that I had more to gain by being declared “disabled” – too bipolar to hold down a real job among real people working for a real boss meeting real deadlines.
Were I 60 and retired, people would think me lucky to have days to commune with my keyboard, the dog, and what we’ll make for dinner. How many working stiffs would doubtlessly tell me they’d love to trade places, collect their check, chuck their boss?
But I am 60 and “disabled.” I have seen and even buried those who have faced disability and mortality far younger than I. Yet, now how cannot I feel it so acutely when the disability is mine?
Here’s the real rub: I know that my existence still makes a difference. People are still touched by the things I write. I can still pull together the critical mass of good-hearted, bleeding-hearted, and discontented people to make causes happen. I can still get a yuk out of a Biblically-relevant joke that I crack at my ragtag weekly Bible class.
Yet, it’s the finality that is killing me, boys – now having been declared “disabled” by social convention. No, no, don’t you see that I am perennially 16, a silly teenager still full of puns, double-entendres, goofy voices, and practical jokes. In my mind, I am immortal. Now, I face the reality of being named elderly at age 60.
How much of a man’s worth is bound up in his employability? Worth should come from ones ethereal, spiritual majesty, brother. Tell that to your preacher, not to someone whose nose is rubbed in a Medicare claim each time he visits his doc. “Take a little nap every afternoon,” he says. I need it, he says, for all the meds I’m taking. Then go get the mail and watch the cycle revolve around another letter from the Social Security office, all the while struggling with the thought that I am still far more hippie than Yanni.
I could make a friend, call a friend, but . . . I could go to the lunch for seniors at the synagogue, but . . . So damned much apoplectic self-pity, the weight of depression. Linda knows better, God bless her. The shrink will listen impassively, so long as I can afford the faux-empathy. The meds help me avoid sleeping fitfully until 4:00.
One day, rationality will once again prevail. Promise lies ahead. I know that the best is yet to be. I will again feel it again and even preach it. It’s just that mortality means to accept that a smile can occasionally just mask the fear, and even the feelings of uselessness, announcing that one has already arrived at the “last of life” for which the first was made.
Ah, feeling better already. Excuse me while I go back for another dessert.
Would you indulge me in this opportunity to wallow? I just received my Medicare card and first Social Security check. Maybe you’d wallow, too.
My mind for an eternal moment is lingering over the most irrational thoughts. So, please don’t tell me how much I still have to give to my family and friends and community. I know. Please don’t tell me how many productive years still lie ahead of me, if I would just exercise more often. I know. Please don’t tell me that, with deference to the poetry of Browning’s Rabbi Ben Ezra, “the best is yet to be, the last of life for which the first was made.” I know.
You see, I have read the word as “disabled,” but through the dyslexia of depression, I have perceived the word as “useless.”
“Useless.” In my most lachrymose times, I look at the card and check, and feelings of uselessness overwhelm me. No, I have not been able to find gainful employment for seven years. “Experts” have calculated that I had more to gain by being declared “disabled” – too bipolar to hold down a real job among real people working for a real boss meeting real deadlines.
Were I 60 and retired, people would think me lucky to have days to commune with my keyboard, the dog, and what we’ll make for dinner. How many working stiffs would doubtlessly tell me they’d love to trade places, collect their check, chuck their boss?
But I am 60 and “disabled.” I have seen and even buried those who have faced disability and mortality far younger than I. Yet, now how cannot I feel it so acutely when the disability is mine?
Here’s the real rub: I know that my existence still makes a difference. People are still touched by the things I write. I can still pull together the critical mass of good-hearted, bleeding-hearted, and discontented people to make causes happen. I can still get a yuk out of a Biblically-relevant joke that I crack at my ragtag weekly Bible class.
Yet, it’s the finality that is killing me, boys – now having been declared “disabled” by social convention. No, no, don’t you see that I am perennially 16, a silly teenager still full of puns, double-entendres, goofy voices, and practical jokes. In my mind, I am immortal. Now, I face the reality of being named elderly at age 60.
How much of a man’s worth is bound up in his employability? Worth should come from ones ethereal, spiritual majesty, brother. Tell that to your preacher, not to someone whose nose is rubbed in a Medicare claim each time he visits his doc. “Take a little nap every afternoon,” he says. I need it, he says, for all the meds I’m taking. Then go get the mail and watch the cycle revolve around another letter from the Social Security office, all the while struggling with the thought that I am still far more hippie than Yanni.
I could make a friend, call a friend, but . . . I could go to the lunch for seniors at the synagogue, but . . . So damned much apoplectic self-pity, the weight of depression. Linda knows better, God bless her. The shrink will listen impassively, so long as I can afford the faux-empathy. The meds help me avoid sleeping fitfully until 4:00.
One day, rationality will once again prevail. Promise lies ahead. I know that the best is yet to be. I will again feel it again and even preach it. It’s just that mortality means to accept that a smile can occasionally just mask the fear, and even the feelings of uselessness, announcing that one has already arrived at the “last of life” for which the first was made.
Ah, feeling better already. Excuse me while I go back for another dessert.
June 25, 2009
FEEDING THE APPETITE FOR SCHADENFREUDE
It might be too early to write about the depths of Mark Sanford’s damnation, but it is not too soon to write about his pain, however well deserved. Paving the road to his purgatory and perdition has yet to be defined, not so much by the prospect of illegally misappropriated funds as by salacious bikini tans. Learn well, though, that the self-righteous hooting of his lynch-mob breeds its own kind of love affair. It is the affair fed by schadenfreude, the public’s insatiable appetite for the delight in another’s undoing.
Perhaps in this open and unrelenting society, comedy will always be inevitable. Winding up as one-liners in a Conan monologue or a Letterman Top Ten list has become part of the ritual of public exculpation, a flogging before the jeering throng.
Call me a sourpuss, but let me give the tawdry misdeed a different perspective: This situation is a tragedy, plain and simple, not an SNL sketch. A once-respected leader capitulated to misbegotten lust. Who knows the demons at work in his soul? Who knows the conflicts that were prey to his narcissism? All we do know is that he is already suffering all the grief he deserved and then some. He is likely to have forfeited his job, his marriage, his esteem, his authority, his ability to walk down the street without facing murmured scorn or derision.
Once, though, that society has meted out its explicit and implicit punishments, who will be there to give a modicum of solace and encouragement to a hurting, isolated, failed man who gave in to impulses that bespeak tortured unwholeness, not criminality? Who will comfort him, show him some understanding, and restore his sense of self-worth?
It will not be a psychotherapist at hundreds a session. It will, and must, be a person of exceptional compassion, tolerance, and insight. Perhaps it will be someone who has himself been humbled by scandal or impropriety, who knows the internal conflicts and lurking demons. Perhaps it will be a “wounded healer,” one who has himself gained a great ability in comprehend others' troubles thanks to the awareness of his own pain.
Having mercy on a person who has suffered undeservedly is, sadly, a rare quality in our contentious, calloused society. Granting mercy, or even understanding, to one who had done wrong and deserved punishment is even more exceptional. Yet, anyone who has been there knows that everyone needs someone by his side, someone who may loathe the sin yet acknowledge the humanity of the sinner. Those of us who have sinned, especially to the public’s derision, know only too well the paradigm of the pain, the emptiness, and if God grants us, the healing.
“Everyone needs someone,” you say? Even Hitler and child murderers and cold-blooded killers? To that, I have no rational answer, but I do have an existential one that I learned from Elie Weisel. I was privileged to have coffee with Weisel at the time that Ivan (“The Terrible”) Demjanjuk was on trial. Knowing his staunch opposition to capital punishment, I asked Weisel if his opposition extended to Demjanjuk, et al. “No,” he said. “That’s different.” He did not elaborate, and there was a note of finality to his voice. It said, “This should not require further explanation.”
I guess that there is a point of malignant depravity that moves beyond any claim to compassion or even human validation. And I guess that we must rely on some higher instinct with which God has blessed us to know where to draw the line. This, however, I do know: What Sanford did was not mass murder. Likewise 99.9 percent of the sins that feed schadenfreude-hungry audiences a steady diet of scandal, titillating innuendo, lush gossip, comedic scripts and unjustified intimations of our own moral superiority.
OK, OK, so we got a good yuk out of self-righteous public personage getting caught with his pants down. Next week another deserving candidate will be welcomed to the pop chart. But, who among us will see tragedy in another’s downfall? Who among us will be there to wipe their tears and ease their burden?
If the public has a right to the comedic dimension of human downfall and moral frailty, then let them know well enough also to see tragedy as tragedy. For, imputing only comedy to a person’s undoing is the greatest tragedy of all.
It might be too early to write about the depths of Mark Sanford’s damnation, but it is not too soon to write about his pain, however well deserved. Paving the road to his purgatory and perdition has yet to be defined, not so much by the prospect of illegally misappropriated funds as by salacious bikini tans. Learn well, though, that the self-righteous hooting of his lynch-mob breeds its own kind of love affair. It is the affair fed by schadenfreude, the public’s insatiable appetite for the delight in another’s undoing.
Perhaps in this open and unrelenting society, comedy will always be inevitable. Winding up as one-liners in a Conan monologue or a Letterman Top Ten list has become part of the ritual of public exculpation, a flogging before the jeering throng.
Call me a sourpuss, but let me give the tawdry misdeed a different perspective: This situation is a tragedy, plain and simple, not an SNL sketch. A once-respected leader capitulated to misbegotten lust. Who knows the demons at work in his soul? Who knows the conflicts that were prey to his narcissism? All we do know is that he is already suffering all the grief he deserved and then some. He is likely to have forfeited his job, his marriage, his esteem, his authority, his ability to walk down the street without facing murmured scorn or derision.
Once, though, that society has meted out its explicit and implicit punishments, who will be there to give a modicum of solace and encouragement to a hurting, isolated, failed man who gave in to impulses that bespeak tortured unwholeness, not criminality? Who will comfort him, show him some understanding, and restore his sense of self-worth?
It will not be a psychotherapist at hundreds a session. It will, and must, be a person of exceptional compassion, tolerance, and insight. Perhaps it will be someone who has himself been humbled by scandal or impropriety, who knows the internal conflicts and lurking demons. Perhaps it will be a “wounded healer,” one who has himself gained a great ability in comprehend others' troubles thanks to the awareness of his own pain.
Having mercy on a person who has suffered undeservedly is, sadly, a rare quality in our contentious, calloused society. Granting mercy, or even understanding, to one who had done wrong and deserved punishment is even more exceptional. Yet, anyone who has been there knows that everyone needs someone by his side, someone who may loathe the sin yet acknowledge the humanity of the sinner. Those of us who have sinned, especially to the public’s derision, know only too well the paradigm of the pain, the emptiness, and if God grants us, the healing.
“Everyone needs someone,” you say? Even Hitler and child murderers and cold-blooded killers? To that, I have no rational answer, but I do have an existential one that I learned from Elie Weisel. I was privileged to have coffee with Weisel at the time that Ivan (“The Terrible”) Demjanjuk was on trial. Knowing his staunch opposition to capital punishment, I asked Weisel if his opposition extended to Demjanjuk, et al. “No,” he said. “That’s different.” He did not elaborate, and there was a note of finality to his voice. It said, “This should not require further explanation.”
I guess that there is a point of malignant depravity that moves beyond any claim to compassion or even human validation. And I guess that we must rely on some higher instinct with which God has blessed us to know where to draw the line. This, however, I do know: What Sanford did was not mass murder. Likewise 99.9 percent of the sins that feed schadenfreude-hungry audiences a steady diet of scandal, titillating innuendo, lush gossip, comedic scripts and unjustified intimations of our own moral superiority.
OK, OK, so we got a good yuk out of self-righteous public personage getting caught with his pants down. Next week another deserving candidate will be welcomed to the pop chart. But, who among us will see tragedy in another’s downfall? Who among us will be there to wipe their tears and ease their burden?
If the public has a right to the comedic dimension of human downfall and moral frailty, then let them know well enough also to see tragedy as tragedy. For, imputing only comedy to a person’s undoing is the greatest tragedy of all.
June 15, 2009
THE WASTE OF A LIFETIME
What a waste of a lifetime.
People will find a thousand ways to analyze why a hateful 88-year-old man tried to shoot up a museum devoted to the lessons of man’s greatest inhumanity. We have already heard minds small and large prognosticate about the causes being in a climate of national misanthropy to Freudian traumas dating back to toilet training. I prefer the theory that sometimes evil is simply evil; it plainly transcends psychological or sociological explanation – “two parts Hitler,” my Holocaust-survivor Talmud rebbe, would call it.
In all the rightful questioning, there also resides a bitter lament – please don’t quote me out of context – that we should recite over Erik von Brunn: What a waste of a lifetime. Look at all the good that a man could have accomplished were his mind not preoccupied with hate.
He was obviously a capable man. His vituperative writings are at least intelligible, even articulate – subject, predicate, object. He knows the language that musters the rabble. He carefully thinks through his twisted slurs and paranoia. He’s not a dope. This is not some Cro-Magnon Klansman, but a hatefully intelligent man.
So I repeat, despite my own hate for him and his deed: What a waste of a lifetime. What a crooked evil that led him to the waste of others. Think: Those skills of his, were they rightfully motivated, could have written provocative essays or books, even an illustrative memoir of his apparently tormented childhood. How many people searching for meaning might he have enlightened? How much misanthropy might he have quelled? What if his advocacy were for childhood cancer or illiteracy? What a pity. What a waste of all the good he could have accomplished over 88 years.
The lament is not von Brunn’s alone. It extends to each of us. Every one of us, to a greater or lesser degree, brings some passion or skill to the table. To what good? The physician, bringing compassion to people in need, along with book-learned and clinical skills? So, too, the attorney, the accountant, the craftsman, the skilled and unskilled laborer, the homemaker, the retiree, the rambunctious teenager, the precocious child? What shall we say to defend nonsense, just-for-me-ism, couch-potato-ship, text messaging, apathy, while so much yet good begs to be done?
What a waste of a lifetime.
Once I asked a mechanic what he did for fun. “Go home and kick the **** out of my dog,” he answered. It needn’t be a mechanic, does the answer need to be so horrid, but to some greater or lesser extent, what does it mean to “kick the ****” out of ones lifetime? What a waste.
Each of us has the capacity for evil. Of this, we know only too well. For each of the impulses for evil we harbor, something humane – God or even atheism – cries out with some countervailing potential for good.
Reb Moshe Leib Sassover asserted that every human attribute, however base, could be converted into a virtuous deed. Once upon a time, Reb Moshe was taunted by a disciple to explain how atheism could become honorable. “Even that,” Reb Moshe proclaimed. “For if someone comes to you in hurt, you may not say, ‘Take your problems to God.’ No, at that moment, you must become an atheist, act as if there is no God; that there is only one force that can help this man. YOU!”
The question of whether one wastes a lifetime lived at evil or oblivion is too easily pushed off on demons like von Brunn. It could well be said of each of us who yawn at or desecrate a magnificent, but needy, world. Let not von Brunn’s epitaph become our own.
What a waste of a lifetime.
People will find a thousand ways to analyze why a hateful 88-year-old man tried to shoot up a museum devoted to the lessons of man’s greatest inhumanity. We have already heard minds small and large prognosticate about the causes being in a climate of national misanthropy to Freudian traumas dating back to toilet training. I prefer the theory that sometimes evil is simply evil; it plainly transcends psychological or sociological explanation – “two parts Hitler,” my Holocaust-survivor Talmud rebbe, would call it.
In all the rightful questioning, there also resides a bitter lament – please don’t quote me out of context – that we should recite over Erik von Brunn: What a waste of a lifetime. Look at all the good that a man could have accomplished were his mind not preoccupied with hate.
He was obviously a capable man. His vituperative writings are at least intelligible, even articulate – subject, predicate, object. He knows the language that musters the rabble. He carefully thinks through his twisted slurs and paranoia. He’s not a dope. This is not some Cro-Magnon Klansman, but a hatefully intelligent man.
So I repeat, despite my own hate for him and his deed: What a waste of a lifetime. What a crooked evil that led him to the waste of others. Think: Those skills of his, were they rightfully motivated, could have written provocative essays or books, even an illustrative memoir of his apparently tormented childhood. How many people searching for meaning might he have enlightened? How much misanthropy might he have quelled? What if his advocacy were for childhood cancer or illiteracy? What a pity. What a waste of all the good he could have accomplished over 88 years.
The lament is not von Brunn’s alone. It extends to each of us. Every one of us, to a greater or lesser degree, brings some passion or skill to the table. To what good? The physician, bringing compassion to people in need, along with book-learned and clinical skills? So, too, the attorney, the accountant, the craftsman, the skilled and unskilled laborer, the homemaker, the retiree, the rambunctious teenager, the precocious child? What shall we say to defend nonsense, just-for-me-ism, couch-potato-ship, text messaging, apathy, while so much yet good begs to be done?
What a waste of a lifetime.
Once I asked a mechanic what he did for fun. “Go home and kick the **** out of my dog,” he answered. It needn’t be a mechanic, does the answer need to be so horrid, but to some greater or lesser extent, what does it mean to “kick the ****” out of ones lifetime? What a waste.
Each of us has the capacity for evil. Of this, we know only too well. For each of the impulses for evil we harbor, something humane – God or even atheism – cries out with some countervailing potential for good.
Reb Moshe Leib Sassover asserted that every human attribute, however base, could be converted into a virtuous deed. Once upon a time, Reb Moshe was taunted by a disciple to explain how atheism could become honorable. “Even that,” Reb Moshe proclaimed. “For if someone comes to you in hurt, you may not say, ‘Take your problems to God.’ No, at that moment, you must become an atheist, act as if there is no God; that there is only one force that can help this man. YOU!”
The question of whether one wastes a lifetime lived at evil or oblivion is too easily pushed off on demons like von Brunn. It could well be said of each of us who yawn at or desecrate a magnificent, but needy, world. Let not von Brunn’s epitaph become our own.
May 01, 2009
WAS HIS VOTE WORTH IT?
I campaigned for Tony Trout. It was the first and only time I campaigned for a local candidate. I sent emails and signed petitions. I wrote him letters of encouragement throughout his rocky runs and runoffs.
Being outside his district, I could not vote for him, but I spoke, wrote, and cajoled about his worthiness and the necessity of his victory. Tony had become, even for the right-minded, the quintessential single-issue candidate. What we knew about him was that his vote would ensure that the birthday of Dr. King would be celebrated in Greenville County.
His opponent, Steve Selby, saw everything wrong, we said, and maybe weren’t far from mistaken. Little is it known, but I spent two hours in the smoke-cloying Denny’s lobbying him on the holiday issue, to no avail. His argument, as you would expect, was built around how decent people knew that Dr. King was a “womanizing communist,” as though more than a few of his own role-models were not unreconstructed sinners.
By the way, our conversation ended with him pronouncing, “Marc, I’ll miss you in heaven.” In a moment of rare genius, I responded, “Frankly, Steve, I’ve seen enough of you here on earth.”
But yes, we said, Tony was OK. Some of us knew that his motives may have been less than kosher, but for the vast majority of us, motives did not matter. We lauded him for his guts and one promise of progressivism. We got our holiday . . . and we got our Tony Trout.
Tony turned out to be the creep, after all. We snuck him into office on a single issue. Save the Dr. King issue, at least Steve Selby wasn’t a cowardly crook. Choke on the words as I may, Steve was a real straight arrow, a law-enforcement official and family man who was whistle-clean. In all, Steve may have represented by as man of ill-begotten attitude, but all be told he was honest.
How close must the ends be to the means to justify them? Reducing it to the absurd, remember the canard, that “At least he (Hitler) could get the trains to run on time.” Tony Trout is not Hitler, God forbid, but did one issue, however noble, justify not even to do a sniff-test to assess his politics, positions, and most of all, his ethical posture? Worse yet, discovering the negative, would it have even mattered? I count myself among the latter, and in retrospect, I am not proud.
This remains the dilemma: Had we to do it over again, would we have chosen the moral rectitude of a Steve Selby over a morally-bankrupt one-trick-pony? More succinctly, did one vote of a sneak and a scoundrel justify his ascent to civic leadership? Yet more succinctly, what would Dr. King have done?
I don’t know. I don’t know. If you think you do, I’ll miss you in heaven.
I campaigned for Tony Trout. It was the first and only time I campaigned for a local candidate. I sent emails and signed petitions. I wrote him letters of encouragement throughout his rocky runs and runoffs.
Being outside his district, I could not vote for him, but I spoke, wrote, and cajoled about his worthiness and the necessity of his victory. Tony had become, even for the right-minded, the quintessential single-issue candidate. What we knew about him was that his vote would ensure that the birthday of Dr. King would be celebrated in Greenville County.
His opponent, Steve Selby, saw everything wrong, we said, and maybe weren’t far from mistaken. Little is it known, but I spent two hours in the smoke-cloying Denny’s lobbying him on the holiday issue, to no avail. His argument, as you would expect, was built around how decent people knew that Dr. King was a “womanizing communist,” as though more than a few of his own role-models were not unreconstructed sinners.
By the way, our conversation ended with him pronouncing, “Marc, I’ll miss you in heaven.” In a moment of rare genius, I responded, “Frankly, Steve, I’ve seen enough of you here on earth.”
But yes, we said, Tony was OK. Some of us knew that his motives may have been less than kosher, but for the vast majority of us, motives did not matter. We lauded him for his guts and one promise of progressivism. We got our holiday . . . and we got our Tony Trout.
Tony turned out to be the creep, after all. We snuck him into office on a single issue. Save the Dr. King issue, at least Steve Selby wasn’t a cowardly crook. Choke on the words as I may, Steve was a real straight arrow, a law-enforcement official and family man who was whistle-clean. In all, Steve may have represented by as man of ill-begotten attitude, but all be told he was honest.
How close must the ends be to the means to justify them? Reducing it to the absurd, remember the canard, that “At least he (Hitler) could get the trains to run on time.” Tony Trout is not Hitler, God forbid, but did one issue, however noble, justify not even to do a sniff-test to assess his politics, positions, and most of all, his ethical posture? Worse yet, discovering the negative, would it have even mattered? I count myself among the latter, and in retrospect, I am not proud.
This remains the dilemma: Had we to do it over again, would we have chosen the moral rectitude of a Steve Selby over a morally-bankrupt one-trick-pony? More succinctly, did one vote of a sneak and a scoundrel justify his ascent to civic leadership? Yet more succinctly, what would Dr. King have done?
I don’t know. I don’t know. If you think you do, I’ll miss you in heaven.
I AM ORDAINED A HIGH PRIEST (REVISED)
I wonder whether Aaron the biblical High Priest perpetually had second-degree burns over his hands from frying up sacrifices in olive oil. Better yet, am I ordained a High Priest because of all the times I sear myself while I attempt to cook with scorching olive oil? If so, then last week I was anointed with that holy unguent and declared High Priest by a congregation of ten burly, very gentile gentiles.
The scenario: One of my Bar Mitzvah students, Jacob, is a little more eccentric than most 13-year-olds. He reviews his portion of the service with gusto only after he has spent an hour with me in the kitchen. On that momentous day, we were planning to make beef-barley soup. We were about to sauté onions in EVOO (“Extra Virgin Olive Oil,” for you who don’t watch that cutesy parakeet, Rachael Ray, chirping about it along with her dog food. Jealous? Moi?)
In an instant, flames leapt from the pot. Shoving Jacob out of the way (a good instinct), I stuck my hand in the fire (a bad instinct) and burned it to what I was sure what be a charcoal crisp. Miraculously, I escaped with only two half-inch burns.
Being a denizen of the upper middle class, our house is equipped with the biggest and most hypersensitive alarm system, which instantly alerts the fire department every time I fry an egg.
I had already well doused the fire and sufficiently attended to my burns, when a police captain banged on the front door. He apparently handled these matters because he was so anemic that he couldn’t save my labradoodle Minnie from a titmouse. I calmly told him that no other emergency services were required.
Too late. The fire department had already snaked its way down our narrow lane with its hook-and-ladder. Out of the truck leapt six sumo firefighters, oxygen tanks strapped to their backs, insisting on inspecting the house. They spied the minor burns on my hand and announced that they were obliged to have EMS come to check me out. “Not necessary,” I protested.
But, shortly thereafter, three EMTs arrived in their ambulance. They were required by law, they said, to examine me. Before I knew it, they were taking my blood pressure. Then they discovered the scar on my chest from my pacemaker. Jackpot. They demanded that I lie down and let them take an EKG – all for two half-inch burns.
By then, our kitchen was overrun by a ten men and women of emergency crews, a quorum for worship. Law required that I be taken to the hospital, they said.
So off I go in a gurney to the ER, where I was once again meticulously examined, and then waited an hour to have salve schmered on my gaping wounds. The EMTs, firefighters, and cops stood by watchfully.
Jacob, of course, was petrified. His mother had arrived to pick him up. As I was being wheeled out on the stretcher, mother and son dutifully followed behind, offering me reassurance and asking me whom they should call. An audience of curious neighbors, God bless them, gathered outside. By the time my Linda returned from the office and picked me up from the ER, our doorstep was laden with aluminum pans full of meatloaf, fried chicken, the ubiquitous tuna salad, and brownies, all gifts of goodwill from the Bob Jones families surrounding us.
Can you comprehend the significance of that momentous occasion? I had been twice anointed High Priest, once by olive oil, then by life-saving unction, in the presence of my motley, burly congregation of ten weary caregivers.
Will I burn myself again? Of course. Just that this time, I will have disconnected my fire alarm. Will my intrepid Jacob return? Of course. But only after I promise we continue our culinary adventures only if we make something innocent, like fruit salad.
No! No! Watch out for that Santoku! It might slip and cut your . . . oh, nooooo . . .
I wonder whether Aaron the biblical High Priest perpetually had second-degree burns over his hands from frying up sacrifices in olive oil. Better yet, am I ordained a High Priest because of all the times I sear myself while I attempt to cook with scorching olive oil? If so, then last week I was anointed with that holy unguent and declared High Priest by a congregation of ten burly, very gentile gentiles.
The scenario: One of my Bar Mitzvah students, Jacob, is a little more eccentric than most 13-year-olds. He reviews his portion of the service with gusto only after he has spent an hour with me in the kitchen. On that momentous day, we were planning to make beef-barley soup. We were about to sauté onions in EVOO (“Extra Virgin Olive Oil,” for you who don’t watch that cutesy parakeet, Rachael Ray, chirping about it along with her dog food. Jealous? Moi?)
In an instant, flames leapt from the pot. Shoving Jacob out of the way (a good instinct), I stuck my hand in the fire (a bad instinct) and burned it to what I was sure what be a charcoal crisp. Miraculously, I escaped with only two half-inch burns.
Being a denizen of the upper middle class, our house is equipped with the biggest and most hypersensitive alarm system, which instantly alerts the fire department every time I fry an egg.
I had already well doused the fire and sufficiently attended to my burns, when a police captain banged on the front door. He apparently handled these matters because he was so anemic that he couldn’t save my labradoodle Minnie from a titmouse. I calmly told him that no other emergency services were required.
Too late. The fire department had already snaked its way down our narrow lane with its hook-and-ladder. Out of the truck leapt six sumo firefighters, oxygen tanks strapped to their backs, insisting on inspecting the house. They spied the minor burns on my hand and announced that they were obliged to have EMS come to check me out. “Not necessary,” I protested.
But, shortly thereafter, three EMTs arrived in their ambulance. They were required by law, they said, to examine me. Before I knew it, they were taking my blood pressure. Then they discovered the scar on my chest from my pacemaker. Jackpot. They demanded that I lie down and let them take an EKG – all for two half-inch burns.
By then, our kitchen was overrun by a ten men and women of emergency crews, a quorum for worship. Law required that I be taken to the hospital, they said.
So off I go in a gurney to the ER, where I was once again meticulously examined, and then waited an hour to have salve schmered on my gaping wounds. The EMTs, firefighters, and cops stood by watchfully.
Jacob, of course, was petrified. His mother had arrived to pick him up. As I was being wheeled out on the stretcher, mother and son dutifully followed behind, offering me reassurance and asking me whom they should call. An audience of curious neighbors, God bless them, gathered outside. By the time my Linda returned from the office and picked me up from the ER, our doorstep was laden with aluminum pans full of meatloaf, fried chicken, the ubiquitous tuna salad, and brownies, all gifts of goodwill from the Bob Jones families surrounding us.
Can you comprehend the significance of that momentous occasion? I had been twice anointed High Priest, once by olive oil, then by life-saving unction, in the presence of my motley, burly congregation of ten weary caregivers.
Will I burn myself again? Of course. Just that this time, I will have disconnected my fire alarm. Will my intrepid Jacob return? Of course. But only after I promise we continue our culinary adventures only if we make something innocent, like fruit salad.
No! No! Watch out for that Santoku! It might slip and cut your . . . oh, nooooo . . .
April 22, 2009
A CAFFEINATED MEETING OF THE IN-LAWS
I have never understood why people drink decaffeinated coffee. Maybe it’s because I personally think that any coffee – even the vaunted Starbuck’s – tastes and lingers in the throat like wet cigarettes. How I know the taste and texture of wet cigarettes is simply up to ones conjecture.
What then? The only real reason that justifies drinking coffee is the, nerve-chilling amphetamine buzz one gets from drinking the stuff that’s full of caffeine – Super-Sumatra-Kenyata-Double-Deep-Dark-Roasted-Kona-Brain-Buster.
This and its cousins are brews that are not to be taken lightly. Indeed, they should be saved for special occasions when hyperkinetic attitude adjustment is the order of the day. I had one such day nearly 12 years ago that I remember with an afterglow of yet-to-be-resolved caffeine overdose.
It was the day that I drove the 90 miles from Atlanta to Macon, Georgia, to meet my soon-to-be in-laws. I knew little of them, and what I knew was dire: No, Linda and I could not sleep in the same room. No, I was not welcome at the Thanksgiving table until the engagement was “official.” What did I really do for a living? Would you please explain it again? Do people actually make money doing that?
How to confront such a dire situation? Drink coffee, plenty of it. Start drinking it before breakfast. Then, with my toast and jelly. Then, as I hit the road. Then, rolling down the highway. Then, whenever I stopped for gas – many times, of course, for we all know what coffee does to ones bladder.
Too much. By the time I got to Macon, my ears buzzed, my eyes spun, my teeth and follicles tingled, my arms and legs shook. Worst, my mind raced. The already skeptical in-laws greeted me feebly from the top of the stairs. Uncontrollably, I hailed words like bullets from a machine gun . . .
“Hello-Mom-and-Dad-I-hope-you-don’t-mind-me-calling-you-Mom-and-Dad-because-I’m-so-in-love-with-your-daughter-and-I-promise-to-make-a-good-husband-for-her-even-if-you-don’t-know-what-I do-for-a-llving-and-we-sleep-in-the-same-bedroom-and-I-really-want-to-get-to-know-you-better-because-I-know-that-you’ll-love-me-when-you-really-get-to-know-me-and-I-know-I’ll-have-made-it-when-you-invite-me-to-Thanksgiving-dinner . . . “
The in-laws were astounded. “I hope he doesn’t always talk so fast.”
“Not after he’s taken a cold shower,” Linda explained. “He’s always that way when he has too much caffeine.”
“Too much caffeine?” her mother chafed. “And here I thought it was because he wanted us to love him.”
I have never understood why people drink decaffeinated coffee. Maybe it’s because I personally think that any coffee – even the vaunted Starbuck’s – tastes and lingers in the throat like wet cigarettes. How I know the taste and texture of wet cigarettes is simply up to ones conjecture.
What then? The only real reason that justifies drinking coffee is the, nerve-chilling amphetamine buzz one gets from drinking the stuff that’s full of caffeine – Super-Sumatra-Kenyata-Double-Deep-Dark-Roasted-Kona-Brain-Buster.
This and its cousins are brews that are not to be taken lightly. Indeed, they should be saved for special occasions when hyperkinetic attitude adjustment is the order of the day. I had one such day nearly 12 years ago that I remember with an afterglow of yet-to-be-resolved caffeine overdose.
It was the day that I drove the 90 miles from Atlanta to Macon, Georgia, to meet my soon-to-be in-laws. I knew little of them, and what I knew was dire: No, Linda and I could not sleep in the same room. No, I was not welcome at the Thanksgiving table until the engagement was “official.” What did I really do for a living? Would you please explain it again? Do people actually make money doing that?
How to confront such a dire situation? Drink coffee, plenty of it. Start drinking it before breakfast. Then, with my toast and jelly. Then, as I hit the road. Then, rolling down the highway. Then, whenever I stopped for gas – many times, of course, for we all know what coffee does to ones bladder.
Too much. By the time I got to Macon, my ears buzzed, my eyes spun, my teeth and follicles tingled, my arms and legs shook. Worst, my mind raced. The already skeptical in-laws greeted me feebly from the top of the stairs. Uncontrollably, I hailed words like bullets from a machine gun . . .
“Hello-Mom-and-Dad-I-hope-you-don’t-mind-me-calling-you-Mom-and-Dad-because-I’m-so-in-love-with-your-daughter-and-I-promise-to-make-a-good-husband-for-her-even-if-you-don’t-know-what-I do-for-a-llving-and-we-sleep-in-the-same-bedroom-and-I-really-want-to-get-to-know-you-better-because-I-know-that-you’ll-love-me-when-you-really-get-to-know-me-and-I-know-I’ll-have-made-it-when-you-invite-me-to-Thanksgiving-dinner . . . “
The in-laws were astounded. “I hope he doesn’t always talk so fast.”
“Not after he’s taken a cold shower,” Linda explained. “He’s always that way when he has too much caffeine.”
“Too much caffeine?” her mother chafed. “And here I thought it was because he wanted us to love him.”
April 17, 2009
“IT FREAKS ME OUT”
How was your Seder? Mine was absolutely delightful. Imagine this: My children and grandchildren live in Atlanta, some 140 miles away from my little hamlet of Greenville. Only in my wildest dreams would I imagine celebrating the Sedarim in Atlanta, as there also resides my former wife, with whom the kids celebrate theirs.
Please know that for 18 years, life has been more unpleasant than pleasant between the two of us. Miraculously, things have changed. Perhaps it’s because of the much touted realignment of the sun. And perhaps with time she has become more forgiving of her once errant husband. All credit to her.
So, for the price of me roasting two turkeys and baking a potato kugel, and a lot of teshuvah, Linda and I are graciously welcomed at her table – and there are the kids and the grandchildren.
Nothing could possibly be better. Sophie and Simeon flawlessly recite the Four Questions. Who would expect less from a day school education at $20,000 a year. Dinner is delicious, especially the Pflaumenkuchen von Fulda. The grandchildren break our bank stealing and redeeming the afikomon.
The Seder attains its crescendo as the children gleefully sing Chad Gadyo. Everyone chants at the top of their voices but seven-year-old Sophie. She will have nothing to do with it.
“What’s wrong?” I beg her?
“Zayde,” she says, “Chad Gadyo ‘freaks me out’.” First of all, the kid gets killed. Then the dog bites the cat, and he’ll surely be put to sleep. Children shouldn’t play with fire, and oxen are scary. The shochet is murdered by the Malach Ha-Moves. HaShem is supposed to kill him, but I haven’t even ever seen HaShem. That’s why it ‘freaks me out’.”
At least, I say to myself, at age seven she has already become a philosopher, albeit a neurotic one. Finally, her five-year-old brother, a real mazik, injects a dose of reality into the situation. “You know that part about the boy’s two zuzim?” he announces. “I don’t have any money at all!”
How was your Seder? Mine was absolutely delightful. Imagine this: My children and grandchildren live in Atlanta, some 140 miles away from my little hamlet of Greenville. Only in my wildest dreams would I imagine celebrating the Sedarim in Atlanta, as there also resides my former wife, with whom the kids celebrate theirs.
Please know that for 18 years, life has been more unpleasant than pleasant between the two of us. Miraculously, things have changed. Perhaps it’s because of the much touted realignment of the sun. And perhaps with time she has become more forgiving of her once errant husband. All credit to her.
So, for the price of me roasting two turkeys and baking a potato kugel, and a lot of teshuvah, Linda and I are graciously welcomed at her table – and there are the kids and the grandchildren.
Nothing could possibly be better. Sophie and Simeon flawlessly recite the Four Questions. Who would expect less from a day school education at $20,000 a year. Dinner is delicious, especially the Pflaumenkuchen von Fulda. The grandchildren break our bank stealing and redeeming the afikomon.
The Seder attains its crescendo as the children gleefully sing Chad Gadyo. Everyone chants at the top of their voices but seven-year-old Sophie. She will have nothing to do with it.
“What’s wrong?” I beg her?
“Zayde,” she says, “Chad Gadyo ‘freaks me out’.” First of all, the kid gets killed. Then the dog bites the cat, and he’ll surely be put to sleep. Children shouldn’t play with fire, and oxen are scary. The shochet is murdered by the Malach Ha-Moves. HaShem is supposed to kill him, but I haven’t even ever seen HaShem. That’s why it ‘freaks me out’.”
At least, I say to myself, at age seven she has already become a philosopher, albeit a neurotic one. Finally, her five-year-old brother, a real mazik, injects a dose of reality into the situation. “You know that part about the boy’s two zuzim?” he announces. “I don’t have any money at all!”
April 01, 2009
KONKLET AND HAM STEAK
Well, we finally shot the pilot episode of my new cooking show, “Rabbi Ribeye.” Quite an experience: A jazz band blasted out my theme song, a bluesy version of Hava Nagila. The audience chanted, “Ra-a-a-a-b-b-i Ribeye! Ra-a-a-a-b-b-i Ribeye!” I couldn’t decide whether to preen in the pool of narcissism or just crawl in a hole.
The producer had already determined the menu. “We want it Jewish,” he said, “but not too Jewish.” Show biz. I dithered until I remembered the venerable Jewish hamburger.
In my family, we called it a “konklet,” apparently a corruption of the word “cutlet.” It’s ground beef stretched with matzo meal, grated onion, potato, and carrot, fried in schmaltz and onions.
To my surprise, the pilot was to be shot outdoors. Naturally, they did not give me a stove to cook on, but a charcoal grill. Imagine, the cast-iron skillet that I inherited from my bobbe, frying her beloved konklet on TV in front of a hundred starving goyim, while the band ground out “Erev Shel Shoshanim” to a Samba beat. And, did I tell you? The grate was tilted inward on a thirty-degree angle.
So, wearing asbestos mitts, I tended the konklet until they slid to one side, and then pitched the skillet back until they slid to the other. The results: Half burnt, half raw konklet, onions a pile of greasy coal-dust, schmaltz a grimy mauve.
Now, the final indignity – and if I am lying, take away my Cuisinart. The band leader reached into his back pocket, pulled out a ham steak, and tossed it on the grill, rubbing up against my bobbe’s skillet. “Try that!” he prated. “That wins the prize over your ‘kumquat’ any day!”
I politely brought the show to a halt, amazingly, to thunderous applause. I cringed. But, surprise, the producer was delighted. “The best!” he repeated, “The absolute best, especially the way you acted soooo surprised when Mac brought out that ham steak. You should win an Emmy just for that. The syndicators will love it!"
What did Newton Minnow call television? A “vast wasteland.” Well, tell Mr. Minnow I have good news. His wasteland is now filled with ham and konklet.
Well, we finally shot the pilot episode of my new cooking show, “Rabbi Ribeye.” Quite an experience: A jazz band blasted out my theme song, a bluesy version of Hava Nagila. The audience chanted, “Ra-a-a-a-b-b-i Ribeye! Ra-a-a-a-b-b-i Ribeye!” I couldn’t decide whether to preen in the pool of narcissism or just crawl in a hole.
The producer had already determined the menu. “We want it Jewish,” he said, “but not too Jewish.” Show biz. I dithered until I remembered the venerable Jewish hamburger.
In my family, we called it a “konklet,” apparently a corruption of the word “cutlet.” It’s ground beef stretched with matzo meal, grated onion, potato, and carrot, fried in schmaltz and onions.
To my surprise, the pilot was to be shot outdoors. Naturally, they did not give me a stove to cook on, but a charcoal grill. Imagine, the cast-iron skillet that I inherited from my bobbe, frying her beloved konklet on TV in front of a hundred starving goyim, while the band ground out “Erev Shel Shoshanim” to a Samba beat. And, did I tell you? The grate was tilted inward on a thirty-degree angle.
So, wearing asbestos mitts, I tended the konklet until they slid to one side, and then pitched the skillet back until they slid to the other. The results: Half burnt, half raw konklet, onions a pile of greasy coal-dust, schmaltz a grimy mauve.
Now, the final indignity – and if I am lying, take away my Cuisinart. The band leader reached into his back pocket, pulled out a ham steak, and tossed it on the grill, rubbing up against my bobbe’s skillet. “Try that!” he prated. “That wins the prize over your ‘kumquat’ any day!”
I politely brought the show to a halt, amazingly, to thunderous applause. I cringed. But, surprise, the producer was delighted. “The best!” he repeated, “The absolute best, especially the way you acted soooo surprised when Mac brought out that ham steak. You should win an Emmy just for that. The syndicators will love it!"
What did Newton Minnow call television? A “vast wasteland.” Well, tell Mr. Minnow I have good news. His wasteland is now filled with ham and konklet.
March 12, 2009
PEANUT MORBIDITY
When the Hebrews wandered through the wilderness, they survived on manna. American Jews survive on peanut butter. Yet, the Jewish immigrants of a few generations ago didn’t even know what peanuts were. They assumed that since they were called “nuts,” they must have grow from trees, and they dogmatically recited over them the blessing, “borei pri ha-etz,” just like a walnut or pecan.
But, George Washington Carver knew better than the rabbonim that peanuts were legumes that grew directly from the ground. Hence its proper blessing is “borei pri ha-adamah.” There was great consternation among the Jews of New York and Chicago, for the sacrilege having recited the wrong beracha for decades. Alas, nothing could be done but recite an additional Ashamnu and gargle with lye.
They should have known better, because the Americans’ favorite utilization of peanut butter is to slather it with grape jam, upon which, for reasons unknown, (here we go again!) one recites the “borei pri ha-etz,” not “borei pri ha-gafen” nor “borei pri ha-adamah,” despite it growing directly from a vine.
The iconic Elvis Presley took matters a step further and doted on sandwiches of toasted peanut butter and bananas, while a huge gold “Chai” dangled from his stumpy neck. My father, on the other hand, ate a sandwich of peanut butter, butter, and cheese every day of his adult life. They say that when he died, his arteries miraculously were not clogged, but he blew out his aorta nonetheless.
As I say, peanut butter is nothing more than gooey blasphemy.
The only honorable use of the peanut for human consumption is converting it to oil. It’s actually pretty good oil, too. You can fry almost anything in it because no matter how scalding it is, it will not decompose. But, when you stop to think of it, this, too, is more of a curse than a blessing. It refuses to go away. You can’t destroy it, no matter how hard you try, just like King Kong. Its curse will survive forever and ever.
I say that our ancestors were right the first time around. Say an extra Ashamnu and gargle with lye. But, for God’s sake, stay away from the morbid peanut. Look what happened to Elvis.
When the Hebrews wandered through the wilderness, they survived on manna. American Jews survive on peanut butter. Yet, the Jewish immigrants of a few generations ago didn’t even know what peanuts were. They assumed that since they were called “nuts,” they must have grow from trees, and they dogmatically recited over them the blessing, “borei pri ha-etz,” just like a walnut or pecan.
But, George Washington Carver knew better than the rabbonim that peanuts were legumes that grew directly from the ground. Hence its proper blessing is “borei pri ha-adamah.” There was great consternation among the Jews of New York and Chicago, for the sacrilege having recited the wrong beracha for decades. Alas, nothing could be done but recite an additional Ashamnu and gargle with lye.
They should have known better, because the Americans’ favorite utilization of peanut butter is to slather it with grape jam, upon which, for reasons unknown, (here we go again!) one recites the “borei pri ha-etz,” not “borei pri ha-gafen” nor “borei pri ha-adamah,” despite it growing directly from a vine.
The iconic Elvis Presley took matters a step further and doted on sandwiches of toasted peanut butter and bananas, while a huge gold “Chai” dangled from his stumpy neck. My father, on the other hand, ate a sandwich of peanut butter, butter, and cheese every day of his adult life. They say that when he died, his arteries miraculously were not clogged, but he blew out his aorta nonetheless.
As I say, peanut butter is nothing more than gooey blasphemy.
The only honorable use of the peanut for human consumption is converting it to oil. It’s actually pretty good oil, too. You can fry almost anything in it because no matter how scalding it is, it will not decompose. But, when you stop to think of it, this, too, is more of a curse than a blessing. It refuses to go away. You can’t destroy it, no matter how hard you try, just like King Kong. Its curse will survive forever and ever.
I say that our ancestors were right the first time around. Say an extra Ashamnu and gargle with lye. But, for God’s sake, stay away from the morbid peanut. Look what happened to Elvis.
March 04, 2009
BIBLE KIDNEY BELT
"Bible Belt."
For us liberals, the words trip off the tongue with a sneer, an epithet, a lament, an obituary for where we live. Well, let me tell you that I recently spent an evening right here in Taylors at the buckle of the Bible Belt, and I did not find the experience the fodder for cynicism whatsoever. I’m even inclined to do it again.
Some of my newfound friends who are unapologetically fundamentalist Christians are so serious about Judaism that they practice it as it was at Jesus’ time, “searching for the Hebraic roots of their faith.” These five or six families get together every Friday evening for to kindle the Sabbath lights, sanctify the wine, consecrate the bread, share a festive dinner, recite the traditional grace, and study the Torah.
That’s where I fit in. A Jewish woman regularly has her nails done by one of the group. The manicurist is always full of questions. “Why do the Jews do this? What does the Bible say about that?” The woman was typically at a loss for answers. She referred her to me.
We were soon invited to one of the group’s traditional Sabbath dinners, carefully prepared in compliance with the kosher laws: salmon, salad, rice, broccoli casserole, and in deference to the South, a Red Velvet Cake. Then we engaged in three full hours of Torah study – stimulating, reverent . . . and, no, they were quick to say, they were not damning me behind my back. That was not part of “their” doctrine, they averred.
In the course of discussion, I mentioned that I was going to the hospital the next Monday to zap a kidney stone. I’d been urinating blood for weeks, and I was routinely doubled over in pain.
“Do you mind if we pray for you?” one said. “No, of course not.” “Praying to Jesus won’t offend you?” “No, of course not.”
They did not pray one at a time, as I had expected. Instead, they beehive-buzzed around me all at once. Then, above the din I heard one pray, “May Marc be healed, but not by the hands of man!”
Well, think what you want. By the next morning, I stopped urinating blood, and by mid-afternoon, the pain was gone. Like I said, think what you want.
Monday, still in disbelief, I went to the hospital to make sure that what I felt was real. Already on my gurney in that ridiculous wisp of a gown, the doctor announced that the procedure was unnecessary, yanked the IV from my arm, and instructed me to get dressed and go home.
Hmm . . . “healed, but not by the hands of man.”
Did the episode make we want to embrace Christianity? No. But it did draw me closer to the laser-penetrating faith by which this beehive of believers lives. Could it be found in Judaism? Not in its mainstream, any more, I guess, than in mainstream Christianity.
All I do know is that I was embraced by a group of newfound friends who were neither apologetic nor restrained in offering the intensity of their spirit toward a relative stranger – me. At that point, I firmly believe that it could have risen heavenward through Jesus, Yahweh, Buddha, Krishna, or the Bab, or anyone or thing who manifests the Supreme Power.
The message: Miracles happen, sometimes even by the simple exposure to people who believe that miracles happen. It is bad theology, I know, for any parent whose child suffers from leukemia. Then, the miraculous power may be that the presence of spirit-filled people may not cure, but can heal the broken heart and the vacuousness of loss.
Otherwise, in the sagacious words of Billy Joel, I would prefer to leave a tender moment alone. I will not let your psychobabble try to explain it to me. I felt the perceptible presence of healing in that very mundane room and it healed me . . . not by the hands of man.
"Bible Belt."
For us liberals, the words trip off the tongue with a sneer, an epithet, a lament, an obituary for where we live. Well, let me tell you that I recently spent an evening right here in Taylors at the buckle of the Bible Belt, and I did not find the experience the fodder for cynicism whatsoever. I’m even inclined to do it again.
Some of my newfound friends who are unapologetically fundamentalist Christians are so serious about Judaism that they practice it as it was at Jesus’ time, “searching for the Hebraic roots of their faith.” These five or six families get together every Friday evening for to kindle the Sabbath lights, sanctify the wine, consecrate the bread, share a festive dinner, recite the traditional grace, and study the Torah.
That’s where I fit in. A Jewish woman regularly has her nails done by one of the group. The manicurist is always full of questions. “Why do the Jews do this? What does the Bible say about that?” The woman was typically at a loss for answers. She referred her to me.
We were soon invited to one of the group’s traditional Sabbath dinners, carefully prepared in compliance with the kosher laws: salmon, salad, rice, broccoli casserole, and in deference to the South, a Red Velvet Cake. Then we engaged in three full hours of Torah study – stimulating, reverent . . . and, no, they were quick to say, they were not damning me behind my back. That was not part of “their” doctrine, they averred.
In the course of discussion, I mentioned that I was going to the hospital the next Monday to zap a kidney stone. I’d been urinating blood for weeks, and I was routinely doubled over in pain.
“Do you mind if we pray for you?” one said. “No, of course not.” “Praying to Jesus won’t offend you?” “No, of course not.”
They did not pray one at a time, as I had expected. Instead, they beehive-buzzed around me all at once. Then, above the din I heard one pray, “May Marc be healed, but not by the hands of man!”
Well, think what you want. By the next morning, I stopped urinating blood, and by mid-afternoon, the pain was gone. Like I said, think what you want.
Monday, still in disbelief, I went to the hospital to make sure that what I felt was real. Already on my gurney in that ridiculous wisp of a gown, the doctor announced that the procedure was unnecessary, yanked the IV from my arm, and instructed me to get dressed and go home.
Hmm . . . “healed, but not by the hands of man.”
Did the episode make we want to embrace Christianity? No. But it did draw me closer to the laser-penetrating faith by which this beehive of believers lives. Could it be found in Judaism? Not in its mainstream, any more, I guess, than in mainstream Christianity.
All I do know is that I was embraced by a group of newfound friends who were neither apologetic nor restrained in offering the intensity of their spirit toward a relative stranger – me. At that point, I firmly believe that it could have risen heavenward through Jesus, Yahweh, Buddha, Krishna, or the Bab, or anyone or thing who manifests the Supreme Power.
The message: Miracles happen, sometimes even by the simple exposure to people who believe that miracles happen. It is bad theology, I know, for any parent whose child suffers from leukemia. Then, the miraculous power may be that the presence of spirit-filled people may not cure, but can heal the broken heart and the vacuousness of loss.
Otherwise, in the sagacious words of Billy Joel, I would prefer to leave a tender moment alone. I will not let your psychobabble try to explain it to me. I felt the perceptible presence of healing in that very mundane room and it healed me . . . not by the hands of man.
February 24, 2009
"YOU" JEWS AND YOUR FISH
America is a young country. When a Jew says that his family has been in the US for 100 years, it’s like a Jekke saying that his mishpocho has been in Frankfurt for a millennium.
When my parents and I moved to San Francisco, we discovered a pair of distant, distant relatives who established their roots there two generations before the Great Earthquake of 1906. Cousins Charles and Frances, a brother and sister, were a dotty 90-year-old couple who spent most of their time at the opera, ballet, symphony, and theater.
They were a delight to have around, as they regaled us in stories of the Great Earthquake, the graciousness of the old days among the wealthy, cultured German Jews, the charity balls with the Sutros and Fleishackers, and the arrival of the slothful Ostjuden with their Old World nonsense.
They told me, the astonished yeshiva bochur, how their Reform temple celebrated the Sabbath on Sunday, of its Quad Suite organ, and its magnificent choir resplendent with voices from the opera.
The only thing plebian about Charles and Frances was their passion for fishing. Given their love for my folks, though, they never shared the fruits of their expeditions. Then one day they appeared at the door, somewhat sheepishly, bearing a neatly wrapped package of rockfish from Half Moon Bay. They wrinkled their noses self-consciously.
As Frances presented the fish, she said in her usual genteel voice, “I don’t know too much about the kosher laws, but I know that fish have to be soaked and salted to make them acceptable. I couldn’t bear it, so I broiled one, and I couldn’t even touch it, it was so tough and salty.”
I could see that my mother was about to try to explain, but then she thought the better of it.
On went Cousin Frances: “My goodness, how long do you have to salt your beef? No wonder that Jews like ‘them’ have such high blood pressure.” There could be no doubt as to the “them” to whom she was referring. “I guess that’s why ‘you people’ are always saying how hard it is to be a Jew. How ever do you prepare your eggs?”
America is a young country. When a Jew says that his family has been in the US for 100 years, it’s like a Jekke saying that his mishpocho has been in Frankfurt for a millennium.
When my parents and I moved to San Francisco, we discovered a pair of distant, distant relatives who established their roots there two generations before the Great Earthquake of 1906. Cousins Charles and Frances, a brother and sister, were a dotty 90-year-old couple who spent most of their time at the opera, ballet, symphony, and theater.
They were a delight to have around, as they regaled us in stories of the Great Earthquake, the graciousness of the old days among the wealthy, cultured German Jews, the charity balls with the Sutros and Fleishackers, and the arrival of the slothful Ostjuden with their Old World nonsense.
They told me, the astonished yeshiva bochur, how their Reform temple celebrated the Sabbath on Sunday, of its Quad Suite organ, and its magnificent choir resplendent with voices from the opera.
The only thing plebian about Charles and Frances was their passion for fishing. Given their love for my folks, though, they never shared the fruits of their expeditions. Then one day they appeared at the door, somewhat sheepishly, bearing a neatly wrapped package of rockfish from Half Moon Bay. They wrinkled their noses self-consciously.
As Frances presented the fish, she said in her usual genteel voice, “I don’t know too much about the kosher laws, but I know that fish have to be soaked and salted to make them acceptable. I couldn’t bear it, so I broiled one, and I couldn’t even touch it, it was so tough and salty.”
I could see that my mother was about to try to explain, but then she thought the better of it.
On went Cousin Frances: “My goodness, how long do you have to salt your beef? No wonder that Jews like ‘them’ have such high blood pressure.” There could be no doubt as to the “them” to whom she was referring. “I guess that’s why ‘you people’ are always saying how hard it is to be a Jew. How ever do you prepare your eggs?”
February 14, 2009
IT MUST HAVE BEEN THE BROCCOLI CASSEROLE
Small towns like Greenville are rife with Christian fundamentalists. They assume that we know about the Torah, holidays, ceremonies, philosophy, and history. Uh-huh.
Some of them are so serious about Judaism that they practice it as it was at Jesus’ time, “searching for the Hebraic roots of their faith.” So, five or six families will get together on Friday evenings for candles, Kiddush, Motzi, Shabbat, Benschen, and Torah study.
That’s where I fit in. A local Donna Gracia regularly had her nails done by one such Judeophile, who was always full of questions. “Why do the Jews do this? What does the Bible say about that?” How many answers do you think the dowager could give her?
She referred her to her rabbi. Our invitation included traditional Shabbat dinner, tastefully kosher – salmon, salad, rice, and a miserable broccoli casserole. Then we engaged in four hours of Torah study – stimulating, reverent . . . And, no, they were quick to say, they were not damning me behind my back. That was not part of “their” doctrine.
In the course of discussion, I mentioned that I was going in to zap a kidney stone. I’d been peeing blood for weeks, and I was constantly doubled over in pain.
“Do you mind if we pray for you?” one said. “No, of course not.” “Jesus won’t offend you?” “No, of course not.”
At once, they beehive-buzzed around me. Above the din I heard one pray, “May Marc be healed, but not by the hands of man!”
Well, think what you want. By the next morning, I stopped peeing blood, and by mid-afternoon, the pain had stopped. Like I said, think what you want. It made me no surer of Jesus, but of the power of sincere faith and spirit all imploded into the one needing it most.
The next day, I went to the hospital just to make sure. Already on my gurney, the doctor announced that the procedure was unnecessary, pulled the IV from my arm, and instructed me to go home.
As I got in the car, I pronounced to Linda, “It’s a miracle!” Ever the skeptic, she declared, “No, honey, I think it was just the broccoli casserole.”
Small towns like Greenville are rife with Christian fundamentalists. They assume that we know about the Torah, holidays, ceremonies, philosophy, and history. Uh-huh.
Some of them are so serious about Judaism that they practice it as it was at Jesus’ time, “searching for the Hebraic roots of their faith.” So, five or six families will get together on Friday evenings for candles, Kiddush, Motzi, Shabbat, Benschen, and Torah study.
That’s where I fit in. A local Donna Gracia regularly had her nails done by one such Judeophile, who was always full of questions. “Why do the Jews do this? What does the Bible say about that?” How many answers do you think the dowager could give her?
She referred her to her rabbi. Our invitation included traditional Shabbat dinner, tastefully kosher – salmon, salad, rice, and a miserable broccoli casserole. Then we engaged in four hours of Torah study – stimulating, reverent . . . And, no, they were quick to say, they were not damning me behind my back. That was not part of “their” doctrine.
In the course of discussion, I mentioned that I was going in to zap a kidney stone. I’d been peeing blood for weeks, and I was constantly doubled over in pain.
“Do you mind if we pray for you?” one said. “No, of course not.” “Jesus won’t offend you?” “No, of course not.”
At once, they beehive-buzzed around me. Above the din I heard one pray, “May Marc be healed, but not by the hands of man!”
Well, think what you want. By the next morning, I stopped peeing blood, and by mid-afternoon, the pain had stopped. Like I said, think what you want. It made me no surer of Jesus, but of the power of sincere faith and spirit all imploded into the one needing it most.
The next day, I went to the hospital just to make sure. Already on my gurney, the doctor announced that the procedure was unnecessary, pulled the IV from my arm, and instructed me to go home.
As I got in the car, I pronounced to Linda, “It’s a miracle!” Ever the skeptic, she declared, “No, honey, I think it was just the broccoli casserole.”
February 10, 2009
THE KEY TO INFLUENCE: FEED THE REPORTERS FRESH SALMON
Ninety-five percent of the nation looked aghast on the contemptuousness of that shnook Blagojevich. We Chicagoans knew better. We snicker at you rubes who think that duplicity like his happens only on bad TV.
Sociology-types would trace Blagojevich’s blatant double-dealing to the fast-and-loose atmosphere set by Hizonner da Mare Richard J. Daley. They do beg comparison. No matter how much Blagojevich would have prospered financially, he would always have been a second-stringer.
Mayor Daley appeared unimpressed with money. He and his beloved Sis continued to live in the modest home Back of the (Stock) Yards, along with descendants of the other Irish immigrants. Aside from tailored suits to flatter his matzo-ball girth, he played himself as one of the people.
Sheer power was Mayor Daley’s rate of exchange, elevating the faithful everyman and humbling the disloyal bigshot. Mayor Daley was the one, after all who “found” the extra box of ballots that put JFK over the top, ensuring the presidency for a Democrat coreligionist.
Blagojevich collected his bounty in payoffs. Mayor Daley collected a court of loyalists who paid homage to his agenda, and thus themselves became rich – a judge here, an alderman there, graft, porkpie, and the cumulatively effect of minor acts of corruption.
Loyalty had its benefits for the commoner, as well. Before each election, Harry Speck appeared at our doorstep. As a kid, I thought he was some kind of important public official. Actually, he was one of Hizzoner’s precinct captains, attempting to buy voter loyalty by offering to fix any of my dad’s outstanding traffic tickets. As a law enforcement officer, my dad made quick dispatch of him.
This did not stop my dad from wrapping a $5 bill around his driver’s license, as all Chicagoans did, so when stopped by a cop, the cop smiled and told him to “be more careful the next time.”
When I got a little older, I too learned the ropes of Pax Daleyum. Once I was in a fender-bender and cited for negligence. I called my insurance man. He told me to bring $40 to traffic court and give it to his lawyer, Newberger. That’s all it would take. “What if we lose?” I sputtered like a dope.
“You won’t lose.”
Sure enough, at the appointed hour, I presented Newberger $40 in cash. When my case was called, he approached the docket. Apparently, the arresting cop had not shown up. The case was dismissed for failure to produce prosecution. $20 to Newberger, $20 to the cop. But, we didn’t lose.
Heaven forbid, though, if you were a resident of the 46th Ward, where all the anti-corruption, intellectual liberals lived. Hizzoner was the bane of their existence. He and the machine were well aware of this, hence the deepest potholes in the streets, the never-to-be-fixed broken curbs, the monthly accumulation of street-side garbage. Go ahead. Be idealistic. Just be prepared to break an axle. We, the faithful, had our potholes repaved at the first sign of spring.
The real story of Daley’s Chicago was not about retribution. Often it was the warning implicit in the humor of the mighty, like the good-natured fun he poked at the press. Once he suggested that the Department of Sanitation (!) stock the Chicago River with salmon, as it meandered between the Tribune Tower and the hideous Sun-Times building. At noontime, he said, let the City give the reporters fishing rods, provide them with open grills and plenty of cold beer. “You’d be surprised,” Hizzoner opined, “how much better your attitude would be before we held one of those 1:00 press conferences.”
This, friends, is not a Blagojevich move.
This is why, by Illinois standards, he would always be a second-stringer. He demanded money, not the power and influence that comes from people paying homage to a fearsome, yet imminently loveable, humpty-dumpty Irishman. Greedy Blagojevich would wind up in jail because he practiced slimy greed, not graciously dyeing the river green for St. Patrick’s Day.
Once-Governor Blagojevich will forever be remembered as a greasy punk. Not Hizzoner da Mare. He fixed the curbs, filled the potholes, collected the garbage, ran the CTA buses in blizzards, made a president, fed the reporters fresh salmon. Blagojevich thought it took $500,000 to become a heavy hitter. Mayor Daley had already figured out that all it took was a sawbuck wrapped around a driver’s license to buy you all the influence you needed and then some.
Ninety-five percent of the nation looked aghast on the contemptuousness of that shnook Blagojevich. We Chicagoans knew better. We snicker at you rubes who think that duplicity like his happens only on bad TV.
Sociology-types would trace Blagojevich’s blatant double-dealing to the fast-and-loose atmosphere set by Hizonner da Mare Richard J. Daley. They do beg comparison. No matter how much Blagojevich would have prospered financially, he would always have been a second-stringer.
Mayor Daley appeared unimpressed with money. He and his beloved Sis continued to live in the modest home Back of the (Stock) Yards, along with descendants of the other Irish immigrants. Aside from tailored suits to flatter his matzo-ball girth, he played himself as one of the people.
Sheer power was Mayor Daley’s rate of exchange, elevating the faithful everyman and humbling the disloyal bigshot. Mayor Daley was the one, after all who “found” the extra box of ballots that put JFK over the top, ensuring the presidency for a Democrat coreligionist.
Blagojevich collected his bounty in payoffs. Mayor Daley collected a court of loyalists who paid homage to his agenda, and thus themselves became rich – a judge here, an alderman there, graft, porkpie, and the cumulatively effect of minor acts of corruption.
Loyalty had its benefits for the commoner, as well. Before each election, Harry Speck appeared at our doorstep. As a kid, I thought he was some kind of important public official. Actually, he was one of Hizzoner’s precinct captains, attempting to buy voter loyalty by offering to fix any of my dad’s outstanding traffic tickets. As a law enforcement officer, my dad made quick dispatch of him.
This did not stop my dad from wrapping a $5 bill around his driver’s license, as all Chicagoans did, so when stopped by a cop, the cop smiled and told him to “be more careful the next time.”
When I got a little older, I too learned the ropes of Pax Daleyum. Once I was in a fender-bender and cited for negligence. I called my insurance man. He told me to bring $40 to traffic court and give it to his lawyer, Newberger. That’s all it would take. “What if we lose?” I sputtered like a dope.
“You won’t lose.”
Sure enough, at the appointed hour, I presented Newberger $40 in cash. When my case was called, he approached the docket. Apparently, the arresting cop had not shown up. The case was dismissed for failure to produce prosecution. $20 to Newberger, $20 to the cop. But, we didn’t lose.
Heaven forbid, though, if you were a resident of the 46th Ward, where all the anti-corruption, intellectual liberals lived. Hizzoner was the bane of their existence. He and the machine were well aware of this, hence the deepest potholes in the streets, the never-to-be-fixed broken curbs, the monthly accumulation of street-side garbage. Go ahead. Be idealistic. Just be prepared to break an axle. We, the faithful, had our potholes repaved at the first sign of spring.
The real story of Daley’s Chicago was not about retribution. Often it was the warning implicit in the humor of the mighty, like the good-natured fun he poked at the press. Once he suggested that the Department of Sanitation (!) stock the Chicago River with salmon, as it meandered between the Tribune Tower and the hideous Sun-Times building. At noontime, he said, let the City give the reporters fishing rods, provide them with open grills and plenty of cold beer. “You’d be surprised,” Hizzoner opined, “how much better your attitude would be before we held one of those 1:00 press conferences.”
This, friends, is not a Blagojevich move.
This is why, by Illinois standards, he would always be a second-stringer. He demanded money, not the power and influence that comes from people paying homage to a fearsome, yet imminently loveable, humpty-dumpty Irishman. Greedy Blagojevich would wind up in jail because he practiced slimy greed, not graciously dyeing the river green for St. Patrick’s Day.
Once-Governor Blagojevich will forever be remembered as a greasy punk. Not Hizzoner da Mare. He fixed the curbs, filled the potholes, collected the garbage, ran the CTA buses in blizzards, made a president, fed the reporters fresh salmon. Blagojevich thought it took $500,000 to become a heavy hitter. Mayor Daley had already figured out that all it took was a sawbuck wrapped around a driver’s license to buy you all the influence you needed and then some.
February 02, 2009
SHONDEH IS THE JEWISH CRITERION
What Bernard Madoff did, to the gentile world, was an enormous crime. To the Jew it was a “shondeh,” the harshest Yiddish word for “disgrace.” I honestly don’t know how many gentiles are saying among themselves, “There goes another money-grubbing Jew.” It doesn’t really matter. I am ashamed by Madoff not because his story might generate anti-Semitism. For a Jew to betray the heritage to which we claim to be born is a shondeh.
This I tell you: We take no glory in Bernard Madoff even when you are not around. I’ve heard no one say in the covert Greenfield’s bagel place, “Boy, he really knew how to screw those dumb goyim.” Aside from swiping millions from Jewish institutions, he grabbed money from smart Jews, and plenty of smart goyim, who trusted him. The word I hear most when you are not around is, you guessed it, shondeh.
When I moved south in 1975, I was a snotty/snooty urban damnyankee pacifist. My assumptions were built on burning crosses, fire hoses, Bull Connor, George Wallace, and slurs against Jews almost as vituperative as they were toward African Americans. (“If them G.D. Jews hadn’t gotten them ni**as so stirred up, we wouldn’t be having the problems we do today!”). I assumed that little towns were places where Jews chose to live only at their own peril, and not only because you couldn’t get a hot pastrami sandwich there.
Then I received my delicious dose of reality: I found that for every Christian who wanted to convert me, a thousand venerated me because I was a leader of the Chosen People, and another thousand were simply curious.
Listen up now, Mr. Madoff, Mr. Shondeh: The decency and respect of the Jewish storekeeper in rural Upstate is legendary: Sarlins of Liberty, Fedders of Easley, Vigodskys of Westminster, Poliakoffs of Walhalla, Karelitzs of Fountain Inn, Burgens of Seneca . . . all of them venerated as saints – extending credit at no interest, building the community, stimulating education, leading in patriotism and civic organizations, charity without question from the cash register, often the only ones who were helpful to minorities.
Ask our anchorman Michael Cogdill. He will tell you that he was set on his direction of prominence by the Jewish storekeeper in his little town in North Carolina, who brought him into his home as if he were his own child.
No, they could not all have been saints 24-7. But, this I will tell you: They were not shondeh Jews, either. When I meet someone from Liberty and ask him if he knew the Sarlins, he always regales me of some act of kindness that they bestowed. I chalk another one up for not being a shondeh, but for being an exemplary member of the Chosen People. And Jerry Fedder? Not a “shyster Jew-lawyer,” but an honest man who never played fast and loose with the truth. And I chalk another one up for being one of the Chosen People, not a double-talking shondeh.
Ralph, Jerry, et al, did not do it to impress. Of this, I am sure. They had good mommas and poppas, who in turn had good mommas and poppas. They were quite sure of their chosen-ness without a scintilla of false pride.
Yes, there is a downside to being a member of a Chosen People. When you tarnish your chosen-ness, you are not just a crook or a thief. You are a shondeh. I am consistently surrounded by people who rightfully wear their chosen-ness with distinction. Jerry and Ralph, may he rest in peace, and the others, have set a backdrop of stiff comparison. When I do something wrong, I know full-well that it is a shondeh, not merely an oops or oversight. Where was Bernard Madoff’s armor to ward off shondeh? Where were the “Jerry and Ralph” in his life? Where did he lose it?
This is the sobering truth whether you and I accept it or not: When a Jew steals, it is not the same as when a gentile steals. He’s not a bad boy with his hand stuck in the cookie jar. He is a shondeh, a shondeh.
What Bernard Madoff did, to the gentile world, was an enormous crime. To the Jew it was a “shondeh,” the harshest Yiddish word for “disgrace.” I honestly don’t know how many gentiles are saying among themselves, “There goes another money-grubbing Jew.” It doesn’t really matter. I am ashamed by Madoff not because his story might generate anti-Semitism. For a Jew to betray the heritage to which we claim to be born is a shondeh.
This I tell you: We take no glory in Bernard Madoff even when you are not around. I’ve heard no one say in the covert Greenfield’s bagel place, “Boy, he really knew how to screw those dumb goyim.” Aside from swiping millions from Jewish institutions, he grabbed money from smart Jews, and plenty of smart goyim, who trusted him. The word I hear most when you are not around is, you guessed it, shondeh.
When I moved south in 1975, I was a snotty/snooty urban damnyankee pacifist. My assumptions were built on burning crosses, fire hoses, Bull Connor, George Wallace, and slurs against Jews almost as vituperative as they were toward African Americans. (“If them G.D. Jews hadn’t gotten them ni**as so stirred up, we wouldn’t be having the problems we do today!”). I assumed that little towns were places where Jews chose to live only at their own peril, and not only because you couldn’t get a hot pastrami sandwich there.
Then I received my delicious dose of reality: I found that for every Christian who wanted to convert me, a thousand venerated me because I was a leader of the Chosen People, and another thousand were simply curious.
Listen up now, Mr. Madoff, Mr. Shondeh: The decency and respect of the Jewish storekeeper in rural Upstate is legendary: Sarlins of Liberty, Fedders of Easley, Vigodskys of Westminster, Poliakoffs of Walhalla, Karelitzs of Fountain Inn, Burgens of Seneca . . . all of them venerated as saints – extending credit at no interest, building the community, stimulating education, leading in patriotism and civic organizations, charity without question from the cash register, often the only ones who were helpful to minorities.
Ask our anchorman Michael Cogdill. He will tell you that he was set on his direction of prominence by the Jewish storekeeper in his little town in North Carolina, who brought him into his home as if he were his own child.
No, they could not all have been saints 24-7. But, this I will tell you: They were not shondeh Jews, either. When I meet someone from Liberty and ask him if he knew the Sarlins, he always regales me of some act of kindness that they bestowed. I chalk another one up for not being a shondeh, but for being an exemplary member of the Chosen People. And Jerry Fedder? Not a “shyster Jew-lawyer,” but an honest man who never played fast and loose with the truth. And I chalk another one up for being one of the Chosen People, not a double-talking shondeh.
Ralph, Jerry, et al, did not do it to impress. Of this, I am sure. They had good mommas and poppas, who in turn had good mommas and poppas. They were quite sure of their chosen-ness without a scintilla of false pride.
Yes, there is a downside to being a member of a Chosen People. When you tarnish your chosen-ness, you are not just a crook or a thief. You are a shondeh. I am consistently surrounded by people who rightfully wear their chosen-ness with distinction. Jerry and Ralph, may he rest in peace, and the others, have set a backdrop of stiff comparison. When I do something wrong, I know full-well that it is a shondeh, not merely an oops or oversight. Where was Bernard Madoff’s armor to ward off shondeh? Where were the “Jerry and Ralph” in his life? Where did he lose it?
This is the sobering truth whether you and I accept it or not: When a Jew steals, it is not the same as when a gentile steals. He’s not a bad boy with his hand stuck in the cookie jar. He is a shondeh, a shondeh.
January 29, 2009
CHOLOV STARBUCKS
I’ve gone to Starbucks from Montreal to Port au Prince, but I never drink coffee there. Coffee gives me a tummy ache. But they do have a wonderful lemonade slush in which I could bathe when it is -30º outside. Their apple fritter is also nonpareil. The only reason that astronomers are interested in life on other planets is to see if it’s feasible to set up a Starbucks there, one per block, one per supermarket, one within each Starbucks.
In all my years of being a Starbucks devotee, the only item they’ve lacked is one accommodation for the (very) religious Jew. By a treaty signed in Liadi, Lubavitchers will drink a cup of black coffee in a Starbucks. Black, because they will whiten their coffee exclusively with Cholov Yisroel, milk/cream prepared from exclusively Jewish sources, under rabbinical supervision.
This has not fazed Starbucks from having planted themselves in orthodox communities. Ben, my Lubavitcher son, lives right across from one. One recent Sunday morning we repaired to the Starbucks to avoid a crying baby and shrill mother-in-law as we worked on his resume. I ordered my customary lemonade slushy, and Ben a Venti black coffee.
“Ben drinks black coffee?” I contemplated. This is a guy who doesn’t drink Coke without two extra tablespoons of sugar. Meanwhile, we found a table. He opened his laptop. He reached into his backpack. He removed a Zip-Loc bag that contained a white liquid. He whitened his coffee with it.
“I guess that’s Cholov Yisroel that you brought from home,” I wondered aloud. “What a novel way to park your cow at Starbucks!”
For a moment I thought, “What a mishugas.” The next moment I thought, “Well, maybe this is a way to protect the integrity of Judaism.” Finally, I came to a compromise. Neither mishugas nor mitzvah, but a fascinating social commentary: a perfect, if slightly goofy, amalgam of the very symbol of the contemporary American lifestyle, Starbucks, with a custom so esoteric and medieval that 99 percent of American Jews have never heard of it.
Not too shabby. This is America, Columbus’s Medinah, the Land of Opportunity, yes, even the opportunity to have your milk and Starbucks, too.
Leiben zol Columbus!
I’ve gone to Starbucks from Montreal to Port au Prince, but I never drink coffee there. Coffee gives me a tummy ache. But they do have a wonderful lemonade slush in which I could bathe when it is -30º outside. Their apple fritter is also nonpareil. The only reason that astronomers are interested in life on other planets is to see if it’s feasible to set up a Starbucks there, one per block, one per supermarket, one within each Starbucks.
In all my years of being a Starbucks devotee, the only item they’ve lacked is one accommodation for the (very) religious Jew. By a treaty signed in Liadi, Lubavitchers will drink a cup of black coffee in a Starbucks. Black, because they will whiten their coffee exclusively with Cholov Yisroel, milk/cream prepared from exclusively Jewish sources, under rabbinical supervision.
This has not fazed Starbucks from having planted themselves in orthodox communities. Ben, my Lubavitcher son, lives right across from one. One recent Sunday morning we repaired to the Starbucks to avoid a crying baby and shrill mother-in-law as we worked on his resume. I ordered my customary lemonade slushy, and Ben a Venti black coffee.
“Ben drinks black coffee?” I contemplated. This is a guy who doesn’t drink Coke without two extra tablespoons of sugar. Meanwhile, we found a table. He opened his laptop. He reached into his backpack. He removed a Zip-Loc bag that contained a white liquid. He whitened his coffee with it.
“I guess that’s Cholov Yisroel that you brought from home,” I wondered aloud. “What a novel way to park your cow at Starbucks!”
For a moment I thought, “What a mishugas.” The next moment I thought, “Well, maybe this is a way to protect the integrity of Judaism.” Finally, I came to a compromise. Neither mishugas nor mitzvah, but a fascinating social commentary: a perfect, if slightly goofy, amalgam of the very symbol of the contemporary American lifestyle, Starbucks, with a custom so esoteric and medieval that 99 percent of American Jews have never heard of it.
Not too shabby. This is America, Columbus’s Medinah, the Land of Opportunity, yes, even the opportunity to have your milk and Starbucks, too.
Leiben zol Columbus!
January 26, 2009
KASHRUT IN THE GRASS
I’ve always assumed that Jewish people did not choose hunting as a sport. Inflicting pain for recreation is forbidden. And besides, when you punch a hole in an animal and it dies, no question that it’s treife.
All of my assumption went sour when I paid a visit to the Ginsburg’s. Racks upon racks of spiffy-polished shotguns on display in the den, set upon set of antlers tastefully mounted on the living-room walls, booty from family hunting expeditions.
“So, I guess you do a lot of hunting,” I observed like a dumbbell.
“We go out early Saturday mornings so I can teach the boy the finer points of dropping a deer, you know, setting up the platform, making the right kinds of calls, where to spray the urine to attract the young’uns.” No, I didn’t know. “Rabbi Schwartz (the local Lubavitcher) told us that it was OK to hunt on Shabbos so long as we ‘field-kashered’ whatever we shot.”
I admit that I had never, even in Yeshiva, heard the phrase “field-kashered.” “Tell me how you field-kasher a deer?” I didn’t have to feign ignorance.
“Rabbi Schwartz said that so long as we slit the deer with a specially sharpened knife to let the blood drain, it was kosher.”
“I don’t think so,” I mumbled. I didn’t take the issue any further, so as not to impugn the credibility of my Lubavitcher friend.
Naturally, I promptly called Rabbi Schwartz to inform him that he had been cited as the authority that permitted hunting on Shabbos, so long as the prey had been field-kashered. “You’re kidding,” he said. “He may be an incredible sportsman, but an even better pathological liar.”
“How could we take care of this?” we looked at each other. We agreed that first we had to get him back into schule. “Ah,” Schwartz had an epiphany. “Get a spray-bottle, fill it with you-know-what, and give a couple of schpritzes around the doorway; it’s irresistible.”
“But once he gets inside, what do we do to make an impression on him?”
“Don’t worry,” the Lubavitcher averred. “He won’t get too far. Once he gets inside, we’ll just have to field-kasher him. After all, it is Shabbos.”
I’ve always assumed that Jewish people did not choose hunting as a sport. Inflicting pain for recreation is forbidden. And besides, when you punch a hole in an animal and it dies, no question that it’s treife.
All of my assumption went sour when I paid a visit to the Ginsburg’s. Racks upon racks of spiffy-polished shotguns on display in the den, set upon set of antlers tastefully mounted on the living-room walls, booty from family hunting expeditions.
“So, I guess you do a lot of hunting,” I observed like a dumbbell.
“We go out early Saturday mornings so I can teach the boy the finer points of dropping a deer, you know, setting up the platform, making the right kinds of calls, where to spray the urine to attract the young’uns.” No, I didn’t know. “Rabbi Schwartz (the local Lubavitcher) told us that it was OK to hunt on Shabbos so long as we ‘field-kashered’ whatever we shot.”
I admit that I had never, even in Yeshiva, heard the phrase “field-kashered.” “Tell me how you field-kasher a deer?” I didn’t have to feign ignorance.
“Rabbi Schwartz said that so long as we slit the deer with a specially sharpened knife to let the blood drain, it was kosher.”
“I don’t think so,” I mumbled. I didn’t take the issue any further, so as not to impugn the credibility of my Lubavitcher friend.
Naturally, I promptly called Rabbi Schwartz to inform him that he had been cited as the authority that permitted hunting on Shabbos, so long as the prey had been field-kashered. “You’re kidding,” he said. “He may be an incredible sportsman, but an even better pathological liar.”
“How could we take care of this?” we looked at each other. We agreed that first we had to get him back into schule. “Ah,” Schwartz had an epiphany. “Get a spray-bottle, fill it with you-know-what, and give a couple of schpritzes around the doorway; it’s irresistible.”
“But once he gets inside, what do we do to make an impression on him?”
“Don’t worry,” the Lubavitcher averred. “He won’t get too far. Once he gets inside, we’ll just have to field-kasher him. After all, it is Shabbos.”
January 05, 2009
A LITTLE COLOR ON THE PLATE
Once upon a time, my secretary and I would lunch at a mediocre Chinese buffet. When we’d come to the end of the line, she’d examine my plate and glower. This was my cue to return to the buffet and retrieve a spear of broccoli.
This was more a culinary issue than a health concern. You eat with your eyes before your palate. A plate has to have a little green on it. Rice, chicken, potato kugel, brisket, naked on a plate, bode of dreariness. A touch of color around the edge? Vivid. A hint of springtime. A stroll in the park. An intimation of youth. Just ask Dr. Phil or my secretary.
Even the best colorful intentions go awry when they turn obsessive. Example: At dinner on the weekend of an interview, I was presented a plate of the balaboste’s specialty, gefilte fish napped in aspic of raspberry Jell-O flecked with horseradish. “Doesn’t the color add a pretty touch?” she gloated.
Then there was my ditzy former sister-in-law. She thought that her chicken soup looked a little listless. So, she added in half a bottle of yellow food coloring. You’ve probably figured out that a perfectly tasty broth turned into a radiant pot of “pea” soup.
My winner of the color wars is not among Yehudim, but yokels. Traveling the rural South, I stopped at a country store for a Coke. If you’ve ever been in one, you’ll always see a five-gallon jar of pickles on the counter. Strange, I thought. I’ve never seen pickles that were dirty mauve.
“What kind of pickles are those?” I pointed.
“Why don’t you try one?” answered the balabos. “It’s on me.”
I reluctantly agreed to taste a nub.
I gagged. “Now will you tell me what they are?”
“Around here we eat our pickles purple,” he proudly announced. “After they’re just right, we soak ‘em in Kool-Aid for about two weeks.”
“They taste even better when you eat them with one of those pickled eggs,” pointing to the pink-stained ovals on the other counter.
I offered him a blessing and paid for my Twinkie, hopping into my Volvo, and praising God that the worst I’d had to eat until then was my Aunt Leah’s pitcha.
Once upon a time, my secretary and I would lunch at a mediocre Chinese buffet. When we’d come to the end of the line, she’d examine my plate and glower. This was my cue to return to the buffet and retrieve a spear of broccoli.
This was more a culinary issue than a health concern. You eat with your eyes before your palate. A plate has to have a little green on it. Rice, chicken, potato kugel, brisket, naked on a plate, bode of dreariness. A touch of color around the edge? Vivid. A hint of springtime. A stroll in the park. An intimation of youth. Just ask Dr. Phil or my secretary.
Even the best colorful intentions go awry when they turn obsessive. Example: At dinner on the weekend of an interview, I was presented a plate of the balaboste’s specialty, gefilte fish napped in aspic of raspberry Jell-O flecked with horseradish. “Doesn’t the color add a pretty touch?” she gloated.
Then there was my ditzy former sister-in-law. She thought that her chicken soup looked a little listless. So, she added in half a bottle of yellow food coloring. You’ve probably figured out that a perfectly tasty broth turned into a radiant pot of “pea” soup.
My winner of the color wars is not among Yehudim, but yokels. Traveling the rural South, I stopped at a country store for a Coke. If you’ve ever been in one, you’ll always see a five-gallon jar of pickles on the counter. Strange, I thought. I’ve never seen pickles that were dirty mauve.
“What kind of pickles are those?” I pointed.
“Why don’t you try one?” answered the balabos. “It’s on me.”
I reluctantly agreed to taste a nub.
I gagged. “Now will you tell me what they are?”
“Around here we eat our pickles purple,” he proudly announced. “After they’re just right, we soak ‘em in Kool-Aid for about two weeks.”
“They taste even better when you eat them with one of those pickled eggs,” pointing to the pink-stained ovals on the other counter.
I offered him a blessing and paid for my Twinkie, hopping into my Volvo, and praising God that the worst I’d had to eat until then was my Aunt Leah’s pitcha.
December 24, 2008
THE PRICE ON FOODISH FAME
From the outset, where to tape my new TV show has posed a problem. The first issue is finding a kitchen that is well equipped and accommodating to the cameras and audience.
But, the overarching concern is the ambiance we want to create. What is the concept behind the show? What persona do they want me to project? Not too intellectual, they tell me. They want the Sarah Palin crowd, not the Dalai Lama.
Most of all, what kind of food should I cook and yak about?
It should be a no-brainer. A rabbi should have a kitchen that looks like a tenement. And the food? Duh. Chicken soup. Brisket. Kugel. “Not so easy,” the producer says. “We’re in the South. We still need Jewish, but with a Southern spin.”
So, the program then puts me in jeans, tee-shirt, and Braves cap, cooking matzo-meal fried chicken, kneidlach-cum-hush-puppies, tzimmes-cum-sweet-potato-pie, cholent-cum-Brunswick stews. We’ll tape the show in an old barn cooking on a wood-burning stove.
“OK,” I thought. “This is the price I pay for stardom. Maybe the producers know best.”
Iterations of the show come and go. One day the producer announces that he has the perfect venue – a fitness club. This is so weird. No denying that the facility is superb. But, what does an obese rabbi-cook of the old school have to do with a fitness club?
“Not to worry,” the producer says. “A new concept. Shorts and a hoody. Fifteen minutes exercising with a personal trainer. A challenge to lose 20 pounds. Then, you’ll spend the rest of the show cooking healthy food – like vegetarian chopped liver.”
“I make REAL kosher food,” I belch. “REAL liver. REAL schmaltz. I thought this was supposed to be about REAL kosher food.”
“No worry,” the producer calms me. “We’ll have a dietician evaluate each dish on camera. What if you were to make a bowl of chopped liver, and she says that it will clog your arteries? What would you answer?”
“I’d rip open my shirt and point to the scar from my pacemaker.” I’d shout, “There’s nothing about chopped liver that I don’t already know!”
“Perfect!” the producer shouts. “Now, let’s get ready to shoot!”
Emes, I have not made up a word of this story.
OK, so I’ll live only to 118. The Food Network calls and, dammit, I’m going to answer.
From the outset, where to tape my new TV show has posed a problem. The first issue is finding a kitchen that is well equipped and accommodating to the cameras and audience.
But, the overarching concern is the ambiance we want to create. What is the concept behind the show? What persona do they want me to project? Not too intellectual, they tell me. They want the Sarah Palin crowd, not the Dalai Lama.
Most of all, what kind of food should I cook and yak about?
It should be a no-brainer. A rabbi should have a kitchen that looks like a tenement. And the food? Duh. Chicken soup. Brisket. Kugel. “Not so easy,” the producer says. “We’re in the South. We still need Jewish, but with a Southern spin.”
So, the program then puts me in jeans, tee-shirt, and Braves cap, cooking matzo-meal fried chicken, kneidlach-cum-hush-puppies, tzimmes-cum-sweet-potato-pie, cholent-cum-Brunswick stews. We’ll tape the show in an old barn cooking on a wood-burning stove.
“OK,” I thought. “This is the price I pay for stardom. Maybe the producers know best.”
Iterations of the show come and go. One day the producer announces that he has the perfect venue – a fitness club. This is so weird. No denying that the facility is superb. But, what does an obese rabbi-cook of the old school have to do with a fitness club?
“Not to worry,” the producer says. “A new concept. Shorts and a hoody. Fifteen minutes exercising with a personal trainer. A challenge to lose 20 pounds. Then, you’ll spend the rest of the show cooking healthy food – like vegetarian chopped liver.”
“I make REAL kosher food,” I belch. “REAL liver. REAL schmaltz. I thought this was supposed to be about REAL kosher food.”
“No worry,” the producer calms me. “We’ll have a dietician evaluate each dish on camera. What if you were to make a bowl of chopped liver, and she says that it will clog your arteries? What would you answer?”
“I’d rip open my shirt and point to the scar from my pacemaker.” I’d shout, “There’s nothing about chopped liver that I don’t already know!”
“Perfect!” the producer shouts. “Now, let’s get ready to shoot!”
Emes, I have not made up a word of this story.
OK, so I’ll live only to 118. The Food Network calls and, dammit, I’m going to answer.
December 09, 2008
THINGS GO BETTER WITH COKE . . . OR ELSE
Which character do we most closely associate with Coca-Cola? Santa Claus. This was a sharp marketer’s idea to keep kids drinking ice-cold Coke even in the depths of winter. Nowhere will you see a billboard, magazine, or commercial without Santa chugging down a Coke.
But, Coke can also be magnanimous at Christmas time. They pay to dispatch Santa Claus’s to bring cheer to disadvantaged children. Despite my religious inclinations, I play Santa six times each holiday season.
Deprived children tug at me and will not let me go. They kiss and hug me. I give them candy and presents. “Santa, Santa!” they cry. If they ask whether I am the “real Santa,” I let them pull my white beard, and they know that I am the one and only.
But then there was one time . . . Twenty or so kids abandoned by their parents. Most of them were three or four years old, still full of wonderment. They, too, would tug at my beard, and knew that I was real.
But one seven-year-old already knew better. He looked at me cynically from across the room. He finally sidled up to me and gave me such a swift kick in the shins that I cursed at him before I could regain my composure. Now he had all the evidence that he needed and shouted over and again, “That’s not really Santa! He’s a fake! He cursed at me! He’s a fake!”
What should I do? Quick as I could, I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into a corner. “Look, kid,” I growled at him. “If you don’t tell them you were joking, I’m going to make sure you never have another Coca-Cola for the rest of your life!”
His eyes widened. “You could really do that?” “Just try me,” I growled back. In a moment, a shout emerged. “I was just kidding! That is the real Santa!”
Even a Jewish Santa, I guess, is worth the benefit of the doubt when a life without Coke is as stake. After all, even the surliest kid isn’t willing to drink seltzer for the rest of his life on a bet with Santa Claus.
Which character do we most closely associate with Coca-Cola? Santa Claus. This was a sharp marketer’s idea to keep kids drinking ice-cold Coke even in the depths of winter. Nowhere will you see a billboard, magazine, or commercial without Santa chugging down a Coke.
But, Coke can also be magnanimous at Christmas time. They pay to dispatch Santa Claus’s to bring cheer to disadvantaged children. Despite my religious inclinations, I play Santa six times each holiday season.
Deprived children tug at me and will not let me go. They kiss and hug me. I give them candy and presents. “Santa, Santa!” they cry. If they ask whether I am the “real Santa,” I let them pull my white beard, and they know that I am the one and only.
But then there was one time . . . Twenty or so kids abandoned by their parents. Most of them were three or four years old, still full of wonderment. They, too, would tug at my beard, and knew that I was real.
But one seven-year-old already knew better. He looked at me cynically from across the room. He finally sidled up to me and gave me such a swift kick in the shins that I cursed at him before I could regain my composure. Now he had all the evidence that he needed and shouted over and again, “That’s not really Santa! He’s a fake! He cursed at me! He’s a fake!”
What should I do? Quick as I could, I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into a corner. “Look, kid,” I growled at him. “If you don’t tell them you were joking, I’m going to make sure you never have another Coca-Cola for the rest of your life!”
His eyes widened. “You could really do that?” “Just try me,” I growled back. In a moment, a shout emerged. “I was just kidding! That is the real Santa!”
Even a Jewish Santa, I guess, is worth the benefit of the doubt when a life without Coke is as stake. After all, even the surliest kid isn’t willing to drink seltzer for the rest of his life on a bet with Santa Claus.
November 20, 2008
COOKIES FOR KRISTALLNACHT
Can one find humor in Kristallnacht?
Some of us in Greenville had good intentions. We planned an event to commemorate Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass. We anticipated an attendance of 350, but 700 people showed up.
Then, someone got the idea to serve cookies and coffee after the program. Only American Jews would come up with the idea of serving Kiddush to honor Kristallnacht. Some of us objected. No, we were reassured, the collation would not be garish. The cookies would be simple and keeping in the spirit of the occasion, nothing more. Mrs. Goldberg, the sisterhood president, asked if flowers were appropriate. Before I could have my say, someone answered, “so long as they are not ostentation.”
Mrs. Goldberg went on to clarify: The sisterhood would bake the cookies, but not lay them out on platters, nor bring the platters. Who would? It would have to be someone else. Who would lay them out? Someone else. “And, we can’t be responsible for the napkins and tablecloths, just the cookies.” I dared not ask Mrs. Goldberg about the coffee. The only alternative would be to schlep three KM to Starbucks and buy jugs of coffee there.
Just then, Mrs. Schwartz, God bless her, stepped forward. She would take care of all of the arrangements herself. Everyone seemed relieved, even grateful. All but Mrs. Goldberg. Seems that she and Mrs. Schwartz had a long-standing feud over some long-forgotten issue.
No, announced Mrs. Goldberg, that would be unacceptable. Moreover, she publicly divested Mrs. Schwartz of her position as Social Action Chairwoman.
Mrs. Dunning, the only gentile member of the sisterhood, demanded that Mrs. Goldberg send Mrs. Schwartz an apology. You can only imagine the response.
Getting wind of this, we who planned the Kristallnacht commemoration pasken’d a shayleh: “Keep your cookies, your no-trays, your no-napkins, your no-tablecloths, and your no-coffee. We’ll just have to suffer the deprivation.”
So, Kristallnacht in Greenville went on, inspired and meaningful, but cookie-less. Some of us thought it was a dumb idea to begin with. Now, none of us can figure out whether it was slapstick comedy or profound tragedy.
You be the jury.
Can one find humor in Kristallnacht?
Some of us in Greenville had good intentions. We planned an event to commemorate Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass. We anticipated an attendance of 350, but 700 people showed up.
Then, someone got the idea to serve cookies and coffee after the program. Only American Jews would come up with the idea of serving Kiddush to honor Kristallnacht. Some of us objected. No, we were reassured, the collation would not be garish. The cookies would be simple and keeping in the spirit of the occasion, nothing more. Mrs. Goldberg, the sisterhood president, asked if flowers were appropriate. Before I could have my say, someone answered, “so long as they are not ostentation.”
Mrs. Goldberg went on to clarify: The sisterhood would bake the cookies, but not lay them out on platters, nor bring the platters. Who would? It would have to be someone else. Who would lay them out? Someone else. “And, we can’t be responsible for the napkins and tablecloths, just the cookies.” I dared not ask Mrs. Goldberg about the coffee. The only alternative would be to schlep three KM to Starbucks and buy jugs of coffee there.
Just then, Mrs. Schwartz, God bless her, stepped forward. She would take care of all of the arrangements herself. Everyone seemed relieved, even grateful. All but Mrs. Goldberg. Seems that she and Mrs. Schwartz had a long-standing feud over some long-forgotten issue.
No, announced Mrs. Goldberg, that would be unacceptable. Moreover, she publicly divested Mrs. Schwartz of her position as Social Action Chairwoman.
Mrs. Dunning, the only gentile member of the sisterhood, demanded that Mrs. Goldberg send Mrs. Schwartz an apology. You can only imagine the response.
Getting wind of this, we who planned the Kristallnacht commemoration pasken’d a shayleh: “Keep your cookies, your no-trays, your no-napkins, your no-tablecloths, and your no-coffee. We’ll just have to suffer the deprivation.”
So, Kristallnacht in Greenville went on, inspired and meaningful, but cookie-less. Some of us thought it was a dumb idea to begin with. Now, none of us can figure out whether it was slapstick comedy or profound tragedy.
You be the jury.
November 12, 2008
WHENCE THE CHIPS?
Mendel would say that I inherited double-dominant chocolate-craving genes from my parents. My father would need his jacket cleaned weekly because of a Hershey bar left in his pocket. My mother the diabetic would adjust her insulin in anticipation of a chocolate sundae.
My rebbetzin prudently keeps our chocolate to a minimum. She knows she should by all the candy wrappers she finds in my car. The only stuff that’s usually in the cabinet is a couple bags of chocolate chips that she uses for baking.
Naturally, when the craving overwhelms me, I grab a handful of the chips and down them before she can catch me. My secret does not last long. “Maaaaaarc!” she shrieks across the house. “I hope you enjoyed your chips! How am I going to bake the cookies?”
“All right, all right, I’ll go buy more,” I offer in self-defense.
“I don’t think so. Where are you going to find pareve chocolate chips in Greenville?”
She’s right. The once-pareve Nestlé’s, Hershey’s, Baker’s, are no longer pareve. No, they are now milchig. Another clear-cut case of anti-Semitism. No pareve chocolate chips in tiny Greenville.
So she commands, “The next time you’re in [huge] Atlanta to see the kids, you’ll buy up all the pareve chocolate chips you can find! How soon are you going to see the kids?”
I know the answer she expects. I postpone my appointments and whiz 200 KM to clear the grocery shelves of chips on the pretext of visiting the grandchildren. Oh yes, we have one more granddaughter in Brooklyn. There one may procure chocolate chips at every corner drugstore. I pay $578 for my ticket, carry an extra suitcase, and buy every bag of chips in Borough Park.
Upon my return, we resume our peaceful marriage. Then she announces that her parents are coming and that she’s going to bake a chocolate chip cake. I cower in fear. “Maaaaaarc!” she rants. “Again with the chips?”
By now, you know the exercise: I clear the papers from my desk, fill up my gas tank, and call my kids to prepare the bedroom, because Zayde is coming to visit. The grandbabies are delighted. I break out in acne.
Mendel would say that I inherited double-dominant chocolate-craving genes from my parents. My father would need his jacket cleaned weekly because of a Hershey bar left in his pocket. My mother the diabetic would adjust her insulin in anticipation of a chocolate sundae.
My rebbetzin prudently keeps our chocolate to a minimum. She knows she should by all the candy wrappers she finds in my car. The only stuff that’s usually in the cabinet is a couple bags of chocolate chips that she uses for baking.
Naturally, when the craving overwhelms me, I grab a handful of the chips and down them before she can catch me. My secret does not last long. “Maaaaaarc!” she shrieks across the house. “I hope you enjoyed your chips! How am I going to bake the cookies?”
“All right, all right, I’ll go buy more,” I offer in self-defense.
“I don’t think so. Where are you going to find pareve chocolate chips in Greenville?”
She’s right. The once-pareve Nestlé’s, Hershey’s, Baker’s, are no longer pareve. No, they are now milchig. Another clear-cut case of anti-Semitism. No pareve chocolate chips in tiny Greenville.
So she commands, “The next time you’re in [huge] Atlanta to see the kids, you’ll buy up all the pareve chocolate chips you can find! How soon are you going to see the kids?”
I know the answer she expects. I postpone my appointments and whiz 200 KM to clear the grocery shelves of chips on the pretext of visiting the grandchildren. Oh yes, we have one more granddaughter in Brooklyn. There one may procure chocolate chips at every corner drugstore. I pay $578 for my ticket, carry an extra suitcase, and buy every bag of chips in Borough Park.
Upon my return, we resume our peaceful marriage. Then she announces that her parents are coming and that she’s going to bake a chocolate chip cake. I cower in fear. “Maaaaaarc!” she rants. “Again with the chips?”
By now, you know the exercise: I clear the papers from my desk, fill up my gas tank, and call my kids to prepare the bedroom, because Zayde is coming to visit. The grandbabies are delighted. I break out in acne.
October 31, 2008
STABBED INTO GOOD MANNERS
I am not an expert at many things, but I do have good table manners. This was my father’s special mission in life. Whenever I would forget to say “please” or slobber my soup, he would reach over and stab my hand with his fork. This in itself was dreadfully bad manners, but no matter, it obviously worked.
Some parents were apparently not so demanding. About four years ago, I sat at a dinner next to a candidate for President, who shall remain nameless. As dinner concluded and he was preparing to speak, he stopped the server and told him to leave his dinner fork. With that, he proceeded to pick his teeth in front of an audience of 1,200. He never received his party’s nomination. I doubt that it was over the tooth-picking, but for me, it certainly didn’t help.
Lest one think that crude manners are reserved for the goyische species, let me tell you about this:
Once I was invited to dinner at a rabbinical home. The rebbetzin put out a wonderful spread, simply delicious. As I expected of a Bais Yaakov girl, her conduct was demur and impeccable. Not so my host. He threw chunks of bread to the kids. He dangled his beard in the soup. He held his spoon like a derrick. He chewed with his mouth open. He licked his knife, which is also dangerous. (Is this how Moshe Rabbenu came to his speech impediment?) And yes, all stereotypes aside, he really did wipe his mouth with his sleeve.
By now, the rebbetzin had a point of comparison.
“Look how nicely Rabbi Wilson eats,” she announced. “He has such good manners.”
Her husband paused, impassive, indifferent.
“See, Sheindel,” he finally said. “What’s the difference? He looks like a goy. He talks like a goy. He dresses like a goy. Why shouldn’t he eat like a goy?”
Nu, what did you want me to do? I almost reached over and stabbed him with my fork. But, at the last moment, I restrained myself. After all, that would not have been good manners.
I am not an expert at many things, but I do have good table manners. This was my father’s special mission in life. Whenever I would forget to say “please” or slobber my soup, he would reach over and stab my hand with his fork. This in itself was dreadfully bad manners, but no matter, it obviously worked.
Some parents were apparently not so demanding. About four years ago, I sat at a dinner next to a candidate for President, who shall remain nameless. As dinner concluded and he was preparing to speak, he stopped the server and told him to leave his dinner fork. With that, he proceeded to pick his teeth in front of an audience of 1,200. He never received his party’s nomination. I doubt that it was over the tooth-picking, but for me, it certainly didn’t help.
Lest one think that crude manners are reserved for the goyische species, let me tell you about this:
Once I was invited to dinner at a rabbinical home. The rebbetzin put out a wonderful spread, simply delicious. As I expected of a Bais Yaakov girl, her conduct was demur and impeccable. Not so my host. He threw chunks of bread to the kids. He dangled his beard in the soup. He held his spoon like a derrick. He chewed with his mouth open. He licked his knife, which is also dangerous. (Is this how Moshe Rabbenu came to his speech impediment?) And yes, all stereotypes aside, he really did wipe his mouth with his sleeve.
By now, the rebbetzin had a point of comparison.
“Look how nicely Rabbi Wilson eats,” she announced. “He has such good manners.”
Her husband paused, impassive, indifferent.
“See, Sheindel,” he finally said. “What’s the difference? He looks like a goy. He talks like a goy. He dresses like a goy. Why shouldn’t he eat like a goy?”
Nu, what did you want me to do? I almost reached over and stabbed him with my fork. But, at the last moment, I restrained myself. After all, that would not have been good manners.
October 28, 2008
THE PATHOS IN THE PICTURES
When I was a young rabbi, I counted among my dearest friends an elderly man . . . warm, generous, pious, a loving husband, father, grandfather, respected – even venerated – by the community. He has long since passed on.
He and I would frequently have lunch. Occasionally, he would offer me a book on a philosophical or historical topic that he would encourage me to read.
Once, traveling to New York, I grabbed one of them and in an idle moment started to read. Two seconds later, an envelope dropped from between the pages. Unsealed and unaddressed. Right or wrong, I looked. A handful of Playboy photos dropped out, each with lurid comments scribbled in his unmistakable handwriting.
A gasp of disbelief.
Shortly thereafter, a frantic voice, desperate for composure, appeared on my voicemail: “Marc, there might have been an envelope in the book I loaned you. Please just disregard it. Someone left it in my office, and I must have shoved it in the book while I wasn’t thinking.”
I returned his call: ”Not to worry,” I had the presence of mind, not piety, to say. “I saw the envelope and didn’t open it because it was yours. I’ll seal it up and return it to you.”
“A sheynem dank (many thanks),” he said to me, almost whispering. “He might be looking for it.”
Until he died, he never spoke to me quite the same as before. Still with warmth, still sharing a book or quote, but always with a barely audible edge of self-consciousness and shame.
From time to time, the Rolodex of my memory spins and stops unanticipated at that episode. I have always found it easier to crystallize the emotions that I do not feel for him, those that prevent from me from standing in judgment. No, I say to myself, he was not a pervert. Not a hypocrite. Not a lecher. Not a cheat. Not a dirty old man. I resist thinking any of those, regardless of what other people might have seen in him. Labels come more easily to most of us than understanding does.
It is infinitely harder for me to articulate what he was. Perhaps the best description is the simplest: Underneath it all, he was just so very sad. Simply a sad man, well cloaked in prosperity, yet so very sad. His memory does not evoke consternation, but empathy for my own fears of old-man-ness – unrequited yearning for bygone youth, bittersweet remembrances, and salad days. The pathos in the pictures tells me that he contended then, as I do now, with a life drawn only in one direction, so afraid of the loss of vigor and the promise of a world brimming with possibilities, so scared of becoming dependent, a burden.
Tell me that I am naïve, or projecting my own neuroses, or rationalizing the hypocrisy of a friend. But, I know that those pictures speak of a sadness he shared with every one of us who aches for just one more yesterday: excitement that once coursed through our veins, bowties and corsages to the prom, iridescent dreams of young love. Oh, for one more moment of teenage innocence. She would squeeze your hand and you hers, and all in the world was right.
What other chances for comfort and love and prosperity might there have been in the freshness of youth, had only this-or-that opportunity been seized, or had poor judgment or a misstep not led to a lesser place? Enough Googling – I say to myself – of classmates who became professors and authors and playwrights and business magnates.
I am blessed with a loving wife, whom I cherish, with whom, please God, I will grow old. Kids and grandkids, too, the quintessence of my being. My elderly friend was blessed with them, too. Still, who could not dream of the deliciousness left behind in the salad days? The success, the riches, even sometimes – let us confess – the pictorials in Playboy? All craving for just one more serving of vivid youth.
I pray that in heaven above, God has finally granted my friend a place of peace. As for me, let my epitaph speak Wordsworth’s final intimation:
To me the meanest flower that blows
Can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
When I was a young rabbi, I counted among my dearest friends an elderly man . . . warm, generous, pious, a loving husband, father, grandfather, respected – even venerated – by the community. He has long since passed on.
He and I would frequently have lunch. Occasionally, he would offer me a book on a philosophical or historical topic that he would encourage me to read.
Once, traveling to New York, I grabbed one of them and in an idle moment started to read. Two seconds later, an envelope dropped from between the pages. Unsealed and unaddressed. Right or wrong, I looked. A handful of Playboy photos dropped out, each with lurid comments scribbled in his unmistakable handwriting.
A gasp of disbelief.
Shortly thereafter, a frantic voice, desperate for composure, appeared on my voicemail: “Marc, there might have been an envelope in the book I loaned you. Please just disregard it. Someone left it in my office, and I must have shoved it in the book while I wasn’t thinking.”
I returned his call: ”Not to worry,” I had the presence of mind, not piety, to say. “I saw the envelope and didn’t open it because it was yours. I’ll seal it up and return it to you.”
“A sheynem dank (many thanks),” he said to me, almost whispering. “He might be looking for it.”
Until he died, he never spoke to me quite the same as before. Still with warmth, still sharing a book or quote, but always with a barely audible edge of self-consciousness and shame.
From time to time, the Rolodex of my memory spins and stops unanticipated at that episode. I have always found it easier to crystallize the emotions that I do not feel for him, those that prevent from me from standing in judgment. No, I say to myself, he was not a pervert. Not a hypocrite. Not a lecher. Not a cheat. Not a dirty old man. I resist thinking any of those, regardless of what other people might have seen in him. Labels come more easily to most of us than understanding does.
It is infinitely harder for me to articulate what he was. Perhaps the best description is the simplest: Underneath it all, he was just so very sad. Simply a sad man, well cloaked in prosperity, yet so very sad. His memory does not evoke consternation, but empathy for my own fears of old-man-ness – unrequited yearning for bygone youth, bittersweet remembrances, and salad days. The pathos in the pictures tells me that he contended then, as I do now, with a life drawn only in one direction, so afraid of the loss of vigor and the promise of a world brimming with possibilities, so scared of becoming dependent, a burden.
Tell me that I am naïve, or projecting my own neuroses, or rationalizing the hypocrisy of a friend. But, I know that those pictures speak of a sadness he shared with every one of us who aches for just one more yesterday: excitement that once coursed through our veins, bowties and corsages to the prom, iridescent dreams of young love. Oh, for one more moment of teenage innocence. She would squeeze your hand and you hers, and all in the world was right.
What other chances for comfort and love and prosperity might there have been in the freshness of youth, had only this-or-that opportunity been seized, or had poor judgment or a misstep not led to a lesser place? Enough Googling – I say to myself – of classmates who became professors and authors and playwrights and business magnates.
I am blessed with a loving wife, whom I cherish, with whom, please God, I will grow old. Kids and grandkids, too, the quintessence of my being. My elderly friend was blessed with them, too. Still, who could not dream of the deliciousness left behind in the salad days? The success, the riches, even sometimes – let us confess – the pictorials in Playboy? All craving for just one more serving of vivid youth.
I pray that in heaven above, God has finally granted my friend a place of peace. As for me, let my epitaph speak Wordsworth’s final intimation:
To me the meanest flower that blows
Can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
October 19, 2008
TRENDY SCHMALTZ
Now that things are moving forward with my TV show, I’ve become something of a celebrity in Greenville. Lest I get a swelled head, I remind myself that the most famous person in Greenville was a baseball player bribed by a Jewish gangster to throw the World Series.
Amazingly, local periodicals are running features about me. One magazine even sent out a camera crew to shoot photos of how I cook. Naturally, they asked for the typical Jewish menu: chicken soup, matzo balls, gefilte fish.
I denude the chicken to ensure that the soup would be healthful. I was left with plenty of skin, so I decided to fulfill a secret passion: to render a pot of schmaltz. It is the single most deadly foodstuff that Mephistopheles created. If Linda sees me in its presence, she sends me to the doghouse. All she knows is that my matzo balls and chopped liver have a je ne se qua that she has not been able to replicate.
Here come the photographers. I line up the carrots, celery, and chicken for the photo shoot. Meanwhile, one of them spies the pot of schmaltz.
“That’s rendered chicken fat,” I tell her apologetically, “and it is toxic.” “So, it’s like lard?” she asks. “I bet you could make a really flaky pie crust with it.” “Not exactly,” I tell her. “We usually use it with mashed potatoes.” “And what are those? she says, pointing to the gribenes. “Uh, we like to call them ‘Jewish popcorn’. Try one.” She pronounces it “delicious,” as the cholesterol rushes through her pristine arteries.
With that, she starts snapping pictures of the schmaltz, gribenes, and me. “Wait! What about my chicken soup?” “No, no, we know what the readers like. This is so much more interesting.” “I’m a chef!” I shout, “not a yokel!”
So, schmaltz has become my culinary legacy in a fancy magazine, my picture surrounded by ads for haute couture and Rolex watches. Now the entire world knows that I’m a fraud. No more hiding from the truth. But, none of that really matters in the larger scheme. Nothing will be as traumatic as what Linda has to say.
Now that things are moving forward with my TV show, I’ve become something of a celebrity in Greenville. Lest I get a swelled head, I remind myself that the most famous person in Greenville was a baseball player bribed by a Jewish gangster to throw the World Series.
Amazingly, local periodicals are running features about me. One magazine even sent out a camera crew to shoot photos of how I cook. Naturally, they asked for the typical Jewish menu: chicken soup, matzo balls, gefilte fish.
I denude the chicken to ensure that the soup would be healthful. I was left with plenty of skin, so I decided to fulfill a secret passion: to render a pot of schmaltz. It is the single most deadly foodstuff that Mephistopheles created. If Linda sees me in its presence, she sends me to the doghouse. All she knows is that my matzo balls and chopped liver have a je ne se qua that she has not been able to replicate.
Here come the photographers. I line up the carrots, celery, and chicken for the photo shoot. Meanwhile, one of them spies the pot of schmaltz.
“That’s rendered chicken fat,” I tell her apologetically, “and it is toxic.” “So, it’s like lard?” she asks. “I bet you could make a really flaky pie crust with it.” “Not exactly,” I tell her. “We usually use it with mashed potatoes.” “And what are those? she says, pointing to the gribenes. “Uh, we like to call them ‘Jewish popcorn’. Try one.” She pronounces it “delicious,” as the cholesterol rushes through her pristine arteries.
With that, she starts snapping pictures of the schmaltz, gribenes, and me. “Wait! What about my chicken soup?” “No, no, we know what the readers like. This is so much more interesting.” “I’m a chef!” I shout, “not a yokel!”
So, schmaltz has become my culinary legacy in a fancy magazine, my picture surrounded by ads for haute couture and Rolex watches. Now the entire world knows that I’m a fraud. No more hiding from the truth. But, none of that really matters in the larger scheme. Nothing will be as traumatic as what Linda has to say.
October 16, 2008
RECIPES FOR THE BIPOLAR PALATE
Have you already figured out that I am as bipolar as a rubber band? When I am up, I am a hyena. When I am down, I make Hamlet look like Jerry Lewis. Thank God for leading-edge medication, an understanding therapist, and a loving and ever-patient wife.
You probably do not know that I am a columnist for BP Hope, a magazine for manic-depressives. Usually I write book reviews – self-help books, autobiographies, even a DVD that follows crazy-quilt images through the eyes of a bipolar photographer.
Then, an editor determines that I like to fool around in the kitchen. “How would you like to write a food column for BP?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. A bipolar food column?” “Sure,” he says, “simple dishes like salads that won’t become too frustrating. And for God’s sake, no alcohol!”
Nah, I think. This will never work. What we need is “bipolar food” for bipolar people – obvious dishes like sweet-and-sour meatballs. What about hot-and-sour soup? Frosted Flakes breaded chicken? Now let’s get creative: Crush up Sugar Pops and shape into matzo balls. I knew a hausfrau who shrouded her gefilte fish in aspic of lemon juice, horseradish, and raspberry gelatin. Now, that’s what I call a bipolar recipe.
Why limit ourselves to bipolarity? Paranoids might get a rush out of chicken feet from the soup. God knows what they’ve walked through. What about masochists? Give them the hairy cow’s knuckle from pitcha. The chronically depressed? Teach them to make oatmeal. Obsessive-compulsive? Show them how to mix five flavors of jam together, like my bubbe used to. Manic? Here’s how to make a fresh hot cup of coffee, coffee, coffee, then a bottle of Coke. Delusions of grandeur? Tell them your recipe for gefilte fish is really quenelles de poisson. Ah, schizophrenia: Feed their hallucinations with onion sundaes and chocolate-dipped herring.
Wait! My mind is running too fast! I’m suffering from delusions! I’m so worried! I might get fired! I’m craving raw garlic! I need my potato chips NOW!
What’s that, Boss? You want me to review Alice in Wonderland? Whatever you say. But have you ever read that book? You may not know what you’re getting me into.
Have you already figured out that I am as bipolar as a rubber band? When I am up, I am a hyena. When I am down, I make Hamlet look like Jerry Lewis. Thank God for leading-edge medication, an understanding therapist, and a loving and ever-patient wife.
You probably do not know that I am a columnist for BP Hope, a magazine for manic-depressives. Usually I write book reviews – self-help books, autobiographies, even a DVD that follows crazy-quilt images through the eyes of a bipolar photographer.
Then, an editor determines that I like to fool around in the kitchen. “How would you like to write a food column for BP?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. A bipolar food column?” “Sure,” he says, “simple dishes like salads that won’t become too frustrating. And for God’s sake, no alcohol!”
Nah, I think. This will never work. What we need is “bipolar food” for bipolar people – obvious dishes like sweet-and-sour meatballs. What about hot-and-sour soup? Frosted Flakes breaded chicken? Now let’s get creative: Crush up Sugar Pops and shape into matzo balls. I knew a hausfrau who shrouded her gefilte fish in aspic of lemon juice, horseradish, and raspberry gelatin. Now, that’s what I call a bipolar recipe.
Why limit ourselves to bipolarity? Paranoids might get a rush out of chicken feet from the soup. God knows what they’ve walked through. What about masochists? Give them the hairy cow’s knuckle from pitcha. The chronically depressed? Teach them to make oatmeal. Obsessive-compulsive? Show them how to mix five flavors of jam together, like my bubbe used to. Manic? Here’s how to make a fresh hot cup of coffee, coffee, coffee, then a bottle of Coke. Delusions of grandeur? Tell them your recipe for gefilte fish is really quenelles de poisson. Ah, schizophrenia: Feed their hallucinations with onion sundaes and chocolate-dipped herring.
Wait! My mind is running too fast! I’m suffering from delusions! I’m so worried! I might get fired! I’m craving raw garlic! I need my potato chips NOW!
What’s that, Boss? You want me to review Alice in Wonderland? Whatever you say. But have you ever read that book? You may not know what you’re getting me into.
September 05, 2008
BREADSTICKS AND STRICKOLEAN
I learned the truth about kishke at the age of 12. It was at Larry Dellheim’s bar mitzvah. He had always been pretty obnoxious. “You know what you’re eating, don’t you?” he poked. “Cow’s guts.”
It was like hearing about sex for the first time. Just to play it safe, I put down my fork. “Get out of here!”
“Go ask you mom,” Larry jeered.
Years went by, and I’ve finally gone back to kishke. But cow organs – lung, heart, pancreas, brains – still give me the willies.
I was in good company. Northerners don’t eat much slimy innards. Then I moved South and discovered that organ meat was not a delicacy, but a sacrament.
Take, for example, the steaming bowl of pork intestine enhanced with hot-pepper sauce that they call “chitlins.” They look like they have the resilience of uncut rubber bands, but people slobber in them.
Then, I discovered that if you order cooked vegetables in a restaurant, their preparation is not so simple. They are invariably cooked with ham hock. This causes a slithering pool of grease to form atop the bowl and shards of pork to infuse the vegetables. My friends and I used to call it “mystery meat,” but there is no mystery about it.
I finally found it safe to eat lunch at a salad bar, where the vegetables are fresh and clean. At least I thought so. Once at a salad bar I loaded my plate with raw veggies. Well, maybe this isn’t as bad as I thought. They even had a stack of breadsticks, fairly cosmopolitan for the rural South. I bit into one, but it was oddly greasy. “This is not bread,” I said to the man at the next table. “No,” the man answered. “That’s fatback and strick-o-lean.” Well, I knew that fatback was a grubby pork delicacy. But “strick-o-lean”? “It’s a streak of lean bacon,” he explained impatiently.
“Oh.” I wanted to gargle with lye.
Then I came to resolution. I was the one who chose to move South. Besides, what a great story to tell my kids. Surely my two older ones would laugh. But then there’s the one who’s a Lubavitcher . . .
I learned the truth about kishke at the age of 12. It was at Larry Dellheim’s bar mitzvah. He had always been pretty obnoxious. “You know what you’re eating, don’t you?” he poked. “Cow’s guts.”
It was like hearing about sex for the first time. Just to play it safe, I put down my fork. “Get out of here!”
“Go ask you mom,” Larry jeered.
Years went by, and I’ve finally gone back to kishke. But cow organs – lung, heart, pancreas, brains – still give me the willies.
I was in good company. Northerners don’t eat much slimy innards. Then I moved South and discovered that organ meat was not a delicacy, but a sacrament.
Take, for example, the steaming bowl of pork intestine enhanced with hot-pepper sauce that they call “chitlins.” They look like they have the resilience of uncut rubber bands, but people slobber in them.
Then, I discovered that if you order cooked vegetables in a restaurant, their preparation is not so simple. They are invariably cooked with ham hock. This causes a slithering pool of grease to form atop the bowl and shards of pork to infuse the vegetables. My friends and I used to call it “mystery meat,” but there is no mystery about it.
I finally found it safe to eat lunch at a salad bar, where the vegetables are fresh and clean. At least I thought so. Once at a salad bar I loaded my plate with raw veggies. Well, maybe this isn’t as bad as I thought. They even had a stack of breadsticks, fairly cosmopolitan for the rural South. I bit into one, but it was oddly greasy. “This is not bread,” I said to the man at the next table. “No,” the man answered. “That’s fatback and strick-o-lean.” Well, I knew that fatback was a grubby pork delicacy. But “strick-o-lean”? “It’s a streak of lean bacon,” he explained impatiently.
“Oh.” I wanted to gargle with lye.
Then I came to resolution. I was the one who chose to move South. Besides, what a great story to tell my kids. Surely my two older ones would laugh. But then there’s the one who’s a Lubavitcher . . .
September 03, 2008
ONE MILKSHAKE: $150
I never met a chocolate milkshake that I didn’t love. My family was relatively poor, so Saturday night entertainment was to stroll “once around the track,” as my father called it, at Walgreen’s drugstore. Then, they would seat me at a stool in the cafeteria, ordered me a milkshake for 25 cents and sat impassively nearby as they waited for me to finish it.
What was the most I ever paid for a milkshake? $150. $150?!! It was December. The road was icy. I had just picked up my first pair of hearing aids and decided to stop for a celebratory milkshake. Away I drove, the milkshake in one hand, tuning my hearing aids with the other. I got distracted. The derrière of a truck loomed before me. I hit the brakes. I skidded. I missed the truck. Inertia, though, whipped the milkshake forward.
Thick, gooey milkshake exploded over windows, steering wheel, leather upholstery, the slot for the CDs, my suit, my shoes. And me with one wispy napkin. The car and I limped home. Two bottles of schpritz-cleaner later, I had not even made a dent. The reek of sour milk was setting in.
I took the car to the car wash, and all they could do was laugh. “Mister, you got one dirty car there.” They suggested an “auto detailing” service. “Mister,” again I heard them snickering, “you got one dirty car there.”
“How bad is it going to be?” I asked.
“We usually charge $75 to clean a car.”
“Usually?”
“We’ll have to charge $150 for yours.”
“All right.” Anyone who’s ever roiled in sour milk and gotten his bottom stuck to his seat knows that there is no alternative.
That’s the story of my $150 milkshake.
Regrets? Well, Linda didn’t let me back in the bedroom for a week. And $150 is still $150 to the unemployed. Honestly, though, the real regret? That I didn’t get to finish that damned milkshake, one of the best I’d ever tried. Was there any consolation? Yes, and here it is: The hearing aids are simply great, just great enough to shut off when Linda raves, “I told you so!”
I never met a chocolate milkshake that I didn’t love. My family was relatively poor, so Saturday night entertainment was to stroll “once around the track,” as my father called it, at Walgreen’s drugstore. Then, they would seat me at a stool in the cafeteria, ordered me a milkshake for 25 cents and sat impassively nearby as they waited for me to finish it.
What was the most I ever paid for a milkshake? $150. $150?!! It was December. The road was icy. I had just picked up my first pair of hearing aids and decided to stop for a celebratory milkshake. Away I drove, the milkshake in one hand, tuning my hearing aids with the other. I got distracted. The derrière of a truck loomed before me. I hit the brakes. I skidded. I missed the truck. Inertia, though, whipped the milkshake forward.
Thick, gooey milkshake exploded over windows, steering wheel, leather upholstery, the slot for the CDs, my suit, my shoes. And me with one wispy napkin. The car and I limped home. Two bottles of schpritz-cleaner later, I had not even made a dent. The reek of sour milk was setting in.
I took the car to the car wash, and all they could do was laugh. “Mister, you got one dirty car there.” They suggested an “auto detailing” service. “Mister,” again I heard them snickering, “you got one dirty car there.”
“How bad is it going to be?” I asked.
“We usually charge $75 to clean a car.”
“Usually?”
“We’ll have to charge $150 for yours.”
“All right.” Anyone who’s ever roiled in sour milk and gotten his bottom stuck to his seat knows that there is no alternative.
That’s the story of my $150 milkshake.
Regrets? Well, Linda didn’t let me back in the bedroom for a week. And $150 is still $150 to the unemployed. Honestly, though, the real regret? That I didn’t get to finish that damned milkshake, one of the best I’d ever tried. Was there any consolation? Yes, and here it is: The hearing aids are simply great, just great enough to shut off when Linda raves, “I told you so!”
August 26, 2008
WOULDYA PLEASE PASS THE SCHNITZEL?
My old schule recently entertained the idea of inviting me back to be their rabbi. It’s a long story, but instead they hired a woman who does not know how to read from the Torah. As I was told, she has more charisma than I do.
“It’s all for the best,” I said to myself. This will give me more time to work on my television show, “Rabbi Ribeye.” The name rhymes in English. In German, it would be loosely translated as “Rabbiner von Beefsteak.”
I am not kidding about my television show. Two producers discovered that I am a fairly good chef and comedian, at least for a rabbi. People would be interested, they said, in a rabbi who cooks like a yokel – but strictly kosher – tells funny stories, and plays the harmonica with a blues band. I can also, they said, cook matzo balls and veal breast and make the goyim think that they’re hush puppies and roast ham.
So now, we’ve taped a pilot, and five networks are ready to buy it. I have my own production company, agents, and lawyers. I am making personal appearances and showing old black chefs how to cook kosher barbecue.
Ach. My biggest problem is that the want me to write a cookbook. Funny, but I don’t know what to write. None of my recipes have measurements, just “throw it in.” I have to go back to figure out how large a “handful” of matzo meal really is.
What to do? I am tired of all the ways of making tuna casserole and brownies. So, I have a challenge for you: Send me your recipes – but no more potato kugel, gefilte fish, and latkes. I want authentic German recipes, kosher, of course: Schnitzel ala Holstein, Schwartzwalder Kirschtorte, Rouladen . . . you know.
If I include yours in my cookbook, I will not give you a penny, but all the credit, at least for the 15 people who buy it. If I really like your recipe, I will send you an authentic “Rabbi Ribeye” cap and an autographed picture of me eating Spaetzle.
Send them to me fast. After all, Chanukah is right around the corner, and I wouldn’t want anyone to miss Frau Unterdorfer’s recipe for Rotkraut zum Gaensebraten.
My old schule recently entertained the idea of inviting me back to be their rabbi. It’s a long story, but instead they hired a woman who does not know how to read from the Torah. As I was told, she has more charisma than I do.
“It’s all for the best,” I said to myself. This will give me more time to work on my television show, “Rabbi Ribeye.” The name rhymes in English. In German, it would be loosely translated as “Rabbiner von Beefsteak.”
I am not kidding about my television show. Two producers discovered that I am a fairly good chef and comedian, at least for a rabbi. People would be interested, they said, in a rabbi who cooks like a yokel – but strictly kosher – tells funny stories, and plays the harmonica with a blues band. I can also, they said, cook matzo balls and veal breast and make the goyim think that they’re hush puppies and roast ham.
So now, we’ve taped a pilot, and five networks are ready to buy it. I have my own production company, agents, and lawyers. I am making personal appearances and showing old black chefs how to cook kosher barbecue.
Ach. My biggest problem is that the want me to write a cookbook. Funny, but I don’t know what to write. None of my recipes have measurements, just “throw it in.” I have to go back to figure out how large a “handful” of matzo meal really is.
What to do? I am tired of all the ways of making tuna casserole and brownies. So, I have a challenge for you: Send me your recipes – but no more potato kugel, gefilte fish, and latkes. I want authentic German recipes, kosher, of course: Schnitzel ala Holstein, Schwartzwalder Kirschtorte, Rouladen . . . you know.
If I include yours in my cookbook, I will not give you a penny, but all the credit, at least for the 15 people who buy it. If I really like your recipe, I will send you an authentic “Rabbi Ribeye” cap and an autographed picture of me eating Spaetzle.
Send them to me fast. After all, Chanukah is right around the corner, and I wouldn’t want anyone to miss Frau Unterdorfer’s recipe for Rotkraut zum Gaensebraten.
August 17, 2008
THE RIGHT FIT
My youngest, Ben, now dons the garb of a Chasidic Jew when he celebrates Sabbath, holydays, and sacred occasions – long, black frockcoat, broad-brimmed hat, ritual fringes, woven prayer-sash, and the rest. He has come to identify with an Orthodox sect, Chabad, with which I, too, was once closely associated.
Chabad has recently gained some modicum of controversy, having posthumously declared their Rebbe (“Grand Rabbi”) the Messiah. The disagreements between us have never become rancorous, because Ben knows my watchword: “Son, as long as you are first and foremost, in every dimension of your life, a ‘mensch’ (a decent, God-loving, honorable human being), everything else is just parsley around the plate.” So far, he has been faithful to my watchword.
His siblings are not quite so tolerant. Oh, they would put down their lives for him. They, too, are quite religious, simply more modern. They see his “dress-up” as “mishugas” (foolishness) and have even asked me to try to straighten him out.
I won’t.
Maybe part of me is proud to have raised a child so devout, yet live such a responsible life. (He is a senior property manager for a multinational firm.)
But I think it’s more than that. Here’s how I see it:
Everyone should grant him/herself the opportunity, with impunity, to try on different outfits – to see which fit, which are transitory fads, which might be outgrown, which make us look like fools. I would like to believe that we’ve all been through it – groping around, perhaps for a lifetime, for the personae, tastes, cultures, friends, politics, philosophy, that “fit.”
How sad for people who don’t, who fear the intrigue, who refuse the human prerogative to change. How sad for those people who are deluded or brainwashed into believing that one size will always fit all. How sad for those people who mock and deride – as, by the way, my parents did – those others who try on different outfits, some garb whose silliness will be overcome, some not, and some that turn out isn’t really silly at all.
Of course, each new outfit might bode of a commensurate change in values: After each Sabbath, Ben changes from his frockcoat into basketball shorts and a grubby tee-shirt. So, we call him “neo-chasidic.” We laugh, and he laughs along with us. Another child of the extended family, age 28, dresses quite fashionably, but as a matter of commitment, just like her mother. Her persona is stuck at 60.
But values that form ones core? They must remain at the core, despite the permutation of clothing that circles around them. It’s as I tell Ben, “So long as you are a mensch . . . justice, mercy, humility, justice, mercy, humility . . .” Thanks to Micah. No matter, these must endure. If not, then all the changing of outfits becomes nothing more than an obscene striptease.
In adolescence, I was obliged to dress like a mama’s boy, quintessentially obedient. Then, the work-shirt and jeans of a ‘60’s radical. Then, like Ben, the pietistic chasidic cassock. Then, the intimations of prosperity cloaked in Brooks Brothers pinstripe and button-down, just out of Wall Street, which I wasn’t. With the denial of my collision with middle age, I dressed ridiculously retro-youth. Now, a bit more adjusted, slacks and a sport shirt, maybe an occasional pair of shorts, maybe a bowtie, just for the effect.
And that’s precisely the point – the fit marks the passing time and persona: obedience, radicalism, liberal, conservative, liberal, radical liberal, resolved . . . and maybe not resolved. That’s the story of my life. With old age, how can one know?
Long ago, the rabbis marveled at how the same King Solomon could have penned the mushy Song of Songs and the cynical Ecclesiastes. Some of them answered the obvious: He wrote Song of Songs when he was young and full of youthful romance, and Ecclesiastes when he was an old, sour crab. Others, though, showed more insight: No, they said. He wrote Ecclesiastes in the cynical disillusionment of youth. Then, he composed Song of Songs when he attained the resolution and romance that come from maturity and the philosophical mind.
I vote for interpretation Number Two. Or, at least I pray for it. I can see Ol’ King Solomon sitting on his throne in regal vestments and then a couple of hours later puttering around in his garden in tee-shirt and jeans.
I wonder if I can get there, too. That and justice, mercy, humility, always justice, mercy, humility. Finally, a pretty good fit.
My youngest, Ben, now dons the garb of a Chasidic Jew when he celebrates Sabbath, holydays, and sacred occasions – long, black frockcoat, broad-brimmed hat, ritual fringes, woven prayer-sash, and the rest. He has come to identify with an Orthodox sect, Chabad, with which I, too, was once closely associated.
Chabad has recently gained some modicum of controversy, having posthumously declared their Rebbe (“Grand Rabbi”) the Messiah. The disagreements between us have never become rancorous, because Ben knows my watchword: “Son, as long as you are first and foremost, in every dimension of your life, a ‘mensch’ (a decent, God-loving, honorable human being), everything else is just parsley around the plate.” So far, he has been faithful to my watchword.
His siblings are not quite so tolerant. Oh, they would put down their lives for him. They, too, are quite religious, simply more modern. They see his “dress-up” as “mishugas” (foolishness) and have even asked me to try to straighten him out.
I won’t.
Maybe part of me is proud to have raised a child so devout, yet live such a responsible life. (He is a senior property manager for a multinational firm.)
But I think it’s more than that. Here’s how I see it:
Everyone should grant him/herself the opportunity, with impunity, to try on different outfits – to see which fit, which are transitory fads, which might be outgrown, which make us look like fools. I would like to believe that we’ve all been through it – groping around, perhaps for a lifetime, for the personae, tastes, cultures, friends, politics, philosophy, that “fit.”
How sad for people who don’t, who fear the intrigue, who refuse the human prerogative to change. How sad for those people who are deluded or brainwashed into believing that one size will always fit all. How sad for those people who mock and deride – as, by the way, my parents did – those others who try on different outfits, some garb whose silliness will be overcome, some not, and some that turn out isn’t really silly at all.
Of course, each new outfit might bode of a commensurate change in values: After each Sabbath, Ben changes from his frockcoat into basketball shorts and a grubby tee-shirt. So, we call him “neo-chasidic.” We laugh, and he laughs along with us. Another child of the extended family, age 28, dresses quite fashionably, but as a matter of commitment, just like her mother. Her persona is stuck at 60.
But values that form ones core? They must remain at the core, despite the permutation of clothing that circles around them. It’s as I tell Ben, “So long as you are a mensch . . . justice, mercy, humility, justice, mercy, humility . . .” Thanks to Micah. No matter, these must endure. If not, then all the changing of outfits becomes nothing more than an obscene striptease.
In adolescence, I was obliged to dress like a mama’s boy, quintessentially obedient. Then, the work-shirt and jeans of a ‘60’s radical. Then, like Ben, the pietistic chasidic cassock. Then, the intimations of prosperity cloaked in Brooks Brothers pinstripe and button-down, just out of Wall Street, which I wasn’t. With the denial of my collision with middle age, I dressed ridiculously retro-youth. Now, a bit more adjusted, slacks and a sport shirt, maybe an occasional pair of shorts, maybe a bowtie, just for the effect.
And that’s precisely the point – the fit marks the passing time and persona: obedience, radicalism, liberal, conservative, liberal, radical liberal, resolved . . . and maybe not resolved. That’s the story of my life. With old age, how can one know?
Long ago, the rabbis marveled at how the same King Solomon could have penned the mushy Song of Songs and the cynical Ecclesiastes. Some of them answered the obvious: He wrote Song of Songs when he was young and full of youthful romance, and Ecclesiastes when he was an old, sour crab. Others, though, showed more insight: No, they said. He wrote Ecclesiastes in the cynical disillusionment of youth. Then, he composed Song of Songs when he attained the resolution and romance that come from maturity and the philosophical mind.
I vote for interpretation Number Two. Or, at least I pray for it. I can see Ol’ King Solomon sitting on his throne in regal vestments and then a couple of hours later puttering around in his garden in tee-shirt and jeans.
I wonder if I can get there, too. That and justice, mercy, humility, always justice, mercy, humility. Finally, a pretty good fit.
August 07, 2008
THE YEKKE SYNDROME
It wasn’t until I went off to college that I discovered that being a Yekke was not a nationality, but a syndrome. I’ve never met another species of Jew who named his child Irmgard or Berthold. Scott and Craig, of course. Those are real names. But not Gunther nor Franziska. Those are the kinds of names you find in stuffy operas, not baseball teams.
I wound up in Washington Heights, which proper Yekkes call “Frankfurt am Hudson.” A lovely elderly couple, Herta and Ludwig, took me in from time to time for Shabbos lunch. Their hospitality entirely gracious, but what kind of Shabbos lunch? Did we recite the Motzi on challah? No, on something they called “barches” that looked like a football. And where did that weird name “barches” come from? My research determined that it was derived from the twisted bread offered to Berchta, the Teutonic goddess of vegetation. I knew that German Jews were assimilated, but not idolaters.
What happened to the gefilte fish? Could it have morphed into a slice of boiled carp swimming in a blob of dense gray jelly? And that sauce? Mayonnaise?
The main course. We of real Jewish ancestry eat tongue picked and spiced, served on rye bread with mustard, an honorable deli sandwich. But who ever thought of roasting a whole tongue like an old boot and drenching it in a sticky raisin sauce, like ham? Only the Yekkes.
But, I dare not complain about apfelschalet – that wondrous deep-dish apple pie that makes cobbler of the southern US taste like pabulum. When I got divorced from my Yekke wife, I pleaded with her, “Please, take the house and the dog. Just don’t take the recipe for apfelschalet!”
Then there was the mandatory stroll through Fort Washington Park on Shabbos afternoon. In my life, I have never seen so many women in black coats and men walking with their hands clasped behind their backs.
Schule was the crowning experience. Oh, those majestic Teutonic oompah melodies for L’Dovid Boruch and Tzaddik Ka-Tomor. I still strut and sing them triumphantly whenever I walk the dog.
I found that as a visitor, you never, but never, simply take a seat in a Yekke schule. You are ushered to one, lest you choose a seat that is owned by a regular congregant. How dare you?
Once upon a time, I attended the schule of Rav Breuer, where every worshipper must surely have a lulav stuck up his . . . An usher led me to a seat next to a gap in the row. I asked the obvious: “Why the missing seat?” I assumed that it had belonged to a schule dignitary who had passed, and now the seat had been retired, the way one would retire the jersey of a superstar hockey or soccer player.
The usher quickly hushed me and said that if I were still interested he would tell me after services. My curiosity piqued, I approached him.
“You see that man on the other side of the gap?” he said, still whispering. “He hated the man who used to sit there. So, one Erev Yom Tov he came early, bought the seat, and had it unbolted.” If that is not the quintessential Yekke story, Lohengrin was just a jitterbug.
So, again I think to myself, being a Yekke is not a nationality. It is a syndrome. If they didn’t make such awesome aufschnitt, I’d tell you the real truth about them.
It wasn’t until I went off to college that I discovered that being a Yekke was not a nationality, but a syndrome. I’ve never met another species of Jew who named his child Irmgard or Berthold. Scott and Craig, of course. Those are real names. But not Gunther nor Franziska. Those are the kinds of names you find in stuffy operas, not baseball teams.
I wound up in Washington Heights, which proper Yekkes call “Frankfurt am Hudson.” A lovely elderly couple, Herta and Ludwig, took me in from time to time for Shabbos lunch. Their hospitality entirely gracious, but what kind of Shabbos lunch? Did we recite the Motzi on challah? No, on something they called “barches” that looked like a football. And where did that weird name “barches” come from? My research determined that it was derived from the twisted bread offered to Berchta, the Teutonic goddess of vegetation. I knew that German Jews were assimilated, but not idolaters.
What happened to the gefilte fish? Could it have morphed into a slice of boiled carp swimming in a blob of dense gray jelly? And that sauce? Mayonnaise?
The main course. We of real Jewish ancestry eat tongue picked and spiced, served on rye bread with mustard, an honorable deli sandwich. But who ever thought of roasting a whole tongue like an old boot and drenching it in a sticky raisin sauce, like ham? Only the Yekkes.
But, I dare not complain about apfelschalet – that wondrous deep-dish apple pie that makes cobbler of the southern US taste like pabulum. When I got divorced from my Yekke wife, I pleaded with her, “Please, take the house and the dog. Just don’t take the recipe for apfelschalet!”
Then there was the mandatory stroll through Fort Washington Park on Shabbos afternoon. In my life, I have never seen so many women in black coats and men walking with their hands clasped behind their backs.
Schule was the crowning experience. Oh, those majestic Teutonic oompah melodies for L’Dovid Boruch and Tzaddik Ka-Tomor. I still strut and sing them triumphantly whenever I walk the dog.
I found that as a visitor, you never, but never, simply take a seat in a Yekke schule. You are ushered to one, lest you choose a seat that is owned by a regular congregant. How dare you?
Once upon a time, I attended the schule of Rav Breuer, where every worshipper must surely have a lulav stuck up his . . . An usher led me to a seat next to a gap in the row. I asked the obvious: “Why the missing seat?” I assumed that it had belonged to a schule dignitary who had passed, and now the seat had been retired, the way one would retire the jersey of a superstar hockey or soccer player.
The usher quickly hushed me and said that if I were still interested he would tell me after services. My curiosity piqued, I approached him.
“You see that man on the other side of the gap?” he said, still whispering. “He hated the man who used to sit there. So, one Erev Yom Tov he came early, bought the seat, and had it unbolted.” If that is not the quintessential Yekke story, Lohengrin was just a jitterbug.
So, again I think to myself, being a Yekke is not a nationality. It is a syndrome. If they didn’t make such awesome aufschnitt, I’d tell you the real truth about them.
August 05, 2008
DISCUSS: AN EGG CREAM CONTAINS NEITHER EGGS NOR CREAM
The birth of our granddaughter in New York was all the excuse we needed to head Downtown and conduct “scientific research” on the quality of the pastrami, etc., at the newly reopened Second Avenue Deli, the Olympus of kosher dining. We had another good excuse: to introduce the gay couple that lives next door to the wonders of deli cuisine. “The Boys,” as we call them, happened to be in New York for a weekend of theater.
They’d never eaten heimische Jewish cooking, save the occasional dinners I’d prepared for them. It was no wonder. The Boys had grown up in tiny Seneca, South Carolina, where it was dangerous enough to be gay, not to mention falling in love with Jewish cuisine, or even finding it.
They, we commanded, had to join us for lunch at Second Avenue. On being seated, I discovered an auspicious lagniappe waiting at the table – a bowl of gribenes. Before I could explain the wonders of rendered chicken skin, The Boys had attacked the bowl and pronounced the cracklings “even better than pork rinds,” a kind of gribenes derived from pig skin. A klog!
Not I, but my pencil-thin Lady Linda ordered lunch – everything “for the table,” sharing it all until the last diner dropped. They had never tried chopped liver, so we demanded that they try chopped liver. “Mix in some gribenes!” I admonished them. “Ahhhhhhh, even better.” Then the fricassee. They recognized what they called “gizzards,” but I wouldn’t let them continue until they learned that proper people called them “pupiks.” Kishke, yes. Did the intestines bother them? Not a chance! Corned beef. Pastrami. Salami. Knobbelwurst. Potato and lokshen kugel.
At our insistence, they washed it all down with an “egg cream,” a beverage of seltzer and chocolate syrup. “Where were the eggs and cream?” they wondered. “Goyische kep! Those would be too hard to digest!”
We paid. We feared that otherwise we would be indicted for murder. All The Boys could say was, “How can we become Jewish like you?”
I asked if they’d been circumcised. They looked at me sheepishly. “Boys,” I said, “if you’re not, keep your knives at your plate. Just enjoy your gefilte fish, and you’ll be as Jewish as most Jews I know.”
The birth of our granddaughter in New York was all the excuse we needed to head Downtown and conduct “scientific research” on the quality of the pastrami, etc., at the newly reopened Second Avenue Deli, the Olympus of kosher dining. We had another good excuse: to introduce the gay couple that lives next door to the wonders of deli cuisine. “The Boys,” as we call them, happened to be in New York for a weekend of theater.
They’d never eaten heimische Jewish cooking, save the occasional dinners I’d prepared for them. It was no wonder. The Boys had grown up in tiny Seneca, South Carolina, where it was dangerous enough to be gay, not to mention falling in love with Jewish cuisine, or even finding it.
They, we commanded, had to join us for lunch at Second Avenue. On being seated, I discovered an auspicious lagniappe waiting at the table – a bowl of gribenes. Before I could explain the wonders of rendered chicken skin, The Boys had attacked the bowl and pronounced the cracklings “even better than pork rinds,” a kind of gribenes derived from pig skin. A klog!
Not I, but my pencil-thin Lady Linda ordered lunch – everything “for the table,” sharing it all until the last diner dropped. They had never tried chopped liver, so we demanded that they try chopped liver. “Mix in some gribenes!” I admonished them. “Ahhhhhhh, even better.” Then the fricassee. They recognized what they called “gizzards,” but I wouldn’t let them continue until they learned that proper people called them “pupiks.” Kishke, yes. Did the intestines bother them? Not a chance! Corned beef. Pastrami. Salami. Knobbelwurst. Potato and lokshen kugel.
At our insistence, they washed it all down with an “egg cream,” a beverage of seltzer and chocolate syrup. “Where were the eggs and cream?” they wondered. “Goyische kep! Those would be too hard to digest!”
We paid. We feared that otherwise we would be indicted for murder. All The Boys could say was, “How can we become Jewish like you?”
I asked if they’d been circumcised. They looked at me sheepishly. “Boys,” I said, “if you’re not, keep your knives at your plate. Just enjoy your gefilte fish, and you’ll be as Jewish as most Jews I know.”
July 23, 2008
SOMETIMES MORE THAN A LITTLE IS ALREADY TOO MUCH
You remember the old joke: “Where’s the best place to hide an elephant? Right out in the open.” I’ve visited New York at least 50 times since my teens, but just two weeks ago, I found the elephant right in Upper Manhattan, and it’s been there only 100 years.
Recently, Linda and I sought a breakfast place that served good smoked fish. There are plenty delis and diners in New York that serve smoked fish, but my son Googled and found only one at which smoked fish ruled by mandate. Barney Greengrass.
I felt like an idiot not knowing about the place, because Christopher Columbus dined on lox and bagels there immediately upon discovering America. Coke boasts that “It’s the real thing,” but it will not vie for Barney’s authenticity. Indeed, authenticity is the first thing that catches your eye: Roll-up windows with gilt lettering worn by decades of up-and-down. Bulk dairy products behind the counter, right from the cow, which only experienced countermen are allowed to touch.
The place is thoroughly Jewish, yet there is not one silly picture of Tevya or Yiddish admonition, "ess, ess mein kind," on the wall. Greengrass is still real after a century, not going for cheap nostalgia.
The variety of home-cured and smoked fish is exhaustive. Salmon is baked or broiled. It is smoked into lox, nova, gravlax. It is pickled with and without sour cream, fried and scrambled with eggs. Herring is pickled, schmaltz, matjes, creamed, fried. Trout. Sable. Whitefish. Kippers. Sprats. Sardines. Char. And this too: They know how to fry an egg. The bagels and bialys are superior.
Enough!
All right, they also serve Beluga caviar. But do you mean that Barney’s patrons would eat it on a bagel washed down with a glass of heise tai? At best, cruel satire.
Unlike other delis where portions are phantasmagoric, Barney’s are not huge, but appropriate. As Mama taught me, "You shouldn't see tooth-marks in the lox when you bite into a sandwich. Anything more is uberik (over the top).” Barney has taught four generations that smoked fish's virtue is in its moderation. It is a jewel from Tiffany, not the schlock you find on eBay.
You remember the old joke: “Where’s the best place to hide an elephant? Right out in the open.” I’ve visited New York at least 50 times since my teens, but just two weeks ago, I found the elephant right in Upper Manhattan, and it’s been there only 100 years.
Recently, Linda and I sought a breakfast place that served good smoked fish. There are plenty delis and diners in New York that serve smoked fish, but my son Googled and found only one at which smoked fish ruled by mandate. Barney Greengrass.
I felt like an idiot not knowing about the place, because Christopher Columbus dined on lox and bagels there immediately upon discovering America. Coke boasts that “It’s the real thing,” but it will not vie for Barney’s authenticity. Indeed, authenticity is the first thing that catches your eye: Roll-up windows with gilt lettering worn by decades of up-and-down. Bulk dairy products behind the counter, right from the cow, which only experienced countermen are allowed to touch.
The place is thoroughly Jewish, yet there is not one silly picture of Tevya or Yiddish admonition, "ess, ess mein kind," on the wall. Greengrass is still real after a century, not going for cheap nostalgia.
The variety of home-cured and smoked fish is exhaustive. Salmon is baked or broiled. It is smoked into lox, nova, gravlax. It is pickled with and without sour cream, fried and scrambled with eggs. Herring is pickled, schmaltz, matjes, creamed, fried. Trout. Sable. Whitefish. Kippers. Sprats. Sardines. Char. And this too: They know how to fry an egg. The bagels and bialys are superior.
Enough!
All right, they also serve Beluga caviar. But do you mean that Barney’s patrons would eat it on a bagel washed down with a glass of heise tai? At best, cruel satire.
Unlike other delis where portions are phantasmagoric, Barney’s are not huge, but appropriate. As Mama taught me, "You shouldn't see tooth-marks in the lox when you bite into a sandwich. Anything more is uberik (over the top).” Barney has taught four generations that smoked fish's virtue is in its moderation. It is a jewel from Tiffany, not the schlock you find on eBay.
July 08, 2008
THE SACRED TRADITION OF A L’CHAYIM AND CHEESEBURGER
I live within eyesight of Bob Jones University, an institution so conservative and fundamentalist Christian that it makes Presbyterians and Episcopalians look like Satmar Chasidim. Naturally, they want the rest of the world, including us, to be Christians like they are. So, my basic attitude toward them is that if they leave me alone, I will do the same for them. This I will tell you: Their integrity and ethical standards are unimpeachable, and all in all, they are the best sort of neighbors. That’s what recently led me to them.
You see, I recently catered a Kiddush-bacchanalia at my old schule. Bluntly, the regular workers in the kitchen detest me. I have my way of doing things, and they have theirs. I had a lot to do and little time to do it, so I could not afford to put up with their mishugas.
What to do? Ah, Bob Jones has a culinary arts program. In keeping with the school’s spirit, the students are neat, respectful, obedient, and their veneration of the Bible allows for no shortcuts in kashrut. I called over to the school, and what do I find? The Dean is Mark Moritz, an apostate member of our tribe from Queens.
Chef Moritz immediately dispatched four of his top students, who, by the way, worked for even less than we offered. They were wonderful, just as I had expected. They even asked to rush to the dorm to shower between cooking and serving, so they could look their best.
Well into the cooking it dawned on me that not only are Bob Jones kids not allowed to partake in alcohol; they are not even allowed to work in a place where alcohol is served. In complete honesty, I told the boys that we served thimble-sized cups of wine as part of the sacrament of Kiddush, not unlike Holy Communion (which, by the way, Bob Jones does not observe).
They were sure that it was all right, but they wanted to ask the Dean a shayleh, nonetheless. They quickly brought back the good news. It was a sacrament, so there would be no problem.
But then it dawned on me that we had a bigger problem: What about the l’chayim of schnapps that the old-timers poured each other in a corner of the social hall after the Motzi? Again, I told the boys the truth, albeit this time slightly shaded in my favor.
“Is it a sacrament?” they asked.
“Well, you might say that.” I invoked the principle of Minhag Yisrael din hu, a custom among Israel has the strength of the law. “You see,” I said, “the old-timers, especially the ones who came over from Eastern Europe, saluted each other with a little whiskey after Sabbath services to warm themselves for the long, frigid trek home. So, for the old-timers, it was a beloved sacrament, part of a consecrated heritage.
Again, the boys returned to campus to ask the shayleh. The Dean remembered from his days in Queens that the l’chayim was a venerated ritual. He quickly gave his approval.
On the morning of the Kiddush, though, the boys naturally saw a number of younger people, including yours truly, toasting a l’chayim over the ritual schnapps. They looked at me quizzically. I grinned sheepishly at them and said, “You’ve got to understand. These young men are merely carrying forth the custom ordained by their saintly elders, so that our sacred traditions will never be forgotten.”
The servers understood perfectly. When you think of it, I was probably telling the truth in spite of myself.
Now, if it were only that easy to get the Rabbonim to understand that a cheeseburger at McDonald’s is also a sacred tradition . . .
I live within eyesight of Bob Jones University, an institution so conservative and fundamentalist Christian that it makes Presbyterians and Episcopalians look like Satmar Chasidim. Naturally, they want the rest of the world, including us, to be Christians like they are. So, my basic attitude toward them is that if they leave me alone, I will do the same for them. This I will tell you: Their integrity and ethical standards are unimpeachable, and all in all, they are the best sort of neighbors. That’s what recently led me to them.
You see, I recently catered a Kiddush-bacchanalia at my old schule. Bluntly, the regular workers in the kitchen detest me. I have my way of doing things, and they have theirs. I had a lot to do and little time to do it, so I could not afford to put up with their mishugas.
What to do? Ah, Bob Jones has a culinary arts program. In keeping with the school’s spirit, the students are neat, respectful, obedient, and their veneration of the Bible allows for no shortcuts in kashrut. I called over to the school, and what do I find? The Dean is Mark Moritz, an apostate member of our tribe from Queens.
Chef Moritz immediately dispatched four of his top students, who, by the way, worked for even less than we offered. They were wonderful, just as I had expected. They even asked to rush to the dorm to shower between cooking and serving, so they could look their best.
Well into the cooking it dawned on me that not only are Bob Jones kids not allowed to partake in alcohol; they are not even allowed to work in a place where alcohol is served. In complete honesty, I told the boys that we served thimble-sized cups of wine as part of the sacrament of Kiddush, not unlike Holy Communion (which, by the way, Bob Jones does not observe).
They were sure that it was all right, but they wanted to ask the Dean a shayleh, nonetheless. They quickly brought back the good news. It was a sacrament, so there would be no problem.
But then it dawned on me that we had a bigger problem: What about the l’chayim of schnapps that the old-timers poured each other in a corner of the social hall after the Motzi? Again, I told the boys the truth, albeit this time slightly shaded in my favor.
“Is it a sacrament?” they asked.
“Well, you might say that.” I invoked the principle of Minhag Yisrael din hu, a custom among Israel has the strength of the law. “You see,” I said, “the old-timers, especially the ones who came over from Eastern Europe, saluted each other with a little whiskey after Sabbath services to warm themselves for the long, frigid trek home. So, for the old-timers, it was a beloved sacrament, part of a consecrated heritage.
Again, the boys returned to campus to ask the shayleh. The Dean remembered from his days in Queens that the l’chayim was a venerated ritual. He quickly gave his approval.
On the morning of the Kiddush, though, the boys naturally saw a number of younger people, including yours truly, toasting a l’chayim over the ritual schnapps. They looked at me quizzically. I grinned sheepishly at them and said, “You’ve got to understand. These young men are merely carrying forth the custom ordained by their saintly elders, so that our sacred traditions will never be forgotten.”
The servers understood perfectly. When you think of it, I was probably telling the truth in spite of myself.
Now, if it were only that easy to get the Rabbonim to understand that a cheeseburger at McDonald’s is also a sacred tradition . . .
June 23, 2008
SOME DAY I'LL BE A STAR
Have I told you that you that I might become a television star? No, really, it’s true. A group of producers heard about this rabbi who loves to cook and tell stories about food. It’s me. Don’t ask me how.
The producers are a bunch of goyim who think it’s hysterical that a rabbi in the most goyische part of the country is noteworthy for cooking kosher food. They believe that the public will find the premise so entertaining that they will watch me cook and chatter on their TV screens every week.
They have already engaged a publicist and found editors and investors. They have even hired an old blues musician to play a funky “Hava Nagila” for the show’s introduction. I’d say that this was a dream come true, but all I think is that they’re crazy.
They want me to cook traditional Jewish fare: chopped liver, gefilte fish, brisket, potato kugel, but with typical “Southern style” – peppery, greasy, overcooked – just like bubbe used to make.
But, they also want me to adapt classical Southern-style cooking to the kosher kitchen. Oy, what to do? They cook their vegetables with pork fat. I’ll do mine with pastrami. They sauté potatoes in lard. I’ll use schmaltz. They fry dough and call it “hush puppies.” I’ll make them latkes.
My producers have already entered me in a Southern-style cooking contest in Vienna (pronounced “VAH-ennah”), Georgia, a place where they used to shoot Jews for recreation.
One of the entries is to be grilled pork. I told them that I would use veal. Ah, wunderbar! The other is to be “Brunswick Stew, a thick soup made of beans, corn, potatoes, and . . . squirrel. I thought and thought. Then, I had an epiphany. I made up a pot of my Brunswick Stew for the producers. They loved it! The ideal consistency and flavor, and the meat fell off the bone.
I thanked my God for having such a Yiddishe kop. For, while they were lusting over my Brunswick Stew, you and I know that I was serving them a perfect pot of my cholent.
Now, who wants my autograph?
Have I told you that you that I might become a television star? No, really, it’s true. A group of producers heard about this rabbi who loves to cook and tell stories about food. It’s me. Don’t ask me how.
The producers are a bunch of goyim who think it’s hysterical that a rabbi in the most goyische part of the country is noteworthy for cooking kosher food. They believe that the public will find the premise so entertaining that they will watch me cook and chatter on their TV screens every week.
They have already engaged a publicist and found editors and investors. They have even hired an old blues musician to play a funky “Hava Nagila” for the show’s introduction. I’d say that this was a dream come true, but all I think is that they’re crazy.
They want me to cook traditional Jewish fare: chopped liver, gefilte fish, brisket, potato kugel, but with typical “Southern style” – peppery, greasy, overcooked – just like bubbe used to make.
But, they also want me to adapt classical Southern-style cooking to the kosher kitchen. Oy, what to do? They cook their vegetables with pork fat. I’ll do mine with pastrami. They sauté potatoes in lard. I’ll use schmaltz. They fry dough and call it “hush puppies.” I’ll make them latkes.
My producers have already entered me in a Southern-style cooking contest in Vienna (pronounced “VAH-ennah”), Georgia, a place where they used to shoot Jews for recreation.
One of the entries is to be grilled pork. I told them that I would use veal. Ah, wunderbar! The other is to be “Brunswick Stew, a thick soup made of beans, corn, potatoes, and . . . squirrel. I thought and thought. Then, I had an epiphany. I made up a pot of my Brunswick Stew for the producers. They loved it! The ideal consistency and flavor, and the meat fell off the bone.
I thanked my God for having such a Yiddishe kop. For, while they were lusting over my Brunswick Stew, you and I know that I was serving them a perfect pot of my cholent.
Now, who wants my autograph?
June 03, 2008
THE TOXIC BUFFET
Anthony Bourdain is a former junkie and shikker who went on to establish some of the finest restaurants in New York. He has become my mentor and idol.
Tony also writes bluntly about the realities of the restaurant kitchen. Among his observations: Don’t order fish on Monday. It’s probably left over from Thursday. And for God’s sake, don’t eat the Sunday brunch. It’s mostly last week’s remnants prepared by indifferent cooks. Where else would you find “sirloin salad”?
What are the anti-Semitic implications? Well, we, too, have our end-of-the-week brunch buffet. It’s called Shabbos Kiddush.
Do you know where that open jar of grey gefilte fish has been over the past month, the one soaking in the iridescent juice? What about its sister, the jar of fuzzy pickled herring? Don’t forget the accompanying horseradish, originally a deep red, now puce.
Beware, too, of the once-white albacore tuna, presently a salad ringed by a crust of yellow-brown mayonnaise. Likewise the plaster-of-Paris egg salad. Or is it Ecru Play-Doh? What about the Jewish innovation, the pizza-bagel? Wasn’t the tomato sauce just a little tinny? Why is that orange juice so hinky? What are those turquoise flecks in the bagels? Likewise the cream cheese. And, when did Entenmann’s stop making that kind of cake? And that generic de-fizzed soda?
The schnapps is rarely Glenlivet; it’s three-buck chuck. In order to save space, the remnants of scotch and bourbon are often combined in one bottle, on the premise that “They’re both the same color,” as old Mr. Alembik used to muse.
Yet, after years of persecution, we Jews are a hearty sort. Just keep in mind that the last Yehudim to die are always the ones who l’chayim down half a bottle of that rot-gut schnapps each Shabbos, smoke three packs of cigarettes a day, eat all that chazerai at Kiddush, and take the leftovers home.
On second thought, Tony Bourdain, keep your cursing to yourself and go back to frying your gaufrettes. You are and always will be one goyische kop!
Anthony Bourdain is a former junkie and shikker who went on to establish some of the finest restaurants in New York. He has become my mentor and idol.
Tony also writes bluntly about the realities of the restaurant kitchen. Among his observations: Don’t order fish on Monday. It’s probably left over from Thursday. And for God’s sake, don’t eat the Sunday brunch. It’s mostly last week’s remnants prepared by indifferent cooks. Where else would you find “sirloin salad”?
What are the anti-Semitic implications? Well, we, too, have our end-of-the-week brunch buffet. It’s called Shabbos Kiddush.
Do you know where that open jar of grey gefilte fish has been over the past month, the one soaking in the iridescent juice? What about its sister, the jar of fuzzy pickled herring? Don’t forget the accompanying horseradish, originally a deep red, now puce.
Beware, too, of the once-white albacore tuna, presently a salad ringed by a crust of yellow-brown mayonnaise. Likewise the plaster-of-Paris egg salad. Or is it Ecru Play-Doh? What about the Jewish innovation, the pizza-bagel? Wasn’t the tomato sauce just a little tinny? Why is that orange juice so hinky? What are those turquoise flecks in the bagels? Likewise the cream cheese. And, when did Entenmann’s stop making that kind of cake? And that generic de-fizzed soda?
The schnapps is rarely Glenlivet; it’s three-buck chuck. In order to save space, the remnants of scotch and bourbon are often combined in one bottle, on the premise that “They’re both the same color,” as old Mr. Alembik used to muse.
Yet, after years of persecution, we Jews are a hearty sort. Just keep in mind that the last Yehudim to die are always the ones who l’chayim down half a bottle of that rot-gut schnapps each Shabbos, smoke three packs of cigarettes a day, eat all that chazerai at Kiddush, and take the leftovers home.
On second thought, Tony Bourdain, keep your cursing to yourself and go back to frying your gaufrettes. You are and always will be one goyische kop!
May 25, 2008
CHICKEN PERFUME
I can’t believe that it’s been 35 years since I began my rabbinical career just outside of Chicago. Mine was a tiny schule, actually a remodeled greasy-spoon. We served Shabbos Kiddush from the short-order counter.
We were new and few in numbers, so we did everything for ourselves: No custodian. No kitchen manager. No one to shop for us, clean the bathrooms, set up the chairs. But, we were young, and we had a lot of fun.
I was their rav, and I held on to my strict orthodoxy. My congregants were another story. No one observed kashrut, but within the walls of the synagogue, it was the strict rule. God bless them for that. No matter how obedient, though, they could never understand why Corn Flakes were kosher but Corn Flake Crumbs required a separate hechsher. If someone would explain it to me, we’d all understand.
Then there was the time that they were preparing a Shabbos dinner for the congregation. A delegation from the sisterhood was dispatched to the kosher butcher in Chicago, where they purchased a huge bag of frozen poultry and left it in the schule refrigerator to defrost.
Thursday night, I received a frantic call. “We need you to check the chicken, and it’s an emergency!”
“All right,” I told them. But, I thought, what could be wrong with a bag of kosher chicken?
Two of them appeared on my doorstep carrying the dripping bag.
“Why don’t you come in?” I offered.
“No, it’d probably be better if you came outside.”
They gingerly opened the bag. It reeked. Rancid. Putrid. Disgusting. I reeled from the stench.
“What’s your question?” I asked. “That chicken is rotten.”
“Well, that’s what we thought. But then we started wondering if that’s the way kosher chicken is supposed to smell.”
35 years have passed. The questions have gotten easier, and I have yet to be asked to poskin on a broken chicken wing. I should have become a shoemaker, but I couldn’t drive the nails straight. Instead, I heard the calling to become a rabbi, and have paid by spending decades trying to convince balabotim that kosher chicken doesn’t smell funny. Or does it?
I can’t believe that it’s been 35 years since I began my rabbinical career just outside of Chicago. Mine was a tiny schule, actually a remodeled greasy-spoon. We served Shabbos Kiddush from the short-order counter.
We were new and few in numbers, so we did everything for ourselves: No custodian. No kitchen manager. No one to shop for us, clean the bathrooms, set up the chairs. But, we were young, and we had a lot of fun.
I was their rav, and I held on to my strict orthodoxy. My congregants were another story. No one observed kashrut, but within the walls of the synagogue, it was the strict rule. God bless them for that. No matter how obedient, though, they could never understand why Corn Flakes were kosher but Corn Flake Crumbs required a separate hechsher. If someone would explain it to me, we’d all understand.
Then there was the time that they were preparing a Shabbos dinner for the congregation. A delegation from the sisterhood was dispatched to the kosher butcher in Chicago, where they purchased a huge bag of frozen poultry and left it in the schule refrigerator to defrost.
Thursday night, I received a frantic call. “We need you to check the chicken, and it’s an emergency!”
“All right,” I told them. But, I thought, what could be wrong with a bag of kosher chicken?
Two of them appeared on my doorstep carrying the dripping bag.
“Why don’t you come in?” I offered.
“No, it’d probably be better if you came outside.”
They gingerly opened the bag. It reeked. Rancid. Putrid. Disgusting. I reeled from the stench.
“What’s your question?” I asked. “That chicken is rotten.”
“Well, that’s what we thought. But then we started wondering if that’s the way kosher chicken is supposed to smell.”
35 years have passed. The questions have gotten easier, and I have yet to be asked to poskin on a broken chicken wing. I should have become a shoemaker, but I couldn’t drive the nails straight. Instead, I heard the calling to become a rabbi, and have paid by spending decades trying to convince balabotim that kosher chicken doesn’t smell funny. Or does it?
May 22, 2008
MY HUMBLE ORIGIN: NOM DE DOODLE, CIRCA 1968
Just like my doppelganger Bart Simpson, I write it on the chalkboard a hundred times each day: “Why should the origin of “Rabbi Ribeye” matter to anyone?” Regardless . . .
“Rabbi Ribeye” did not originate for its alliteration. Nor was it intended to be my nom de plume. It is the product of 40-year-old doodling during another narcolepsy-inducing Talmud class during my yeshiva years. The late Rabbi Aaron Soloveichik would lecture for three hours on an arcane point of Jewish law. He was an absolute genius, certainly the magnitude of an Einstein. But, like most luminaries, his mind worked immeasurably faster than his gift of speech. The geniuses in the class absorbed his enlightenment, while the rest of us doodled. Had it not been for borrowing the notes of one of the geniuses, I would probably be a cable guy rather than an unemployed rabbi who fritters away his time cooking and trying to write the great American cookbook.
As I look back over yellowing notes, I remind myself that some of my doodling is actually a collection of dated anti-war shibboleths (“Dump the Hump!” – a reference to pro-war candidate Hubert Humphrey) and vain stabs at profundity. I see that I had boldly inscribed atop one page, “God Is the Ultimate Prankster!” an aphorism that I later cultivated into a theology that I called “The God of Booga-Booga.”
Call it prescience, but even in my formative years, my doodling had led me to gastronomical subjects: puns of culinary personification, people who in my imagination took on the names of favorite foods: Terry Aqui. V.L. Piccata. Cheri Coque. Biff Steaque. Coco Vann. Chuck N. Soope. Chuck and Ella King. Sam N. Salade. Every class became a new pun, a new challenge, a new doodle, a new diversion.
Across from me sat Jay Hirshman. Jay was a diligent student with a terrific work ethic, which struck me as particularly admirable since he was one of only a few classmates who came from real wealth. When my folks moved to the Coast, I spent many weekend as Jay’s guest.
His home was ruled by a wonderful live-in housekeeper of the old school. She always had a whiskey sour waiting for Jay’s dad just as he walked through the door. This was the quintessence of luxury. Friday dinner always revolved around rare, succulent . . . ribeye, another quintessential luxury relative to the meatloaf or “roasted out” (that’s what my mother called it) chicken that graced the Wilsons’ Sabbath table.
One day, as I watched Jay hunched over his Talmudic tome, my wandering memory flashed up “ribeye.” A nanosecond later, my mind refocused on those few special occasions that my mother served steak, invariably the texture of dried out liver. Thinking of the long anticipated encounter between Stanley and Livingstone, I doodled in my notebook, “Rabbi Ribeye, meat Doctor Liver!”
Now you know the origin of my 40-year-old culinary nom de plume. Its meanderings since then have been bittersweet. In 1972, the same Jay who introduced me to ribeye went off to Israel and joined the army. A training injury forced him to watch helplessly as his platoon was wiped out in the Yom Kippur War. He was never the same. A few years later, he was murdered in a holdup.
Truth be told, Jay was always singularly unimpressed by my silliness. Be that as it may, I believe that every time “Rabbi Ribeye” brings a smile to someone’s face, it is recompense for all the smiles that Jay could yet have smiled, had he only been given the inclination. As for me, despite the good humor with which the name is spoken, the edges of sweetness will forever be furrowed by a twinge of melancholy over 40-year-old reminiscences of what might have been.
Just like my doppelganger Bart Simpson, I write it on the chalkboard a hundred times each day: “Why should the origin of “Rabbi Ribeye” matter to anyone?” Regardless . . .
“Rabbi Ribeye” did not originate for its alliteration. Nor was it intended to be my nom de plume. It is the product of 40-year-old doodling during another narcolepsy-inducing Talmud class during my yeshiva years. The late Rabbi Aaron Soloveichik would lecture for three hours on an arcane point of Jewish law. He was an absolute genius, certainly the magnitude of an Einstein. But, like most luminaries, his mind worked immeasurably faster than his gift of speech. The geniuses in the class absorbed his enlightenment, while the rest of us doodled. Had it not been for borrowing the notes of one of the geniuses, I would probably be a cable guy rather than an unemployed rabbi who fritters away his time cooking and trying to write the great American cookbook.
As I look back over yellowing notes, I remind myself that some of my doodling is actually a collection of dated anti-war shibboleths (“Dump the Hump!” – a reference to pro-war candidate Hubert Humphrey) and vain stabs at profundity. I see that I had boldly inscribed atop one page, “God Is the Ultimate Prankster!” an aphorism that I later cultivated into a theology that I called “The God of Booga-Booga.”
Call it prescience, but even in my formative years, my doodling had led me to gastronomical subjects: puns of culinary personification, people who in my imagination took on the names of favorite foods: Terry Aqui. V.L. Piccata. Cheri Coque. Biff Steaque. Coco Vann. Chuck N. Soope. Chuck and Ella King. Sam N. Salade. Every class became a new pun, a new challenge, a new doodle, a new diversion.
Across from me sat Jay Hirshman. Jay was a diligent student with a terrific work ethic, which struck me as particularly admirable since he was one of only a few classmates who came from real wealth. When my folks moved to the Coast, I spent many weekend as Jay’s guest.
His home was ruled by a wonderful live-in housekeeper of the old school. She always had a whiskey sour waiting for Jay’s dad just as he walked through the door. This was the quintessence of luxury. Friday dinner always revolved around rare, succulent . . . ribeye, another quintessential luxury relative to the meatloaf or “roasted out” (that’s what my mother called it) chicken that graced the Wilsons’ Sabbath table.
One day, as I watched Jay hunched over his Talmudic tome, my wandering memory flashed up “ribeye.” A nanosecond later, my mind refocused on those few special occasions that my mother served steak, invariably the texture of dried out liver. Thinking of the long anticipated encounter between Stanley and Livingstone, I doodled in my notebook, “Rabbi Ribeye, meat Doctor Liver!”
Now you know the origin of my 40-year-old culinary nom de plume. Its meanderings since then have been bittersweet. In 1972, the same Jay who introduced me to ribeye went off to Israel and joined the army. A training injury forced him to watch helplessly as his platoon was wiped out in the Yom Kippur War. He was never the same. A few years later, he was murdered in a holdup.
Truth be told, Jay was always singularly unimpressed by my silliness. Be that as it may, I believe that every time “Rabbi Ribeye” brings a smile to someone’s face, it is recompense for all the smiles that Jay could yet have smiled, had he only been given the inclination. As for me, despite the good humor with which the name is spoken, the edges of sweetness will forever be furrowed by a twinge of melancholy over 40-year-old reminiscences of what might have been.
May 14, 2008
DUMB SOLUTIONS TO DUMB PROBLEMS
Just got back from a Caribbean cruise. Not too shabby. The food was outstanding, and our every wish was the wait-staff’s command.
At one dinner, the fig cake was wonderful. Without asking, Alvin produced another piece. The next day, the dessert offerings were mediocre. I asked Alvin if they had any more fig cake roaming around.
“So sorry, Mr. Wilson. We throw out our leftovers every evening.”
A ton of filet mignon, a hundred gallons of milk, pitched overboard each day. Impoverished Third World people just outside the porthole. Do you see the absurdity? Poor people starve as we debate the feasibility and contingencies of ending starvation.
I might be dumb, but moving food a couple hundred yards from where it is to where it ought to be, should be a no-brainer. Maybe that’s the point.
A modest proposal: Look at every need, every looming crisis and injustice, through dumb eyes, with the social naiveté of your run-of-the-mill second grader, and think up a dumb solution. Once I had a bunch of dumb second graders in my Hebrew School. We’d raid the dumpster behind Bruegger’s each week, pick out that day’s bagel overrun, and unceremoniously drop it off at the Union Mission. Just plain dumb.
We also occasionally come across dumb adults. The restaurateurs who give their leftovers to Second Harvest and the folks who deliver Meals on Wheels are a bunch of dumbbells, too.
Think dumb along with me: There has to be some way to get that food from the Carnival Glory to impoverished islanders, if we were just dumb enough to figure it out. There should be some better way to get bagels to the homeless than second graders stealing them out of dumpsters.
Ask a dumb second grader how to stop the starvation in Myanmar. He could tell you in a second: Put the Marines in the vanguard and invade it. Set up soup kitchens and reconstruction projects until the people can get on their own feet. Damn the pigwhistle generals and their peashooter army. Just do it.
Illegal immigration? I may not know the solution, but it will start with a dumb supposition. Of this I am sure. In second grade, we learned that this is the Land of Opportunity. Then the teacher made us memorize the inscription on the Statue of Liberty, you know, “your tired, your poor, your huddled masses,” and all that.
At the nub, the desire to for people to immigrate to our soil attests that we are doing something right. I dare believe that even the vast majority of illegal immigrants do not think us to be a bunch of suckers, but a nation founded on compassion and fairness.
This is the beginning of the dumb solution: Read the Statue’s inscription and sing a stanza of America the Beautiful, just like we did in second grade. Then feel honored, damn it, that the tired and the poor wish to make a home among us, not revile in them like a hoard of invading locusts. Our disposition would be to open doors, enabling a transition, not criminalizing it.
What of the specious arguments about the “legitimacy” of immigrants in earlier generations? Only a half-truth. My grandparents were the lucky ones. They arrived just before the doors of immigration slammed shut in the early 20’s. But, I know my grandparents’ moxie. Had it been a couple of years later, if they could have figured out a way to enter the country illegally, they would have. Instead, ship after ship was turned back at port, and thousands of potential immigrants who could have been saved were forced to return, remanded a decade later to the Third Reich, instead of Land of the Free.
How will we resolve the present crisis? I’m not exactly sure, but this I believe: We will find a way, and the answer is likely to be dumb. But, as my saintly mother would say, “Only with a good spirit.” A good spirit, not a misanthropic one, will find a way.
Will dumbing-down alone cure all society’s ills? No, but the starting point must be to presuppose that we will look at the world with the naïve credulity of a second grader. We need assume that the solutions to our problems are basically no-brainers. We need sophistication only to lop off the rough edges, not undo the solutions with a bunch of phony smoke-and-mirrors. A dopey kid could tell you what to do with the Glory’s leftovers. Just ask him.
Just got back from a Caribbean cruise. Not too shabby. The food was outstanding, and our every wish was the wait-staff’s command.
At one dinner, the fig cake was wonderful. Without asking, Alvin produced another piece. The next day, the dessert offerings were mediocre. I asked Alvin if they had any more fig cake roaming around.
“So sorry, Mr. Wilson. We throw out our leftovers every evening.”
A ton of filet mignon, a hundred gallons of milk, pitched overboard each day. Impoverished Third World people just outside the porthole. Do you see the absurdity? Poor people starve as we debate the feasibility and contingencies of ending starvation.
I might be dumb, but moving food a couple hundred yards from where it is to where it ought to be, should be a no-brainer. Maybe that’s the point.
A modest proposal: Look at every need, every looming crisis and injustice, through dumb eyes, with the social naiveté of your run-of-the-mill second grader, and think up a dumb solution. Once I had a bunch of dumb second graders in my Hebrew School. We’d raid the dumpster behind Bruegger’s each week, pick out that day’s bagel overrun, and unceremoniously drop it off at the Union Mission. Just plain dumb.
We also occasionally come across dumb adults. The restaurateurs who give their leftovers to Second Harvest and the folks who deliver Meals on Wheels are a bunch of dumbbells, too.
Think dumb along with me: There has to be some way to get that food from the Carnival Glory to impoverished islanders, if we were just dumb enough to figure it out. There should be some better way to get bagels to the homeless than second graders stealing them out of dumpsters.
Ask a dumb second grader how to stop the starvation in Myanmar. He could tell you in a second: Put the Marines in the vanguard and invade it. Set up soup kitchens and reconstruction projects until the people can get on their own feet. Damn the pigwhistle generals and their peashooter army. Just do it.
Illegal immigration? I may not know the solution, but it will start with a dumb supposition. Of this I am sure. In second grade, we learned that this is the Land of Opportunity. Then the teacher made us memorize the inscription on the Statue of Liberty, you know, “your tired, your poor, your huddled masses,” and all that.
At the nub, the desire to for people to immigrate to our soil attests that we are doing something right. I dare believe that even the vast majority of illegal immigrants do not think us to be a bunch of suckers, but a nation founded on compassion and fairness.
This is the beginning of the dumb solution: Read the Statue’s inscription and sing a stanza of America the Beautiful, just like we did in second grade. Then feel honored, damn it, that the tired and the poor wish to make a home among us, not revile in them like a hoard of invading locusts. Our disposition would be to open doors, enabling a transition, not criminalizing it.
What of the specious arguments about the “legitimacy” of immigrants in earlier generations? Only a half-truth. My grandparents were the lucky ones. They arrived just before the doors of immigration slammed shut in the early 20’s. But, I know my grandparents’ moxie. Had it been a couple of years later, if they could have figured out a way to enter the country illegally, they would have. Instead, ship after ship was turned back at port, and thousands of potential immigrants who could have been saved were forced to return, remanded a decade later to the Third Reich, instead of Land of the Free.
How will we resolve the present crisis? I’m not exactly sure, but this I believe: We will find a way, and the answer is likely to be dumb. But, as my saintly mother would say, “Only with a good spirit.” A good spirit, not a misanthropic one, will find a way.
Will dumbing-down alone cure all society’s ills? No, but the starting point must be to presuppose that we will look at the world with the naïve credulity of a second grader. We need assume that the solutions to our problems are basically no-brainers. We need sophistication only to lop off the rough edges, not undo the solutions with a bunch of phony smoke-and-mirrors. A dopey kid could tell you what to do with the Glory’s leftovers. Just ask him.
May 13, 2008
THEIR OWN SPECIAL SAUCE
Linda and I finally took our long awaited cruise to the Caribbean. Wunderbar. The cuisine? Breakfast and lunch were hardly fine dining. So what. The vaunted “around-the-clock-buffet” was mostly soft-serve ice cream and corrugated-frisbee pizza. But, the suppers were marvelous, whether you were metro-kosher or all-out treife. I did not venture into the frozen strictly kosher offerings.
The typical cruise fastidiously avoids exposing the voyagers to the native Caribbean fare. No, it’s strictly scrambled eggs for breakfast, American-style lasagna for lunch, bloody-rare filet for supper. Even the somnambulating tours point you to lunch at generic restaurants, from which the guides receive significant baksheesh. And don’t get me started about phony tequila factories. The free Anejo was too good to resist.
The guides also try to gross you out by regaling you in local custom of dining on iguana, turtle, and alligator. Nu, again, so what? After all, it “tastes like chicken” anyways. Janelle the Guide was also quick to offer that the female iguana’s soup was “very tasty.” Right, and hush puppies are really matzo balls in disguise.
The closest that I came to native food was somewhere up the Belize River. Being kashrut-virtuous that day, I noticed a putative national delicacy on the menu, a mélange of red beans and rice – and it was even vegetarian.
Really quite good. By its side was a pill cup of a yellow-gray gunk that the server presented as “special sauce.”
“And is the sauce vegetarian?” I asked.
“Oh no, mon. You better be careful of it.”
“Why?”
“It’s rendered chicken fat.”
I had traveled 1,253 miles just to be served schmaltz.
Moments earlier Danelle had told us that no Jews had lived on Belize. Wrong. I Googled and discovered that a Jewish family had lived there in the 19th century and that a Brooklyn guy had been a major landowner in the 1950’s, and was buried there. Ah, the origin of schmaltz on Belize.
After lunch, we traveled on to a Mayan village. Asking one of the women about their native food, she told me that in her town they broil iguana liver, chop it up with onions and turtle eggs, and bind it with their own “special sauce.”
Mystery solved.
Linda and I finally took our long awaited cruise to the Caribbean. Wunderbar. The cuisine? Breakfast and lunch were hardly fine dining. So what. The vaunted “around-the-clock-buffet” was mostly soft-serve ice cream and corrugated-frisbee pizza. But, the suppers were marvelous, whether you were metro-kosher or all-out treife. I did not venture into the frozen strictly kosher offerings.
The typical cruise fastidiously avoids exposing the voyagers to the native Caribbean fare. No, it’s strictly scrambled eggs for breakfast, American-style lasagna for lunch, bloody-rare filet for supper. Even the somnambulating tours point you to lunch at generic restaurants, from which the guides receive significant baksheesh. And don’t get me started about phony tequila factories. The free Anejo was too good to resist.
The guides also try to gross you out by regaling you in local custom of dining on iguana, turtle, and alligator. Nu, again, so what? After all, it “tastes like chicken” anyways. Janelle the Guide was also quick to offer that the female iguana’s soup was “very tasty.” Right, and hush puppies are really matzo balls in disguise.
The closest that I came to native food was somewhere up the Belize River. Being kashrut-virtuous that day, I noticed a putative national delicacy on the menu, a mélange of red beans and rice – and it was even vegetarian.
Really quite good. By its side was a pill cup of a yellow-gray gunk that the server presented as “special sauce.”
“And is the sauce vegetarian?” I asked.
“Oh no, mon. You better be careful of it.”
“Why?”
“It’s rendered chicken fat.”
I had traveled 1,253 miles just to be served schmaltz.
Moments earlier Danelle had told us that no Jews had lived on Belize. Wrong. I Googled and discovered that a Jewish family had lived there in the 19th century and that a Brooklyn guy had been a major landowner in the 1950’s, and was buried there. Ah, the origin of schmaltz on Belize.
After lunch, we traveled on to a Mayan village. Asking one of the women about their native food, she told me that in her town they broil iguana liver, chop it up with onions and turtle eggs, and bind it with their own “special sauce.”
Mystery solved.
April 28, 2008
“THAT MAN CALLED ME ZIPPY”
When my little Chanaleh was a toddler, she was sweet as sugar. Biologically, she was only one-quarter Yekke, but she looked like a real Deutsche Madchen – sunflower hair, creamery-butter complexion. I recently asked her if she remembered the meaning of the German “golden Suppe.” When she said that she didn’t, I thanked God that one more child had dodged ten years on Dr. Freud’s couch.
Then again, the episode of “golden Suppe” was 34 years ago, and the trauma came by way of my cartoonish friend, Stanley. He was the only American-born Yekke I knew who actually acted like a stereotypical German faux-aristocrat. At age 21, he wore a tie and vest to do his laundry. When he was introduced to you, he would click his heels like a Prussian Hauptmann. He would show his disapproval to an etiquette gaffe by muttering a deferential “We don’t.”
The only flaw in Stanley’s Teutonic propriety was that he was an inveterate moocher. Suppertime Sundays he would appear at our door, looking particularly doleful, always knowing that Shabbos leftovers awaited. Little Chanaleh would sit tableside in her highchair, as the matzo ball soup would appear.
One evening, the soup was particularly delicious. Stanley, ever the gracious guest, exclaimed, “You know what they call that wonderful soup in German? Golden Suppe!” At that, Chanaleh started to scream inconsolably. Scream and scream. “What’s wrong, Chanaleh?”
At first, she was reluctant. Then, “That man with the beard called me Zippy!” – a reference to Zippy the Chimp, a television star du jour.
“No, no, no. Stanley said “Suppe. It means “soup.” No, never, Chanaleh would never believe it. “That man called me Zippy! That man called me a monkey!”
Meanwhile, Stanley scowled and refused to apologize. After all, you know, children and all that . . .
Never again did Stanley cross our threshold. At every attempt, no matter how well rehearsed Chanaleh was, screams of “That man called me Zippy!”
One consolation: From that Sunday onward, we ate our dinner undisturbed. As for Stanley, he would take his dinner at a kosher dive called Reb’s, where they deep-fried knockwurst in rancid oil and never once served golden Suppe.
When my little Chanaleh was a toddler, she was sweet as sugar. Biologically, she was only one-quarter Yekke, but she looked like a real Deutsche Madchen – sunflower hair, creamery-butter complexion. I recently asked her if she remembered the meaning of the German “golden Suppe.” When she said that she didn’t, I thanked God that one more child had dodged ten years on Dr. Freud’s couch.
Then again, the episode of “golden Suppe” was 34 years ago, and the trauma came by way of my cartoonish friend, Stanley. He was the only American-born Yekke I knew who actually acted like a stereotypical German faux-aristocrat. At age 21, he wore a tie and vest to do his laundry. When he was introduced to you, he would click his heels like a Prussian Hauptmann. He would show his disapproval to an etiquette gaffe by muttering a deferential “We don’t.”
The only flaw in Stanley’s Teutonic propriety was that he was an inveterate moocher. Suppertime Sundays he would appear at our door, looking particularly doleful, always knowing that Shabbos leftovers awaited. Little Chanaleh would sit tableside in her highchair, as the matzo ball soup would appear.
One evening, the soup was particularly delicious. Stanley, ever the gracious guest, exclaimed, “You know what they call that wonderful soup in German? Golden Suppe!” At that, Chanaleh started to scream inconsolably. Scream and scream. “What’s wrong, Chanaleh?”
At first, she was reluctant. Then, “That man with the beard called me Zippy!” – a reference to Zippy the Chimp, a television star du jour.
“No, no, no. Stanley said “Suppe. It means “soup.” No, never, Chanaleh would never believe it. “That man called me Zippy! That man called me a monkey!”
Meanwhile, Stanley scowled and refused to apologize. After all, you know, children and all that . . .
Never again did Stanley cross our threshold. At every attempt, no matter how well rehearsed Chanaleh was, screams of “That man called me Zippy!”
One consolation: From that Sunday onward, we ate our dinner undisturbed. As for Stanley, he would take his dinner at a kosher dive called Reb’s, where they deep-fried knockwurst in rancid oil and never once served golden Suppe.
April 22, 2008
FOIE GRAS FAUX PAS
When you stop to think of it, most of the food we eat is pretty funky. Beef – muscle fiber, connective tissue, blood (let’s not kid ourselves; even kashering gets rid of only some of it) – even from lamb and veal. Babies, mind you. Organs – who knows what kind of poison has made its way through those? Chickens roll around in barnyard shmootz. Fish swim around their own waste.
But, the most disgusting is foie gras, the fancy name for goose liver. A kosher species, you say? Just broil it up, grind with onions, eggs, and a little schmaltz, and good Shabbos, right? Only if you are a culinary ignoramus who thinks that Thousand Island dressing is haute cuisine.
Foie gras producers force-feed sweet little goslings, offspring of our beloved Mother Goose, by inserting a feeding tube and swelling their liver to the size of footballs. Our lovable goslings, who would otherwise have a life expectancy of 60 years are then slaughtered. Even the pictures give you the creeps, maybe more than watching a cow being shechted, another case for vegetarianism.
Kosher foie gras? Why not treife? A clear-cut case of tza’ar ba’alei chayyim, inflicting pain on an innocent animal, n’est pas? Not so easy. One of those black-hat high-rollers from Bnai Brak, who owns controlling interest in a foie gras operation, posed the question to rabbinical authorities from – you guessed it – Bnai Brak. One of them, age 90, pronounced foie gras permissible, opining that the rule of tza’ar ba’alei chayyim is suspended when “the suffering has some tangible benefit to man.” This, of course, is tantamount to the Medellin drug cartel claiming that it is selling cocaine “only for medicinal purposes.”
Ironically, the snooty Upper West/East Side kosher-chic consumer doesn’t get much Israeli foie gras. The primary supplier of kosher foie gras to the US is France. Who would have guessed it? The same country that thinks horsemeat is a delicacy and an Erector Set project gone wrong is a wonder of the world, has us believing that livers au hepatitis are haute cuisine.
My fellow Jews, arise! Don’t be hoodwinked! Just schmeer some honest-to-goodness gehakte leber on your challah. Paris will soon start looking like Calcutta.
When you stop to think of it, most of the food we eat is pretty funky. Beef – muscle fiber, connective tissue, blood (let’s not kid ourselves; even kashering gets rid of only some of it) – even from lamb and veal. Babies, mind you. Organs – who knows what kind of poison has made its way through those? Chickens roll around in barnyard shmootz. Fish swim around their own waste.
But, the most disgusting is foie gras, the fancy name for goose liver. A kosher species, you say? Just broil it up, grind with onions, eggs, and a little schmaltz, and good Shabbos, right? Only if you are a culinary ignoramus who thinks that Thousand Island dressing is haute cuisine.
Foie gras producers force-feed sweet little goslings, offspring of our beloved Mother Goose, by inserting a feeding tube and swelling their liver to the size of footballs. Our lovable goslings, who would otherwise have a life expectancy of 60 years are then slaughtered. Even the pictures give you the creeps, maybe more than watching a cow being shechted, another case for vegetarianism.
Kosher foie gras? Why not treife? A clear-cut case of tza’ar ba’alei chayyim, inflicting pain on an innocent animal, n’est pas? Not so easy. One of those black-hat high-rollers from Bnai Brak, who owns controlling interest in a foie gras operation, posed the question to rabbinical authorities from – you guessed it – Bnai Brak. One of them, age 90, pronounced foie gras permissible, opining that the rule of tza’ar ba’alei chayyim is suspended when “the suffering has some tangible benefit to man.” This, of course, is tantamount to the Medellin drug cartel claiming that it is selling cocaine “only for medicinal purposes.”
Ironically, the snooty Upper West/East Side kosher-chic consumer doesn’t get much Israeli foie gras. The primary supplier of kosher foie gras to the US is France. Who would have guessed it? The same country that thinks horsemeat is a delicacy and an Erector Set project gone wrong is a wonder of the world, has us believing that livers au hepatitis are haute cuisine.
My fellow Jews, arise! Don’t be hoodwinked! Just schmeer some honest-to-goodness gehakte leber on your challah. Paris will soon start looking like Calcutta.
April 10, 2008
TASTES GREAT, LESS FILLING
My little town of Greenville has two newspapers, which is remarkable for a city that has only seven policemen (or so it sometimes feels). One paper caters to everyone who isn’t illiterate. The other is directed to the well-heeled Upper Middle Class.
When the latter started, I applied to become its food editor. They rejected my application, telling me that they were afraid that my recipes would be “too Jewish,” despite my protests that I made an award-winning lobster bisque. Instead, they hired a shiksa (politically incorrect?) whose hair was so blonde that all she missed was a dirndl.
To reassure me that they weren’t being anti-Semitic, they promised that she would include a “Jewish style” recipe during every holiday season. And, so she did: Hamantaschen for Purim. Latkes for Chanukah. Honey cake for Rosh Hashanah.
Came Pesach, a recipe for Pesachdik brisket. Now, how many ways do you know to make a Pesachdik brisket? With potatoes, carrots and prunes, onions, tomato sauce, red wine? Of all the briskets that our shayneh shiksaleh could have chosen, she honored Yom Tov with her special recipe for “brisket in beer.”
Were we in Greenville or Chelm? I penned a respectful letter to the editor trying to set the record straight about beer being “leavened.” Oh, they printed it. But what did the headline read? “Chief Rabbi Denounces Recipe as Violation of Ancient Hebrew Law.”
The response was swift and ruthless. I received mail from three community members accusing me of “stirring up anti-Semitism.” Another wrote to remind me that kashrut was, indeed, “ancient Hebrew law.” One opined, “Well, that may be your opinion, Rabbi.” The columnist herself sent me an email accusing me of being “jealous,” saying that her Jewish friends declared the recipe “simply delicious.”
From that time on, I kept my big mouth shut. That was, until she ran a recipe for pork-stuffed wonton. She was quick to remind readers “Our Jewish friends call wonton kreplach.” Local Yehudim were quick to show me the column and praise the recognition of her “Jewish friends.”
“You know, Rabbi,” one of them said, “I never thought of it until the last time I had wonton soup at Chong Wah Express. It was even better than my bubbe’s!”
My little town of Greenville has two newspapers, which is remarkable for a city that has only seven policemen (or so it sometimes feels). One paper caters to everyone who isn’t illiterate. The other is directed to the well-heeled Upper Middle Class.
When the latter started, I applied to become its food editor. They rejected my application, telling me that they were afraid that my recipes would be “too Jewish,” despite my protests that I made an award-winning lobster bisque. Instead, they hired a shiksa (politically incorrect?) whose hair was so blonde that all she missed was a dirndl.
To reassure me that they weren’t being anti-Semitic, they promised that she would include a “Jewish style” recipe during every holiday season. And, so she did: Hamantaschen for Purim. Latkes for Chanukah. Honey cake for Rosh Hashanah.
Came Pesach, a recipe for Pesachdik brisket. Now, how many ways do you know to make a Pesachdik brisket? With potatoes, carrots and prunes, onions, tomato sauce, red wine? Of all the briskets that our shayneh shiksaleh could have chosen, she honored Yom Tov with her special recipe for “brisket in beer.”
Were we in Greenville or Chelm? I penned a respectful letter to the editor trying to set the record straight about beer being “leavened.” Oh, they printed it. But what did the headline read? “Chief Rabbi Denounces Recipe as Violation of Ancient Hebrew Law.”
The response was swift and ruthless. I received mail from three community members accusing me of “stirring up anti-Semitism.” Another wrote to remind me that kashrut was, indeed, “ancient Hebrew law.” One opined, “Well, that may be your opinion, Rabbi.” The columnist herself sent me an email accusing me of being “jealous,” saying that her Jewish friends declared the recipe “simply delicious.”
From that time on, I kept my big mouth shut. That was, until she ran a recipe for pork-stuffed wonton. She was quick to remind readers “Our Jewish friends call wonton kreplach.” Local Yehudim were quick to show me the column and praise the recognition of her “Jewish friends.”
“You know, Rabbi,” one of them said, “I never thought of it until the last time I had wonton soup at Chong Wah Express. It was even better than my bubbe’s!”
March 25, 2008
WATER, COKE, OR A PESACHDIK MARTINI?
If you’re a fresser like I am, you know very well that we affluent Jews eat more like Pharaoh on Pesach than did our enslaved ancestors.
“Why is this week different from all other weeks of the year?”
. . . on every other week of the year, if we crave sweets, we eat a chocolate bar. But, on this week, we eat only kosher li-Pesach marshmallow-and-macadamia truffles bathed in real Swiss organic 83% cacao chocolate?
. . . on every other week of the year, if we want a piece of fruit, we take an apple or orange. But, on this week, we eat only imported kosher li-Pesach Barbary figs glazed in turbinado sugar.
. . . on every other week of the year, if we want to schmeer cream cheese on a cracker, we break off a piece of matzo. But, on this week, we schmeer only kosher li-Pesach bagels.
In fact, last year as I was doing my Pesach shopping, I spied a box of kosher li-Pesach bagel mix. When I thought no one was listening, I mumbled, “I can’t believe it. Now we’re ready for Moshiach to come.” A young Lubavitcher overheard me and exclaimed, “Why? Have you heard something about the Rebbe?”
My congregation in Atlanta had one Pesachdik quirk. Although it was no longer strictly orthodox, its rabbi still supervised the production of kosher li-Pesach Coca-Cola. Why? Because some 80 years ago, the schule’s orthodox rabbi was the first to ascertain that Coke was suitable for Pesach.
So, I would travel at 4:00 AM to watch bottles go round-and-round, filling up with soda and syrup on which some Chasidische rov in New York had already put his hechsher.
Then came that first fateful Pesach. The Jews of Atlanta drank Pesachdik Coca-Cola to their hearts’ content. All but the orthodox Jews, that is. When they discovered that my schule had no mechitza, they refused to drinks the beverage that was bottled under my watchful, but obviously heretical, eye.
Nebbish. You think that the tzaddikim had to suffice with drinking water? Not for long. Now Carmel makes kosher li-Pesach vodka, so they can enjoy a martini with their Seder dinner. Mah nishtanah?
If you’re a fresser like I am, you know very well that we affluent Jews eat more like Pharaoh on Pesach than did our enslaved ancestors.
“Why is this week different from all other weeks of the year?”
. . . on every other week of the year, if we crave sweets, we eat a chocolate bar. But, on this week, we eat only kosher li-Pesach marshmallow-and-macadamia truffles bathed in real Swiss organic 83% cacao chocolate?
. . . on every other week of the year, if we want a piece of fruit, we take an apple or orange. But, on this week, we eat only imported kosher li-Pesach Barbary figs glazed in turbinado sugar.
. . . on every other week of the year, if we want to schmeer cream cheese on a cracker, we break off a piece of matzo. But, on this week, we schmeer only kosher li-Pesach bagels.
In fact, last year as I was doing my Pesach shopping, I spied a box of kosher li-Pesach bagel mix. When I thought no one was listening, I mumbled, “I can’t believe it. Now we’re ready for Moshiach to come.” A young Lubavitcher overheard me and exclaimed, “Why? Have you heard something about the Rebbe?”
My congregation in Atlanta had one Pesachdik quirk. Although it was no longer strictly orthodox, its rabbi still supervised the production of kosher li-Pesach Coca-Cola. Why? Because some 80 years ago, the schule’s orthodox rabbi was the first to ascertain that Coke was suitable for Pesach.
So, I would travel at 4:00 AM to watch bottles go round-and-round, filling up with soda and syrup on which some Chasidische rov in New York had already put his hechsher.
Then came that first fateful Pesach. The Jews of Atlanta drank Pesachdik Coca-Cola to their hearts’ content. All but the orthodox Jews, that is. When they discovered that my schule had no mechitza, they refused to drinks the beverage that was bottled under my watchful, but obviously heretical, eye.
Nebbish. You think that the tzaddikim had to suffice with drinking water? Not for long. Now Carmel makes kosher li-Pesach vodka, so they can enjoy a martini with their Seder dinner. Mah nishtanah?
March 22, 2008
OBAMA AND HIS PREACHER: REJECTING THE MESSAGE BUT NOT THE MESSENGER
In 35 years in ministry, I I have exhorted my parishioners from the pulpit some 1,855 times, excluding weddings and funerals. I’ve rallied them to observe the Sabbath and Holy Days and kosher laws, to be more compassionate and socially conscious, and to love their neighbors and their God.
I have also exhorted them about some pretty nasty, meanspirited things, too, particularly in my youth: Hate the Palestinians. Hate the Arabs. Hate Reagan. Hate the military-industrial establishment. Hate the Religious Right. Hate Falwell. Hate Jesse Jackson. Hate. Hate. Hate.
I don’t preach hate any more, having attained the years that bring the philosophical mind. But, oh, there were the days. More importantly, though, my parishioners didn’t really listen to too much of what I said, nor internalize it, nor certainly act upon it.
Looking back, that was a good thing. Ironic, then, that despite not listening to me, they by-and-large loved me. They routinely renewed my contracts, invited me to dinner, and told me that my sermons were great.
Did that make me an ineffective preacher? Probably not. It is more about the dynamics between pulpit and pew. Good preachers are expected to make incisive, even acerbic, pronouncements. They will more often be criticized for being limp-wristed than for being brusque. A preacher will more likely get fired for not visiting the sick and bereaved than he will for speaking controversially from the pulpit.
Parishioners in the pew, on the other hand, are expected to listen politely, nod appreciatively, occasionally criticize respectfully, and tell the preacher that he “really told them today!” but still take his imprecations with a grain of salt. “That’s what he’s supposed to do,” they say.
To understand the relationship between pew and pulpit is to make sense out of the relationship between Barak Obama and his rancorous pastor. Sitting in his congregation and mindlessly soaking up his preacher’s venom simply “because he said so,” is about as likely as getting my congregants sufficiently whipped up to drop a half-eaten cheeseburger.
My mean-spirited pronouncements were wrong then, and Barak’s preacher is wrong now. Somehow, though, most of our congregants stuck with us and either miraculously, or out of sheer indifference, neither of us was fired.
Perhaps Barak should have taken a posture of conscience and resigned his membership. Maybe my parishioners should have done the same. But, standing by ones preacher bespeaks a complex web of relationships that transcends his preachments, even if they are sometimes wild-eyed. Staying loyal to ones errant preacher might be about his having talked your kid out of suicide, or bailing you out when you were destitute, or saying just the right words when you were grieving, or being by your side when everyone else had rejected you, or adding to your celebration at a joyous moment in your life.
These are great reasons to remain faithful to ones preacher that might even exceed vituperative preaching. Looking back, these are why so many of my parishioners held me in respect even during my most nasty sermons. And, I would like to believe that these are the reasons that Barak stands by his preacher, but not his preachings.
Once upon a time, I took my kids to hear Louis Farrakhan speak, primarily so that they could be inoculated to hatred and anti-Semitism up close and personal. In some perverse way, we were not disappointed.
The next morning, the kids and I had breakfast at the Adams Mark, and who should be sitting alone in the next booth but Minister Farrakhan. I approached him, yarmulke on my head, and introduced myself as a local rabbi. I said that I had attended his speech the night before.
Ignoring my comment, he beckoned my kids closer, and said, “You are fine children. Remember to study well and say your prayers so that you grow to be good people,” and shook each ones hand.
I harbor no delusions. Louis Farrakhan will always be a skunk. But, for that moment, I could appreciate even from one so despicable, that being a preacher adds up to more than the pronouncements from ones pulpit.
As one truly comes to understand the complex dynamics of ministry, the idea of rejecting the message while standing by the messenger sounds less like doubletalk and more like the prudence that good judgment demands. I thank my parishioners for frequently cutting me that slack. One hopes that the same is true of Barak and his scurrilous preacher.
In 35 years in ministry, I I have exhorted my parishioners from the pulpit some 1,855 times, excluding weddings and funerals. I’ve rallied them to observe the Sabbath and Holy Days and kosher laws, to be more compassionate and socially conscious, and to love their neighbors and their God.
I have also exhorted them about some pretty nasty, meanspirited things, too, particularly in my youth: Hate the Palestinians. Hate the Arabs. Hate Reagan. Hate the military-industrial establishment. Hate the Religious Right. Hate Falwell. Hate Jesse Jackson. Hate. Hate. Hate.
I don’t preach hate any more, having attained the years that bring the philosophical mind. But, oh, there were the days. More importantly, though, my parishioners didn’t really listen to too much of what I said, nor internalize it, nor certainly act upon it.
Looking back, that was a good thing. Ironic, then, that despite not listening to me, they by-and-large loved me. They routinely renewed my contracts, invited me to dinner, and told me that my sermons were great.
Did that make me an ineffective preacher? Probably not. It is more about the dynamics between pulpit and pew. Good preachers are expected to make incisive, even acerbic, pronouncements. They will more often be criticized for being limp-wristed than for being brusque. A preacher will more likely get fired for not visiting the sick and bereaved than he will for speaking controversially from the pulpit.
Parishioners in the pew, on the other hand, are expected to listen politely, nod appreciatively, occasionally criticize respectfully, and tell the preacher that he “really told them today!” but still take his imprecations with a grain of salt. “That’s what he’s supposed to do,” they say.
To understand the relationship between pew and pulpit is to make sense out of the relationship between Barak Obama and his rancorous pastor. Sitting in his congregation and mindlessly soaking up his preacher’s venom simply “because he said so,” is about as likely as getting my congregants sufficiently whipped up to drop a half-eaten cheeseburger.
My mean-spirited pronouncements were wrong then, and Barak’s preacher is wrong now. Somehow, though, most of our congregants stuck with us and either miraculously, or out of sheer indifference, neither of us was fired.
Perhaps Barak should have taken a posture of conscience and resigned his membership. Maybe my parishioners should have done the same. But, standing by ones preacher bespeaks a complex web of relationships that transcends his preachments, even if they are sometimes wild-eyed. Staying loyal to ones errant preacher might be about his having talked your kid out of suicide, or bailing you out when you were destitute, or saying just the right words when you were grieving, or being by your side when everyone else had rejected you, or adding to your celebration at a joyous moment in your life.
These are great reasons to remain faithful to ones preacher that might even exceed vituperative preaching. Looking back, these are why so many of my parishioners held me in respect even during my most nasty sermons. And, I would like to believe that these are the reasons that Barak stands by his preacher, but not his preachings.
Once upon a time, I took my kids to hear Louis Farrakhan speak, primarily so that they could be inoculated to hatred and anti-Semitism up close and personal. In some perverse way, we were not disappointed.
The next morning, the kids and I had breakfast at the Adams Mark, and who should be sitting alone in the next booth but Minister Farrakhan. I approached him, yarmulke on my head, and introduced myself as a local rabbi. I said that I had attended his speech the night before.
Ignoring my comment, he beckoned my kids closer, and said, “You are fine children. Remember to study well and say your prayers so that you grow to be good people,” and shook each ones hand.
I harbor no delusions. Louis Farrakhan will always be a skunk. But, for that moment, I could appreciate even from one so despicable, that being a preacher adds up to more than the pronouncements from ones pulpit.
As one truly comes to understand the complex dynamics of ministry, the idea of rejecting the message while standing by the messenger sounds less like doubletalk and more like the prudence that good judgment demands. I thank my parishioners for frequently cutting me that slack. One hopes that the same is true of Barak and his scurrilous preacher.
March 13, 2008
LUNG-AND-LIVER AS CRIME-STOPPER
A woman recently wrote me to take exception to my observation that pitcha (jellied calf’s foot) was the most disgusting of all Jewish foods. “Actually,” she wrote, “The worst is a stew made of cow’s lung and liver.”
“Lunge-und-leber?” I’d entirely forgotten. Thoughts of a steaming tureen of lunge-und-leber ironically brought back a rush of memories about one of the least detestable characters in my life, my Uncle Joe. Joe was a “lovable scoundrel.” Pa paid for a year’s tuition at the University of Chicago. But Yossel never attended a single class, out shooting craps in some Southside alleyway.
Joe was no surrogate father to me, but he coaxed me through the more robust edges of childhood. He took me to the White Sox games and bought me sports regalia and comic books. He died childless at 48 of too much rare steak and too many Lucky Strikes.
He also had his brushes with the law. Nothing violent, mind you. A little shaving of his taxes, changing a number on a check, playing loose with the books. The only victim was the IRS, so you might have even called it “naughty,” but not evil.
But Joe never spent a moment in jail. Whenever he would go astray, Pa knew just the right politician to schmeer, to keep Yossel beyond reach of the law. After all, this was Chicago.
Of course, since Yossel was basically a good Jewish boy, he would pledge to Bubbe, “Ma, if you make me a bowl of lunge-und-leber, I’ll never go wrong again.”
So Bubbe would make lunge-und-leber. The aroma was so toxic that even Amaryllis the cat would hide. Joe would bathe in the nasty stuff and sop up the gravy with chunks of challah.
His pledge, naturally, lasted three months. Then the cycle resumed: Bad check. Bail out. Promises. Lunge-und-leber. And . . .
Pa would admonish me, “Just remember that if you ever rob a bank, Bubbe will have lunge-und-leber for you.” I swore to live a life free of crime. You may be certain that with a deterrent like that, even Chicago’s meanest streets would soon become cheery and bright.
A woman recently wrote me to take exception to my observation that pitcha (jellied calf’s foot) was the most disgusting of all Jewish foods. “Actually,” she wrote, “The worst is a stew made of cow’s lung and liver.”
“Lunge-und-leber?” I’d entirely forgotten. Thoughts of a steaming tureen of lunge-und-leber ironically brought back a rush of memories about one of the least detestable characters in my life, my Uncle Joe. Joe was a “lovable scoundrel.” Pa paid for a year’s tuition at the University of Chicago. But Yossel never attended a single class, out shooting craps in some Southside alleyway.
Joe was no surrogate father to me, but he coaxed me through the more robust edges of childhood. He took me to the White Sox games and bought me sports regalia and comic books. He died childless at 48 of too much rare steak and too many Lucky Strikes.
He also had his brushes with the law. Nothing violent, mind you. A little shaving of his taxes, changing a number on a check, playing loose with the books. The only victim was the IRS, so you might have even called it “naughty,” but not evil.
But Joe never spent a moment in jail. Whenever he would go astray, Pa knew just the right politician to schmeer, to keep Yossel beyond reach of the law. After all, this was Chicago.
Of course, since Yossel was basically a good Jewish boy, he would pledge to Bubbe, “Ma, if you make me a bowl of lunge-und-leber, I’ll never go wrong again.”
So Bubbe would make lunge-und-leber. The aroma was so toxic that even Amaryllis the cat would hide. Joe would bathe in the nasty stuff and sop up the gravy with chunks of challah.
His pledge, naturally, lasted three months. Then the cycle resumed: Bad check. Bail out. Promises. Lunge-und-leber. And . . .
Pa would admonish me, “Just remember that if you ever rob a bank, Bubbe will have lunge-und-leber for you.” I swore to live a life free of crime. You may be certain that with a deterrent like that, even Chicago’s meanest streets would soon become cheery and bright.
March 05, 2008
A ROCKEFELLER AT MY SEDER
Sometimes it feels like I’ve spent every day of my career apologizing for one insufficiency or another. “I’m sorry that I didn’t compliment you enough at the Sisterhood meeting.” “I’m sorry for saying that Hamas was our enemy. After all, Children of God have no enemies.” “I’m sorry for not being able to make all Yom Tovim on weekends.”
My flock rarely apologizes to me. “After all, we’re paying him.” Funny, though, that they routinely apologize for breaches of observance, especially when I have “caught them” in an infraction, forgetting that they weren’t a bunch of Satmar Chasidim.
A mother recently squirmed and apologized, telling me that my services were no longer required to officiate at her daughter’s wedding. “The kids” had decided that it would be too late to start the ceremony after Shabbos, as if I didn’t know that in June we don’t recite Havdalah until 10:00. Apology accepted.
How many times have I strolled through the supermarket and chanced upon this or that parishioner reaching for a package of ham? “It’s for an elderly neighbor,” they stammer. Apology accepted.
Then there was the time that I visited a congregant in the hospital. Immediately upon seeing me, he threw a napkin over his breakfast bacon. Seeing the fat seeping through, he sheepishly declared, “Sorry, Rabbi. Bacon. Doctor’s orders.” Apology accepted.
Looking back over my three-decade-plus career, I can think of only one transgression that really curled my tzitzis. When we moved into my first congregation, one couple was especially helpful in getting us settled in our new environs. With our thanks, we presented them with a beautiful Seder plate. They gushed with gratitude.
Months went by, and they joined us for Shabbos dinner. Again, the wife gushed, “The plate you gave us is so beautiful. And useful, too. We used it just last week.”
“In November?”
“Of course. Those little cups make it just perfect for serving Oysters Rockefeller.”
I gagged on my brisket. “Oysters Rockefeller??? Oysters Rockefeller???" I kept my mouth shut, but couldn’t help thinking, “The chutzpah! I don’t even like Oysters Rockefeller!”
Sometimes it feels like I’ve spent every day of my career apologizing for one insufficiency or another. “I’m sorry that I didn’t compliment you enough at the Sisterhood meeting.” “I’m sorry for saying that Hamas was our enemy. After all, Children of God have no enemies.” “I’m sorry for not being able to make all Yom Tovim on weekends.”
My flock rarely apologizes to me. “After all, we’re paying him.” Funny, though, that they routinely apologize for breaches of observance, especially when I have “caught them” in an infraction, forgetting that they weren’t a bunch of Satmar Chasidim.
A mother recently squirmed and apologized, telling me that my services were no longer required to officiate at her daughter’s wedding. “The kids” had decided that it would be too late to start the ceremony after Shabbos, as if I didn’t know that in June we don’t recite Havdalah until 10:00. Apology accepted.
How many times have I strolled through the supermarket and chanced upon this or that parishioner reaching for a package of ham? “It’s for an elderly neighbor,” they stammer. Apology accepted.
Then there was the time that I visited a congregant in the hospital. Immediately upon seeing me, he threw a napkin over his breakfast bacon. Seeing the fat seeping through, he sheepishly declared, “Sorry, Rabbi. Bacon. Doctor’s orders.” Apology accepted.
Looking back over my three-decade-plus career, I can think of only one transgression that really curled my tzitzis. When we moved into my first congregation, one couple was especially helpful in getting us settled in our new environs. With our thanks, we presented them with a beautiful Seder plate. They gushed with gratitude.
Months went by, and they joined us for Shabbos dinner. Again, the wife gushed, “The plate you gave us is so beautiful. And useful, too. We used it just last week.”
“In November?”
“Of course. Those little cups make it just perfect for serving Oysters Rockefeller.”
I gagged on my brisket. “Oysters Rockefeller??? Oysters Rockefeller???" I kept my mouth shut, but couldn’t help thinking, “The chutzpah! I don’t even like Oysters Rockefeller!”
February 20, 2008
DADDY, WHY AREN’T FISH-EGGS KOSHER?
You cannot escape the reality that caviar is fish eggs. Why some people find that disgusting is beyond understanding. After all, we eat chicken eggs in a hundred different ways. Yet, a chicken looks far nastier and googlier than a sleek, shiny sturgeon, salmon, or whitefish any day.
If you find fish eggs disgusting, you are mistaken, my good friend. Caviar is a supreme delight – beadlike as freshwater pearls, yielding to the caress of tongue with a beckoning “pop,” melting into a briny essence, not unlike nibbling on your lover’s, uh, belly button.
The most sensual caviars derive from the Caspian, surrounded by our enemies, Russia, Iran, and the various “stan’s.” Besides, to strictest standards of Halacha, they come from treife fish. This raises ponderous questions of divine justice in which God must perforce assume the role of bad guy.
The gentiles have discovered the only way to savor caviar: a dab atop a lightly buttered, crust-less triangle of toasted bread, and perhaps a sprinkle of finely chopped egg yolk. Purists will not quaff vodka, as alcohol numbs the taste buds. It must be served from mother-of-pearl spoons, lest a metallic taste be transferred even from the finest sterling.
Yehudim are at a disadvantage with caviar. Beluga, as I say, is treife. We are thus relegated to ball-bearing sized salmon eggs, or gravelly whitefish or mullet roe. You may purchase them online for about $100 a kilo. Did anyone ever use a kilo of mullet eggs before it spoiled?
The only time I have seen Yehudim eat caviar is as a murky layer atop a bowl of egg salad. I have no idea from whence this ignoble recipe came, but I have been proudly served it at more than one Chanukah party. Invariably, only one spoonful has been removed, after which everyone discovers that the egg salad has turned yellow-grey and that mayonnaise and mullet do not go together.
The incompatibility of Yiddishkeit and caviar remains an enigma. Why? Why? Perhaps when we line up to ask Moshiach to resolve our vexations, one of us should ask that penetrating question . . . but only after someone else demands that he ask God about declaring lobster and shrimp kosher.
You cannot escape the reality that caviar is fish eggs. Why some people find that disgusting is beyond understanding. After all, we eat chicken eggs in a hundred different ways. Yet, a chicken looks far nastier and googlier than a sleek, shiny sturgeon, salmon, or whitefish any day.
If you find fish eggs disgusting, you are mistaken, my good friend. Caviar is a supreme delight – beadlike as freshwater pearls, yielding to the caress of tongue with a beckoning “pop,” melting into a briny essence, not unlike nibbling on your lover’s, uh, belly button.
The most sensual caviars derive from the Caspian, surrounded by our enemies, Russia, Iran, and the various “stan’s.” Besides, to strictest standards of Halacha, they come from treife fish. This raises ponderous questions of divine justice in which God must perforce assume the role of bad guy.
The gentiles have discovered the only way to savor caviar: a dab atop a lightly buttered, crust-less triangle of toasted bread, and perhaps a sprinkle of finely chopped egg yolk. Purists will not quaff vodka, as alcohol numbs the taste buds. It must be served from mother-of-pearl spoons, lest a metallic taste be transferred even from the finest sterling.
Yehudim are at a disadvantage with caviar. Beluga, as I say, is treife. We are thus relegated to ball-bearing sized salmon eggs, or gravelly whitefish or mullet roe. You may purchase them online for about $100 a kilo. Did anyone ever use a kilo of mullet eggs before it spoiled?
The only time I have seen Yehudim eat caviar is as a murky layer atop a bowl of egg salad. I have no idea from whence this ignoble recipe came, but I have been proudly served it at more than one Chanukah party. Invariably, only one spoonful has been removed, after which everyone discovers that the egg salad has turned yellow-grey and that mayonnaise and mullet do not go together.
The incompatibility of Yiddishkeit and caviar remains an enigma. Why? Why? Perhaps when we line up to ask Moshiach to resolve our vexations, one of us should ask that penetrating question . . . but only after someone else demands that he ask God about declaring lobster and shrimp kosher.
February 11, 2008
“WE ANSWER TO A HIGHER AUTHORITY”
Did you know that in the US, “wiener” is slang for a man’s private parts? The wiener’s vulgarity does not stop with its name. A sage once opined that you never want to watch two things being made: politics and wieners. The wiener is made from meat of the lowest consumable level: no steaks or chateaubriand. The stuff of wieners may be ground up, but don’t look for hamburger in them.
What then? It comes from the nastiest of the cow or whatever, spongy, quivery organs, snouts, ears, entrails, you can imagine the rest. When a wiener manufacturer boasts “no artificial additives,” you wish there were; they are likely less disgusting than the natural ingredients.
A few years ago, the US media exposed the noxious contents and insanitariness of the American wiener. Hebrew National kosher sausage, however, capitalized on the scandal and actually drove many manufacturers out of business.
A deep voice on TV would read off a lengthy list of ingredients that could be unhealthy or unsanitary in treife wieners. Then, the well-dressed star would officiously hold his Hebrew National wiener-in-a-bun heavenward, as the narrator intoned, “You won’t find any of that in Hebrew National. We’re kosher. We answer to a Higher Authority.”
Oy, the poor goyim. They have no idea of what kind of “all beef” goes into Hebrew National wieners. It’s the same sludge that goes into all the others, except that it hales from kosher cows. But, ask most goyim, and they will tell you, “Kosher means pure and sanitary.” Right? Not the last time that I studied Leviticus 14 or visited my local slaughterhouse.
I guess none of that matters, because overnight Hebrew National’s market share increased tenfold, primarily by attracting the gentile palate to the kosher wiener.
Only one other “kosher style” wiener competes with Hebrew National, a venerated icon, Nathan’s. It is so popular in New York that they hold a wiener-eating contest each year that is internationally televised. Huge bulvans gobble up wiener after wiener, but the surprise winner is always a scrawny kid from Japan who weighs no more than 64 kilos.
As for me, you may bring on the sushi, and I’ll take on anyone.
Did you know that in the US, “wiener” is slang for a man’s private parts? The wiener’s vulgarity does not stop with its name. A sage once opined that you never want to watch two things being made: politics and wieners. The wiener is made from meat of the lowest consumable level: no steaks or chateaubriand. The stuff of wieners may be ground up, but don’t look for hamburger in them.
What then? It comes from the nastiest of the cow or whatever, spongy, quivery organs, snouts, ears, entrails, you can imagine the rest. When a wiener manufacturer boasts “no artificial additives,” you wish there were; they are likely less disgusting than the natural ingredients.
A few years ago, the US media exposed the noxious contents and insanitariness of the American wiener. Hebrew National kosher sausage, however, capitalized on the scandal and actually drove many manufacturers out of business.
A deep voice on TV would read off a lengthy list of ingredients that could be unhealthy or unsanitary in treife wieners. Then, the well-dressed star would officiously hold his Hebrew National wiener-in-a-bun heavenward, as the narrator intoned, “You won’t find any of that in Hebrew National. We’re kosher. We answer to a Higher Authority.”
Oy, the poor goyim. They have no idea of what kind of “all beef” goes into Hebrew National wieners. It’s the same sludge that goes into all the others, except that it hales from kosher cows. But, ask most goyim, and they will tell you, “Kosher means pure and sanitary.” Right? Not the last time that I studied Leviticus 14 or visited my local slaughterhouse.
I guess none of that matters, because overnight Hebrew National’s market share increased tenfold, primarily by attracting the gentile palate to the kosher wiener.
Only one other “kosher style” wiener competes with Hebrew National, a venerated icon, Nathan’s. It is so popular in New York that they hold a wiener-eating contest each year that is internationally televised. Huge bulvans gobble up wiener after wiener, but the surprise winner is always a scrawny kid from Japan who weighs no more than 64 kilos.
As for me, you may bring on the sushi, and I’ll take on anyone.
February 03, 2008
OBAMA'S CANDIDACY USHERS IN A TIME FOR
AFRICAN AND JEWISH AMERICANS TO REAFFIRM COMMON GROUND
The emergence of Barack Obama as a serious presidential candidate raises again, if only by inference, the oft tenuous relations between African and Jewish Americans. While the issue may not be of widespread gravitas, it again precipitates the uncomfortable question of whether Jews and African Americans share common values or mutual distrust.
The cynic would say that the case for distrust can be easily made. Yet, the alliance between African and Jewish Americans is long, deep, and shaped by shared values and visions.
Rather than leave shared values and visions as a matter of blind, axiomatic faith, why not pause for a moment and examine the ground that African and Jewish Americans do share?
We both know the bitterness of oppression.
Negative forces are not the glue that cements lasting relationships. But one cannot deny that there must be some natural affinity between two peoples whose histories so closely parallel each other’s: enslavement, exile, ghettoization, subversion of family ties, severance from cultural identity, educational and economic disenfranchisement. African Americans and Jews share a close-up, bitter knowledge of inhumanity. Shouting matches of “who’s had it worse” demean the ravages that both our peoples have sustained. Let us acknowledge that there has been more than enough to go around.
Persecution has taught us to be more humane.
A persecuted people may learn one of two lessons from its persecution: callous cynicism or heightened compassion. All told, African Americans and Jews have chosen the latter. The ancient Hebrews were repeatedly that the ultimate lesson of bondage was kindness to the stranger in their midst. Abraham Joshua Heschel, Elie Weisel and their coreligionists cried out for social justice because a redoubled commitment to human decency is the only divinely-ordained response to the inhumanity that any one people has suffered.
Dr. King embraced would speak of the African American struggle for liberation only in the context of justice for all the oppressed. The message was overwhelmingly universalistic. Persecution has left us with the same indelible message: Pain must be replaced with compassion.
We overcome oppression through an amalgam of faith and initiative.
The loudest voices crying for social justice among African Americans and have almost invariably been ones of spiritual calling. We, more than any other people, share in the commitment that faith and determination be totally interrelated.
Neither Jews nor African Americans have ever waited helplessly until God redeemed us. Yet, neither of us has maintained that freedom could be attained solely by human devices. Divine providence is an equally crucial element of the equation. We share an abiding belief that God and humankind must work in partnership if the world is to be set on a righteous course.
Real equality comes through empowerment.
Jewish and African Americans have learned that real self-determination comes not from benevolent gifts of outsiders but from entering the mainstream through processes that make African Americans and Jews total participants in shaping social destiny and in the production and distribution of the American pie.
Jewish Americans in the first half of the 20th century and African Americans in the second have concluded that their energies must be directed to attaining the education, political influence, and economic vitality that bring true empowerment, not continued subservience.
Family and heritage are central to our destiny.
No peoples place more emphasis the family as the taproot from which our personal and communal health must emanate. Enemies always knew that the surest way to demoralize us was to subvert our families. We both know that our families are ultimate in determining whether we will flourish or deteriorate.
We have also both rejected the notion that we must renounce our own “families” to conform to the societal mainstream. To the contrary, we now know that our families are the most ennobling force at our reach.
Let’s harbor no illusions: Important issues still pull Jewish and African Americans in opposite directions. Nonetheless, if we review the values, experiences, and aspirations, that African Americans and Jews do share, we realize that substantive principles go directly to the soul of our two peoples. They form an undergirding of purpose far more enduring than grievances and flash points that tug us to opposing corners.
We could reestablish a potent force for social justice, were African and Jewish Americans to focus on the deep-seated values that we hold dear. We would recognize that our reunion is the natural conclusion to which our ideals lead.
Win or lose, if Barack’s candidacy leads us to reconciliation, then the reunion of African and Jewish Americans, as his candidacy itself, will be the sweet denouement of a hard-fought struggle that has been too long in coming.
AFRICAN AND JEWISH AMERICANS TO REAFFIRM COMMON GROUND
The emergence of Barack Obama as a serious presidential candidate raises again, if only by inference, the oft tenuous relations between African and Jewish Americans. While the issue may not be of widespread gravitas, it again precipitates the uncomfortable question of whether Jews and African Americans share common values or mutual distrust.
The cynic would say that the case for distrust can be easily made. Yet, the alliance between African and Jewish Americans is long, deep, and shaped by shared values and visions.
Rather than leave shared values and visions as a matter of blind, axiomatic faith, why not pause for a moment and examine the ground that African and Jewish Americans do share?
We both know the bitterness of oppression.
Negative forces are not the glue that cements lasting relationships. But one cannot deny that there must be some natural affinity between two peoples whose histories so closely parallel each other’s: enslavement, exile, ghettoization, subversion of family ties, severance from cultural identity, educational and economic disenfranchisement. African Americans and Jews share a close-up, bitter knowledge of inhumanity. Shouting matches of “who’s had it worse” demean the ravages that both our peoples have sustained. Let us acknowledge that there has been more than enough to go around.
Persecution has taught us to be more humane.
A persecuted people may learn one of two lessons from its persecution: callous cynicism or heightened compassion. All told, African Americans and Jews have chosen the latter. The ancient Hebrews were repeatedly that the ultimate lesson of bondage was kindness to the stranger in their midst. Abraham Joshua Heschel, Elie Weisel and their coreligionists cried out for social justice because a redoubled commitment to human decency is the only divinely-ordained response to the inhumanity that any one people has suffered.
Dr. King embraced would speak of the African American struggle for liberation only in the context of justice for all the oppressed. The message was overwhelmingly universalistic. Persecution has left us with the same indelible message: Pain must be replaced with compassion.
We overcome oppression through an amalgam of faith and initiative.
The loudest voices crying for social justice among African Americans and have almost invariably been ones of spiritual calling. We, more than any other people, share in the commitment that faith and determination be totally interrelated.
Neither Jews nor African Americans have ever waited helplessly until God redeemed us. Yet, neither of us has maintained that freedom could be attained solely by human devices. Divine providence is an equally crucial element of the equation. We share an abiding belief that God and humankind must work in partnership if the world is to be set on a righteous course.
Real equality comes through empowerment.
Jewish and African Americans have learned that real self-determination comes not from benevolent gifts of outsiders but from entering the mainstream through processes that make African Americans and Jews total participants in shaping social destiny and in the production and distribution of the American pie.
Jewish Americans in the first half of the 20th century and African Americans in the second have concluded that their energies must be directed to attaining the education, political influence, and economic vitality that bring true empowerment, not continued subservience.
Family and heritage are central to our destiny.
No peoples place more emphasis the family as the taproot from which our personal and communal health must emanate. Enemies always knew that the surest way to demoralize us was to subvert our families. We both know that our families are ultimate in determining whether we will flourish or deteriorate.
We have also both rejected the notion that we must renounce our own “families” to conform to the societal mainstream. To the contrary, we now know that our families are the most ennobling force at our reach.
Let’s harbor no illusions: Important issues still pull Jewish and African Americans in opposite directions. Nonetheless, if we review the values, experiences, and aspirations, that African Americans and Jews do share, we realize that substantive principles go directly to the soul of our two peoples. They form an undergirding of purpose far more enduring than grievances and flash points that tug us to opposing corners.
We could reestablish a potent force for social justice, were African and Jewish Americans to focus on the deep-seated values that we hold dear. We would recognize that our reunion is the natural conclusion to which our ideals lead.
Win or lose, if Barack’s candidacy leads us to reconciliation, then the reunion of African and Jewish Americans, as his candidacy itself, will be the sweet denouement of a hard-fought struggle that has been too long in coming.
January 24, 2008
FRIED CHICKEN MACHISMO
Ask anyone about fried chicken, and he or she will invariably answer, “The Colonel.” Long before The Colonel, deep-fried chicken was an American favorite. In fact, I have it on good authority that many plebeians of the South have never tasted any chicken other than fried – or at least none of the roasted like bubbe used to make.
But, The Colonel – a chubby old man in a white suit and schpitz-bord – turned his Kentucky Fried Chicken into an international enterprise. I guarantee that there were five KFC’s in Beijing well before the Chinese discovered Ping-Pong.
Of course, The Colonel’s fried chicken is globally treife, except for a couple of spots in Israel. Nonetheless, I have sometimes “experimented” and found it a decadent balm for the yetzer hora. The “original” recipe, in contrast to the “crunchy,” is always my choice. The breading is thick, gooey, salty. The skin oozes grease. The flesh is juicily underdone.
Now, The Colonel has fomented a revolution. Steering away from his unpretentious fried chicken, he has gotten into the business of “The Famous Bowl.” Nauseating. Noxious. Like a biblical excavation gone awry, The Famous is layer upon layer of chicken, gravy, mashed potatoes, cheese, more chicken, rice, more gravy, cole slaw, and more cheese.
Eating the toxic Famous while sitting down is sufficient to put you in life-threatening jeopardy. Machismo multiplies the danger exponentially. A “real man” will not merely order The Famous. He will dig in and eat it while speeding along at 75 miles an hour.
Unimaginable, you say. Ha. Just last week, Linda showed me an article about someone who ate The Famous as he collided with an oncoming car. The impact made him suck up his Famous so violently that surgeons were picking out shards of breading from his lungs for 18 hours.
“Let that be a lesson to you!” Linda admonishes me with the authority of a third-grade teacher. I promise her devoutly that I will never, ever again eat The Famous, especially when I am driving.
“OK, no more Famous,” I chastise myself, as I pull away from the Sun Yat Sen drive-thru, balancing a carton of lo mein on my lap and maneuvering the steering wheel with my chopsticks. I’m what you call a “real man.”
Ask anyone about fried chicken, and he or she will invariably answer, “The Colonel.” Long before The Colonel, deep-fried chicken was an American favorite. In fact, I have it on good authority that many plebeians of the South have never tasted any chicken other than fried – or at least none of the roasted like bubbe used to make.
But, The Colonel – a chubby old man in a white suit and schpitz-bord – turned his Kentucky Fried Chicken into an international enterprise. I guarantee that there were five KFC’s in Beijing well before the Chinese discovered Ping-Pong.
Of course, The Colonel’s fried chicken is globally treife, except for a couple of spots in Israel. Nonetheless, I have sometimes “experimented” and found it a decadent balm for the yetzer hora. The “original” recipe, in contrast to the “crunchy,” is always my choice. The breading is thick, gooey, salty. The skin oozes grease. The flesh is juicily underdone.
Now, The Colonel has fomented a revolution. Steering away from his unpretentious fried chicken, he has gotten into the business of “The Famous Bowl.” Nauseating. Noxious. Like a biblical excavation gone awry, The Famous is layer upon layer of chicken, gravy, mashed potatoes, cheese, more chicken, rice, more gravy, cole slaw, and more cheese.
Eating the toxic Famous while sitting down is sufficient to put you in life-threatening jeopardy. Machismo multiplies the danger exponentially. A “real man” will not merely order The Famous. He will dig in and eat it while speeding along at 75 miles an hour.
Unimaginable, you say. Ha. Just last week, Linda showed me an article about someone who ate The Famous as he collided with an oncoming car. The impact made him suck up his Famous so violently that surgeons were picking out shards of breading from his lungs for 18 hours.
“Let that be a lesson to you!” Linda admonishes me with the authority of a third-grade teacher. I promise her devoutly that I will never, ever again eat The Famous, especially when I am driving.
“OK, no more Famous,” I chastise myself, as I pull away from the Sun Yat Sen drive-thru, balancing a carton of lo mein on my lap and maneuvering the steering wheel with my chopsticks. I’m what you call a “real man.”
January 02, 2008
GARDEN-FRESH VEGETABLE MEDLEY
Growing up, the word “medley” had two meanings. It either meant fragments of songs strung together by a common theme, like “an Engelbert Humperdinck medley.” Or, it meant a series of similar sporting events, “a backstroke, butterfly, breaststroke medley.”
When I entered into the culinary world, “medley” took on a more dubious meaning: a vegetable medley. This is the haystack of sautéed vegetable matchsticks that resides on the dinner plate next to the blob of mashed potatoes or pasta served at weddings, Bnai Mitzvah, and “finer” restaurants.
Inevitably, there it is on the menu, next to the main course: “served with a medley of garden-fresh vegetables.” The vegetables, alas, are not garden fresh, or even distinguishable, and oh yes, they are greasy as my 1957 Volvo.
Truth: The medley is comprised of the cheapest vegetables available that week, green and red peppers, broccoli, cauliflower, zucchini, yellow squash, onions, and canned mushrooms – fried together until they resemble a pile of hemp.
Is there no end to the madness? Do what I did: Google “vegetable medley” and discover that most of them are sold to hotels and restaurants frozen in plastic bags and cardboard boxes, produced “garden fresh” in Chile by Donald Trump.
If you step up a rung on the society ladder, let’s say a Rothschild Bar Mitzvah, you will still find vegetable medley. In an attempt to impress, it will be even sicklier – spooned out by white-gloved waiters, but still a pathetic mélange of higher-classed “baby” vegetables: baby carrots, squash, asparagus, tomatoes, all seemingly plucked out of the ground prematurely by over-eager farmers, just as I impatiently did from my garden when I was a kid.
The only restaurants in my vicinity where I can procure a fresh vegetable medley are called “meat-and-three’s.” They are habituated by the working class and low-life’s. You walk down the line, and you see real carrots, squash, beans, and potatoes in different pans. You simply point, and each is presented in its own little bowl.
The ultimate wisdom proffered on vegetables was by my Yekke father-in-law. “In Deutschland,” he said, “we didn’t eat vegetables. We considered them meichel behemah (animal fodder).”
No wonder Ronald Reagan considered ketchup a vegetable.
Growing up, the word “medley” had two meanings. It either meant fragments of songs strung together by a common theme, like “an Engelbert Humperdinck medley.” Or, it meant a series of similar sporting events, “a backstroke, butterfly, breaststroke medley.”
When I entered into the culinary world, “medley” took on a more dubious meaning: a vegetable medley. This is the haystack of sautéed vegetable matchsticks that resides on the dinner plate next to the blob of mashed potatoes or pasta served at weddings, Bnai Mitzvah, and “finer” restaurants.
Inevitably, there it is on the menu, next to the main course: “served with a medley of garden-fresh vegetables.” The vegetables, alas, are not garden fresh, or even distinguishable, and oh yes, they are greasy as my 1957 Volvo.
Truth: The medley is comprised of the cheapest vegetables available that week, green and red peppers, broccoli, cauliflower, zucchini, yellow squash, onions, and canned mushrooms – fried together until they resemble a pile of hemp.
Is there no end to the madness? Do what I did: Google “vegetable medley” and discover that most of them are sold to hotels and restaurants frozen in plastic bags and cardboard boxes, produced “garden fresh” in Chile by Donald Trump.
If you step up a rung on the society ladder, let’s say a Rothschild Bar Mitzvah, you will still find vegetable medley. In an attempt to impress, it will be even sicklier – spooned out by white-gloved waiters, but still a pathetic mélange of higher-classed “baby” vegetables: baby carrots, squash, asparagus, tomatoes, all seemingly plucked out of the ground prematurely by over-eager farmers, just as I impatiently did from my garden when I was a kid.
The only restaurants in my vicinity where I can procure a fresh vegetable medley are called “meat-and-three’s.” They are habituated by the working class and low-life’s. You walk down the line, and you see real carrots, squash, beans, and potatoes in different pans. You simply point, and each is presented in its own little bowl.
The ultimate wisdom proffered on vegetables was by my Yekke father-in-law. “In Deutschland,” he said, “we didn’t eat vegetables. We considered them meichel behemah (animal fodder).”
No wonder Ronald Reagan considered ketchup a vegetable.
December 25, 2007
A SPOT OF AMYLASE IN THAT HUMMUS?
Hummus is an elementary food: ground chickpeas, olive oil, garlic, pepper. It becomes a yellowish blob to be scooped up with pita. You either love it or detest its very sight.
I love hummus. Its popularity is no longer reserved for Israelis and sympathizers; it has proliferated among gentiles, too. I have even eaten it at an Irish pub.
One may purchase hummus at nearly every supermarket. The problem: Commercially-prepared hummus is so pumped with preservatives that the aficionado gags at the toxic dump it has become.
Those who really care seek out hummus that is prepared fresh daily. In my village of Greenville, it is available only at a small grocery owned by Palestinians. The proprietors treat me kindly, calling out “Raaaaaabbi!” and speaking Hebrew with me.
Recently, all that changed. I entered, and they shouted among themselves in Arabic. I looked down and realized the provocation. I had thoughtlessly chosen a tee-shirt emblazoned in Hebrew with “Hebron, Now and Forever!” This is the equivalent of a Palestinian wearing “Li-Shanah Ha-Ba’ah B’rushayim!” to Simchas Torah.
Nonetheless, I ordered my pound of hummus. Without a word, the proprietor announced that he was getting “special” hummus for me. He went to the back, and I stood on my tiptoes to peek into the kitchen, where the “special” hummus was being prepared. There was a lot of chatter in Arabic and tremendous laughter as the proprietor spat in my hummus and neatly replaced the lid. He presented it to me with great flourish.
Are Jews shrewd, or what? I told him, “On second thought, I’d like a half-pound instead of a pound.” With that, I took a fresh carton from the shelf, replaced it with the pound container, mixed it with the other tubs three or four times, so that no one could tell the “special” hummus from the others. I timidly paid my bill as they cursed at me in Arabic.
Sadly, my quandary had been resolved. I now purchase my hummus from the supermarket. I meticulously read the contents for various preservatives, knowing that I am pumping myself with carcinogens. I am extremely wary, though, if one of the additives is amylase. I think I’ll leave the basic enzyme of saliva for some other unsuspecting customer.
Hummus is an elementary food: ground chickpeas, olive oil, garlic, pepper. It becomes a yellowish blob to be scooped up with pita. You either love it or detest its very sight.
I love hummus. Its popularity is no longer reserved for Israelis and sympathizers; it has proliferated among gentiles, too. I have even eaten it at an Irish pub.
One may purchase hummus at nearly every supermarket. The problem: Commercially-prepared hummus is so pumped with preservatives that the aficionado gags at the toxic dump it has become.
Those who really care seek out hummus that is prepared fresh daily. In my village of Greenville, it is available only at a small grocery owned by Palestinians. The proprietors treat me kindly, calling out “Raaaaaabbi!” and speaking Hebrew with me.
Recently, all that changed. I entered, and they shouted among themselves in Arabic. I looked down and realized the provocation. I had thoughtlessly chosen a tee-shirt emblazoned in Hebrew with “Hebron, Now and Forever!” This is the equivalent of a Palestinian wearing “Li-Shanah Ha-Ba’ah B’rushayim!” to Simchas Torah.
Nonetheless, I ordered my pound of hummus. Without a word, the proprietor announced that he was getting “special” hummus for me. He went to the back, and I stood on my tiptoes to peek into the kitchen, where the “special” hummus was being prepared. There was a lot of chatter in Arabic and tremendous laughter as the proprietor spat in my hummus and neatly replaced the lid. He presented it to me with great flourish.
Are Jews shrewd, or what? I told him, “On second thought, I’d like a half-pound instead of a pound.” With that, I took a fresh carton from the shelf, replaced it with the pound container, mixed it with the other tubs three or four times, so that no one could tell the “special” hummus from the others. I timidly paid my bill as they cursed at me in Arabic.
Sadly, my quandary had been resolved. I now purchase my hummus from the supermarket. I meticulously read the contents for various preservatives, knowing that I am pumping myself with carcinogens. I am extremely wary, though, if one of the additives is amylase. I think I’ll leave the basic enzyme of saliva for some other unsuspecting customer.
December 11, 2007
A KASHRUT LESSON FOR KOSHER DOGS
For 58 years, I have not owned a pet. Suddenly, I have become father to an immense fur-ball, to afford me companionship that will break the day’s monotony. I have named her “Minnie,” in memory of my aunt, who hated dogs.
Minnie is well-behaved, loving, even fairly smart. Despite her girth, Minnie is a picky eater. She hates dog food. Not long ago, the poor dog had an upset stomach. The veterinarian recommended the regimen we’d prescribe for ourselves: rice and chicken breast, both boiled. Mazal tov, the bland diet worked. Moreover, Minnie loved it so much that she refuses to eat anything else. Augmented by vitamins, she is flourishing.
What’s the rub? It’s Jewish, naturally. Simply put, kosher chicken breasts are expensive, $8 a pound, and they are so scarce that a trip to Atlanta, 140 miles away, is the only insurance that you will find them at all.
Then came my epiphany: Why does a dog require kosher chicken? Ah, and treife chicken breasts cost only $5. I ran out to buy our first package.
But wait. It’s not quite so easy. After all, serving treife in a kosher home has its unforeseen demands. Now we need a new pot, with a special lid. With what will we cut the chicken? A new knife. What about a new fork and tongs? On what will we slice the chicken? Our kosher cutting board? No, go buy a new one. We don’t want treife to spill over onto our counter, do we? Purchasing a new counter cover –custom fit – is in order. What about our sink? A new scrub brush, sponge, gloves, dishpan, and drainer. Just to play it safe, we buy a separate bottle of soap.
By the time we turn around, we have invested $200 to feed Minnie her damned chicken. She must consume 70 pounds of treife for us simply to break even. (My math may be off a little.)
Meanwhile, I am eating moldy cheese on stale bread. God looks down from heaven, not thundering in disapproval, but simply laughing at this schlemiel. In the meantime, Minnie is demanding rice pilaf. I tell her, “Not before you go to the mikvah!”
For 58 years, I have not owned a pet. Suddenly, I have become father to an immense fur-ball, to afford me companionship that will break the day’s monotony. I have named her “Minnie,” in memory of my aunt, who hated dogs.
Minnie is well-behaved, loving, even fairly smart. Despite her girth, Minnie is a picky eater. She hates dog food. Not long ago, the poor dog had an upset stomach. The veterinarian recommended the regimen we’d prescribe for ourselves: rice and chicken breast, both boiled. Mazal tov, the bland diet worked. Moreover, Minnie loved it so much that she refuses to eat anything else. Augmented by vitamins, she is flourishing.
What’s the rub? It’s Jewish, naturally. Simply put, kosher chicken breasts are expensive, $8 a pound, and they are so scarce that a trip to Atlanta, 140 miles away, is the only insurance that you will find them at all.
Then came my epiphany: Why does a dog require kosher chicken? Ah, and treife chicken breasts cost only $5. I ran out to buy our first package.
But wait. It’s not quite so easy. After all, serving treife in a kosher home has its unforeseen demands. Now we need a new pot, with a special lid. With what will we cut the chicken? A new knife. What about a new fork and tongs? On what will we slice the chicken? Our kosher cutting board? No, go buy a new one. We don’t want treife to spill over onto our counter, do we? Purchasing a new counter cover –custom fit – is in order. What about our sink? A new scrub brush, sponge, gloves, dishpan, and drainer. Just to play it safe, we buy a separate bottle of soap.
By the time we turn around, we have invested $200 to feed Minnie her damned chicken. She must consume 70 pounds of treife for us simply to break even. (My math may be off a little.)
Meanwhile, I am eating moldy cheese on stale bread. God looks down from heaven, not thundering in disapproval, but simply laughing at this schlemiel. In the meantime, Minnie is demanding rice pilaf. I tell her, “Not before you go to the mikvah!”
November 26, 2007
LATKE NEUROSIS
My introduction to Chanukah latkes at the tender age of three was, sadly, a less-than-joyous occasion. The Chanukah party, always hosted by Tante Leah, was a bacchanalia of yontifdik foods, a platter of her potato latkes at the center.
O how I loved those latkes. They were sodden, thick, greasy – the fantasy of a three-year-old who already weighed 33 kg. How much better could yontif be?
That was, until we made the trek home. Five minutes into the ride, my grandmother would announce, “Feh.”
“Feh, what?” my mother would ask.
At that, my grandmother would launch into her harangue. “Leah’s latkes. Feh. Spongy. Greasy. Oniony. Not like Bobbe Rochel’s. Bobbe Rochel’s were lacy and brown. Just like mine.”
This was likely the origin of the conflicts that I have borne for the last 57 years. How could I dishonor Bobbe Rochel and even my own cranky grandmother by pretending to prefer “lacy, brown” latkes, when my heart pined for “spongy, greasy” ones?
The ensuing years of my youth did not treat me much better. The first time I experienced Chanukah latkes in Talmud Torah, I knew instinctively that something was not right. They were forebodingly grey and dismal. You see, they were not of potato at all, but made from buckwheat. Buckwheat? I do not know from whence in Yehupetz Mrs. Ginsburg came, but I do know that she deserved to be suffocated in a mountain of kasha.
Tentatively, I have learned to deal with my neurosis. How do you like your latkes? Sugar? Applesauce? Cinnamon? Sour cream? I bathe mine in ketchup. As much as I can tell, I am the only member of an international cabal who likes to watch latkes bleed, not shimmer. I have met only consternation from friends and family. Too bad for them.
This, though, is my ultimate solution. A block away from my house stands a dingy goyische eatery . . . but . . . they serve wonderful “potato pancakes.” There is always a bottle of ketchup on the table. I douse them, and nobody cares. Then, my muscles bulge. I strike a valiant pose. I radiate nobility. And I say to myself, “Ah, this is how Judah Maccabee must have felt on the 25th of Kislev!”
My introduction to Chanukah latkes at the tender age of three was, sadly, a less-than-joyous occasion. The Chanukah party, always hosted by Tante Leah, was a bacchanalia of yontifdik foods, a platter of her potato latkes at the center.
O how I loved those latkes. They were sodden, thick, greasy – the fantasy of a three-year-old who already weighed 33 kg. How much better could yontif be?
That was, until we made the trek home. Five minutes into the ride, my grandmother would announce, “Feh.”
“Feh, what?” my mother would ask.
At that, my grandmother would launch into her harangue. “Leah’s latkes. Feh. Spongy. Greasy. Oniony. Not like Bobbe Rochel’s. Bobbe Rochel’s were lacy and brown. Just like mine.”
This was likely the origin of the conflicts that I have borne for the last 57 years. How could I dishonor Bobbe Rochel and even my own cranky grandmother by pretending to prefer “lacy, brown” latkes, when my heart pined for “spongy, greasy” ones?
The ensuing years of my youth did not treat me much better. The first time I experienced Chanukah latkes in Talmud Torah, I knew instinctively that something was not right. They were forebodingly grey and dismal. You see, they were not of potato at all, but made from buckwheat. Buckwheat? I do not know from whence in Yehupetz Mrs. Ginsburg came, but I do know that she deserved to be suffocated in a mountain of kasha.
Tentatively, I have learned to deal with my neurosis. How do you like your latkes? Sugar? Applesauce? Cinnamon? Sour cream? I bathe mine in ketchup. As much as I can tell, I am the only member of an international cabal who likes to watch latkes bleed, not shimmer. I have met only consternation from friends and family. Too bad for them.
This, though, is my ultimate solution. A block away from my house stands a dingy goyische eatery . . . but . . . they serve wonderful “potato pancakes.” There is always a bottle of ketchup on the table. I douse them, and nobody cares. Then, my muscles bulge. I strike a valiant pose. I radiate nobility. And I say to myself, “Ah, this is how Judah Maccabee must have felt on the 25th of Kislev!”
November 12, 2007
RELIGIOUS LEADERS WHO ENDORSE CANDIDATES ARE PRACTICING PHONY RELIGION
I first singed my fingers on the volatile mixture of religion and politics about 20 years ago. Sue Myrick – a lovable, but slightly loopy, friend – was running for mayor of Charlotte. She asked to speak before my congregation, and I agreed, provided that a Q&A session would follow. We built her visit around a Sabbath dinner, assuming that it would create a relaxed, convivial atmosphere. We were, if nothing else, an overwhelmingly friendly audience.
Sue delivered some fairly cogent remarks, but the Q&A marked a disastrous turn. After fielding two creampuffs, someone asked the inevitable: “How would your religious fundamentalism be reflected in the way you conduct the comings-and-goings of the city?”Inexplicably, Sue choked up. She was obviously not angry, but hurt by the question. She began to weep, her face crossed by an expression that said, “I thought you were my friends,” and with that, her husband led her from the synagogue. Ironically, we were her friends, and despite her decompensating, which became the morning news, she won the race, and is now in her seventh term as a North Carolina Congresswoman.
That painful exchange became emblematic of what happens when religion and politics try to woo each other into going to bed, albeit one of its more bizarre examples.
The ultra-fundamentalist Dr. Bob Jones endorses the heretical Mormon, Romney, not for his relationship to God, but because he is “electable.” The equally fundamentalist Pat Robertson takes the podium with the moderate, Catholic Giuliani, because he is “electable,” despite his fealty to the Antichrist, the Pope. And, fundamentalist constituentswait breathlessly until Dobson’s endorsement is revealed.
All this gets to be pretty messy stuff. It should be jarring, even hypocritical, for men of faith to jump into the pocket of a particular candidate, putting pragmatism ahead of their beliefs, to which they purportedly pledge their highest allegiance. Jesus certainly did not ally with the Romans because they consistently won the “elections.” Nor did Christian martyrs save their lives by surrendering their beliefs to appease the infidels.
Religious leaders, those who subscribe to the teachings of the Prophets, should not support candidates, nor even become too chummy with them. They should be their adversaries, vigilant over what a candidate espouses, whenever they agree and especially when they disagree. Religion’s purpose is to raise relentless gadflies whose mission is to afflict the comfortable, not make smarmy campaign appearances.
David had his Nathan. Jeroboam had his Amos. Isaiah took on all of Judea’s bourgeois. And tell me about Jesus and the Pharisees.
Religious leaders are phony so long as they espouse fealty to one man alone, rather than the autonomy to agree, challenge, or even condemn any candidate who strays from virtue. I’d rather hear a minister caustically denounce a candidate than play kissy with him.
Has Romney or Guiliani strayed from virtue? That’s a story for another time. But the idea of a religious leader “belonging” to a candidate or vice versa, smells of religion selling out and politicians becoming even more opportunistic than they have always been.
So, religious leaders, stay true to your principles. Let the first among them be autonomy, to never fear to speak the truth, even if it means not currying political favor or being invited to officiate at Presidential prayer breakfasts.
I first singed my fingers on the volatile mixture of religion and politics about 20 years ago. Sue Myrick – a lovable, but slightly loopy, friend – was running for mayor of Charlotte. She asked to speak before my congregation, and I agreed, provided that a Q&A session would follow. We built her visit around a Sabbath dinner, assuming that it would create a relaxed, convivial atmosphere. We were, if nothing else, an overwhelmingly friendly audience.
Sue delivered some fairly cogent remarks, but the Q&A marked a disastrous turn. After fielding two creampuffs, someone asked the inevitable: “How would your religious fundamentalism be reflected in the way you conduct the comings-and-goings of the city?”Inexplicably, Sue choked up. She was obviously not angry, but hurt by the question. She began to weep, her face crossed by an expression that said, “I thought you were my friends,” and with that, her husband led her from the synagogue. Ironically, we were her friends, and despite her decompensating, which became the morning news, she won the race, and is now in her seventh term as a North Carolina Congresswoman.
That painful exchange became emblematic of what happens when religion and politics try to woo each other into going to bed, albeit one of its more bizarre examples.
The ultra-fundamentalist Dr. Bob Jones endorses the heretical Mormon, Romney, not for his relationship to God, but because he is “electable.” The equally fundamentalist Pat Robertson takes the podium with the moderate, Catholic Giuliani, because he is “electable,” despite his fealty to the Antichrist, the Pope. And, fundamentalist constituentswait breathlessly until Dobson’s endorsement is revealed.
All this gets to be pretty messy stuff. It should be jarring, even hypocritical, for men of faith to jump into the pocket of a particular candidate, putting pragmatism ahead of their beliefs, to which they purportedly pledge their highest allegiance. Jesus certainly did not ally with the Romans because they consistently won the “elections.” Nor did Christian martyrs save their lives by surrendering their beliefs to appease the infidels.
Religious leaders, those who subscribe to the teachings of the Prophets, should not support candidates, nor even become too chummy with them. They should be their adversaries, vigilant over what a candidate espouses, whenever they agree and especially when they disagree. Religion’s purpose is to raise relentless gadflies whose mission is to afflict the comfortable, not make smarmy campaign appearances.
David had his Nathan. Jeroboam had his Amos. Isaiah took on all of Judea’s bourgeois. And tell me about Jesus and the Pharisees.
Religious leaders are phony so long as they espouse fealty to one man alone, rather than the autonomy to agree, challenge, or even condemn any candidate who strays from virtue. I’d rather hear a minister caustically denounce a candidate than play kissy with him.
Has Romney or Guiliani strayed from virtue? That’s a story for another time. But the idea of a religious leader “belonging” to a candidate or vice versa, smells of religion selling out and politicians becoming even more opportunistic than they have always been.
So, religious leaders, stay true to your principles. Let the first among them be autonomy, to never fear to speak the truth, even if it means not currying political favor or being invited to officiate at Presidential prayer breakfasts.
November 05, 2007
FORCE-FED PITCHA
Have you ever tasted pitcha? Have you liked it? Ick. Have I already offended our handful of pitcha-lovers? Sorry. But show me someone who likes pitcha, and I’ll show you a person who thinks that squid ink is a delicacy. Even Google has only two entries under “pitcha,” because finding it on the Internet is like trying to find a dirty word on your spell-check.
So, what is pitcha? If we must: Split open calves’ hooves and boil them until shards of meat and grizzle can be scraped from the bones. Boil the hooves and onions/garlic, forever. Pour into a pan, and refrigerate it until slightly gelled. Stir in onions/garlic/grizzle/meat and sliced hardboiled eggs. Let it set. Voila. A quivery, granular quagmire that even Emeril would refuse. If you were really lucky, the hooves still had a tidy fringe of hair surrounding them.
In our family, pitcha was not called pitcha. We called it “fus-noga,” the bastard child of the German and Russian words for “foot.” My cousins and I dubbed it “fitch-a-noogie” which is onomatopoeia for the rumbling of ones stomach upon ingestion.
Lest you think that pitcha was the cheap eats of gypsies, tramps, and thieves, it was served on the most festive occasions. Once, I attended a reception, and a wedge of what I assumed was potato kugel appeared on my plate. I attacked it only to find that it was pitcha. I heaved it onto my pants, leaving an indelible stain.
My Aunt Leah would frequently baby-sit for me. One day she served me a bowl of iridescent pitcha. I squirmed and wailed. She tied me with a towel to the back of the chair, and force-fed me the pitcha to its slimy end. I told this to my therapist just last week. He winced. “That,” he said, “begins to explain your recurring nightmares of being trampled by cows.”
If I have offended, please know that for all I care, you may do the backstroke in a pool of the stuff. As for me, I’d rather take my chances stoking the fires of hell . . . where they would probably tie me to a chair and feed me pitcha, just out of spite.
Have you ever tasted pitcha? Have you liked it? Ick. Have I already offended our handful of pitcha-lovers? Sorry. But show me someone who likes pitcha, and I’ll show you a person who thinks that squid ink is a delicacy. Even Google has only two entries under “pitcha,” because finding it on the Internet is like trying to find a dirty word on your spell-check.
So, what is pitcha? If we must: Split open calves’ hooves and boil them until shards of meat and grizzle can be scraped from the bones. Boil the hooves and onions/garlic, forever. Pour into a pan, and refrigerate it until slightly gelled. Stir in onions/garlic/grizzle/meat and sliced hardboiled eggs. Let it set. Voila. A quivery, granular quagmire that even Emeril would refuse. If you were really lucky, the hooves still had a tidy fringe of hair surrounding them.
In our family, pitcha was not called pitcha. We called it “fus-noga,” the bastard child of the German and Russian words for “foot.” My cousins and I dubbed it “fitch-a-noogie” which is onomatopoeia for the rumbling of ones stomach upon ingestion.
Lest you think that pitcha was the cheap eats of gypsies, tramps, and thieves, it was served on the most festive occasions. Once, I attended a reception, and a wedge of what I assumed was potato kugel appeared on my plate. I attacked it only to find that it was pitcha. I heaved it onto my pants, leaving an indelible stain.
My Aunt Leah would frequently baby-sit for me. One day she served me a bowl of iridescent pitcha. I squirmed and wailed. She tied me with a towel to the back of the chair, and force-fed me the pitcha to its slimy end. I told this to my therapist just last week. He winced. “That,” he said, “begins to explain your recurring nightmares of being trampled by cows.”
If I have offended, please know that for all I care, you may do the backstroke in a pool of the stuff. As for me, I’d rather take my chances stoking the fires of hell . . . where they would probably tie me to a chair and feed me pitcha, just out of spite.
October 23, 2007
DON’T ASK, DON’T TELL
So much angst to being a Jew. Woe particularly unto those of us who have lived with it since tender youth. At the age of 16, I traveled from my parents’ home in idyllic San Francisco to attend Yeshiva University in foreboding New York City, 4,800 km away.
I had been warned about New York – thefts, muggings, gang attacks, dangerous neighborhoods, illegal weapons, pickpockets, even gratuitous murder. What a thrill for a yeshiva-bochur to live alone in New York!
I wasn’t really all alone. I had plenty of classmates and a campus surrounded by barbed wire and armed guards. We were quickly trained that if you cared for your life, you would not walk down Audubon Street.
But, the angst of life in New York was outweighed by it being paradise for fressers. We judged the quality of any town solely by its abundance of kosher restaurants and pizza parlors. They were everywhere.
A friend and I heard that the sine qua non of kosher restaurants was Gluckstern’s. In fact, we were told that it was so terrific that there were two Gluckstern’s, one Downtown and one Uptown. Just as our longing for matzo ball soup had peaked, though, we heard murmurings that “Gluckstern’s wasn’t really kosher.” Our hearts sank. What should a frummeh yeshiva-bochur do?
We decided to take the issue to one of the rabbinical authorities at the Yeshiva. “Gluckstern’s?” he intoned. “Which Gluckstern’s? Uptown or Downtown? You know that there are two of them.”
“We know, we know.”
“Well, some say that both of them are kosher, and some say that both of them are treife. Some eat only at the Uptown one. Others eat only at the Downtown one.”
“Who’s the mashgi’ach?” we ask.
“I can’t tell you that,” the rabbi said. “I don’t want to embarrass anybody.”
“So where do you eat?”
“It’s better that I don’t tell you,” he says dismissively. “I wouldn’t want to get you confused.”
Forty years have passed, and now Second Avenue, my favorite kosher deli, has re-opened under new management. I am salivating.
Kosher? How kosher? Who’s the mashgi’ach? Would you eat there?
Nu, what do you think? Do you think I’m going to ask?
So much angst to being a Jew. Woe particularly unto those of us who have lived with it since tender youth. At the age of 16, I traveled from my parents’ home in idyllic San Francisco to attend Yeshiva University in foreboding New York City, 4,800 km away.
I had been warned about New York – thefts, muggings, gang attacks, dangerous neighborhoods, illegal weapons, pickpockets, even gratuitous murder. What a thrill for a yeshiva-bochur to live alone in New York!
I wasn’t really all alone. I had plenty of classmates and a campus surrounded by barbed wire and armed guards. We were quickly trained that if you cared for your life, you would not walk down Audubon Street.
But, the angst of life in New York was outweighed by it being paradise for fressers. We judged the quality of any town solely by its abundance of kosher restaurants and pizza parlors. They were everywhere.
A friend and I heard that the sine qua non of kosher restaurants was Gluckstern’s. In fact, we were told that it was so terrific that there were two Gluckstern’s, one Downtown and one Uptown. Just as our longing for matzo ball soup had peaked, though, we heard murmurings that “Gluckstern’s wasn’t really kosher.” Our hearts sank. What should a frummeh yeshiva-bochur do?
We decided to take the issue to one of the rabbinical authorities at the Yeshiva. “Gluckstern’s?” he intoned. “Which Gluckstern’s? Uptown or Downtown? You know that there are two of them.”
“We know, we know.”
“Well, some say that both of them are kosher, and some say that both of them are treife. Some eat only at the Uptown one. Others eat only at the Downtown one.”
“Who’s the mashgi’ach?” we ask.
“I can’t tell you that,” the rabbi said. “I don’t want to embarrass anybody.”
“So where do you eat?”
“It’s better that I don’t tell you,” he says dismissively. “I wouldn’t want to get you confused.”
Forty years have passed, and now Second Avenue, my favorite kosher deli, has re-opened under new management. I am salivating.
Kosher? How kosher? Who’s the mashgi’ach? Would you eat there?
Nu, what do you think? Do you think I’m going to ask?
October 18, 2007
"WHENCE COME REST AND JOY?"
Not too long ago, I had to have my pills taken away. Linda took them from me because of my increasing addiction to Lortab, after I had injured my shoulder. Now, my Oxycontin, prescribed for a broken elbow, will soon be taken from me. Dependent again.
At first, they were my medications. Then they became my friends. No hallucinations, no goofiness. But, one or two before bedtime to take the edge off, ease the aches and pains of a middle-aged man, make my sleep a little deeper and more restful.
Then, never thinking about the portent of addiction, I swore that “tonight would be the last,” only to gravitate again toward the bottle. “I’m sure that by tomorrow, I won’t need it again.” When Linda hid them, I simply played hide-and-seek. What about when they run out? “Not a problem,” I deluded myself. “I’ll just stop.” Only when the now-horrifying thought of asking my doc-kids to prescribe more crept into my head, did I my conscience clutch. But, it was not addiction, I reassured myself. No. Just conscience toward my kids and their profession. Then, more panic, more dread. Stopping became a necessity, not a virtue. The pills ran out.
Since I “wasn’t addicted,” I took no counsel. I would muster the strength and simply stop. I went to bed that night at my kids home. Within an hour, the sweats soaked four tee-shirts, chills, shaking, crying, contemplating the most horrific thoughts. I woke Scott. But, I “wasn’t addicted,” so he assumed that I was dehydrated. He drove me to the ER. No, I was not dehydrated, they said. A moment later, Scott winced. “You haven’t been taking narcotics?” he asked. “I dunno, maybe I have.”
“You are going through withdrawal.” Shivering, I could no longer escape the truth. Foolishly, I drove myself home to Greenville. All to the best, Linda was away at a conference. I thought the worst was over, so I laid down, slept fitfully for a couple of minutes, awoke, and went into contortions, tossing, screaming, directing garbled prayers and epithets toward God, Kabbalistic rabbis, anyone, vowing piety, pleading for forgiveness, cursing, then begging for life. Only when I cried out for Momma was my torment exorcized. Cradle me again. Wipe my eyes. Tell me you understand. Promise me that I am safe.
How, in search of calming ones pains, might one slip so easily into darkest torment? Momma, let me be at peace. Let it not hurt anymore. Return to me the innocent sleep and dreams of childhood. “Whence comes rest? Whence comes joy?” the refrain of an old Sabbath hymn. Addiction is not in the chemicals, but in the emptiness of the soul.
Months later, I find myself struggling with Oxycontin, despite my broken elbow being long healed. An addictive personality, you say? Perhaps. Perhaps in the short-run, it simply helps me feel more restful, softer, at ease. And the short-run is sometime all you can see when the long-run seems so evasive.
Why is simply counting my blessings, of which I have so many, less than enough? Ingrate! Whiner! Pathetic! Victim! Wallowing in unjustified self-pity! You don’t even know what real pain is! From what does the emptiness in ones soul come to hunger for the momentary, futile attempt to put the heart at rest? Will Torah, or the Rebbe, the Dalai Lama, et al, allay the torment of the soul that Oxycontin cannot?
Here I am, about to have another round of my pills taken from me. This time, I know something more about handling their post-partum effects. I’m “not addicted,” remember? But, I still do not know what un-wholeness within ones self makes the brown bottle so irresistible, and perhaps – even given therapy and Torah – I never will.
“Whence come rest and joy?”
Please, Momma, please . . .
Not too long ago, I had to have my pills taken away. Linda took them from me because of my increasing addiction to Lortab, after I had injured my shoulder. Now, my Oxycontin, prescribed for a broken elbow, will soon be taken from me. Dependent again.
At first, they were my medications. Then they became my friends. No hallucinations, no goofiness. But, one or two before bedtime to take the edge off, ease the aches and pains of a middle-aged man, make my sleep a little deeper and more restful.
Then, never thinking about the portent of addiction, I swore that “tonight would be the last,” only to gravitate again toward the bottle. “I’m sure that by tomorrow, I won’t need it again.” When Linda hid them, I simply played hide-and-seek. What about when they run out? “Not a problem,” I deluded myself. “I’ll just stop.” Only when the now-horrifying thought of asking my doc-kids to prescribe more crept into my head, did I my conscience clutch. But, it was not addiction, I reassured myself. No. Just conscience toward my kids and their profession. Then, more panic, more dread. Stopping became a necessity, not a virtue. The pills ran out.
Since I “wasn’t addicted,” I took no counsel. I would muster the strength and simply stop. I went to bed that night at my kids home. Within an hour, the sweats soaked four tee-shirts, chills, shaking, crying, contemplating the most horrific thoughts. I woke Scott. But, I “wasn’t addicted,” so he assumed that I was dehydrated. He drove me to the ER. No, I was not dehydrated, they said. A moment later, Scott winced. “You haven’t been taking narcotics?” he asked. “I dunno, maybe I have.”
“You are going through withdrawal.” Shivering, I could no longer escape the truth. Foolishly, I drove myself home to Greenville. All to the best, Linda was away at a conference. I thought the worst was over, so I laid down, slept fitfully for a couple of minutes, awoke, and went into contortions, tossing, screaming, directing garbled prayers and epithets toward God, Kabbalistic rabbis, anyone, vowing piety, pleading for forgiveness, cursing, then begging for life. Only when I cried out for Momma was my torment exorcized. Cradle me again. Wipe my eyes. Tell me you understand. Promise me that I am safe.
How, in search of calming ones pains, might one slip so easily into darkest torment? Momma, let me be at peace. Let it not hurt anymore. Return to me the innocent sleep and dreams of childhood. “Whence comes rest? Whence comes joy?” the refrain of an old Sabbath hymn. Addiction is not in the chemicals, but in the emptiness of the soul.
Months later, I find myself struggling with Oxycontin, despite my broken elbow being long healed. An addictive personality, you say? Perhaps. Perhaps in the short-run, it simply helps me feel more restful, softer, at ease. And the short-run is sometime all you can see when the long-run seems so evasive.
Why is simply counting my blessings, of which I have so many, less than enough? Ingrate! Whiner! Pathetic! Victim! Wallowing in unjustified self-pity! You don’t even know what real pain is! From what does the emptiness in ones soul come to hunger for the momentary, futile attempt to put the heart at rest? Will Torah, or the Rebbe, the Dalai Lama, et al, allay the torment of the soul that Oxycontin cannot?
Here I am, about to have another round of my pills taken from me. This time, I know something more about handling their post-partum effects. I’m “not addicted,” remember? But, I still do not know what un-wholeness within ones self makes the brown bottle so irresistible, and perhaps – even given therapy and Torah – I never will.
“Whence come rest and joy?”
Please, Momma, please . . .
October 16, 2007
THE KOSHER OENOPHILE'S COMING OF AGE
Talk to an orthodox – or even right-leaning conservative – coreligionist, and s/he will tell you that wine, too, must be kosher. And you think, even ask, “Where’s the cheeseburger? Where’s the pork?” Fact is that if you want to be “strictly strictly,” must pass through the hands only of orthodox Jews, from juicing the grapes to double-sealing the bottles (or heating the wine to 165-190°, I know, picky-picky). This all has to do with wine’s potential for idolatrous libation or promoting unnecessary conviviality between Jews and their gentile neighbors. We are all well aware of the conviviality sparked by a shared bottle of Manischewitz.
I know what those of an upscale kosher palate would say: “That’s all yesterday’s news.” You would be right, Every Upper West Side Metrodox and Jewish gastro-journalist celebrates that one can now procure kosher dry wine with a cork (!) in the bottle.
It is true. It is true. Chateau de Fesles Bonnezeaux, Chateau Fonbadet Pauillac, Chateau Giscours Margaux, Chateau Leoville Poyferre Saint Julien ($134.99), Chateau Patris Filius (Isn’t that two-thirds of the Holy Trinity?). All kosher. All to be swirled and swizzled at equally trendy-dox kosher establishments. Not only do they come bearing corks and un-sugar-encrusted bottlenecks, but tales of international awards, too. It is a prism through which we may view the coming of age of American Jewry.
Being part of that schizoid bridge-generation, I do, however, owe a love song to those goopy, syrupy wines that were so long synonymous with kosher. Those were the wines that had an indelible influence on our earliest infancy, when the mohel administered pre-circumcision anesthesia, gauze soaked not in Bonny Doon, but in Schapiro’s Extra-Heavy Malaga. Primal nursing instinct and Chateau Schapiro soothed our castration trauma then, and we have owed it a debt of gratitude ever since.
Fond memories of childhood include eating brisket and kishke at Siegel’s, under the Lake Street El tracks in Chicago, and Mr. Siegel furtively bringing over shot glasses of Mogen David to the men of the party, a lagniappe to his “preferred” customers. I also remember the evening when I joined my folks at Siegel’s, and Mr. Siegel included me among the “preferred.” Garrison Keillor could not have written a more nostalgic coming-of-age story.
“Are you sure it was Mogen David?” you ask me. Nah. Essentially, all old-time kosher wines were interchangeable: Manischewitz, Kedem, Lipschutz, Mogen David, Schapiro’s
Each had a little edge of its own identity, to be sure. Manischewitz was first with the fruity, soda-poppy varieties – peach, strawberry, mango – quite a buzz, and cheap, too. The old Mogen David label had that loopy little picture of the Seder table, prompting the winos of bygone days to ask for “Morgan Davis, you know, the one with the guys playing poker on the label.”
The warmest spot in my heart, though, is left for Schapiro’s. There was an honest, proud wine, no apologies, no secrets. You want sweet or extra-sweet? They boldly led with their “so thick you can almost cut it with a knife” tag-line. Norman Schapiro to this day boasts that Schapiro’s is “aged for over six months” as though it were a century-old Balsamico di Modena. The taproot Shapiro’s is the musty, musky subterranean labyrinth, the cellars of Schapiro’s, a full square block right underneath the schmootz of the Lower East Side. Yes, the operation has moved Upstate, but on a Sunday, you can still meet one of the Schapiro’s at the ancestral entrance on Essex Street, enjoy a free tasting tour, and walk and inhale, the catacombs for yourself. Amazing, is it not, that even as the Lower East Side gentrifies, the vestal grotto keeps bearing its luscious fruit?
Now, our Jewish palates are more finely attuned. Our noses are better sensitized to inhale the bouquet. We know, and own, the right crystal for each Bordeaux and Merlot. We debate how “chilled” chilled should be, with Talmudic acuity. We Jews have arrived, and remarkably, our yarmulkes are still clipped to our heads. We are deservedly proud, as we have lived to witness “synthesis” become reality.
Sorry, though. I also pine for the other days. We were not so smug, nor so self-satisfied, nor so damned sure of ourselves. But, one thing was for sure: When someone raised a thimbleful of Mogen David at Siegel’s and bellowed “L’chayim!” we all knew what to answer . . . and we meant it.
Talk to an orthodox – or even right-leaning conservative – coreligionist, and s/he will tell you that wine, too, must be kosher. And you think, even ask, “Where’s the cheeseburger? Where’s the pork?” Fact is that if you want to be “strictly strictly,” must pass through the hands only of orthodox Jews, from juicing the grapes to double-sealing the bottles (or heating the wine to 165-190°, I know, picky-picky). This all has to do with wine’s potential for idolatrous libation or promoting unnecessary conviviality between Jews and their gentile neighbors. We are all well aware of the conviviality sparked by a shared bottle of Manischewitz.
I know what those of an upscale kosher palate would say: “That’s all yesterday’s news.” You would be right, Every Upper West Side Metrodox and Jewish gastro-journalist celebrates that one can now procure kosher dry wine with a cork (!) in the bottle.
It is true. It is true. Chateau de Fesles Bonnezeaux, Chateau Fonbadet Pauillac, Chateau Giscours Margaux, Chateau Leoville Poyferre Saint Julien ($134.99), Chateau Patris Filius (Isn’t that two-thirds of the Holy Trinity?). All kosher. All to be swirled and swizzled at equally trendy-dox kosher establishments. Not only do they come bearing corks and un-sugar-encrusted bottlenecks, but tales of international awards, too. It is a prism through which we may view the coming of age of American Jewry.
Being part of that schizoid bridge-generation, I do, however, owe a love song to those goopy, syrupy wines that were so long synonymous with kosher. Those were the wines that had an indelible influence on our earliest infancy, when the mohel administered pre-circumcision anesthesia, gauze soaked not in Bonny Doon, but in Schapiro’s Extra-Heavy Malaga. Primal nursing instinct and Chateau Schapiro soothed our castration trauma then, and we have owed it a debt of gratitude ever since.
Fond memories of childhood include eating brisket and kishke at Siegel’s, under the Lake Street El tracks in Chicago, and Mr. Siegel furtively bringing over shot glasses of Mogen David to the men of the party, a lagniappe to his “preferred” customers. I also remember the evening when I joined my folks at Siegel’s, and Mr. Siegel included me among the “preferred.” Garrison Keillor could not have written a more nostalgic coming-of-age story.
“Are you sure it was Mogen David?” you ask me. Nah. Essentially, all old-time kosher wines were interchangeable: Manischewitz, Kedem, Lipschutz, Mogen David, Schapiro’s
Each had a little edge of its own identity, to be sure. Manischewitz was first with the fruity, soda-poppy varieties – peach, strawberry, mango – quite a buzz, and cheap, too. The old Mogen David label had that loopy little picture of the Seder table, prompting the winos of bygone days to ask for “Morgan Davis, you know, the one with the guys playing poker on the label.”
The warmest spot in my heart, though, is left for Schapiro’s. There was an honest, proud wine, no apologies, no secrets. You want sweet or extra-sweet? They boldly led with their “so thick you can almost cut it with a knife” tag-line. Norman Schapiro to this day boasts that Schapiro’s is “aged for over six months” as though it were a century-old Balsamico di Modena. The taproot Shapiro’s is the musty, musky subterranean labyrinth, the cellars of Schapiro’s, a full square block right underneath the schmootz of the Lower East Side. Yes, the operation has moved Upstate, but on a Sunday, you can still meet one of the Schapiro’s at the ancestral entrance on Essex Street, enjoy a free tasting tour, and walk and inhale, the catacombs for yourself. Amazing, is it not, that even as the Lower East Side gentrifies, the vestal grotto keeps bearing its luscious fruit?
Now, our Jewish palates are more finely attuned. Our noses are better sensitized to inhale the bouquet. We know, and own, the right crystal for each Bordeaux and Merlot. We debate how “chilled” chilled should be, with Talmudic acuity. We Jews have arrived, and remarkably, our yarmulkes are still clipped to our heads. We are deservedly proud, as we have lived to witness “synthesis” become reality.
Sorry, though. I also pine for the other days. We were not so smug, nor so self-satisfied, nor so damned sure of ourselves. But, one thing was for sure: When someone raised a thimbleful of Mogen David at Siegel’s and bellowed “L’chayim!” we all knew what to answer . . . and we meant it.
HAVE A COKE AND A HECHSHER
My former hometown of Atlanta holds two matters sacred: It was burned to the ground during the Civil War. And, it is the origin of Coca-Cola.
Coca-Cola has had such tremendous impact to Atlanta that citizens refer generically to all varieties of soda pop as “Coke,” and that a huge museum is devoted to its wonders.
Naturally, Coca-Cola has its Jewish connections. What doesn’t?
Dr. Pemberton invented Coke as an elixir. Some elders claim that it contained a bit of cocaine, hence the name “Coke.” But, it was introduced as a beverage at Jacobs’ Pharmacy in Atlanta. Jacobs, as you might have surmised, was a pillar of the Jewish community.
The other Jewish connection is even more arcane. Coke created a mystique by claiming that it was made with a “secret formula” that was locked in a vault, and even Jacobs was not made privy to its contents.
When Coke went national in the 1930’s, most “frumeh Yidden,” were wary of its kashrut because of the “secret formula.” Rumor had it that the ingredient was treife glycerin.
What to do?
At that time, only one strictly orthodox Rabbi served Atlanta, Tobias Geffen. Rabbi Geffen was naturally bombarded with queries from all over the country about Coke.
But, there was a rub: Should Rabbi Geffen be told the secret formula? How could this Yiddish-speaking, Litivisher rov penetrate the goyische inner circle of the Coke hierarchy?
So the legend goes: Rabbi Geffen’s son, Louis, was an attorney. He had a colleague, Hirsch, who barely acknowledged that he was Jewish. Hirsch happened to be the counsel for Coca-Cola. Louis asked if he would approach them.
After Hirsch sensed Rabbi Geffen’s piety, he did indeed get the President of Coca Cola to personally open the vault, while Rabbi Geffen alone peeked at the formula. Ah, no glycerin, no treife. Shortly afterward, Rabbi Geffen published a responsum endorsing Coke as a kosher beverage. Oy, a simcha bei Yidden!
Meanwhile, American Jews luxuriate in Coca-Cola, smiling and belching with great gusto. How aptly does it describe us: a nation that is full of gas, water, sugar, and an enigmatic ingredient that no one will ever really understand.
My former hometown of Atlanta holds two matters sacred: It was burned to the ground during the Civil War. And, it is the origin of Coca-Cola.
Coca-Cola has had such tremendous impact to Atlanta that citizens refer generically to all varieties of soda pop as “Coke,” and that a huge museum is devoted to its wonders.
Naturally, Coca-Cola has its Jewish connections. What doesn’t?
Dr. Pemberton invented Coke as an elixir. Some elders claim that it contained a bit of cocaine, hence the name “Coke.” But, it was introduced as a beverage at Jacobs’ Pharmacy in Atlanta. Jacobs, as you might have surmised, was a pillar of the Jewish community.
The other Jewish connection is even more arcane. Coke created a mystique by claiming that it was made with a “secret formula” that was locked in a vault, and even Jacobs was not made privy to its contents.
When Coke went national in the 1930’s, most “frumeh Yidden,” were wary of its kashrut because of the “secret formula.” Rumor had it that the ingredient was treife glycerin.
What to do?
At that time, only one strictly orthodox Rabbi served Atlanta, Tobias Geffen. Rabbi Geffen was naturally bombarded with queries from all over the country about Coke.
But, there was a rub: Should Rabbi Geffen be told the secret formula? How could this Yiddish-speaking, Litivisher rov penetrate the goyische inner circle of the Coke hierarchy?
So the legend goes: Rabbi Geffen’s son, Louis, was an attorney. He had a colleague, Hirsch, who barely acknowledged that he was Jewish. Hirsch happened to be the counsel for Coca-Cola. Louis asked if he would approach them.
After Hirsch sensed Rabbi Geffen’s piety, he did indeed get the President of Coca Cola to personally open the vault, while Rabbi Geffen alone peeked at the formula. Ah, no glycerin, no treife. Shortly afterward, Rabbi Geffen published a responsum endorsing Coke as a kosher beverage. Oy, a simcha bei Yidden!
Meanwhile, American Jews luxuriate in Coca-Cola, smiling and belching with great gusto. How aptly does it describe us: a nation that is full of gas, water, sugar, and an enigmatic ingredient that no one will ever really understand.
October 03, 2007
JEWS AND PIZZA -- A MAGNIFICENT OBSESSION
I have yet to comprehend the American Jew’s love affair with pizza. You can’t drive through a Jewish neighborhood without passing a dozen pizzerias, three or four of them strictly kosher. I have long wondered why Orthodox Jews routinely order fauz-treife vegetarian sausage on their kosher pizzas, the quintessence of chazerai.
I assume that our obsession with pizza originated in the Hillel sandwich that we eat at the night of the Seder. Think of all the kids who demand “matzo pizza” on Pesach, a flat of matzo schemered with tomato sauce and cheese, to forestall a week without the genuine stuff. Ah, but was pesto indigenous to the Sinai Peninsula?
In Atlanta, one of the world’s finest pizzerias, Mellow Mushroom, is located right at the heart of the Judengasse. The family and I know this, because we do indulge in questionably-kosher cheese and are a little lax about items baked in a blazing-hot oven. It’s no surprise that we bump into many of our “metro-kosher” friends there. But, sometimes I also catch a glimpse of someone “really Orthodox” sneaking out with a pie, albeit with tzitzis tucked in, and women with hair shoved under a baseball cap.
Once upon a time, I enjoyed genuinely kosher pizza in Detroit. So what made this pizza “genuinely” kosher? It was all in the toppings: crumbles of gefilte fish, potato kugel, matzo balls, falafel, even cholent. No embarrassment about Jewish ethnicity here. After all, God don’t make no junk. I have yet to see a pizza crowned with blobs of pareve pitcha, and aren’t we the better for it? Oh, you’ve never had pitcha? Just think of Jell-O extracted from a calf’s foot, studded with shards of garlic and hard-boiled egg. Nummy.
To what extent will a Jew go to eat pizza? When I was a rabbi in Charlotte, the schule was situated a block away from a pizzeria. Right about Yizkor-time on Yom Kippur, half the teenagers would flee the sanctuary and congregate at the pizzeria for a slice of lunch. Finally, I could no longer restrain myself and confronted the miscreants.
“Well, Rabbi,” one of them eventually responded, “at least we didn’t have the sausage. You’re not allowed to have milk with meat, right?”
I have yet to comprehend the American Jew’s love affair with pizza. You can’t drive through a Jewish neighborhood without passing a dozen pizzerias, three or four of them strictly kosher. I have long wondered why Orthodox Jews routinely order fauz-treife vegetarian sausage on their kosher pizzas, the quintessence of chazerai.
I assume that our obsession with pizza originated in the Hillel sandwich that we eat at the night of the Seder. Think of all the kids who demand “matzo pizza” on Pesach, a flat of matzo schemered with tomato sauce and cheese, to forestall a week without the genuine stuff. Ah, but was pesto indigenous to the Sinai Peninsula?
In Atlanta, one of the world’s finest pizzerias, Mellow Mushroom, is located right at the heart of the Judengasse. The family and I know this, because we do indulge in questionably-kosher cheese and are a little lax about items baked in a blazing-hot oven. It’s no surprise that we bump into many of our “metro-kosher” friends there. But, sometimes I also catch a glimpse of someone “really Orthodox” sneaking out with a pie, albeit with tzitzis tucked in, and women with hair shoved under a baseball cap.
Once upon a time, I enjoyed genuinely kosher pizza in Detroit. So what made this pizza “genuinely” kosher? It was all in the toppings: crumbles of gefilte fish, potato kugel, matzo balls, falafel, even cholent. No embarrassment about Jewish ethnicity here. After all, God don’t make no junk. I have yet to see a pizza crowned with blobs of pareve pitcha, and aren’t we the better for it? Oh, you’ve never had pitcha? Just think of Jell-O extracted from a calf’s foot, studded with shards of garlic and hard-boiled egg. Nummy.
To what extent will a Jew go to eat pizza? When I was a rabbi in Charlotte, the schule was situated a block away from a pizzeria. Right about Yizkor-time on Yom Kippur, half the teenagers would flee the sanctuary and congregate at the pizzeria for a slice of lunch. Finally, I could no longer restrain myself and confronted the miscreants.
“Well, Rabbi,” one of them eventually responded, “at least we didn’t have the sausage. You’re not allowed to have milk with meat, right?”
September 19, 2007
VEGETARIANISM: IT'S NOT SO EASY
How hard should it be for a Jew to become a vegetarian?
Fruits and vegetables spring forth directly from pristine earth. They are neither milchig nor fleishig, and they can’t become treife, right? Well, it’s not so easy.
I have often suggested that religious Jews become vegetarians, since they would not then have to worry about how flexible the schechita knife is, or whether the kashering salt is properly sifted. Fish should raise its own special concerns, determining whether the scales are sufficiently scaly, and whether its fins are merely legs in disguise. Dairy, too, poses its own set of problems, e.g., How close to the action did the mashgi’ach really get? Did he actually touch the udders? Or, did he merely flip the switch on the milking machine?
I say that vegetarianism is the only way to go.
Then I thought, uh, oh, not so fast. Vegetarianism, I realized, is even harder. Leafy vegetables, like lettuce and spinach, might be rife with little buggies, so each leaf need be soaked separately and washed with a soapy cloth. The buds on Brussels sprouts and asparagus are so tight that they can’t be sufficiently cleaned, even if you kashered them with steel wool. So, they are completely out. And, did you ever notice that cucumbers, apples and the like are covered with some kind of wax to make them shiny? Where did that wax come from? Tomatoes are impossible to peel, and what insecticide do they use to spray the cherries and potatoes? Do you see a hechsher on it?
What about salad dressing? It causes its own problems. You may think that one with the hechsher is pareve. Again, it’s not so easy. It could be pareve, but still manufactured on dairy equipment, and what are you going to do about that?
I bet you never thought of that.
Well, my beloved, I have a hard time believing that God is that worried about flexible schechita knives when He has to deal with nuclear war and global warming. So, go put a quarter in the pushke, say you’re sorry, and go fix yourself a sawdust sandwich. And, don’t forget to wash your hands and make a Motzi.
How hard should it be for a Jew to become a vegetarian?
Fruits and vegetables spring forth directly from pristine earth. They are neither milchig nor fleishig, and they can’t become treife, right? Well, it’s not so easy.
I have often suggested that religious Jews become vegetarians, since they would not then have to worry about how flexible the schechita knife is, or whether the kashering salt is properly sifted. Fish should raise its own special concerns, determining whether the scales are sufficiently scaly, and whether its fins are merely legs in disguise. Dairy, too, poses its own set of problems, e.g., How close to the action did the mashgi’ach really get? Did he actually touch the udders? Or, did he merely flip the switch on the milking machine?
I say that vegetarianism is the only way to go.
Then I thought, uh, oh, not so fast. Vegetarianism, I realized, is even harder. Leafy vegetables, like lettuce and spinach, might be rife with little buggies, so each leaf need be soaked separately and washed with a soapy cloth. The buds on Brussels sprouts and asparagus are so tight that they can’t be sufficiently cleaned, even if you kashered them with steel wool. So, they are completely out. And, did you ever notice that cucumbers, apples and the like are covered with some kind of wax to make them shiny? Where did that wax come from? Tomatoes are impossible to peel, and what insecticide do they use to spray the cherries and potatoes? Do you see a hechsher on it?
What about salad dressing? It causes its own problems. You may think that one with the hechsher is pareve. Again, it’s not so easy. It could be pareve, but still manufactured on dairy equipment, and what are you going to do about that?
I bet you never thought of that.
Well, my beloved, I have a hard time believing that God is that worried about flexible schechita knives when He has to deal with nuclear war and global warming. So, go put a quarter in the pushke, say you’re sorry, and go fix yourself a sawdust sandwich. And, don’t forget to wash your hands and make a Motzi.
September 07, 2007
THE WAGES OF TRUTH TELLING
Cruise: “I want the truth!”
Nicholson: “You can’t handle the truth!”
Cruise and Nicholson’s repartee in A Few Good Men, is deliberately left unresolved. So too for the ages, a conundrum: Will we tell the truth? Can we handle the truth?
It takes tremendous self-discipline not to dance the jig when some sanctimonious snot like Senator Craig is caught with his pants down. Let’s put aside for now our delight in schadenfreude and even the intrinsic nature of the act he committed, however it not be forgotten that playing footsie in a public bathroom with someone unknown does rise to the level of a crime.
Nonetheless, this issue here is lying and hypocrisy, the typical refuges of the arrogant and the morally trapped. Lying may be an objective matter; you either did or didn’t. Hypocrisy is a tougher call, because it begs the question of judging a foe by a standard to which we ourselves might fail. That is, pointing a finger at hypocrisy may in itself be hypocritical.
Yet, we are usually well attuned when we witness hypocrisy, and not merely everyday inconsistency, even though we cannot define it. Perhaps we recognize hypocrisy because of its intimations of superiority and smugness. Perhaps it’s because we know that awareness of ones own moral turpitude should lead to introspection and humility, not condemnation of someone who has stumbled.
A hypothetical: Let’s say that one day, someone who aspires to position of public trust – political clergy, civic leadership – says forthrightly, “Ladies and gentlemen, before you go searching through my life and moral flaws, let me be upfront: Ten years ago, I had an extramarital affair. I have since led a monogamous life, with good faith to my wife, family, and community. It has not been easy to regain their trust, but gratefully, I have been forgiven by the significant people in my life.
“I put this truth before you so that there will be no sense of betrayal from my constituants down the road, and so that I might be attributed the merit of telling the truth rather than have salacious secrets forever dog me.”
Enough of the hypothetical. We reluctantly return to reality. What is the sense, beyond altruism, for an aspirant to public trust to tell the truth? At best, his/her truth-telling would be treated for a couple of weeks as an interesting novelty. Then it would certainly give way to accusations that the confession was little more than political posturing.
Finally, our penchant for the lurid would be victorious over altruism and candor. The candidate would be subjected to the same witch hunt had the indiscretion been disclosed by a yellow-dog journalist: Who was the paramour? When? Where? Microphones jammed in the faces of wife, heretofore girlfriends, hotel bellmen? The leering eye of suspicion that this confession was merely a throw-‘em-a-bone to cover up even worse peccadilloes?
Sadly, we will cynically gobble it all up. People like Senator Craig will still and always be arrogant, hypocritical liars. But, when we total up the score, what difference in the world of realpolitik does it make to tell the truth? What is it worth besides a little transitory admiration and praise for refreshing candor?
Is this about people like Senator Craig? Or is it equally about people like you and me who place so little lasting value on the truth?
We all bang our fists, from Geraldo and O’Reilly to the rest of us circling vultures, “I want the truth!” But then a craggy, cynical voice, tempered by decades of reality, upbraids us unforgivingly, “The truth? You can’t handle the truth!”
Cruise: “I want the truth!”
Nicholson: “You can’t handle the truth!”
Cruise and Nicholson’s repartee in A Few Good Men, is deliberately left unresolved. So too for the ages, a conundrum: Will we tell the truth? Can we handle the truth?
It takes tremendous self-discipline not to dance the jig when some sanctimonious snot like Senator Craig is caught with his pants down. Let’s put aside for now our delight in schadenfreude and even the intrinsic nature of the act he committed, however it not be forgotten that playing footsie in a public bathroom with someone unknown does rise to the level of a crime.
Nonetheless, this issue here is lying and hypocrisy, the typical refuges of the arrogant and the morally trapped. Lying may be an objective matter; you either did or didn’t. Hypocrisy is a tougher call, because it begs the question of judging a foe by a standard to which we ourselves might fail. That is, pointing a finger at hypocrisy may in itself be hypocritical.
Yet, we are usually well attuned when we witness hypocrisy, and not merely everyday inconsistency, even though we cannot define it. Perhaps we recognize hypocrisy because of its intimations of superiority and smugness. Perhaps it’s because we know that awareness of ones own moral turpitude should lead to introspection and humility, not condemnation of someone who has stumbled.
A hypothetical: Let’s say that one day, someone who aspires to position of public trust – political clergy, civic leadership – says forthrightly, “Ladies and gentlemen, before you go searching through my life and moral flaws, let me be upfront: Ten years ago, I had an extramarital affair. I have since led a monogamous life, with good faith to my wife, family, and community. It has not been easy to regain their trust, but gratefully, I have been forgiven by the significant people in my life.
“I put this truth before you so that there will be no sense of betrayal from my constituants down the road, and so that I might be attributed the merit of telling the truth rather than have salacious secrets forever dog me.”
Enough of the hypothetical. We reluctantly return to reality. What is the sense, beyond altruism, for an aspirant to public trust to tell the truth? At best, his/her truth-telling would be treated for a couple of weeks as an interesting novelty. Then it would certainly give way to accusations that the confession was little more than political posturing.
Finally, our penchant for the lurid would be victorious over altruism and candor. The candidate would be subjected to the same witch hunt had the indiscretion been disclosed by a yellow-dog journalist: Who was the paramour? When? Where? Microphones jammed in the faces of wife, heretofore girlfriends, hotel bellmen? The leering eye of suspicion that this confession was merely a throw-‘em-a-bone to cover up even worse peccadilloes?
Sadly, we will cynically gobble it all up. People like Senator Craig will still and always be arrogant, hypocritical liars. But, when we total up the score, what difference in the world of realpolitik does it make to tell the truth? What is it worth besides a little transitory admiration and praise for refreshing candor?
Is this about people like Senator Craig? Or is it equally about people like you and me who place so little lasting value on the truth?
We all bang our fists, from Geraldo and O’Reilly to the rest of us circling vultures, “I want the truth!” But then a craggy, cynical voice, tempered by decades of reality, upbraids us unforgivingly, “The truth? You can’t handle the truth!”
August 28, 2007
DINNER ON THE WHOLLY DAZE
After I left my congregation, I anticipated the Holy Days would be all that it had not been in three decades. Now there would be spirit-filled prayer, family together catching up on each other’s lives, unrushed Yom Tov dinners, walks in the park.
Then we received a call from nefarious Aunt Annette. She demanded, as was her style, that we join her family for Yom Tov in Washington. Furthermore, she was certain that “You would be delighted to prepare dinner, because you are such a wonderful chef.”
I gritted my teeth. But, there was no reason to argue. On Erev Yom Tov, we took that day’s only flight into Washington and arrived at 10:00 AM. Annette had already called the dinner for 20 at 6:00, just eight hours away.
I prepared most of the dinner at home and then had to figure how to schlep it to Annette’s . . . on an airplane. We loaded four insulated bags with food and worried whether security would consider the aluminum lining suspect. Ironically, they asked no questions, but they did examine my Tefillin, because the boxes seemed to contain “suspicious material.”
Arriving in Washington, we trudged with the bags to Annette’s. I had planned to adorn my Caesar salad with seared duck breast, until I discovered that the heat of Annette’s stove could barely boil an egg. “Annette, the stove doesn’t get hot!” “Oh, sweetheart, I almost never use it, because we go out to dinner so often.”
I worked along, a knife here, a peeler there, until Annette announced that the floor needed washing. So, I scrubbed it. In a delicious moment of schadenfreude, my mother-in-law slipped on the wet floor and skidded, only to be saved by her commodious derrière. Quite a sight.
Miraculously, dinner was ready at 5:45. The vultures were already circling the table, waiting. As I was showering, I heard voices behind me calling, “How much longer will you take?”
How was dinner? I don’t really know. The moment I sat down, I fell asleep in my bowl of kreplach soup. The only inkling I had was when Annette pronounced the dinner “Wonderful! It was so good, in fact,” she said, “that we must have Marc do it again next year!”
After I left my congregation, I anticipated the Holy Days would be all that it had not been in three decades. Now there would be spirit-filled prayer, family together catching up on each other’s lives, unrushed Yom Tov dinners, walks in the park.
Then we received a call from nefarious Aunt Annette. She demanded, as was her style, that we join her family for Yom Tov in Washington. Furthermore, she was certain that “You would be delighted to prepare dinner, because you are such a wonderful chef.”
I gritted my teeth. But, there was no reason to argue. On Erev Yom Tov, we took that day’s only flight into Washington and arrived at 10:00 AM. Annette had already called the dinner for 20 at 6:00, just eight hours away.
I prepared most of the dinner at home and then had to figure how to schlep it to Annette’s . . . on an airplane. We loaded four insulated bags with food and worried whether security would consider the aluminum lining suspect. Ironically, they asked no questions, but they did examine my Tefillin, because the boxes seemed to contain “suspicious material.”
Arriving in Washington, we trudged with the bags to Annette’s. I had planned to adorn my Caesar salad with seared duck breast, until I discovered that the heat of Annette’s stove could barely boil an egg. “Annette, the stove doesn’t get hot!” “Oh, sweetheart, I almost never use it, because we go out to dinner so often.”
I worked along, a knife here, a peeler there, until Annette announced that the floor needed washing. So, I scrubbed it. In a delicious moment of schadenfreude, my mother-in-law slipped on the wet floor and skidded, only to be saved by her commodious derrière. Quite a sight.
Miraculously, dinner was ready at 5:45. The vultures were already circling the table, waiting. As I was showering, I heard voices behind me calling, “How much longer will you take?”
How was dinner? I don’t really know. The moment I sat down, I fell asleep in my bowl of kreplach soup. The only inkling I had was when Annette pronounced the dinner “Wonderful! It was so good, in fact,” she said, “that we must have Marc do it again next year!”
August 27, 2007
WHERE YA GONNA BREAKDUFAST?
Whatever American Jews are lacking in religiosity, they make up in their obsession with food:
Take my friend Jack, who ordered a sandwich in a treife restaurant during Pesach, but insisted that it be served on matzo, because “my momma made me swear that I would never eat bread on Pesach.”
Then there was my boss Lew, who served a huge ham at their “Holy Day Dinner,” never God forbid referring to it as “Rosh Hashanah.”
Not to be outdone, my girlfriend Ellen served crabmeat appetizer on Rosh Hashanah, because it was “an old family tradition.”
Then, how many hausfrauen in the American southeast would make their matzo balls with cornmeal grits and jalapeño peppers, special treats from that region?
And, what of Shabbos chicken breaded in Fruit Loops?
Strangest may be our preoccupation with "breakdufast” (pronounced as one long word, not “break-the-fast”), the repast served at the conclusion of Yom Kippur.
Gentiles may assume that we prepare for the holiest day of the year with confession, penitence, and doleful prayer, but we know that we are really planning our breakthefast menu: a bacchanalian of lox, bagels, herring, cheeses, blintzes, and the ubiquitous tuna salad.
There have been years that I have had to make rabbinical guest appearances at no less than four breakthefasts, like Eliyahu Ha-Navi, and told each hausfrau that her gefilte fish was “absolutely the best.”
Please, don’t get me wrong. Breakthefasts are wonderful opportunities for fellowship and relaxation. Ones hosted in schule are even better. But, they are also the perfect venue for ruthless critique the sermons, catty comments on the women’s couture, and summary gossip about anyone and anything.
Breakthefast was obviously conceived by Kafka: It’s the first opportunity of the New Year to start racking up next year’s “Al Chet’s” – covetousness, slander, gluttony, arrogance, and all the other reasons to clop one’s breast. No sense calling off next Yom Kippur.
Now go fill the mikveh with hot coffee, so I can breakthefast gossiping along with you about Mrs. Yifnef’s ridiculous hat. Then sing me a couple bars of Ashamnu, and I’ll know that the New Year has really begun.
Whatever American Jews are lacking in religiosity, they make up in their obsession with food:
Take my friend Jack, who ordered a sandwich in a treife restaurant during Pesach, but insisted that it be served on matzo, because “my momma made me swear that I would never eat bread on Pesach.”
Then there was my boss Lew, who served a huge ham at their “Holy Day Dinner,” never God forbid referring to it as “Rosh Hashanah.”
Not to be outdone, my girlfriend Ellen served crabmeat appetizer on Rosh Hashanah, because it was “an old family tradition.”
Then, how many hausfrauen in the American southeast would make their matzo balls with cornmeal grits and jalapeño peppers, special treats from that region?
And, what of Shabbos chicken breaded in Fruit Loops?
Strangest may be our preoccupation with "breakdufast” (pronounced as one long word, not “break-the-fast”), the repast served at the conclusion of Yom Kippur.
Gentiles may assume that we prepare for the holiest day of the year with confession, penitence, and doleful prayer, but we know that we are really planning our breakthefast menu: a bacchanalian of lox, bagels, herring, cheeses, blintzes, and the ubiquitous tuna salad.
There have been years that I have had to make rabbinical guest appearances at no less than four breakthefasts, like Eliyahu Ha-Navi, and told each hausfrau that her gefilte fish was “absolutely the best.”
Please, don’t get me wrong. Breakthefasts are wonderful opportunities for fellowship and relaxation. Ones hosted in schule are even better. But, they are also the perfect venue for ruthless critique the sermons, catty comments on the women’s couture, and summary gossip about anyone and anything.
Breakthefast was obviously conceived by Kafka: It’s the first opportunity of the New Year to start racking up next year’s “Al Chet’s” – covetousness, slander, gluttony, arrogance, and all the other reasons to clop one’s breast. No sense calling off next Yom Kippur.
Now go fill the mikveh with hot coffee, so I can breakthefast gossiping along with you about Mrs. Yifnef’s ridiculous hat. Then sing me a couple bars of Ashamnu, and I’ll know that the New Year has really begun.
August 07, 2007
TORTURE AT 40,000 FEET
We have all been conditioned to gripe about a benefit that has arbitrarily been taken away from us. But, what if the benefit turns out not to be a real benefit, like griping to the dentist to give you “another” root-canal, after he’s already given you three?
What of the decline, now demise, of airline food? Is it tragedy or triumph? I say, “Farewell to airline food, and grant peace to stomach, pants, and mind.” Do you remember the glory days, when the traveler was served a full-course dinner, a choice of entrees, even a glass of wine? And real silverware?
The food, though, was terrible. Fish masqueraded as chicken, chicken pretended to be veal. What difference did it make? They were all just piles of wet hemp. Primitive microwaves presented a dinner of frozen brisket and scalding sherbet. Woe unto the passenger at the window seat. Which spilled food was more agonizing to the groin – the frozen entree or scorching fruit salad?
We Yehudim were purported to have it better. Many times a gentile would comment about how much better my dinner looked than his. I told him to order “kosher” on his next flight, but still beware of demons lurking under the potato kugel. Pareve margarine is not the equivalent of butter. Sandy “coffee lightener” is not the same as cream. Take heed to any Passover meal produced in New York that bears the hechsher of the Chief Rabbi of Livorno. Ten years in yeshiva will never adequately explain how rolls moistened with apple juice do not require reciting Ha-Motzi.
So I say, grieve not, you kosher-observant Jew, for the decisions have largely been made for us by an international cabal. Now, the best we can do is an in-flight bagel stamped with a huge hechsher. Naturally, the sandwich is stuffed with half-a-pound of ham. I want to give the airline the benefit of the doubt. Ham is so much cheaper than lox-and-bagels. But, you and I know the real truth: It’s another clear-cut case of anti-Semitism. Damn the airlines, I say. From now on, I will ride the train.
We have all been conditioned to gripe about a benefit that has arbitrarily been taken away from us. But, what if the benefit turns out not to be a real benefit, like griping to the dentist to give you “another” root-canal, after he’s already given you three?
What of the decline, now demise, of airline food? Is it tragedy or triumph? I say, “Farewell to airline food, and grant peace to stomach, pants, and mind.” Do you remember the glory days, when the traveler was served a full-course dinner, a choice of entrees, even a glass of wine? And real silverware?
The food, though, was terrible. Fish masqueraded as chicken, chicken pretended to be veal. What difference did it make? They were all just piles of wet hemp. Primitive microwaves presented a dinner of frozen brisket and scalding sherbet. Woe unto the passenger at the window seat. Which spilled food was more agonizing to the groin – the frozen entree or scorching fruit salad?
We Yehudim were purported to have it better. Many times a gentile would comment about how much better my dinner looked than his. I told him to order “kosher” on his next flight, but still beware of demons lurking under the potato kugel. Pareve margarine is not the equivalent of butter. Sandy “coffee lightener” is not the same as cream. Take heed to any Passover meal produced in New York that bears the hechsher of the Chief Rabbi of Livorno. Ten years in yeshiva will never adequately explain how rolls moistened with apple juice do not require reciting Ha-Motzi.
So I say, grieve not, you kosher-observant Jew, for the decisions have largely been made for us by an international cabal. Now, the best we can do is an in-flight bagel stamped with a huge hechsher. Naturally, the sandwich is stuffed with half-a-pound of ham. I want to give the airline the benefit of the doubt. Ham is so much cheaper than lox-and-bagels. But, you and I know the real truth: It’s another clear-cut case of anti-Semitism. Damn the airlines, I say. From now on, I will ride the train.
July 30, 2007
A CHEESEBURGER IS NOT A CHEESE SANDWICH
I doubt that you will ever be in a village as tiny as Deep Step, Georgia: One stop-sign, one anemic policeman, and a fly-specked restaurant, no tables; just a shabby counter. No wine or beer either, because of their strict religious compunctions.
A few years ago, business, not Talmud, brought me to Deep Step for a week. There are no Jews within 160 kilometers of Deep Step, but there is one little grocery about 30 kilometers away. For three days, I observed kashrut meticulously, dining on fresh fruit and vegetables. But by day number four, I compromised my observance of kashrut “just a little,” and curiosity led me into the grimy little diner.
“Greetings, stranger!” he announced. “You must not come from these parts.”
“How did you know?” “Well, big-city folks never shine their shoes.”
“Now, what to eat?” I pondered the ancient chalkboard up front” Pork here. Chazzer there. Lard and bacon everywhere. I played it safe by ordering a grilled cheese sandwich, figuring that they could not do too much to adulterate something so simple.
“Mister, we don’t have grilled cheese here.”
“But it says that you serve cheeseburgers, so why can’t you take a slice of the cheese and grill it between two slices of bread?”
“Mister, I told you already. We serve cheeseburgers, not grilled cheese.” “Well, maybe then, a regular cheese sandwich, not grilled.”
“Nope, just cheese with hamburger or bacon, not plain.”
“Ah,” I said, in a moment of sheer genius. “Do you read the Bible?” “Every day.” He presented his well-worn Bible to me, and just as I was about to show him the dietary laws in Leviticus, I saw that it was a copy of the New Testament. “No, it’s in the Old Testament.” I said. “Well,” he announced. “We don’t have anything old around here.” as I glanced at the torn stool covers.
“But, Mister, I wouldn’t want to offend anyone from the big city. I’ll tell my boy to make an exception for you.” I thanked him graciously. “Now,” he said. “What kind of side-dish do you want with that?”
“What do you have?”
“You have three choices: cole slaw, potato chips, but you’ll probably really this: the kosher pickles that we bring in especially from the big city.”
I doubt that you will ever be in a village as tiny as Deep Step, Georgia: One stop-sign, one anemic policeman, and a fly-specked restaurant, no tables; just a shabby counter. No wine or beer either, because of their strict religious compunctions.
A few years ago, business, not Talmud, brought me to Deep Step for a week. There are no Jews within 160 kilometers of Deep Step, but there is one little grocery about 30 kilometers away. For three days, I observed kashrut meticulously, dining on fresh fruit and vegetables. But by day number four, I compromised my observance of kashrut “just a little,” and curiosity led me into the grimy little diner.
“Greetings, stranger!” he announced. “You must not come from these parts.”
“How did you know?” “Well, big-city folks never shine their shoes.”
“Now, what to eat?” I pondered the ancient chalkboard up front” Pork here. Chazzer there. Lard and bacon everywhere. I played it safe by ordering a grilled cheese sandwich, figuring that they could not do too much to adulterate something so simple.
“Mister, we don’t have grilled cheese here.”
“But it says that you serve cheeseburgers, so why can’t you take a slice of the cheese and grill it between two slices of bread?”
“Mister, I told you already. We serve cheeseburgers, not grilled cheese.” “Well, maybe then, a regular cheese sandwich, not grilled.”
“Nope, just cheese with hamburger or bacon, not plain.”
“Ah,” I said, in a moment of sheer genius. “Do you read the Bible?” “Every day.” He presented his well-worn Bible to me, and just as I was about to show him the dietary laws in Leviticus, I saw that it was a copy of the New Testament. “No, it’s in the Old Testament.” I said. “Well,” he announced. “We don’t have anything old around here.” as I glanced at the torn stool covers.
“But, Mister, I wouldn’t want to offend anyone from the big city. I’ll tell my boy to make an exception for you.” I thanked him graciously. “Now,” he said. “What kind of side-dish do you want with that?”
“What do you have?”
“You have three choices: cole slaw, potato chips, but you’ll probably really this: the kosher pickles that we bring in especially from the big city.”
June 25, 2007
"JUST WHAT I CHOOSE IT TO MEAN"
“When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, “it means just what I choose it to mean – neither more nor less.” (Lewis Carroll)
Who would have ever known that the same observation would have its impact on the culinary?
Not too long ago, I was engaged by an upper-class couple to cater a small dinner party. Given the summer heat, as a first course I suggested gazpacho, a well-chilled soup of tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, onions, garlic . . . pungent, but awakening to the tongue.
Experimenting at home, the gazpacho shimmered in the bowl, yet somehow, it still looked naked. Garnishing with a dab of sour cream seemed the answer. But, the cream was too bland, and soon decomposed into a nauseous pink puddle. Himmel!
What to do? With little time to spare, how could I still adorn the soup? Out of sheer desperation, I grabbed for a jar of the cheapest mayonnaise, the kind one would use to bind the most lowly tuna salad. Then I mixed it with an old, crusty jar of powered thyme. Huzzah! Magnificent! A perfect foil for the deep-red gazpacho!
Later that evening, I served the gazpacho adorned by the mayonnaise mixture, right out of a workman’s lunch pail. My unsuspecting audience went wild with delight. “Everything was wonderful,” the balaboste said, “but the garnish on the gazpacho was exceptional.”
“What was it? What was it?” the guests demanded. I was about to tell them that it was “just mayonnaise,” but in a moment of atypical clarity, I told them that it was “thyme froth.” Such a noble name for such a mediocre food.
“Thyme froth?” Please, may we have the recipe?”
“Oh no,” I warned. “The recipe is strictly a secret.”
“May we buy thyme froth from you?”
“That’s something I’d have to consider.”
Ever since then, Linda and I have been making “tuna froth” and “egg froth” sandwiches for lunch. I guess that what a Jew lacks in talent, he can always make up in seichel.
And then I ponder Humpty Dumpty’s wisdom: “When I use a word . . . it means just what I choose it to mean . . . nothing more, nothing less..” Amen.
“When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, “it means just what I choose it to mean – neither more nor less.” (Lewis Carroll)
Who would have ever known that the same observation would have its impact on the culinary?
Not too long ago, I was engaged by an upper-class couple to cater a small dinner party. Given the summer heat, as a first course I suggested gazpacho, a well-chilled soup of tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, onions, garlic . . . pungent, but awakening to the tongue.
Experimenting at home, the gazpacho shimmered in the bowl, yet somehow, it still looked naked. Garnishing with a dab of sour cream seemed the answer. But, the cream was too bland, and soon decomposed into a nauseous pink puddle. Himmel!
What to do? With little time to spare, how could I still adorn the soup? Out of sheer desperation, I grabbed for a jar of the cheapest mayonnaise, the kind one would use to bind the most lowly tuna salad. Then I mixed it with an old, crusty jar of powered thyme. Huzzah! Magnificent! A perfect foil for the deep-red gazpacho!
Later that evening, I served the gazpacho adorned by the mayonnaise mixture, right out of a workman’s lunch pail. My unsuspecting audience went wild with delight. “Everything was wonderful,” the balaboste said, “but the garnish on the gazpacho was exceptional.”
“What was it? What was it?” the guests demanded. I was about to tell them that it was “just mayonnaise,” but in a moment of atypical clarity, I told them that it was “thyme froth.” Such a noble name for such a mediocre food.
“Thyme froth?” Please, may we have the recipe?”
“Oh no,” I warned. “The recipe is strictly a secret.”
“May we buy thyme froth from you?”
“That’s something I’d have to consider.”
Ever since then, Linda and I have been making “tuna froth” and “egg froth” sandwiches for lunch. I guess that what a Jew lacks in talent, he can always make up in seichel.
And then I ponder Humpty Dumpty’s wisdom: “When I use a word . . . it means just what I choose it to mean . . . nothing more, nothing less..” Amen.
June 05, 2007
SIT DOWN, MESHUGANER!
Does anyone remember images of those misanthropes who stood on their soapboxes and harangued the passing crowd on everything from the End of Days to the evils of fluoridated water?
My Grandpa Julius was one of those misanthropes, every Sunday in Wicker Park berating his ragtag audience. Some of them would stand by impassively, but the majority would jeer at him, “Zetz zich avek, mishuganer! Sit down, lunatic!”
My grandmother and Aunt Celia were not impassive. They were morbidly humiliated. Their friends would also stroll and picnic in Wicker Park. Each week they would beg, “Julius, schveig! Shut up! People think you’re a mishuganer!” But Sunday after Sunday, he was undaunted.
Finally, he would leave, his demeanor crumpled by defeat. He was not embarrassed, but sorrowed by the failure of another episode of impassioned, futile pleading of his convictions.
Mishuganer? Lunatic? Whether he was a misunderstood, prophet or not, he was routinely mocked and berated by my grandmother and relativesves whose social conscious went so far as penny-ante kaluki and watching wrestling on the ten-inch TV.
Grandpa Julius, I discovered only well after his death, was a misunderstood scholar, if not a prophet scorned. In a tattered box, I found a well-worn first edition of Jastrow’s Dictionary of the Talmud (which I use to this day), erudite writings on Spinoza, and his copy of the Apocrypha, which he had cross-referenced to the Mishna and both Testaments. All this from a man who was destined in the Old Country to become a pattern-cutter.
More extensive, though, were yellowed pages of correspondence, crumpled notes penned in meticulous Palmer-method script, so much like my dad’s, pocket-sized address books and diaries. There was even a brief exchange with Ludwig Zamenhof, Grandpa Julius’s landsman and the inventor of the erstwhile universal language, Esperanto. Even more curiously, there was a return-address stamp inscribed “Bnai Brith Adam – The Children of the Covenant of Adam.”
Ever the pragmatist, my dad was blasé as he filled me in bit-by-bit on the intertwining threads of Grandpa Julius’s philosophical life. My father remembered most, it seems, the enormous cost of the correspondence, which was a source of constant family strife and his separation from my grandmother.
Finally, all the letters, address books, philosophical writings, his contacts with Zamenhof, and all the rest, came to meld. His soapbox exhortations were not about flat-earth theories or the toxicity of smallpox vaccines. Grandpa Julius, one Sunday after the next, preached about universal peace, mutual understanding, an end to war, international currency and Zamenhof’s language, even the establishment of a permanent forum for the world’s leaders to work out their differences peacefully, better than the League of Nations had accomplished.
The address books and correspondence were attempts, unanswered but not frustrated, to enlist like-minded people to share in his vision. He asked, even begged, them to support his recently-founded organization, “Bnai Brith Adam,” a covenant in which the entire world’s people would be enfranchised. Hence, the stamp bearing that return address.
So, Grandpa Julius was a prophet, a utopian, whose vision has yet to be embraced. If nothing else, he preached idealism to a world, cynical then as it is now. Or perhaps he was just some meshuganer who hallucinated a bizarre dream of universal peace and at-one-ness.
Imagine . . . the vision of the Prophet Isaiah, another meshuganer, a millennium-plus before John Lennon sang of it. But this was my Grandpa, the idealist, the visionary. My own Grandpa Julius. How cool.
And if, 80 years later, you and I would mount the same soapbox, how would our message be greeted? Perhaps with welcomed enlightenment? Uh-huh. Sadly, I am obliged to say we would again be mocked and shouted down, “Sit down and shut up, meshuganer!”
Does anyone remember images of those misanthropes who stood on their soapboxes and harangued the passing crowd on everything from the End of Days to the evils of fluoridated water?
My Grandpa Julius was one of those misanthropes, every Sunday in Wicker Park berating his ragtag audience. Some of them would stand by impassively, but the majority would jeer at him, “Zetz zich avek, mishuganer! Sit down, lunatic!”
My grandmother and Aunt Celia were not impassive. They were morbidly humiliated. Their friends would also stroll and picnic in Wicker Park. Each week they would beg, “Julius, schveig! Shut up! People think you’re a mishuganer!” But Sunday after Sunday, he was undaunted.
Finally, he would leave, his demeanor crumpled by defeat. He was not embarrassed, but sorrowed by the failure of another episode of impassioned, futile pleading of his convictions.
Mishuganer? Lunatic? Whether he was a misunderstood, prophet or not, he was routinely mocked and berated by my grandmother and relativesves whose social conscious went so far as penny-ante kaluki and watching wrestling on the ten-inch TV.
Grandpa Julius, I discovered only well after his death, was a misunderstood scholar, if not a prophet scorned. In a tattered box, I found a well-worn first edition of Jastrow’s Dictionary of the Talmud (which I use to this day), erudite writings on Spinoza, and his copy of the Apocrypha, which he had cross-referenced to the Mishna and both Testaments. All this from a man who was destined in the Old Country to become a pattern-cutter.
More extensive, though, were yellowed pages of correspondence, crumpled notes penned in meticulous Palmer-method script, so much like my dad’s, pocket-sized address books and diaries. There was even a brief exchange with Ludwig Zamenhof, Grandpa Julius’s landsman and the inventor of the erstwhile universal language, Esperanto. Even more curiously, there was a return-address stamp inscribed “Bnai Brith Adam – The Children of the Covenant of Adam.”
Ever the pragmatist, my dad was blasé as he filled me in bit-by-bit on the intertwining threads of Grandpa Julius’s philosophical life. My father remembered most, it seems, the enormous cost of the correspondence, which was a source of constant family strife and his separation from my grandmother.
Finally, all the letters, address books, philosophical writings, his contacts with Zamenhof, and all the rest, came to meld. His soapbox exhortations were not about flat-earth theories or the toxicity of smallpox vaccines. Grandpa Julius, one Sunday after the next, preached about universal peace, mutual understanding, an end to war, international currency and Zamenhof’s language, even the establishment of a permanent forum for the world’s leaders to work out their differences peacefully, better than the League of Nations had accomplished.
The address books and correspondence were attempts, unanswered but not frustrated, to enlist like-minded people to share in his vision. He asked, even begged, them to support his recently-founded organization, “Bnai Brith Adam,” a covenant in which the entire world’s people would be enfranchised. Hence, the stamp bearing that return address.
So, Grandpa Julius was a prophet, a utopian, whose vision has yet to be embraced. If nothing else, he preached idealism to a world, cynical then as it is now. Or perhaps he was just some meshuganer who hallucinated a bizarre dream of universal peace and at-one-ness.
Imagine . . . the vision of the Prophet Isaiah, another meshuganer, a millennium-plus before John Lennon sang of it. But this was my Grandpa, the idealist, the visionary. My own Grandpa Julius. How cool.
And if, 80 years later, you and I would mount the same soapbox, how would our message be greeted? Perhaps with welcomed enlightenment? Uh-huh. Sadly, I am obliged to say we would again be mocked and shouted down, “Sit down and shut up, meshuganer!”
May 28, 2007
WOULD YA PASS THE GRAPES?
When has a rabbi ever had the nachas of exceeding the stature of an aristocratic goy? The instances are rare, but so it happened.
Recently, I was invited to deliver the invocation at a dinner, an organization that raises money for worthy causes. At the dais were seated celebrities, magnates of business, aristocracy. All them and me.
Shortly after being seated, the waiter placed before me the fruit-plate I had ordered. Next to me was an aristocratic woman wearing a gown that once belonged to Princess Margaret.
I saw the glint of her fork from the corner of my eye. A moment later, she announced, “That honeydew melon looks delicious. May I try some?” Before I could answer, she stabbed the fruit, and ate it with gusto. “Simply delicious,” she pronounced. “May I have another?”
The ravenous dowager was Mrs. Ben Heinemann, who owned the largest railroad from Mexico to Canada. I told her that my dad had commuted on her train. “Forget the trains,” she stopped me. “I see you aren’t eating your grapes. How about passing them over?”
By then, the waiter brought her dinner. She cut into it, discovering that it was pork, dry and stringy. “You can’t expect me to eat this,” she prated, calling over the waiter. “How can I get a plate like his?” pointing to my fruit. The waiter foolishly answered that he could not get another.
“Well, then,” she announced. “I’ll just have to share this one.” and reaching across me, partook in my apples, oranges, and more honeydew.
“How did you get so lucky?” she asked. “Are you a vegetarian?”
“No,” I’m Jewish,” I said, and briefly explained to her the rules of kashrut.
“Oh, and if I were Jewish I could get a fruit plate, too? What else do I need to do?
“You don’t need to anything else. Just tell them you’re Jewish.”
“And lie? What would God do to me?”
“Probably just laugh,” I told her.
She pondered for a moment and slipped me a $10 bill. “Here,” she said. “Go out and buy a bag of fruit, and the next time you want to go to Mexico, tell them that Mrs. Ben Heinemann sent you. Now pass me that last piece of peach.”
When has a rabbi ever had the nachas of exceeding the stature of an aristocratic goy? The instances are rare, but so it happened.
Recently, I was invited to deliver the invocation at a dinner, an organization that raises money for worthy causes. At the dais were seated celebrities, magnates of business, aristocracy. All them and me.
Shortly after being seated, the waiter placed before me the fruit-plate I had ordered. Next to me was an aristocratic woman wearing a gown that once belonged to Princess Margaret.
I saw the glint of her fork from the corner of my eye. A moment later, she announced, “That honeydew melon looks delicious. May I try some?” Before I could answer, she stabbed the fruit, and ate it with gusto. “Simply delicious,” she pronounced. “May I have another?”
The ravenous dowager was Mrs. Ben Heinemann, who owned the largest railroad from Mexico to Canada. I told her that my dad had commuted on her train. “Forget the trains,” she stopped me. “I see you aren’t eating your grapes. How about passing them over?”
By then, the waiter brought her dinner. She cut into it, discovering that it was pork, dry and stringy. “You can’t expect me to eat this,” she prated, calling over the waiter. “How can I get a plate like his?” pointing to my fruit. The waiter foolishly answered that he could not get another.
“Well, then,” she announced. “I’ll just have to share this one.” and reaching across me, partook in my apples, oranges, and more honeydew.
“How did you get so lucky?” she asked. “Are you a vegetarian?”
“No,” I’m Jewish,” I said, and briefly explained to her the rules of kashrut.
“Oh, and if I were Jewish I could get a fruit plate, too? What else do I need to do?
“You don’t need to anything else. Just tell them you’re Jewish.”
“And lie? What would God do to me?”
“Probably just laugh,” I told her.
She pondered for a moment and slipped me a $10 bill. “Here,” she said. “Go out and buy a bag of fruit, and the next time you want to go to Mexico, tell them that Mrs. Ben Heinemann sent you. Now pass me that last piece of peach.”
May 09, 2007
PARLEZ VOUS FRANCAIS?
I have yet to figure out what I really do for a living. This has led not only to ambiguity but poverty. Am I a rabbi? I am by virtue of my education, but as a vocation it turned out to be a dead-end four years ago when I was fired for being too uppity and manic. Would you care to share a few pills?
Am I writer? Only if I want to live on $100 a week. And the idea of holing up in a windy garret to write sad poetry holds little attraction for someone who occasionally likes to eat a juicy steak.
Well then, am I a chef? Sometimes I pretend to be and even have vague success. Who are my clients? Ironically, nearly all of them are upper-class goyim, of whom there are many in Greenville. Most of them have heard of me by word-of-mouth, after a cooking class I gave last year.
Yes, of course, my menus are kosher, prepared in my own kitchen. If I do not tell them, who would know the difference? My offerings might as well be classical treiferei, mostly quite continental and elite.
Then one day a local society-lady requested an elaborate menu, so very creative, she thought. It was comprised of pate de foie, potage aux champignon et orge, poitrine roti, soufflé pommes de terre, racine-rouge saumure, et pommes marmelade.
Remember the Midrash that says that all people, even goyim, stood at the foot of Mount Sinai? The menu she chose is proof-positive that the Midrash is right. Think about it: Unbeknownst to her, she ordered the perfect Shabbos dinner, right from oma’s kitchen: chopped liver, mushroom-barley soup, roast brisket, potato kugel, pickled beets, and compote.
She and her guests ate until they were stuffed. They, in turn, entertained other friends with precisely the same menu, and so on, and so on.
Funny, but time and again, Shabbos dinner has been celebrated in mansions where Jews have never been and likely never will be. My mission, however, will not be complete until I have convinced them that Kiddush is really a poem by Flaubert.
I have yet to figure out what I really do for a living. This has led not only to ambiguity but poverty. Am I a rabbi? I am by virtue of my education, but as a vocation it turned out to be a dead-end four years ago when I was fired for being too uppity and manic. Would you care to share a few pills?
Am I writer? Only if I want to live on $100 a week. And the idea of holing up in a windy garret to write sad poetry holds little attraction for someone who occasionally likes to eat a juicy steak.
Well then, am I a chef? Sometimes I pretend to be and even have vague success. Who are my clients? Ironically, nearly all of them are upper-class goyim, of whom there are many in Greenville. Most of them have heard of me by word-of-mouth, after a cooking class I gave last year.
Yes, of course, my menus are kosher, prepared in my own kitchen. If I do not tell them, who would know the difference? My offerings might as well be classical treiferei, mostly quite continental and elite.
Then one day a local society-lady requested an elaborate menu, so very creative, she thought. It was comprised of pate de foie, potage aux champignon et orge, poitrine roti, soufflé pommes de terre, racine-rouge saumure, et pommes marmelade.
Remember the Midrash that says that all people, even goyim, stood at the foot of Mount Sinai? The menu she chose is proof-positive that the Midrash is right. Think about it: Unbeknownst to her, she ordered the perfect Shabbos dinner, right from oma’s kitchen: chopped liver, mushroom-barley soup, roast brisket, potato kugel, pickled beets, and compote.
She and her guests ate until they were stuffed. They, in turn, entertained other friends with precisely the same menu, and so on, and so on.
Funny, but time and again, Shabbos dinner has been celebrated in mansions where Jews have never been and likely never will be. My mission, however, will not be complete until I have convinced them that Kiddush is really a poem by Flaubert.
April 26, 2007
KOSHER ICE CREAM FROM KOSHER COWS
Long ago when I was a yeshiva-bochur we ate all types of ice cream without regard to its kashrut. After all, what could be treife about pure frozen cream flavored with pure vanilla? And so it was for nearly all the orthodox Jews in Chicago. We hung out at our favorite ice cream parlor, Lockwood Castle, and on any given Saturday night there were more yarmulkes in the place than there were crosses.
But then one day, some busybody decided to check into the bona fide kashrut of ice cream. He found, to our dismay, that everyday ice cream contained non-kosher additives, especially those that kept the ice cream creamy and fresh.
Ice cream is treife! Lockwood Castle’s business plummeted. The boys rent their garments and wore sackcloth and ashes. The more philosophical among them mused, “That’s what happens when you ask too many questions.”
Our grief, thanks be to God, lasted only a little while. The outrage was so enormous that it reached the throne of America’s premier kashrut authority. In no time, a number of purveyors were marketing kosher ice cream, presumably because the cows were all Chasidim from Brooklyn.
Now, that was all right if you were satisfied eating supermarket ice cream at home. But, when will there be a place to indulge in sodas and sundaes like the good old days at Lockwood Castle? Fortuitously, the outcry was again heard in Heaven, and in months, just such a chain of kosher ice cream parlors opened.
Not too long thereafter, I jubilantly announced to my chasidic friend, “Did you know that Brewster’s is now kosher?”
“Kosher? Really? But is it cholov Yisroel?” “I don’t know,” I answered. “What about the syrups and toppings and whipped cream? Cholov Yisroel? Under Chasidic supervision?” “I don’t know.” “And what about the scoopers? Are you sure they’ve touched only kosher food?” “I don’t know,” I said, imagining what pork-flavored ice cream would taste like. “ . . . and? . . . and?” he sputtered. “I don’t know,” I sighed.
“I guess I’ll just have to bring some kosher ice cream and eat it with my own bowl and spoon.”
“Why not have just a glass of water, to be especially sure?” I asked.
“Water? Is that kosher? What about all the treife bacteria?”
I just don’t know . . .
Long ago when I was a yeshiva-bochur we ate all types of ice cream without regard to its kashrut. After all, what could be treife about pure frozen cream flavored with pure vanilla? And so it was for nearly all the orthodox Jews in Chicago. We hung out at our favorite ice cream parlor, Lockwood Castle, and on any given Saturday night there were more yarmulkes in the place than there were crosses.
But then one day, some busybody decided to check into the bona fide kashrut of ice cream. He found, to our dismay, that everyday ice cream contained non-kosher additives, especially those that kept the ice cream creamy and fresh.
Ice cream is treife! Lockwood Castle’s business plummeted. The boys rent their garments and wore sackcloth and ashes. The more philosophical among them mused, “That’s what happens when you ask too many questions.”
Our grief, thanks be to God, lasted only a little while. The outrage was so enormous that it reached the throne of America’s premier kashrut authority. In no time, a number of purveyors were marketing kosher ice cream, presumably because the cows were all Chasidim from Brooklyn.
Now, that was all right if you were satisfied eating supermarket ice cream at home. But, when will there be a place to indulge in sodas and sundaes like the good old days at Lockwood Castle? Fortuitously, the outcry was again heard in Heaven, and in months, just such a chain of kosher ice cream parlors opened.
Not too long thereafter, I jubilantly announced to my chasidic friend, “Did you know that Brewster’s is now kosher?”
“Kosher? Really? But is it cholov Yisroel?” “I don’t know,” I answered. “What about the syrups and toppings and whipped cream? Cholov Yisroel? Under Chasidic supervision?” “I don’t know.” “And what about the scoopers? Are you sure they’ve touched only kosher food?” “I don’t know,” I said, imagining what pork-flavored ice cream would taste like. “ . . . and? . . . and?” he sputtered. “I don’t know,” I sighed.
“I guess I’ll just have to bring some kosher ice cream and eat it with my own bowl and spoon.”
“Why not have just a glass of water, to be especially sure?” I asked.
“Water? Is that kosher? What about all the treife bacteria?”
I just don’t know . . .
April 25, 2007
RECIPES FOR PARADIGM SHIFT IN POKER GRUB
FOR “SAUCE CHALLENGE”
CUCUMBER-DILL SAUCE
2 cups mayo
2-3 “pickling” cucumbers, unpeeled
1-2 medium sweet onion(s) (Vidaila preferred)
4 or more whole sprigs of dill, finely chopped OR 2 tablespoons dry dill
salt and pepper to taste
Coarse-grate cucumbers and onions over clean kitchen towel (one that you’ll never use again). You might lose a knuckle, but I prefer a manual-grater, because food processor makes it too mushy. Squeeze out excess liquid, the more the better. Mix together all ingredients. Especially good as sauce for baked or poached salmon.
FOR TASTE-TESTING COMPETITION
CHOPPED (DON’T CALL ME PATÉ!) LIVER
1-2 pounds chicken liver
4-6 hard-boiled eggs
2 large onions coarsely chopped and sautéed until soft and golden in liberal amount
of flavor-neutral (I use peanut) oil, water, oil or schmaltz and gribenes (chicken skin cracklings – a lesson for another time)
Lightly (kosher) salt and broil livers. Rinse in cool water. (This is kashrut requirement.) Finish Livers by sautéing them together for a few minutes and onions. Grind all ingredients together with medium-coarse blade I prefer hand grinder like bubbe’s, or electric. To my taste, food processor makes it too mushy. Add water, oil and/or schmaltz. Mix to clay-like consistency.
Garnish with chopped onion, grated boiled egg, crostini, onion-pepper marmalade, toasted pita, bagel chips, or challah
FOR COMPETITIVE “POP A TAGAMET”
CHOLENT ALA SUVALK
½ to ¾ cup of assorted beans (mixture of navy, pinto, lima, kidney, and/or great northern) and ¾ cup barley
Sizable chunks of short ribs, brisket, and/or chuck (Optional: For vegetarian, sauté onions)
Handfuls of coarse chopped onions
Chunks of potato, peeled
Lots of fresh chopped garlic (Don’t you dare use that stuff in the jar!)
Salt, pepper, paprika (more than you think you need).
Sorry, you’re gonna have to start this early in the morning if you want it to be proper consistency for that evening. Layer bottom of crock-pot with chopped onions and garlic. Add meat. Season. More onions and garlic. Add barley and beans. Season again. More onions and garlic. Add potato chunks. Season again. Sprinkle liberally with paprika. Cover with boiling water. Cover with heavy lid and cook on high, forever. Do not serve to Presbyterians. Or, as my tactless step-great-uncle would say, “Anybody care for a Tums?”
OPTIONAL: JAKOI ("CANNON BALL")
2-3 eggs, beaten
Mixture of matzo meal, cornflake crumbs, oatmeal, Grape Nuts
Sautéed chopped onion and garlic
Salt, pepper, paprika
Water or chicken stock
Blend all ingredients thoroughly, adding enough water or chicken stock to make mixture drop-from-spoon consistency. Heap mounds of mixture atop potatoes and sprinkle liberally with paprika. Cover crock-pot and cook as above.
FOR BEST “I-CAN-BE MORE-GOYISH-THAN-YOU” CHALLENGE
AUTHENTIC WHITE CASTLE SLIDER/SLYDER (DIFFERENCE OF OPINION)
1-1½ pound(s) ground chuck
1 medium onion, finely diced
8 small dinner rolls, the softer the better
Grease bottom of 12”-fry pan with Pam or a light coating of oil. Form beef into eight thin, preferably square patties. Poke five holes in each patty. Place 1 teaspoon of onion for each patty on medium-heat pan. Top with hamburger, then with bottom of roll. Place top of roll on pan. Steam-fry by covering pan. When patty is lightish brown, take off pan and assemble. Dress with condiments, but the fewer the better.
ALTERNATIVE: BOURBON-SOUSED BRISKET SLIDER
(FOR 10-POUND BRISKET; ADAPT ACCORDINGLY)
Large, preferably whole, brisket (first-cut tends to come out too dry.)
2 cups cheap bourbon (save the Maker’s Mark for a bris)
1 cup soy sauce
1½ cups water
½ cup freshly-squeezed lemon juice
2 cups brown sugar (light or dark)
loads of chopped fresh garlic
Combine all ingredients and whiz in blender, food processor, or immersion blender (preferred). Marinate brisket (I use trash bag) overnight. Roast at 375 degrees, 20 minutes per pound, covered. Slice thinly and substitute for patty in slider recipe.
ALTERNATIVE: (VEGAN AND/OR HYPER-KOSHER) ONION-PEPPER MARMALADE SLIDER
2 medium/large onions
2 red bell peppers, cored, roasted under broiler or flame until black, and peeled. Roasting is optional, but if not, skins will show up in marmalade, ech.
Eighth to quarter-cup olive oil (EVOO, for Rachael Ray fans)
cup Marsala or sweet Sherry (optional)
¼ cup light brown sugar
salt, to taste
Slice onions and peppers thinly. Sauté over medium heat in olive oil until very soft. Add Marsala/Sherry. Raise heat to high. Stir until it reduces by half. Lower heat. Add brown sugar and blend together until glazed. Lightly salt – tends to bring out flavor. Prepare buns as slider and schmeer with marmalade. If you must, choose your condiment(s).
FOR “SAUCE CHALLENGE”
CUCUMBER-DILL SAUCE
2 cups mayo
2-3 “pickling” cucumbers, unpeeled
1-2 medium sweet onion(s) (Vidaila preferred)
4 or more whole sprigs of dill, finely chopped OR 2 tablespoons dry dill
salt and pepper to taste
Coarse-grate cucumbers and onions over clean kitchen towel (one that you’ll never use again). You might lose a knuckle, but I prefer a manual-grater, because food processor makes it too mushy. Squeeze out excess liquid, the more the better. Mix together all ingredients. Especially good as sauce for baked or poached salmon.
FOR TASTE-TESTING COMPETITION
CHOPPED (DON’T CALL ME PATÉ!) LIVER
1-2 pounds chicken liver
4-6 hard-boiled eggs
2 large onions coarsely chopped and sautéed until soft and golden in liberal amount
of flavor-neutral (I use peanut) oil, water, oil or schmaltz and gribenes (chicken skin cracklings – a lesson for another time)
Lightly (kosher) salt and broil livers. Rinse in cool water. (This is kashrut requirement.) Finish Livers by sautéing them together for a few minutes and onions. Grind all ingredients together with medium-coarse blade I prefer hand grinder like bubbe’s, or electric. To my taste, food processor makes it too mushy. Add water, oil and/or schmaltz. Mix to clay-like consistency.
Garnish with chopped onion, grated boiled egg, crostini, onion-pepper marmalade, toasted pita, bagel chips, or challah
FOR COMPETITIVE “POP A TAGAMET”
CHOLENT ALA SUVALK
½ to ¾ cup of assorted beans (mixture of navy, pinto, lima, kidney, and/or great northern) and ¾ cup barley
Sizable chunks of short ribs, brisket, and/or chuck (Optional: For vegetarian, sauté onions)
Handfuls of coarse chopped onions
Chunks of potato, peeled
Lots of fresh chopped garlic (Don’t you dare use that stuff in the jar!)
Salt, pepper, paprika (more than you think you need).
Sorry, you’re gonna have to start this early in the morning if you want it to be proper consistency for that evening. Layer bottom of crock-pot with chopped onions and garlic. Add meat. Season. More onions and garlic. Add barley and beans. Season again. More onions and garlic. Add potato chunks. Season again. Sprinkle liberally with paprika. Cover with boiling water. Cover with heavy lid and cook on high, forever. Do not serve to Presbyterians. Or, as my tactless step-great-uncle would say, “Anybody care for a Tums?”
OPTIONAL: JAKOI ("CANNON BALL")
2-3 eggs, beaten
Mixture of matzo meal, cornflake crumbs, oatmeal, Grape Nuts
Sautéed chopped onion and garlic
Salt, pepper, paprika
Water or chicken stock
Blend all ingredients thoroughly, adding enough water or chicken stock to make mixture drop-from-spoon consistency. Heap mounds of mixture atop potatoes and sprinkle liberally with paprika. Cover crock-pot and cook as above.
FOR BEST “I-CAN-BE MORE-GOYISH-THAN-YOU” CHALLENGE
AUTHENTIC WHITE CASTLE SLIDER/SLYDER (DIFFERENCE OF OPINION)
1-1½ pound(s) ground chuck
1 medium onion, finely diced
8 small dinner rolls, the softer the better
Grease bottom of 12”-fry pan with Pam or a light coating of oil. Form beef into eight thin, preferably square patties. Poke five holes in each patty. Place 1 teaspoon of onion for each patty on medium-heat pan. Top with hamburger, then with bottom of roll. Place top of roll on pan. Steam-fry by covering pan. When patty is lightish brown, take off pan and assemble. Dress with condiments, but the fewer the better.
ALTERNATIVE: BOURBON-SOUSED BRISKET SLIDER
(FOR 10-POUND BRISKET; ADAPT ACCORDINGLY)
Large, preferably whole, brisket (first-cut tends to come out too dry.)
2 cups cheap bourbon (save the Maker’s Mark for a bris)
1 cup soy sauce
1½ cups water
½ cup freshly-squeezed lemon juice
2 cups brown sugar (light or dark)
loads of chopped fresh garlic
Combine all ingredients and whiz in blender, food processor, or immersion blender (preferred). Marinate brisket (I use trash bag) overnight. Roast at 375 degrees, 20 minutes per pound, covered. Slice thinly and substitute for patty in slider recipe.
ALTERNATIVE: (VEGAN AND/OR HYPER-KOSHER) ONION-PEPPER MARMALADE SLIDER
2 medium/large onions
2 red bell peppers, cored, roasted under broiler or flame until black, and peeled. Roasting is optional, but if not, skins will show up in marmalade, ech.
Eighth to quarter-cup olive oil (EVOO, for Rachael Ray fans)
cup Marsala or sweet Sherry (optional)
¼ cup light brown sugar
salt, to taste
Slice onions and peppers thinly. Sauté over medium heat in olive oil until very soft. Add Marsala/Sherry. Raise heat to high. Stir until it reduces by half. Lower heat. Add brown sugar and blend together until glazed. Lightly salt – tends to bring out flavor. Prepare buns as slider and schmeer with marmalade. If you must, choose your condiment(s).
April 22, 2007
A PARADIGM SHIFT IN POKER SNACKING
I have never played a game of poker . . . er . . .uh . . . unless you count the one time at Camp Ramah, summer of ’63, when a couple of sharpies conned me into a game of strip poker . . . and I wound up running to-and-from the next cabin clad only in my tzitzis.
My boys, Scott, Joey, and Ben, however, are world-class pokeristim. I have yet to compute the stakes, but Scott, my eldest, nearly doubled the size of his house, Joey just bought a very gemutlich one, and Ben, the runt of my litter, has a two-bedroom apartment in New York. I rest my case
As every Jewish event has its own cuisine, poker played by former Yeshiva-bochorim needs to assert its own culinary identity. Devising a menu for young, upscale guys is no easy task, because they always grouse about the absence of quality and diversity of poker-night snacks: No more Buffalo wing dripping pepper sauce . . . too plebian and messy. No more nachos cracking under the burden of salsa . . . too trite. No more guacamole-residue to grease the cards and chips . . . too gauche.
And they’re right. You really can’t do anything exciting to jazz up poker food, unless you hire Wolfgang Puck to replace “Five-Card Louie.” And anyway, the Austrian’s pizza is too prissy.
Thus, I say change the concept, if you cannot change the cuisine:
Serve nothing during each hand except maybe soft drinks. Once the spirited competition of each hand of poker has concluded, let the competition really begin.
Fill shot glasses with a splash of costly or cheap vodka, from Belvedere to Smirnoff. Only the “dealer” knows which is which. For the rest, it is a blind tasting.
After a l’chayyim, down go the shots, one by one. The players rate the quality or try to figure out which is which. (I can always tell Grey Goose, uh-huh.) Four shots each? Be sure to choose a designated drive.
A few hands later, do the same with cheap-versus-classy beer: Bud? Old Milwaukee? Theillier La Bavaisienne? Mestansky Pivovar Havlickuv Brod Lev Lion Pale Double Bock? OK, OK, so I got their names off a website. (http://beergeek.stores.yahoo.net/index.html)
The host is in charge of making or procuring the varieties, so everyone can enjoy the nuances. Or s/he might assign the others to help with the task. After all, everybody has his/her own concept of tuna salad. The possibilities are infinite. Enlist a domestic partner, or as we used to say, “wife,” to do (some of) the procurement.
After the next hand, try the same kind of tasting with tuna salad, chopped liver, Kiddush wine, lox, scotch, cookies, those iddy-biddy gefilte fish balls, cheeses, sauces, meatballs – anything you can spear with a toothpick or in a shot-glass. Never serve anything that has “roll-up” or “crudités” in its name. Rate each round, guess who made it, or just fress. Give prizes to winners – perhaps six-packs of Theillier La Bavaisienne.
Or, I’ll give you something really off the wall: Get a slab of ahi tuna. Cut it into ¾ inch cubes. Flash fry, preferably rare. Put a dab of cocktail sauce in a shot-glass, then the tuna, then a dash of vodka. Down it. A tuna shooter. One of my special favorites: The slider. A teeny hamburger steamed inside a gooey bun. Why not try the same with a couple slices of brisket, corned beef or salami? You can read the definitive saga of the slider at http://www.99w.com/evilsam/ff/whitecastle.html.
As the evening progresses, the players will become pleasantly sated. They have had tastes from a bountiful table bearing all kinds of interesting food and drink. With each ensuing hand, kings start looking more like jacks. Cards become secondary to competitive fressing, and no one will ever again complain about his/her domestic partner coming home smelling of cigars.
It’s just like Henry Herbert Knibbs always said: And far behind the fading trail, the lights and lures of town. So we played the bitter game nor asked for praise or pity. (All right. I got that off a website, too}
I have never played a game of poker . . . er . . .uh . . . unless you count the one time at Camp Ramah, summer of ’63, when a couple of sharpies conned me into a game of strip poker . . . and I wound up running to-and-from the next cabin clad only in my tzitzis.
My boys, Scott, Joey, and Ben, however, are world-class pokeristim. I have yet to compute the stakes, but Scott, my eldest, nearly doubled the size of his house, Joey just bought a very gemutlich one, and Ben, the runt of my litter, has a two-bedroom apartment in New York. I rest my case
As every Jewish event has its own cuisine, poker played by former Yeshiva-bochorim needs to assert its own culinary identity. Devising a menu for young, upscale guys is no easy task, because they always grouse about the absence of quality and diversity of poker-night snacks: No more Buffalo wing dripping pepper sauce . . . too plebian and messy. No more nachos cracking under the burden of salsa . . . too trite. No more guacamole-residue to grease the cards and chips . . . too gauche.
And they’re right. You really can’t do anything exciting to jazz up poker food, unless you hire Wolfgang Puck to replace “Five-Card Louie.” And anyway, the Austrian’s pizza is too prissy.
Thus, I say change the concept, if you cannot change the cuisine:
Serve nothing during each hand except maybe soft drinks. Once the spirited competition of each hand of poker has concluded, let the competition really begin.
Fill shot glasses with a splash of costly or cheap vodka, from Belvedere to Smirnoff. Only the “dealer” knows which is which. For the rest, it is a blind tasting.
After a l’chayyim, down go the shots, one by one. The players rate the quality or try to figure out which is which. (I can always tell Grey Goose, uh-huh.) Four shots each? Be sure to choose a designated drive.
A few hands later, do the same with cheap-versus-classy beer: Bud? Old Milwaukee? Theillier La Bavaisienne? Mestansky Pivovar Havlickuv Brod Lev Lion Pale Double Bock? OK, OK, so I got their names off a website. (http://beergeek.stores.yahoo.net/index.html)
The host is in charge of making or procuring the varieties, so everyone can enjoy the nuances. Or s/he might assign the others to help with the task. After all, everybody has his/her own concept of tuna salad. The possibilities are infinite. Enlist a domestic partner, or as we used to say, “wife,” to do (some of) the procurement.
After the next hand, try the same kind of tasting with tuna salad, chopped liver, Kiddush wine, lox, scotch, cookies, those iddy-biddy gefilte fish balls, cheeses, sauces, meatballs – anything you can spear with a toothpick or in a shot-glass. Never serve anything that has “roll-up” or “crudités” in its name. Rate each round, guess who made it, or just fress. Give prizes to winners – perhaps six-packs of Theillier La Bavaisienne.
Or, I’ll give you something really off the wall: Get a slab of ahi tuna. Cut it into ¾ inch cubes. Flash fry, preferably rare. Put a dab of cocktail sauce in a shot-glass, then the tuna, then a dash of vodka. Down it. A tuna shooter. One of my special favorites: The slider. A teeny hamburger steamed inside a gooey bun. Why not try the same with a couple slices of brisket, corned beef or salami? You can read the definitive saga of the slider at http://www.99w.com/evilsam/ff/whitecastle.html.
As the evening progresses, the players will become pleasantly sated. They have had tastes from a bountiful table bearing all kinds of interesting food and drink. With each ensuing hand, kings start looking more like jacks. Cards become secondary to competitive fressing, and no one will ever again complain about his/her domestic partner coming home smelling of cigars.
It’s just like Henry Herbert Knibbs always said: And far behind the fading trail, the lights and lures of town. So we played the bitter game nor asked for praise or pity. (All right. I got that off a website, too}
April 18, 2007
FAILURE TO UNDERSTAND THE ARAB MINDSET MAKES THIS A STUPID WAR
My dad was a Colonel in the National Guard. One day in 1965, he told his high- strutting, hup-two, ROTC son to find a way to stay out of Vietnam. It was, he said, going to be a “stupid war.” Why? Among other reasons, he said, “Because we don’t understand the enemy.”
I was bred by patriotic parents to believe that the people who govern us are ipso facto smarter and more discerning than we. That axiom was rent asunder by the time I became an antiwar protestor. The Vietnam War, it turned out, was not merely immoral and ill-conceived, but it was stupid. It was conducted by stupid men. We, the everyday hoi polli, turned out to be smarter than they were.
Johnson and McNamara, to their feigned surprise, discovered only after each foray that it had been a boondoggle, only to try the same thing over again. They had no idea of the Southeast Asians’ weltanschauung, their mores, motivations, and culture. Most of all, they had no idea of how many of the oppressed yearned for America-style democracy, so, we fought to impose it on them.
Now fast-forward to Iraq: Is the war immoral? At first, that was a tough call. But, when every other justification turned out to be phony, some of the hoi polli were snookered into believing that we would liberate Iraq and ramp it up to become an American-style democracy. By that point, the rest of us regular folk figured out that we were diving happy-hooligan into another stupid war, because, as Daddy said, “we don’t understand the enemy.” The President, et al, simply didn’t know, or didn’t want to know, that the mindset of the man-in-the-street Arab would not cotton to the idea of becoming an American-style democracy.
Of course, they didn’t. That should have been obvious when our men and women marched triumphantly into Baghdad to an anemic throng of 35 Iraqis, none of them bearing flowers. Likewise at the toppling of Saddam’s statue . . . all of them sent over from central casting.
No surprise. Many of us, yawned, “So, what else is new?” It was neither the first nor the last un-surprise that us regular folk knew would happen, while the stupid men in national leadership had yet to figure it out.
Despite all the ballyhooed bluster on the deck of an aircraft carrier, the mission will never be accomplished, nor will the civil war end. Why? Because the men above us refuse to understand that the mindset of Iraqis, Iranians, Palestinians, et al, unlike American-style democracy, is rule or be ruled, destroy or be destroyed. The notion of “peace” is not nearly the same as that of an American-style democracy. We came to them bearing and then trying to impose, faux-democracy on them. Instead, the vacuum we have created is filled with civil war and the only issue upon which the warring faction agree: “Yankee go home!”
This is the lesson: Heretofore oppressed people do not automatically default to democracy. It is not axiomatic that freedom will, by its very nature, step in to fill the gap created when subjugated people become free. Perhaps that’s why George Washington called America a “great experiment.” Perhaps that is also why the newly-liberated Israelites yearned to return to the oppression of Egypt rather than face the challenges of the wilderness. Another “great experiment” nearly gone sour.
Call it jingoism, narcissism, or nearsightedness, it is just old-fashioned stupidity, and we hoi polli had it all figured out, while the dopes above failed or refused to understand it.
Are they smarter than we are? I think not. We laugh when we recall that story of the natives showing up with baskets as their colonial rulers announced that they would be given their freedom. Now there is no reason to laugh, only to be sobered.
You were right, Daddy. It is a stupid war.
My dad was a Colonel in the National Guard. One day in 1965, he told his high- strutting, hup-two, ROTC son to find a way to stay out of Vietnam. It was, he said, going to be a “stupid war.” Why? Among other reasons, he said, “Because we don’t understand the enemy.”
I was bred by patriotic parents to believe that the people who govern us are ipso facto smarter and more discerning than we. That axiom was rent asunder by the time I became an antiwar protestor. The Vietnam War, it turned out, was not merely immoral and ill-conceived, but it was stupid. It was conducted by stupid men. We, the everyday hoi polli, turned out to be smarter than they were.
Johnson and McNamara, to their feigned surprise, discovered only after each foray that it had been a boondoggle, only to try the same thing over again. They had no idea of the Southeast Asians’ weltanschauung, their mores, motivations, and culture. Most of all, they had no idea of how many of the oppressed yearned for America-style democracy, so, we fought to impose it on them.
Now fast-forward to Iraq: Is the war immoral? At first, that was a tough call. But, when every other justification turned out to be phony, some of the hoi polli were snookered into believing that we would liberate Iraq and ramp it up to become an American-style democracy. By that point, the rest of us regular folk figured out that we were diving happy-hooligan into another stupid war, because, as Daddy said, “we don’t understand the enemy.” The President, et al, simply didn’t know, or didn’t want to know, that the mindset of the man-in-the-street Arab would not cotton to the idea of becoming an American-style democracy.
Of course, they didn’t. That should have been obvious when our men and women marched triumphantly into Baghdad to an anemic throng of 35 Iraqis, none of them bearing flowers. Likewise at the toppling of Saddam’s statue . . . all of them sent over from central casting.
No surprise. Many of us, yawned, “So, what else is new?” It was neither the first nor the last un-surprise that us regular folk knew would happen, while the stupid men in national leadership had yet to figure it out.
Despite all the ballyhooed bluster on the deck of an aircraft carrier, the mission will never be accomplished, nor will the civil war end. Why? Because the men above us refuse to understand that the mindset of Iraqis, Iranians, Palestinians, et al, unlike American-style democracy, is rule or be ruled, destroy or be destroyed. The notion of “peace” is not nearly the same as that of an American-style democracy. We came to them bearing and then trying to impose, faux-democracy on them. Instead, the vacuum we have created is filled with civil war and the only issue upon which the warring faction agree: “Yankee go home!”
This is the lesson: Heretofore oppressed people do not automatically default to democracy. It is not axiomatic that freedom will, by its very nature, step in to fill the gap created when subjugated people become free. Perhaps that’s why George Washington called America a “great experiment.” Perhaps that is also why the newly-liberated Israelites yearned to return to the oppression of Egypt rather than face the challenges of the wilderness. Another “great experiment” nearly gone sour.
Call it jingoism, narcissism, or nearsightedness, it is just old-fashioned stupidity, and we hoi polli had it all figured out, while the dopes above failed or refused to understand it.
Are they smarter than we are? I think not. We laugh when we recall that story of the natives showing up with baskets as their colonial rulers announced that they would be given their freedom. Now there is no reason to laugh, only to be sobered.
You were right, Daddy. It is a stupid war.
April 06, 2007
A BACHELOR AND HIS SANITARY NAPKINS
Once upon a time, decades ago, my grandparents owned a little grocery store in the old Jewish neighborhood in Chicago. My grandmother and mother ran the store, rolling herring and pickle barrels out onto the sidewalk at 5:00 AM in the frigid pre-dawn darkness.
But, my grandfather was a man of leisure. He came down to the store at 9:00, dressed in the flashy suit of a mafia don, complete with diamond pinky ring, checked yesterday’s receipts and disappeared, purportedly to go “to market.” Decades later, my mother disclosed that he always had a woman on the side. But that was back then when wives suffered silently through their husbands’ peccadilloes. So, my grandfather caroused like a tycoon, trying to hide that he was just another little storekeeper.
My grandfather benefited the store in only one way: He was a marketer par excellence. When Cross and Blackwell came out with a new flavor of jelly, he’d offer housewives tastes of it, something that no other immigrant grocer would have considered.
When the rumor spread that mayonnaise was a dairy product, housewives resisted for fear of mixing milk with meat. To combat the false report, my grandfather asked the Chasidic rebbe across the street to declare that mayonnaise was pareve. Then, he proceeded to tape copies of the official document to every lamppost in a mile radius.
My grandfather’s only near-mistake was trying to market women’s sanitary napkins. But, the idea of purchasing them at Abe Goldsmith’s grocery was beyond propriety.
For months, the crates of sanitary napkins remained untouched. Then one day, Louie Zaidman, a middle-aged bachelor, bought a package. A month passed, and Louie bought another. By now, the yentas were whispering to each other, “What was the ‘feigeleh’ doing with women’s private-ware?”
Finally, my grandfather got up the courage to ask.
“Goldsmith,” he answered, “there’s only one use for those shmattes. Every time I polish my Buick, they leave a wonderful shine. Now go tell your patrons that if Abe Goldsmith can sell sanitary napkins to a bachelor, he can sell them to a balaboste who wants to wax her floor.”
Once upon a time, decades ago, my grandparents owned a little grocery store in the old Jewish neighborhood in Chicago. My grandmother and mother ran the store, rolling herring and pickle barrels out onto the sidewalk at 5:00 AM in the frigid pre-dawn darkness.
But, my grandfather was a man of leisure. He came down to the store at 9:00, dressed in the flashy suit of a mafia don, complete with diamond pinky ring, checked yesterday’s receipts and disappeared, purportedly to go “to market.” Decades later, my mother disclosed that he always had a woman on the side. But that was back then when wives suffered silently through their husbands’ peccadilloes. So, my grandfather caroused like a tycoon, trying to hide that he was just another little storekeeper.
My grandfather benefited the store in only one way: He was a marketer par excellence. When Cross and Blackwell came out with a new flavor of jelly, he’d offer housewives tastes of it, something that no other immigrant grocer would have considered.
When the rumor spread that mayonnaise was a dairy product, housewives resisted for fear of mixing milk with meat. To combat the false report, my grandfather asked the Chasidic rebbe across the street to declare that mayonnaise was pareve. Then, he proceeded to tape copies of the official document to every lamppost in a mile radius.
My grandfather’s only near-mistake was trying to market women’s sanitary napkins. But, the idea of purchasing them at Abe Goldsmith’s grocery was beyond propriety.
For months, the crates of sanitary napkins remained untouched. Then one day, Louie Zaidman, a middle-aged bachelor, bought a package. A month passed, and Louie bought another. By now, the yentas were whispering to each other, “What was the ‘feigeleh’ doing with women’s private-ware?”
Finally, my grandfather got up the courage to ask.
“Goldsmith,” he answered, “there’s only one use for those shmattes. Every time I polish my Buick, they leave a wonderful shine. Now go tell your patrons that if Abe Goldsmith can sell sanitary napkins to a bachelor, he can sell them to a balaboste who wants to wax her floor.”
March 21, 2007
LESSONS IN NOTHINGNESS
What transcendent lessons might we learn from Britany’s downward careen?
“Absolutely none,” you’ll wearily answer. A once-innocent child, coached by her handlers and her own narcissism, has decomposed into an annoying, but entertaining, puddle of schadenfreude.
The expected litany of cliches: Britney . . . “too much too soon,” “both a cause and result of the slack-jawed empty-headedness of today’s youth,” “a symptom of society’s pervasive decadence,” “a grotesque image of self-indulgence gone wild,” “a basically stupid, big-breasted girl co-opted by greedy phonies,” “simply self-destructive.”
Beyond all the clichés, the transcendent message is to let Britney choke on her own vomit. Stop with the pity. Stop with the excuse-making. Stop with the compassion. Stop the limousines dropping her off and then taking her back to 90210 after her field trips to rehab. Marginalize her as a loser, just another deflowered flower out on the street on a collision course with coked up ‘ho-dom.
Britney’s path has been sabotaged by greedy faux-friends. Nonetheless, her path has been paved with gold. She blew it herself. She had assistance, but she also was guilty of rejecting a better way, presumably inculcated by parents, school, church, and small-town values.
But now transcend Britney and consider people living in squalor on the streets.
Most of us do not pity them, nor make excuses, nor show them understanding and the benefit of doubt, nor send limousines to pick them up and drop them off. At best, maybe they get is a corndog and a mat in a shelter, then to be booted back on the streets at 6:00 AM. They roil in their own vomit, some of them because they blew it via alcohol, drugs, or shiftlessness.
But a majority of the homeless are out on the streets due to no fault of their own. They are there because of domestic violence, mental illness, lack of education and marketable job skills. Only a small minority of them will ever be in place to transition out of homelessness, because those resources are so pitifully scarce.
The homeless should not be relegated to the streets, but they are. Britney, in her lucrative self-inflicted destructiveness, should be. But she will likely never be relegated to a taste of the mean streets, but she should be.
This is the transcendent lesson of Britney’s self-debauchery: We who are warmly ensconced in the Upper Middle Class, just like me, have never tasted the bitterness of the streets, a descent from phony self-sufficiency to pathos to nothingness. Maybe an encounter with helplessness would so enlighten us to come away humbled, more cherishing of that which is sacred in our lives, understanding of the reality of the human condition, no longer so oblivious of love of neighbor and love of God.
A friend of mine, an orthodox rabbi in his 50’s, took the self-challenge to the extreme, at the advice of a Presbyterian colleague. My friend would take only the clothes on his back, a clean towel, and a knapsack. He would randomly pinpoint a town, fly there, and – devoid of any money or resources – find his way back home.
Upon his return, he spoke to me of the nights spent in shelters, sleeping on the streets, begging to sweep out a bar for $2 an hour, where the best place to hitchhike are (truck stops), learning how to beg, adapting to nothingness. My friend, a genius, scion of great rabbinical families, Johns Hopkins credentials, got a third of the way back home, from Buffalo to Atlanta, in a week.
He know that he would return to Upper Middle Class-dom. Regardless, the changes to him brought on not only stories, but encounters so core-shattering and life-shaking that they gave birth in him empathy, understanding, and self-doubts that he had never before experienced. The transformation of a life.
This is precisely what Britney, stripped of all pretension, needs. It’s likely what every one of us needs: an encounter with nothingness, a descent into relentless urban squalor.
Need we ourselves go on that same sobering journey? Is that what it would take to open our hearts and souls?
What transcendent lessons might we learn from Britany’s downward careen?
“Absolutely none,” you’ll wearily answer. A once-innocent child, coached by her handlers and her own narcissism, has decomposed into an annoying, but entertaining, puddle of schadenfreude.
The expected litany of cliches: Britney . . . “too much too soon,” “both a cause and result of the slack-jawed empty-headedness of today’s youth,” “a symptom of society’s pervasive decadence,” “a grotesque image of self-indulgence gone wild,” “a basically stupid, big-breasted girl co-opted by greedy phonies,” “simply self-destructive.”
Beyond all the clichés, the transcendent message is to let Britney choke on her own vomit. Stop with the pity. Stop with the excuse-making. Stop with the compassion. Stop the limousines dropping her off and then taking her back to 90210 after her field trips to rehab. Marginalize her as a loser, just another deflowered flower out on the street on a collision course with coked up ‘ho-dom.
Britney’s path has been sabotaged by greedy faux-friends. Nonetheless, her path has been paved with gold. She blew it herself. She had assistance, but she also was guilty of rejecting a better way, presumably inculcated by parents, school, church, and small-town values.
But now transcend Britney and consider people living in squalor on the streets.
Most of us do not pity them, nor make excuses, nor show them understanding and the benefit of doubt, nor send limousines to pick them up and drop them off. At best, maybe they get is a corndog and a mat in a shelter, then to be booted back on the streets at 6:00 AM. They roil in their own vomit, some of them because they blew it via alcohol, drugs, or shiftlessness.
But a majority of the homeless are out on the streets due to no fault of their own. They are there because of domestic violence, mental illness, lack of education and marketable job skills. Only a small minority of them will ever be in place to transition out of homelessness, because those resources are so pitifully scarce.
The homeless should not be relegated to the streets, but they are. Britney, in her lucrative self-inflicted destructiveness, should be. But she will likely never be relegated to a taste of the mean streets, but she should be.
This is the transcendent lesson of Britney’s self-debauchery: We who are warmly ensconced in the Upper Middle Class, just like me, have never tasted the bitterness of the streets, a descent from phony self-sufficiency to pathos to nothingness. Maybe an encounter with helplessness would so enlighten us to come away humbled, more cherishing of that which is sacred in our lives, understanding of the reality of the human condition, no longer so oblivious of love of neighbor and love of God.
A friend of mine, an orthodox rabbi in his 50’s, took the self-challenge to the extreme, at the advice of a Presbyterian colleague. My friend would take only the clothes on his back, a clean towel, and a knapsack. He would randomly pinpoint a town, fly there, and – devoid of any money or resources – find his way back home.
Upon his return, he spoke to me of the nights spent in shelters, sleeping on the streets, begging to sweep out a bar for $2 an hour, where the best place to hitchhike are (truck stops), learning how to beg, adapting to nothingness. My friend, a genius, scion of great rabbinical families, Johns Hopkins credentials, got a third of the way back home, from Buffalo to Atlanta, in a week.
He know that he would return to Upper Middle Class-dom. Regardless, the changes to him brought on not only stories, but encounters so core-shattering and life-shaking that they gave birth in him empathy, understanding, and self-doubts that he had never before experienced. The transformation of a life.
This is precisely what Britney, stripped of all pretension, needs. It’s likely what every one of us needs: an encounter with nothingness, a descent into relentless urban squalor.
Need we ourselves go on that same sobering journey? Is that what it would take to open our hearts and souls?
March 06, 2007
A MASHKE MARTINI
Scotch or vodka, it makes no difference to me. Pour me three shots of Glenlivet or Grey Goose, and I’m a happy man, gleefully under the table.
However, the discriminating palate of my Lubavitch friends prefers “white” liquor (vodka), over “brown,” (scotch, bourbon, etc.) Indeed, they simply call white “mashke – the beverage par excellence.”
Why “white” above “brown”? Perhaps the answer derives from kashrut: Brown could attain some of its darkness by adding goyische wine, rendering it unkosher. White, could not be polluted.
I recently had conversation with a young Lubavitcher about drinking white mashke. He whispered to me that he had hard time drinking vodka – nausea, headache, horrific hangover. He craved, he said, to have the same celebratory, euphoric buzz that his friends enjoyed at the various Chasidic functions, while he was busy steering the porcelain bowl.
I have decades of experience in drinking white, so I offered him unsolicited advice. I told him: “Chill the mashke, almost to the point of freezing. Only use the best vodka, nothing less than Stolichnaya. Then, pour it into a broad glass. Shot-glasses are used to measure, not drink. Why broad? Mashke must be allowed to breathe, so that its bouquet is savored. And, I bet you’re drinking it with cake or nauseating sweets. Sweets make mashke disgusting. Good mashke deserves something salty. Do you like olives? Try soaking some of them in the mashke. Then, sip it. No more shots.”
A few months went by. We encountered each other. Yes, his friends consider him a heretic, but it was a price he was willing to pay for a buzz without a retching hangover. And the best benefit, he said, was that his bride-to-be was no longer furious with him, nor did she have to clean his shoes the next morning.
So, he is a heretic. But, if Lubavitch has evolved into the age of laptops, iPods, and satellites, why shouldn’t they bring the same modernity to the mashke they drink?
And along the way, no one will realize that I have just taught them how to transform the yesterday’s “white mashke” into a beverage that they will never know is a really great Martini.
Scotch or vodka, it makes no difference to me. Pour me three shots of Glenlivet or Grey Goose, and I’m a happy man, gleefully under the table.
However, the discriminating palate of my Lubavitch friends prefers “white” liquor (vodka), over “brown,” (scotch, bourbon, etc.) Indeed, they simply call white “mashke – the beverage par excellence.”
Why “white” above “brown”? Perhaps the answer derives from kashrut: Brown could attain some of its darkness by adding goyische wine, rendering it unkosher. White, could not be polluted.
I recently had conversation with a young Lubavitcher about drinking white mashke. He whispered to me that he had hard time drinking vodka – nausea, headache, horrific hangover. He craved, he said, to have the same celebratory, euphoric buzz that his friends enjoyed at the various Chasidic functions, while he was busy steering the porcelain bowl.
I have decades of experience in drinking white, so I offered him unsolicited advice. I told him: “Chill the mashke, almost to the point of freezing. Only use the best vodka, nothing less than Stolichnaya. Then, pour it into a broad glass. Shot-glasses are used to measure, not drink. Why broad? Mashke must be allowed to breathe, so that its bouquet is savored. And, I bet you’re drinking it with cake or nauseating sweets. Sweets make mashke disgusting. Good mashke deserves something salty. Do you like olives? Try soaking some of them in the mashke. Then, sip it. No more shots.”
A few months went by. We encountered each other. Yes, his friends consider him a heretic, but it was a price he was willing to pay for a buzz without a retching hangover. And the best benefit, he said, was that his bride-to-be was no longer furious with him, nor did she have to clean his shoes the next morning.
So, he is a heretic. But, if Lubavitch has evolved into the age of laptops, iPods, and satellites, why shouldn’t they bring the same modernity to the mashke they drink?
And along the way, no one will realize that I have just taught them how to transform the yesterday’s “white mashke” into a beverage that they will never know is a really great Martini.
KUGEL AT THE MEAT-AND-THREE
Have you ever eaten at a “meat-and-three”?
Chances are not, unless you have visited my hometown in rural America. There are at least 25 meat-and-three restaurants within a 16-kilometer radius from where I live. The common denominator among them is that they all serve the simplest food in the simplest manner: one plain main course chosen from the likes of meat loaf, chicken, fried fish, and three side dishes selected from among pickled beets, peas, beans, squash, bread pudding, and the other foodstuffs you would expect a yokel to eat.
I have had occasion to dine (fish, not ham) at a local meat-and-three and have always enjoyed it. Ironically, I have recently been ordained as a local meat-and-three expert under the pseudonym, “Rabbi Ribeye,” because of my newspaper column and forthcoming television show. The premise of my column and show is to travel throughout rural America, sampling the cooking and chatting with the cooks and diners.
Knowing the proprietors of a local meat-and-three, I proposed to them a novel idea: Let me cook a tray of potato kugel, I asked, and offer it as one of the three side dishes for a couple of days. We’ll see who eats it and what their reaction is, without telling them that it is quintessential Jewish food. Let’s see if the word gets out and the diners eat more and more kugel each day.
Well, need I tell you that it was such a tremendous success that it now appears on the menu every day and has become a favorite among the yokels, never knowing that it is “Jew-food”?
Then I tried the same with matzo-ball soup, with resounding results. The ultimate success came with my chopped liver, which many of the goyim declared “better than ham-and-cheese.”
Oy, what a victory for God’s chosen people. The local meat-and-three was being slowly converted to a classical Jewish delicatessen, just as the local gentiles were unwittingly being converted to Judaism.
I take no credit for this discovery. All honor goes to God. One can only assume that the goyim stood there with us at the foot of Mount Sinai, and instead of manna, they insisted on ordering meat-and-three.
Have you ever eaten at a “meat-and-three”?
Chances are not, unless you have visited my hometown in rural America. There are at least 25 meat-and-three restaurants within a 16-kilometer radius from where I live. The common denominator among them is that they all serve the simplest food in the simplest manner: one plain main course chosen from the likes of meat loaf, chicken, fried fish, and three side dishes selected from among pickled beets, peas, beans, squash, bread pudding, and the other foodstuffs you would expect a yokel to eat.
I have had occasion to dine (fish, not ham) at a local meat-and-three and have always enjoyed it. Ironically, I have recently been ordained as a local meat-and-three expert under the pseudonym, “Rabbi Ribeye,” because of my newspaper column and forthcoming television show. The premise of my column and show is to travel throughout rural America, sampling the cooking and chatting with the cooks and diners.
Knowing the proprietors of a local meat-and-three, I proposed to them a novel idea: Let me cook a tray of potato kugel, I asked, and offer it as one of the three side dishes for a couple of days. We’ll see who eats it and what their reaction is, without telling them that it is quintessential Jewish food. Let’s see if the word gets out and the diners eat more and more kugel each day.
Well, need I tell you that it was such a tremendous success that it now appears on the menu every day and has become a favorite among the yokels, never knowing that it is “Jew-food”?
Then I tried the same with matzo-ball soup, with resounding results. The ultimate success came with my chopped liver, which many of the goyim declared “better than ham-and-cheese.”
Oy, what a victory for God’s chosen people. The local meat-and-three was being slowly converted to a classical Jewish delicatessen, just as the local gentiles were unwittingly being converted to Judaism.
I take no credit for this discovery. All honor goes to God. One can only assume that the goyim stood there with us at the foot of Mount Sinai, and instead of manna, they insisted on ordering meat-and-three.
February 25, 2007
AN AMERICAN IN VICHY PARIS
What is left to tell you about my home town, Greenville? Twenty years ago, its downtown was a foreboding moonscape. Ten years ago, Mayor Heller, a Viennese Holocaust survivor, resurrected downtown.
Nightlife on Main Street has become the signature of downtown’s vitality. Successful new restaurants sprung up. On weekends, sidewalk cafes jam the traffic.
Linda and I love to stroll the downtown streets, and enjoy cuisine that ranges from pizza to Thai. After all, how else would someone weighing 220 kg judge the quality of downtown?
Ah, but where were the French? Only one French restaurant in the entire city.
I am inclined to say, “Who cares?” My disdain for the snooty French is equal to that of any self-respecting Jew. Yet, consider my foray into Greenville’s only French restaurant an exercise in morbid curiosity.
My first clue was that it was the only restaurant up-and-down Main Street that wasn’t full of patrons, despite its welcoming name, “An American in Paris.” Perhaps, we thought, the potential diners who walked by the place knew something we didn’t. Of course.
The cuisine – consciously or not – was a clear-cut case of anti-Semitism:
The tea was an anemic, tepid green. It was nothing like the robust, boiling, honey-brown Swee-Touch-Nee that honorable Jews use to wash down a heavy Shabbos lunch.
Linda ordered a salmon sandwich and made sure that it contained no pork. Out it came garnished with slices of bacon. Upon questioning the server, she protested, “bacon is not pork.”
Meanwhile, I opted for salade au saumon fume, which arrived as salade au babeurre of lettuce piled six inches high and two shards of lox, decorated with crabmeat. Again, we were told, “crabmeat is just like fish.”
The accompanying roll looked like barches, until the first bite hit my palate like mush. Finally, we ordered a Sacher torte, filled not with delectable Viennese chocolate, but with gooey pudding.
Yes, the menu was a clear exercise in anti-Semitism. No wonder no one was there, for the restaurant’s name in tiny letters read “An American in (Vichy) Paris.”
Shame on them for the deception. But we should have known better, on the night we went to see “I Am My Own Wife.”
What is left to tell you about my home town, Greenville? Twenty years ago, its downtown was a foreboding moonscape. Ten years ago, Mayor Heller, a Viennese Holocaust survivor, resurrected downtown.
Nightlife on Main Street has become the signature of downtown’s vitality. Successful new restaurants sprung up. On weekends, sidewalk cafes jam the traffic.
Linda and I love to stroll the downtown streets, and enjoy cuisine that ranges from pizza to Thai. After all, how else would someone weighing 220 kg judge the quality of downtown?
Ah, but where were the French? Only one French restaurant in the entire city.
I am inclined to say, “Who cares?” My disdain for the snooty French is equal to that of any self-respecting Jew. Yet, consider my foray into Greenville’s only French restaurant an exercise in morbid curiosity.
My first clue was that it was the only restaurant up-and-down Main Street that wasn’t full of patrons, despite its welcoming name, “An American in Paris.” Perhaps, we thought, the potential diners who walked by the place knew something we didn’t. Of course.
The cuisine – consciously or not – was a clear-cut case of anti-Semitism:
The tea was an anemic, tepid green. It was nothing like the robust, boiling, honey-brown Swee-Touch-Nee that honorable Jews use to wash down a heavy Shabbos lunch.
Linda ordered a salmon sandwich and made sure that it contained no pork. Out it came garnished with slices of bacon. Upon questioning the server, she protested, “bacon is not pork.”
Meanwhile, I opted for salade au saumon fume, which arrived as salade au babeurre of lettuce piled six inches high and two shards of lox, decorated with crabmeat. Again, we were told, “crabmeat is just like fish.”
The accompanying roll looked like barches, until the first bite hit my palate like mush. Finally, we ordered a Sacher torte, filled not with delectable Viennese chocolate, but with gooey pudding.
Yes, the menu was a clear exercise in anti-Semitism. No wonder no one was there, for the restaurant’s name in tiny letters read “An American in (Vichy) Paris.”
Shame on them for the deception. But we should have known better, on the night we went to see “I Am My Own Wife.”
THE STATEMENT THAT SILENCE MAKES
They weave together its diversity and mend the vacuous “moment of silence” as we become communities united through prayer, not disunited by acrimony.
This is going to seem crazy coming from the pen of a Rabbi and intrepid liberal: Another South Carolina public forum, the Oconee County Council, was wrong in forbidding an invocation at its meetings, in deference to a moment of silence.
A moment of silence is precisely that: Silence. Yes, it may mean a moment of thoughtful reflection. It might be an all-too-precious opportunity to elevate ones heart and spirit beyond the mundane, that the affairs of state be guided by justice and equity.
But, a moment of silence, by dint of human nature, has likewise opened two minutes to chew gum, contemplate the dinner menu, or simply dawdle in emptiness. I dare say that most of the worshippers in our pews use an entire Sabbath for precisely those purposes!
Prayer on public occasions is a good thing because it makes an affirmative statement of God’s presence not merely in church/synagogue, but in the common avenues of life. For those people who find public prayer odious, the prayerful moment is still an opportunity for thoughtful reflection before everyone starts slogging around in taxes and culvert routes. If the noise of prayer interrupts the meditation, it’s no great task to “tune it out,” as my dad would tell my mother about annoyances, a classical army-officer response.
Ah, would it only be that the prayers were inspiring, but nonsectarian? Yes and no. Pastors who have sensitivity and wisdom will offer inclusive prayers that enfranchise the entire community in the commonweal. Some pastors might even momentarily suspend their own faith dogma to draw the community together in the spirit of at-one-ness.
Certainly, most of us look at God and His/Her way with the world through our personal filter. But let us agree that for all faiths – and perhaps even some atheists – our threshold understanding of God is that S/He is the sum total of all the creative and moral forces of the universe, and thus infinite. Most of us believe more of God than that, but it is certainly a good place to start.
What, however, of the pastor whose system of belief compels only sectarian prayer, as some Christians believe that God hears prayers only if they are offered through the intercession of Jesus. This matter is no more problematic than the Jewish dogma that God is absolute oneness, not comprised of the Trinity. Or, likewise the Catholic fealty to the Pope.
But, we should not see prayer as something offered in the spirit of exclusivity. To the contrary, we should be delighted to be a community that is a tapestry of prayerful idioms which testify to an interweaving that makes us all one peoplehood. I celebrate the various idioms of prayer whether or not I defer to their doctrines: white and African Americans in their own diverse idioms, my yarmulke and the affirmation that “The Lord is One,” and the Muslim proclaiming “Allahu akbar!”
I love the diversity of prayer as a statement of unity before a likely contentious meeting to follow. Would only our prayers for lovingkindness be answered and turned from aspirations to action. A naïve aspiration? Naïve aspirations are precisely what prayer is about.
So, “in the name of Jesus,” “Shema Yisrael,” “Bismellah,” and all the others do precisely the opposite of dividing a community. They weave together its diversity and mend the vacuous “moment of silence” as we become communities united through prayer, not disunited by acrimony.
Oxymoronic as it may seem, the sound of silence hurts and does not help a community’s wellbeing. Prayerful aspirations do.
They weave together its diversity and mend the vacuous “moment of silence” as we become communities united through prayer, not disunited by acrimony.
This is going to seem crazy coming from the pen of a Rabbi and intrepid liberal: Another South Carolina public forum, the Oconee County Council, was wrong in forbidding an invocation at its meetings, in deference to a moment of silence.
A moment of silence is precisely that: Silence. Yes, it may mean a moment of thoughtful reflection. It might be an all-too-precious opportunity to elevate ones heart and spirit beyond the mundane, that the affairs of state be guided by justice and equity.
But, a moment of silence, by dint of human nature, has likewise opened two minutes to chew gum, contemplate the dinner menu, or simply dawdle in emptiness. I dare say that most of the worshippers in our pews use an entire Sabbath for precisely those purposes!
Prayer on public occasions is a good thing because it makes an affirmative statement of God’s presence not merely in church/synagogue, but in the common avenues of life. For those people who find public prayer odious, the prayerful moment is still an opportunity for thoughtful reflection before everyone starts slogging around in taxes and culvert routes. If the noise of prayer interrupts the meditation, it’s no great task to “tune it out,” as my dad would tell my mother about annoyances, a classical army-officer response.
Ah, would it only be that the prayers were inspiring, but nonsectarian? Yes and no. Pastors who have sensitivity and wisdom will offer inclusive prayers that enfranchise the entire community in the commonweal. Some pastors might even momentarily suspend their own faith dogma to draw the community together in the spirit of at-one-ness.
Certainly, most of us look at God and His/Her way with the world through our personal filter. But let us agree that for all faiths – and perhaps even some atheists – our threshold understanding of God is that S/He is the sum total of all the creative and moral forces of the universe, and thus infinite. Most of us believe more of God than that, but it is certainly a good place to start.
What, however, of the pastor whose system of belief compels only sectarian prayer, as some Christians believe that God hears prayers only if they are offered through the intercession of Jesus. This matter is no more problematic than the Jewish dogma that God is absolute oneness, not comprised of the Trinity. Or, likewise the Catholic fealty to the Pope.
But, we should not see prayer as something offered in the spirit of exclusivity. To the contrary, we should be delighted to be a community that is a tapestry of prayerful idioms which testify to an interweaving that makes us all one peoplehood. I celebrate the various idioms of prayer whether or not I defer to their doctrines: white and African Americans in their own diverse idioms, my yarmulke and the affirmation that “The Lord is One,” and the Muslim proclaiming “Allahu akbar!”
I love the diversity of prayer as a statement of unity before a likely contentious meeting to follow. Would only our prayers for lovingkindness be answered and turned from aspirations to action. A naïve aspiration? Naïve aspirations are precisely what prayer is about.
So, “in the name of Jesus,” “Shema Yisrael,” “Bismellah,” and all the others do precisely the opposite of dividing a community. They weave together its diversity and mend the vacuous “moment of silence” as we become communities united through prayer, not disunited by acrimony.
Oxymoronic as it may seem, the sound of silence hurts and does not help a community’s wellbeing. Prayerful aspirations do.
THE DESCENT TO NOTHINGNESS
What transcendent lessons might we learn from Britany’s downward careen?
“Absolutely none,” you’ll wearily answer. A once-innocent child, coached by her handlers and her own narcissism, has decomposed into an annoying, but entertaining, puddle of schadenfreude.
The expected litany of cliches: Britney . . . “too much too soon,” “both a cause and result of the slack-jawed empty-headedness of today’s youth,” “a symptom of society’s pervasive decadence,” “a grotesque image of self-indulgence gone wild,” “a basically stupid, big-breasted girl co-opted by greedy phonies,” “simply self-destructive.”
Beyond all the clichés, the transcendent message is to let Britney choke on her own vomit. Stop with the pity. Stop with the excuse-making. Stop with the compassion. Stop the limousines dropping her off and then taking her back to 90210 after her field trips to rehab. Marginalize her as a loser, just another deflowered flower out on the street on a collision course with coked up ‘ho-dom.
Britney’s path has been sabotaged by greedy faux-friends. Nonetheless, her path has been paved with gold. She blew it herself. She had assistance, but she also was guilty of rejecting a better way, presumably inculcated by parents, school, church, and small-town values.
But now transcend Britney and consider people living in squalor on the streets. Most of us do not pity them, nor make excuses, nor show them understanding and the benefit of doubt, nor send limousines to pick them up and drop them off. At best, maybe they get is a corndog and a mat in a shelter, then to be booted back on the streets at 6:00 AM. They roil in their own vomit, some of them because they blew it via alcohol, drugs, or shiftlessness. But a majority of the homeless are out on the streets due to no fault of their own. They are there because of domestic violence, mental illness, lack of education and marketable job skills. Only a small minority of them will ever be in place to transition out of homelessness, because those resources are so pitifully scarce.
The homeless should not be relegated to the streets, but they are. Britney, in her lucrative self-inflicted destructiveness, should be. But she will likely never be relegated to a taste of the mean streets, but she should be.
This is the transcendent lesson of Britney’s self-debauchery: We who are warmly ensconced in the Upper Middle Class, just like me, have never tasted the bitterness of the streets, a descent from phony self-sufficiency to pathos to nothingness. Maybe an encounter with helplessness would so enlighten us to come away humbled, more cherishing of that which is sacred in our lives, understanding of the reality of the human condition, no longer so oblivious of love of neighbor and love of God.
A friend of mine, an orthodox rabbi in his 50’s, took the self-challenge to the extreme, at the advice of a Presbyterian colleague. My friend would take only the clothes on his back, a clean towel, and a knapsack. He would randomly pinpoint a town, fly there, and – devoid of any money or resources – find his way back home.
Upon his return, he spoke to me of the nights spent in shelters, sleeping on the streets, begging to sweep out a bar for $2 an hour, where the best place to hitchhike are (truck stops), learning how to beg, adapting to nothingness. My friend, a genius, scion of great rabbinical families, Johns Hopkins credentials, got a third of the way back home, from Buffalo to Atlanta, in a week.
He know that he would return to Upper Middle Class-dom. Regardless, the changes to him brought on not only stories, but encounters so core-shattering and life-shaking that they gave birth in him empathy, understanding, and self-doubts that he had never before experienced. The transformation of a life.
This is precisely what Britney, stripped of all pretension, needs. It’s likely what every one of usl need: an encounter with nothingness, a descent into relentless urban squalor.
Need we ourselves go on that same sobering journey? Is that what it would take to open our hearts and souls?
What transcendent lessons might we learn from Britany’s downward careen?
“Absolutely none,” you’ll wearily answer. A once-innocent child, coached by her handlers and her own narcissism, has decomposed into an annoying, but entertaining, puddle of schadenfreude.
The expected litany of cliches: Britney . . . “too much too soon,” “both a cause and result of the slack-jawed empty-headedness of today’s youth,” “a symptom of society’s pervasive decadence,” “a grotesque image of self-indulgence gone wild,” “a basically stupid, big-breasted girl co-opted by greedy phonies,” “simply self-destructive.”
Beyond all the clichés, the transcendent message is to let Britney choke on her own vomit. Stop with the pity. Stop with the excuse-making. Stop with the compassion. Stop the limousines dropping her off and then taking her back to 90210 after her field trips to rehab. Marginalize her as a loser, just another deflowered flower out on the street on a collision course with coked up ‘ho-dom.
Britney’s path has been sabotaged by greedy faux-friends. Nonetheless, her path has been paved with gold. She blew it herself. She had assistance, but she also was guilty of rejecting a better way, presumably inculcated by parents, school, church, and small-town values.
But now transcend Britney and consider people living in squalor on the streets. Most of us do not pity them, nor make excuses, nor show them understanding and the benefit of doubt, nor send limousines to pick them up and drop them off. At best, maybe they get is a corndog and a mat in a shelter, then to be booted back on the streets at 6:00 AM. They roil in their own vomit, some of them because they blew it via alcohol, drugs, or shiftlessness. But a majority of the homeless are out on the streets due to no fault of their own. They are there because of domestic violence, mental illness, lack of education and marketable job skills. Only a small minority of them will ever be in place to transition out of homelessness, because those resources are so pitifully scarce.
The homeless should not be relegated to the streets, but they are. Britney, in her lucrative self-inflicted destructiveness, should be. But she will likely never be relegated to a taste of the mean streets, but she should be.
This is the transcendent lesson of Britney’s self-debauchery: We who are warmly ensconced in the Upper Middle Class, just like me, have never tasted the bitterness of the streets, a descent from phony self-sufficiency to pathos to nothingness. Maybe an encounter with helplessness would so enlighten us to come away humbled, more cherishing of that which is sacred in our lives, understanding of the reality of the human condition, no longer so oblivious of love of neighbor and love of God.
A friend of mine, an orthodox rabbi in his 50’s, took the self-challenge to the extreme, at the advice of a Presbyterian colleague. My friend would take only the clothes on his back, a clean towel, and a knapsack. He would randomly pinpoint a town, fly there, and – devoid of any money or resources – find his way back home.
Upon his return, he spoke to me of the nights spent in shelters, sleeping on the streets, begging to sweep out a bar for $2 an hour, where the best place to hitchhike are (truck stops), learning how to beg, adapting to nothingness. My friend, a genius, scion of great rabbinical families, Johns Hopkins credentials, got a third of the way back home, from Buffalo to Atlanta, in a week.
He know that he would return to Upper Middle Class-dom. Regardless, the changes to him brought on not only stories, but encounters so core-shattering and life-shaking that they gave birth in him empathy, understanding, and self-doubts that he had never before experienced. The transformation of a life.
This is precisely what Britney, stripped of all pretension, needs. It’s likely what every one of usl need: an encounter with nothingness, a descent into relentless urban squalor.
Need we ourselves go on that same sobering journey? Is that what it would take to open our hearts and souls?
January 24, 2007
AN AMERICAN IN (VICHY) PARIS
What is left to tell you about my home town, Greenville? Twenty years ago, its downtown was a foreboding moonscape. Ten years ago, Mayor Heller, a Viennese Holocaust survivor, resurrected it.
Nightlife on Main Street has become the signature of downtown’s vitality. Successful new restaurants have sprung up. On weekends, sidewalk cafes jam the traffic.
Linda and I love to stroll the downtown streets, and enjoy cuisine that ranges from pizza to Thai. After all, how else would someone weighing 220 kg judge the quality of downtown?
Ah, but where were the French? Only one French restaurant in the entire city.
I am inclined to say, “Who cares?” My disdain for the snooty French is equal to that of any self-respecting Jew. Yet, consider my foray into Greenville’s only French restaurant an exercise in morbid curiosity.
My first clue was that it was the only restaurant up-and-down Main Street that wasn’t full of patrons, despite its welcoming name, “An American in Paris.” Perhaps, we thought, the potential diners who walked by the place knew something we didn’t. Of course.
The cuisine – consciously or not – was a clear-cut case of anti-Semitism:
The tea was an anemic, tepid green. It was nothing like the robust, boiling, honey-brown Swee-Touch-Nee that honorable Jews use to wash down a heavy Shabbos lunch.
Linda ordered a salmon sandwich and made sure that it contained no pork. Out it came garnished with slices of bacon. Upon questioning the server, she protested, “bacon is not pork.”
Meanwhile, I opted for salade au saumon fume, which arrived as salade au babeurre of lettuce piled six inches high and two shards of lox, decorated with crabmeat. Again, we were told, “crabmeat is just like fish.”
The accompanying roll looked like barches, until the first bite hit my palate like mush. Finally, we ordered a Sacher torte, filled not with delectable Viennese chocolate, but with gooey pudding.
Yes, the menu was a clear exercise in anti-Semitism. No wonder no one was there, for the restaurant’s name in tiny letters read “An American in (Vichy) Paris.”
Shame on them for the deception. But we should have known better, on the night we went to see “I Am My Own Wife.”
What is left to tell you about my home town, Greenville? Twenty years ago, its downtown was a foreboding moonscape. Ten years ago, Mayor Heller, a Viennese Holocaust survivor, resurrected it.
Nightlife on Main Street has become the signature of downtown’s vitality. Successful new restaurants have sprung up. On weekends, sidewalk cafes jam the traffic.
Linda and I love to stroll the downtown streets, and enjoy cuisine that ranges from pizza to Thai. After all, how else would someone weighing 220 kg judge the quality of downtown?
Ah, but where were the French? Only one French restaurant in the entire city.
I am inclined to say, “Who cares?” My disdain for the snooty French is equal to that of any self-respecting Jew. Yet, consider my foray into Greenville’s only French restaurant an exercise in morbid curiosity.
My first clue was that it was the only restaurant up-and-down Main Street that wasn’t full of patrons, despite its welcoming name, “An American in Paris.” Perhaps, we thought, the potential diners who walked by the place knew something we didn’t. Of course.
The cuisine – consciously or not – was a clear-cut case of anti-Semitism:
The tea was an anemic, tepid green. It was nothing like the robust, boiling, honey-brown Swee-Touch-Nee that honorable Jews use to wash down a heavy Shabbos lunch.
Linda ordered a salmon sandwich and made sure that it contained no pork. Out it came garnished with slices of bacon. Upon questioning the server, she protested, “bacon is not pork.”
Meanwhile, I opted for salade au saumon fume, which arrived as salade au babeurre of lettuce piled six inches high and two shards of lox, decorated with crabmeat. Again, we were told, “crabmeat is just like fish.”
The accompanying roll looked like barches, until the first bite hit my palate like mush. Finally, we ordered a Sacher torte, filled not with delectable Viennese chocolate, but with gooey pudding.
Yes, the menu was a clear exercise in anti-Semitism. No wonder no one was there, for the restaurant’s name in tiny letters read “An American in (Vichy) Paris.”
Shame on them for the deception. But we should have known better, on the night we went to see “I Am My Own Wife.”
January 06, 2007
SETTING A TERM TO DISGRACE
Somewhere in a basement box rests a editorial cartoon, circa 1973, of Watergate snitch John Dean wearing a button declaring, “Nixon’s the One!” By the next year, Nixon had resigned. A month later, Ford pardoned Nixon. For years to come, Ford was hung out to dry.
Now in his death, we adulate Ford’s decision as self-sacrificial and courageously conciliatory. Time has vindicated him, and well it should. He intrepidly led us to the beginning of reconciliation.
Regardless, America is still not kind to the spat-upon. We have lived through the scandalizing of Nixon, philandering Clinton, Foley, Haggard, e t al. Deservedly or nor, their foibles have fed America’s insatiable appetite for schadenfreude, the delight in someone else’s troubles.
If you are wise, you ignore it. If you are gutsy, you denounce it. But chances are that you publicly eschew it, but privately relish each tawdry detail. If you are its object, you die a thousand deaths only to be resurrected to someone else’s salacious jokes. A society that luxuriates in scandal must always have a bogeyman to slake its blood lust and to reassure itself that real evil lurks menacingly "out there" not "in here." It is the stuff of beasts victoriously circling their prey before moving in for the kill.
Let us not trivialize the consequences of wrongdoing and moral corruption. Avarice, unbridled ambition, and lust are acts of betrayal that deserve accountability and recompense. But, the punishment that the subjects of our derision withstand also should not be trivialized. We have contrived an elaborate ritual of humiliation to destroy any last pretenses of dignity to which a public wrongdoer might cling:
The social analysis of wrongdoer and wrongdoing become sanctimonious debate on Nightline and Face the Nation. Then the salacious expose on O’Reilly to his self-righteous mob. The ritual is complete, as one becomes the butt of jokes in a Letterman Top Ten and joining a list of pop-culture nouns and adjectives: Anyone over 18 (12?) knows the sexual implications of “a Lewinsky.”
The only chance we have of distinguishing ourselves from beasts is to create a countervailing "rite of reconciliation," a national temperament that is just as zealous in welcoming the penitent as it is to humiliate the sinner. We know too well, what one must do to fall from grace. We have little sense of what one must do to regain honor.
What penance must Foley and Haggard perform to regain public honor? How much time must a shamed Nixon spend being subjected to derision?
Should we not at least ponder the time that should elapse, the quantum of worthy deeds one should perform, the changes in demeanor and attitude one should evince, before he may re-ingratiate himself as a respected member of the community?
This rite of reconciliation, however, is not a media-hyped jailhouse conversion followed by a tell-all book ballyhooed on Oprah that paves the road from sinner to saint. That is just another snack to feed society's insatiable appetite for public spectacle.
No, the real rite of reconciliation demands more from the smirk-faced good-guys in the pews than it does from the sinner. It calls us to account for all the righteous Judeo-Christian virtues we piously affirm each Sabbath, only to betray them each weekday – virtues like forgiveness, tolerance, abhorrence of sin but not sinner, the granting of second chances. Creating a rite of reconciliation means to forge a communal mind-set that demands no more penance from those we have condemned than we would want for ourselves, were we someday to be held accountable for all the lofty values we have preached with our lips but then denied by our deeds.
People who have now fallen from grace, the ones we were too eager to strip of their humanity, deserve a chance, maybe even two, to regain our trust and our respect. Ford pardoned the errant Nixon only to suffer his own derision. Will we ever welcome the once bogeymen so much with our hearts as we do with our tar and feathers?
Somewhere in a basement box rests a editorial cartoon, circa 1973, of Watergate snitch John Dean wearing a button declaring, “Nixon’s the One!” By the next year, Nixon had resigned. A month later, Ford pardoned Nixon. For years to come, Ford was hung out to dry.
Now in his death, we adulate Ford’s decision as self-sacrificial and courageously conciliatory. Time has vindicated him, and well it should. He intrepidly led us to the beginning of reconciliation.
Regardless, America is still not kind to the spat-upon. We have lived through the scandalizing of Nixon, philandering Clinton, Foley, Haggard, e t al. Deservedly or nor, their foibles have fed America’s insatiable appetite for schadenfreude, the delight in someone else’s troubles.
If you are wise, you ignore it. If you are gutsy, you denounce it. But chances are that you publicly eschew it, but privately relish each tawdry detail. If you are its object, you die a thousand deaths only to be resurrected to someone else’s salacious jokes. A society that luxuriates in scandal must always have a bogeyman to slake its blood lust and to reassure itself that real evil lurks menacingly "out there" not "in here." It is the stuff of beasts victoriously circling their prey before moving in for the kill.
Let us not trivialize the consequences of wrongdoing and moral corruption. Avarice, unbridled ambition, and lust are acts of betrayal that deserve accountability and recompense. But, the punishment that the subjects of our derision withstand also should not be trivialized. We have contrived an elaborate ritual of humiliation to destroy any last pretenses of dignity to which a public wrongdoer might cling:
The social analysis of wrongdoer and wrongdoing become sanctimonious debate on Nightline and Face the Nation. Then the salacious expose on O’Reilly to his self-righteous mob. The ritual is complete, as one becomes the butt of jokes in a Letterman Top Ten and joining a list of pop-culture nouns and adjectives: Anyone over 18 (12?) knows the sexual implications of “a Lewinsky.”
The only chance we have of distinguishing ourselves from beasts is to create a countervailing "rite of reconciliation," a national temperament that is just as zealous in welcoming the penitent as it is to humiliate the sinner. We know too well, what one must do to fall from grace. We have little sense of what one must do to regain honor.
What penance must Foley and Haggard perform to regain public honor? How much time must a shamed Nixon spend being subjected to derision?
Should we not at least ponder the time that should elapse, the quantum of worthy deeds one should perform, the changes in demeanor and attitude one should evince, before he may re-ingratiate himself as a respected member of the community?
This rite of reconciliation, however, is not a media-hyped jailhouse conversion followed by a tell-all book ballyhooed on Oprah that paves the road from sinner to saint. That is just another snack to feed society's insatiable appetite for public spectacle.
No, the real rite of reconciliation demands more from the smirk-faced good-guys in the pews than it does from the sinner. It calls us to account for all the righteous Judeo-Christian virtues we piously affirm each Sabbath, only to betray them each weekday – virtues like forgiveness, tolerance, abhorrence of sin but not sinner, the granting of second chances. Creating a rite of reconciliation means to forge a communal mind-set that demands no more penance from those we have condemned than we would want for ourselves, were we someday to be held accountable for all the lofty values we have preached with our lips but then denied by our deeds.
People who have now fallen from grace, the ones we were too eager to strip of their humanity, deserve a chance, maybe even two, to regain our trust and our respect. Ford pardoned the errant Nixon only to suffer his own derision. Will we ever welcome the once bogeymen so much with our hearts as we do with our tar and feathers?
FLASH! IMMOLATED CHEF ANOINTED AS HIGH PRIEST
I seriously wonder whether Aaron the High Priest constantly had second-degree burns over his hands from frying up his sacrifices with olive oil. Better yet, do I become a Kohen Gadol because of all the times that I scald myself while I am attempting to cook with scorching olive oil? If so, then last week I was anointed with holy unguent and declared Kohen Gadol by a congregation of ten . . . er, uh . . . goyim.
The scenario: One of my Bar Mitzvah students is a little more eccentric than most 13-year-olds. He chants his Sidra only after he has spent time with me in the kitchen. On that one fateful day, we had planned to make a beef-barley soup. We were about to sauté some onions in EVOO (“extra virgin olive oil,” for you who don’t watch that chirping parakeet, Rachel Ray. Jealous? Me? Nah.)
Just then, flames leapt out of pot. While shoving my Bar-Mitzvah bochur to safety, I stuck my hand in the fire and burned it to what I assumed was glowing charcoal. Thanks be to God that miraculously I escaped with only two half-inch burns. Pin a medal on me. Hoo hah, such a hero.
Being of the upper middle class, our house, of course, is equipped with the biggest and best alarm, which instantly alerts the fire department every time I fry an egg.
I had already well doused the fire and sufficiently attended to my burns, when a police captain banged on the front door. He apparently handled these matters because he was so scrawny that he couldn’t save my dog from a titmouse. I calmly told him that no other emergency services were required.
By then, though, the fire department had already snaked its way down our narrow lane with a hook-and-ladder truck. Out of the truck leapt six firefighters, each dressed in full regalia and looking like a sumo, insisting on inspecting the house. They spied the minor burns on my hand and announced that they were obliged to have EMS come to check me out.
Shortly thereafter, three EMT’s arrived in their truck. They were required, they said, to examine me. Before I knew it, they were taking my blood pressure. Oh boy, they discovered that I had a pacemaker. So they demanded that I lie down and let them take an EKG – all for two half-inch burns.
By then, our kitchen was overrun by a minyan of emergency crews. Now they demanded that I be taken to the hospital. Upon arrival I was again checked out and waited an hour to have some salve schemed on my grievous wounds. The EMTs, firefighters, and cops stood by attentively.
My Bar Mitzvah student of course was aghast. By then, his mother had arrived to pick him up. As I was being wheeled out on the stretcher, they followed behind, assuring that they would pray for me. An audience of curious neighbors, God bless them, gathered outside. By the time that the petrified Linda picked me up, our doorstep was laden with aluminum pans full of meatloaf, fried chicken, the ubiquitous tuna salad, and brownies. As I say, God bless them.
Do you comprehend the significance of that momentous occasion? I had been anointed as the Kohen Gadol by olive oil, then by life-saving unction in the hospital in the presence of my motley congregation of ten weary caregivers.
Will I burn myself again? Of course. Just that this time, I will have disconnected my fire alarm. Will my intrepid Bar Mitzvah bochur return? Of course. But only after I promise that we continue our culinary ventures only if we make something innocent, like fruit salad.
No! No! Be careful with that knife!
P.S. God bless those lifesavers who were ready to save my life.
I seriously wonder whether Aaron the High Priest constantly had second-degree burns over his hands from frying up his sacrifices with olive oil. Better yet, do I become a Kohen Gadol because of all the times that I scald myself while I am attempting to cook with scorching olive oil? If so, then last week I was anointed with holy unguent and declared Kohen Gadol by a congregation of ten . . . er, uh . . . goyim.
The scenario: One of my Bar Mitzvah students is a little more eccentric than most 13-year-olds. He chants his Sidra only after he has spent time with me in the kitchen. On that one fateful day, we had planned to make a beef-barley soup. We were about to sauté some onions in EVOO (“extra virgin olive oil,” for you who don’t watch that chirping parakeet, Rachel Ray. Jealous? Me? Nah.)
Just then, flames leapt out of pot. While shoving my Bar-Mitzvah bochur to safety, I stuck my hand in the fire and burned it to what I assumed was glowing charcoal. Thanks be to God that miraculously I escaped with only two half-inch burns. Pin a medal on me. Hoo hah, such a hero.
Being of the upper middle class, our house, of course, is equipped with the biggest and best alarm, which instantly alerts the fire department every time I fry an egg.
I had already well doused the fire and sufficiently attended to my burns, when a police captain banged on the front door. He apparently handled these matters because he was so scrawny that he couldn’t save my dog from a titmouse. I calmly told him that no other emergency services were required.
By then, though, the fire department had already snaked its way down our narrow lane with a hook-and-ladder truck. Out of the truck leapt six firefighters, each dressed in full regalia and looking like a sumo, insisting on inspecting the house. They spied the minor burns on my hand and announced that they were obliged to have EMS come to check me out.
Shortly thereafter, three EMT’s arrived in their truck. They were required, they said, to examine me. Before I knew it, they were taking my blood pressure. Oh boy, they discovered that I had a pacemaker. So they demanded that I lie down and let them take an EKG – all for two half-inch burns.
By then, our kitchen was overrun by a minyan of emergency crews. Now they demanded that I be taken to the hospital. Upon arrival I was again checked out and waited an hour to have some salve schemed on my grievous wounds. The EMTs, firefighters, and cops stood by attentively.
My Bar Mitzvah student of course was aghast. By then, his mother had arrived to pick him up. As I was being wheeled out on the stretcher, they followed behind, assuring that they would pray for me. An audience of curious neighbors, God bless them, gathered outside. By the time that the petrified Linda picked me up, our doorstep was laden with aluminum pans full of meatloaf, fried chicken, the ubiquitous tuna salad, and brownies. As I say, God bless them.
Do you comprehend the significance of that momentous occasion? I had been anointed as the Kohen Gadol by olive oil, then by life-saving unction in the hospital in the presence of my motley congregation of ten weary caregivers.
Will I burn myself again? Of course. Just that this time, I will have disconnected my fire alarm. Will my intrepid Bar Mitzvah bochur return? Of course. But only after I promise that we continue our culinary ventures only if we make something innocent, like fruit salad.
No! No! Be careful with that knife!
P.S. God bless those lifesavers who were ready to save my life.
December 18, 2006
TELLTALE CULINARY POLKA-DOTS
I feature myself a fashionable man. I own ten suits and two drawers full of sweaters. I have a huge collection of designer ties, all polka-dot.
No, none of them was intended to be that way. I am not obsessed with polka-dots. They simply tell the story of another of my obsessions: sloppy food eaten by a man who cannot eat it without slobbering it on his tie.
Red polka-dots, for example, are the remnant of blobs of ketchup from a juicy hamburger that I have just eaten. Suspicion falls on me when I am nowhere near a kosher eatery. The discerning critic might assume that I have indulged in a treife hamburger at McDonald’s, to which I can only roll my eyes heavenward and swear to klop an additional “Al Chet” next Yom Kippur.
Then there is the yellow polka-dot, a sure sign that I have recently returned from New York. There I have certainly indulged in a hot, thick corned beef sandwich slathered in bright yellow mustard. Thank God, it is not the chazzerei that pretends to be a corned beef sandwich in my rural South – a single slice of smoked beef on white bread slathered with mayonnaise and served beside a glass of chocolate milk.
What about my fashionable pink polka-dots? Ah, that was when a snooty congregant insisted that I try her specialty: gefilte fish congealed in raspberry Jello. A huge polka-dot of it plopped onto my tie as I tried surreptitiously to feed it to the dog.
Finally, there is the telltale green polka-dot, whenever I swear to Linda that I’ve had a healthy salad for lunch. She knows that the green is simply a cover up for the fat, juicy, carcinogenic steak that I had really eaten.
My brothers: If you enjoy the same eclectic cuisine that I do, make sure to purchase a multicolored polka-dot tie that confuses your messy eating with haute couture. Better yet, take a job that allows you to leave your tie at home. Become an artist and spatter your smock with today’s lunch. Only you will know the truth while everyone around you will think that you have become the next Rembrandt.
I feature myself a fashionable man. I own ten suits and two drawers full of sweaters. I have a huge collection of designer ties, all polka-dot.
No, none of them was intended to be that way. I am not obsessed with polka-dots. They simply tell the story of another of my obsessions: sloppy food eaten by a man who cannot eat it without slobbering it on his tie.
Red polka-dots, for example, are the remnant of blobs of ketchup from a juicy hamburger that I have just eaten. Suspicion falls on me when I am nowhere near a kosher eatery. The discerning critic might assume that I have indulged in a treife hamburger at McDonald’s, to which I can only roll my eyes heavenward and swear to klop an additional “Al Chet” next Yom Kippur.
Then there is the yellow polka-dot, a sure sign that I have recently returned from New York. There I have certainly indulged in a hot, thick corned beef sandwich slathered in bright yellow mustard. Thank God, it is not the chazzerei that pretends to be a corned beef sandwich in my rural South – a single slice of smoked beef on white bread slathered with mayonnaise and served beside a glass of chocolate milk.
What about my fashionable pink polka-dots? Ah, that was when a snooty congregant insisted that I try her specialty: gefilte fish congealed in raspberry Jello. A huge polka-dot of it plopped onto my tie as I tried surreptitiously to feed it to the dog.
Finally, there is the telltale green polka-dot, whenever I swear to Linda that I’ve had a healthy salad for lunch. She knows that the green is simply a cover up for the fat, juicy, carcinogenic steak that I had really eaten.
My brothers: If you enjoy the same eclectic cuisine that I do, make sure to purchase a multicolored polka-dot tie that confuses your messy eating with haute couture. Better yet, take a job that allows you to leave your tie at home. Become an artist and spatter your smock with today’s lunch. Only you will know the truth while everyone around you will think that you have become the next Rembrandt.
December 03, 2006
LUTHERAN NEW YEARS
Last year, Linda made the mistake of telling my colleague Steve that we had “no plans” for New Years Eve. “Wonderful!” Steve said, “Then you must spend the evening with us.”
Steve is a Lutheran pastor whose social life is less exciting than watching paint dry. His anemic wife, nebbish, suffers from chronic depression. Steve goes on to say that since I was a “Jewish scholar,” we might spend the evening viewing Rosenstrasse, and discussing its implications for a “true understanding” the Holocaust.
Rosenstrasse is at least as depressing as his wife. It sugar-coats the Holocaust to a distasteful romp. The ghetto is a strict summer camp, the Nazis are its crabby counselors. Ah, this is precisely the movie that gives Steve a “true understanding” of the Holocaust.
But, enough of the film and on with the food:
First, a perspective on what the typical American Jew eats on New Years Eve: a corned beef sandwich on rye, potato chips, a sour pickle, a bottle of beer, a Tagamet, and then off to bed.
But, what did we eat at the buffet that they prepared? Wisely, he told us that they would serve no meat because of “your dietary restrictions.” Instead, we dined on what a Lutheran pastor must think is a feast: Eight cubes of cheese, eight slices of pickled herring, eight gherkins, eight slivers of Stollen . . .all stabbed with toothpicks.
When the Bavarian cuckoo-clock struck midnight, Linda and I embraced. Pastor Steve and his wife sat on opposite sides of the room and nodded at each other.
As I picked up a pizza to eat at home, Linda asked why the wife was so depressed.
“Are they getting divorced?”
“No, silly!” I answer. “If that was a feast, what do you think they eat every other night, stuck with toothpicks? Prozac won’t help. We need to fatten her up on brisket and kugel.
“Well," Linda responds, “let’s have them over next New Years Eve, watch cartoons, and show them what a festive dinner really is.”
“I don’t think so,” I tell her. “But for God’s sake, from now on let me be the one who answers the phone.”
Last year, Linda made the mistake of telling my colleague Steve that we had “no plans” for New Years Eve. “Wonderful!” Steve said, “Then you must spend the evening with us.”
Steve is a Lutheran pastor whose social life is less exciting than watching paint dry. His anemic wife, nebbish, suffers from chronic depression. Steve goes on to say that since I was a “Jewish scholar,” we might spend the evening viewing Rosenstrasse, and discussing its implications for a “true understanding” the Holocaust.
Rosenstrasse is at least as depressing as his wife. It sugar-coats the Holocaust to a distasteful romp. The ghetto is a strict summer camp, the Nazis are its crabby counselors. Ah, this is precisely the movie that gives Steve a “true understanding” of the Holocaust.
But, enough of the film and on with the food:
First, a perspective on what the typical American Jew eats on New Years Eve: a corned beef sandwich on rye, potato chips, a sour pickle, a bottle of beer, a Tagamet, and then off to bed.
But, what did we eat at the buffet that they prepared? Wisely, he told us that they would serve no meat because of “your dietary restrictions.” Instead, we dined on what a Lutheran pastor must think is a feast: Eight cubes of cheese, eight slices of pickled herring, eight gherkins, eight slivers of Stollen . . .all stabbed with toothpicks.
When the Bavarian cuckoo-clock struck midnight, Linda and I embraced. Pastor Steve and his wife sat on opposite sides of the room and nodded at each other.
As I picked up a pizza to eat at home, Linda asked why the wife was so depressed.
“Are they getting divorced?”
“No, silly!” I answer. “If that was a feast, what do you think they eat every other night, stuck with toothpicks? Prozac won’t help. We need to fatten her up on brisket and kugel.
“Well," Linda responds, “let’s have them over next New Years Eve, watch cartoons, and show them what a festive dinner really is.”
“I don’t think so,” I tell her. “But for God’s sake, from now on let me be the one who answers the phone.”
November 24, 2006
TINY’S "BAR MITZVAH EXPRESS“
Some things about Judaism have gotten better and others worse. Then there are those that have stayed the same in the half-century since my childhood.
Take the Bar/Bat Mitzvah celebration. My father was a postal clerk, so we were poor compared to the Jews who lived nearby. In 1963, my Bar Mitzvah consisted of a Kiddush after schule to which my parents invited 40 relatives.
But friends who lived in greater affluence did not simply have Bar Mitzvah parties, but extravaganzas – A hotel ballroom. An orchestra, chanteuse, and master of ceremonies. A bacchanalia of hors d’ouvres, martinis, and dinner. A candle-lighting ceremony to honor special guests. A machine popping popcorn. Personalized tee-shirts reading, “I Overate at Scottie’s Bar Mitzvah.
An occasional Bar Mitzvah celebrant would later rebel against his parents’ values by becoming a political radical or a Lubavitcher. The vast majority embraced their parents’ ways and are now, in 2006, honoring their progeny with the same decadence.
Having spent 35 years in the rabbinate, it still never ceases to amaze me. Should a rabbi attend? I confess that I frequently am present, in part out of morbid curiosity, and in part because I get to drink good Scotch.
Just recently, I conducted the Bar Mitzvah of a boy fondly known as “Tiny,” because of his 140-kilo girth. Tiny’s performance from the bima was rotten. But who cares? In front of the schule was parked a bus to take the kids to the party, emblazoned with, “Tiny’s Bar Mitzvah Express,”
The Shabbos-afternoon decadence began: shrimp on ice, cheese rolled in salami, bacon-wrapped filet mignon. The band played, the chanteuse sang, the master of ceremonies cracked offensive jokes.
Finally, silence fell upon the crowd. It was time for the candle-lighting ceremony. Instead, the master of ceremonies dolefully intoned, “With regrets, we will refrain from the candle-lighting ritual, in order to properly honor the holy Sabbath.”
Whether the traumatized Tiny will ever become a Lubavitcher who observes “the holy Sabbath” is anyone’s guess. But this I do know: At the very moment of the aborted candle-lighting, God was sitting on a rock, eating a cheeseburger, and declaring, “They just don’t get it, do they?”
Some things about Judaism have gotten better and others worse. Then there are those that have stayed the same in the half-century since my childhood.
Take the Bar/Bat Mitzvah celebration. My father was a postal clerk, so we were poor compared to the Jews who lived nearby. In 1963, my Bar Mitzvah consisted of a Kiddush after schule to which my parents invited 40 relatives.
But friends who lived in greater affluence did not simply have Bar Mitzvah parties, but extravaganzas – A hotel ballroom. An orchestra, chanteuse, and master of ceremonies. A bacchanalia of hors d’ouvres, martinis, and dinner. A candle-lighting ceremony to honor special guests. A machine popping popcorn. Personalized tee-shirts reading, “I Overate at Scottie’s Bar Mitzvah.
An occasional Bar Mitzvah celebrant would later rebel against his parents’ values by becoming a political radical or a Lubavitcher. The vast majority embraced their parents’ ways and are now, in 2006, honoring their progeny with the same decadence.
Having spent 35 years in the rabbinate, it still never ceases to amaze me. Should a rabbi attend? I confess that I frequently am present, in part out of morbid curiosity, and in part because I get to drink good Scotch.
Just recently, I conducted the Bar Mitzvah of a boy fondly known as “Tiny,” because of his 140-kilo girth. Tiny’s performance from the bima was rotten. But who cares? In front of the schule was parked a bus to take the kids to the party, emblazoned with, “Tiny’s Bar Mitzvah Express,”
The Shabbos-afternoon decadence began: shrimp on ice, cheese rolled in salami, bacon-wrapped filet mignon. The band played, the chanteuse sang, the master of ceremonies cracked offensive jokes.
Finally, silence fell upon the crowd. It was time for the candle-lighting ceremony. Instead, the master of ceremonies dolefully intoned, “With regrets, we will refrain from the candle-lighting ritual, in order to properly honor the holy Sabbath.”
Whether the traumatized Tiny will ever become a Lubavitcher who observes “the holy Sabbath” is anyone’s guess. But this I do know: At the very moment of the aborted candle-lighting, God was sitting on a rock, eating a cheeseburger, and declaring, “They just don’t get it, do they?”
November 21, 2006
IT’S HARD TO BE A JEW . . . ON SUNDAY
Any time I have the opportunity to escape my highly-gentile hometown of Greenville to visit New York, it is as if I were on a pilgrimage to the Holy Wall in Jerusalem. New York’s plethora of outstanding, or at least passable, kosher restaurants is a special treat for gluttons like me who lives to eat.
But, this time, that wonderful experience of brisket, pastrami, and falafel was overshadowed by attempting to buy a Coke and and a snack on my way back to the airport that Sunday.
Ah, behold the telephone-booth sized joint across the Yeshiva campus. As I enter the place, I realize that it is simply a dump that observes kashrut. Strutting up to the counter, I behold a rack of pizzas festooned with green pepper. But oy, green pepper hurts my stomach.
I assume – wouldn’t you? – that a simple cheese pizza would also be available at a dive across from Yeshiva University, touting itself as Yahkel’s Pizza. No, they inform me, all the cheese pizzas were frozen before Shabbos and would take at least a half-hour to thaw.
Oy.
“OK, then let me have a salad.” The menu says that I have my choice of between “iceberg” lettuce and “mixed greens.” As a gourmand in training, I select the mixed greens. The server brings them to the counter, but then proceeds to chop three heads of iceberg lettuce and adds huge amounts of it into a huge bowl to accompany three or four puny leaves if raddichio and arugula. Without apology, he tells me that the other bags of greens had spoiled because they were “left over from before Shabbos.”
Oy.
“OK. the menu says I get a selection of toppings for my salad. I’ll have the ‘fresh albacore tuna’.” But I see that the tuna bears a dark brown crust, making it look like cat food. “Is that fresh albacore?” I ask. “It was,” he says, “but that was before Shabbos.”
Oy.
“Then give me the black olives.”
“You should know that we mix them with the green ones before Shabbos.”
Oy.
“Then what about the sweet red peppers?” But I already know the answer: You can’t light Shabbos candles until the you’ve mixed the red and green ones together.
Then I ask for falafel . . . but you already know the answer: The grinder broke, so we couldn’t grind the chickpeas, and you know that we couldn’t get it fixed on Shabbos.
Oy vey.
“How about a cup of coffee.”
“You want cream with that?” I nod in the affirmative. “Sorry, all we have is black because we haven’t had a delivery from the dairy since before Shabbos.”
Oy again.
“What about a can of “Coke?”
“I hope that you like regular, because we weren’t here on Shabbos to get a delivery of Diet.”
Noch a mohl oy.
A cup of coffee with real cream at Starbucks in the airport would have to suffice until I got back home. Now Greenville wasn’t looking so bad. I daydreamt about my flight back. Ah, Greenville, where black and green olives come from separate jars and you can get fresh milk seven days a week. On my return, I lustily ate mixed greens and white albacore tuna at a treifeh restaurant, and I washed it all down with a cup of creamery-rich half-and-half-enhanced cup of real coffee. The restaurant will remain unnamed.
Oy, a mechayeh!
The next time I returned to New York, it was for my kids’ wedding at the rococo catering hall, Razag, in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. For that joyous occasion I had the chutzpa to tell the machatonim that they might do whatever they please, even the garish smorgasbord. But this I begged them: not to have the wedding too soon after Shabbos, so that at least the pizza will be hot and the Diet Coke cold.
Any time I have the opportunity to escape my highly-gentile hometown of Greenville to visit New York, it is as if I were on a pilgrimage to the Holy Wall in Jerusalem. New York’s plethora of outstanding, or at least passable, kosher restaurants is a special treat for gluttons like me who lives to eat.
But, this time, that wonderful experience of brisket, pastrami, and falafel was overshadowed by attempting to buy a Coke and and a snack on my way back to the airport that Sunday.
Ah, behold the telephone-booth sized joint across the Yeshiva campus. As I enter the place, I realize that it is simply a dump that observes kashrut. Strutting up to the counter, I behold a rack of pizzas festooned with green pepper. But oy, green pepper hurts my stomach.
I assume – wouldn’t you? – that a simple cheese pizza would also be available at a dive across from Yeshiva University, touting itself as Yahkel’s Pizza. No, they inform me, all the cheese pizzas were frozen before Shabbos and would take at least a half-hour to thaw.
Oy.
“OK, then let me have a salad.” The menu says that I have my choice of between “iceberg” lettuce and “mixed greens.” As a gourmand in training, I select the mixed greens. The server brings them to the counter, but then proceeds to chop three heads of iceberg lettuce and adds huge amounts of it into a huge bowl to accompany three or four puny leaves if raddichio and arugula. Without apology, he tells me that the other bags of greens had spoiled because they were “left over from before Shabbos.”
Oy.
“OK. the menu says I get a selection of toppings for my salad. I’ll have the ‘fresh albacore tuna’.” But I see that the tuna bears a dark brown crust, making it look like cat food. “Is that fresh albacore?” I ask. “It was,” he says, “but that was before Shabbos.”
Oy.
“Then give me the black olives.”
“You should know that we mix them with the green ones before Shabbos.”
Oy.
“Then what about the sweet red peppers?” But I already know the answer: You can’t light Shabbos candles until the you’ve mixed the red and green ones together.
Then I ask for falafel . . . but you already know the answer: The grinder broke, so we couldn’t grind the chickpeas, and you know that we couldn’t get it fixed on Shabbos.
Oy vey.
“How about a cup of coffee.”
“You want cream with that?” I nod in the affirmative. “Sorry, all we have is black because we haven’t had a delivery from the dairy since before Shabbos.”
Oy again.
“What about a can of “Coke?”
“I hope that you like regular, because we weren’t here on Shabbos to get a delivery of Diet.”
Noch a mohl oy.
A cup of coffee with real cream at Starbucks in the airport would have to suffice until I got back home. Now Greenville wasn’t looking so bad. I daydreamt about my flight back. Ah, Greenville, where black and green olives come from separate jars and you can get fresh milk seven days a week. On my return, I lustily ate mixed greens and white albacore tuna at a treifeh restaurant, and I washed it all down with a cup of creamery-rich half-and-half-enhanced cup of real coffee. The restaurant will remain unnamed.
Oy, a mechayeh!
The next time I returned to New York, it was for my kids’ wedding at the rococo catering hall, Razag, in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. For that joyous occasion I had the chutzpa to tell the machatonim that they might do whatever they please, even the garish smorgasbord. But this I begged them: not to have the wedding too soon after Shabbos, so that at least the pizza will be hot and the Diet Coke cold.
November 18, 2006
BLAND AND THE BOYS
Linda is the perfect Rebbetzin. Had I been a chef, we would have visited divorce court. I call Linda a “selective anorexic,” who will not eat the foods that I adore. Her bland tastes have fallen into the hell created by a husband who lives by chili pepper and Geschmorte Rindszunge.
Sushi is slimy fish, so we don’t eat Japanese together. Mexican food reeks of cilantro, so we do not venture south of the border. Indian? The odor of cumin is too strong. Thai? Too spicy. German? Ach du lieber! Too rich!
What should I do if my wife refuses ceviche and considers meat loaf haute cuisine? Without her cooperation, who might enjoy sampling my offerings in Greenville, a town so backward that a fancy dinner means pizza?
But, there is a tidbit of good fortune for us. In this ultra-conservative town, we have the mazal of living next door to one of the few gay couples in the county. We simply call them “the boys,” and they will eat anything that I serve and take home the rest. They call me “the food pimp.”
They have their own rating system: how much my creations resemble their goische counterparts: “Ah, the chopped liver might as well be pate de foie. The cholent is better than cassoulet. The apfel schalent surpasses any American apple pie.”
There are, of course, foods so noxious that even the boys refuse them. They will never try pitscha just by looking at it: Viscous, grainy, and that disgusting cow’s foot. Spinach borscht looks like . . . well, you know what it looks like. A gelatinous pickled fish head is just creepy.
I have taught the boys many Jewish words in the process: milchig, pareve, kugel, gefilte fish, matzo balls. They love trying to say words when I invite to dinner: “This kishke is wonderful! The kugel is simply divine!”
One Shabbos I decided to bake a special challah for them. They looked at it, sniffed and announced, “Berches? We thought that only Yekkes ate that! Aren’t you an Ostjude? Next you’ll be feeding us Bohnen-Suppe! What’s wrong with you?”
Linda is the perfect Rebbetzin. Had I been a chef, we would have visited divorce court. I call Linda a “selective anorexic,” who will not eat the foods that I adore. Her bland tastes have fallen into the hell created by a husband who lives by chili pepper and Geschmorte Rindszunge.
Sushi is slimy fish, so we don’t eat Japanese together. Mexican food reeks of cilantro, so we do not venture south of the border. Indian? The odor of cumin is too strong. Thai? Too spicy. German? Ach du lieber! Too rich!
What should I do if my wife refuses ceviche and considers meat loaf haute cuisine? Without her cooperation, who might enjoy sampling my offerings in Greenville, a town so backward that a fancy dinner means pizza?
But, there is a tidbit of good fortune for us. In this ultra-conservative town, we have the mazal of living next door to one of the few gay couples in the county. We simply call them “the boys,” and they will eat anything that I serve and take home the rest. They call me “the food pimp.”
They have their own rating system: how much my creations resemble their goische counterparts: “Ah, the chopped liver might as well be pate de foie. The cholent is better than cassoulet. The apfel schalent surpasses any American apple pie.”
There are, of course, foods so noxious that even the boys refuse them. They will never try pitscha just by looking at it: Viscous, grainy, and that disgusting cow’s foot. Spinach borscht looks like . . . well, you know what it looks like. A gelatinous pickled fish head is just creepy.
I have taught the boys many Jewish words in the process: milchig, pareve, kugel, gefilte fish, matzo balls. They love trying to say words when I invite to dinner: “This kishke is wonderful! The kugel is simply divine!”
One Shabbos I decided to bake a special challah for them. They looked at it, sniffed and announced, “Berches? We thought that only Yekkes ate that! Aren’t you an Ostjude? Next you’ll be feeding us Bohnen-Suppe! What’s wrong with you?”
November 12, 2006
THE GANGSTA BOCHUR EXTREME MAKEOVER
Have you ever noticed how many no-brainers need an Einstein to figure them out? Let’s not talk about mega-no-brainers like the debacle in Iraq. Instead, let’s talk about a really dumb no-brainer (you’ll pardon the redundancy) on the near-and-dear Jewish home-front:
People have forgotten how to dress their kids – and themselves – when they come to schule.
My peeve transitions to full-blown rant when I go to schule on Shabbos and hear Shmerel squeaking out Ashrai to rehearse for his Bar Mitzvah. Mom and dad sit in their places as Shmerele reluctantly shuffles up to the bimah in grubby tee-shirt, faded jeans below his pupik, and oversized Nikes.
At first, I thought it was just Shmerel’s slack-jawed “why-are-you-bothering-me-this-is-a-waste-of-time” indifference that galled me. Regarding that, the rabbi and his parents should give him a swift dose of attitude adjustment and tell him to straighten up and fly right.
Then I realized that Shmerel’s his hip-hop uniform was as annoying as his attitude. Each Shabbos, Linda has to restrain me from asking his parents why they let the kid out of the house looking like a rapper. That would be too embarrassing and just not nice.
As a guy who always wears a suit to schule and has seen that his kids do the same, I would say, “If he visited church with a friend, you and I know that you would make sure that he dressed appropriately. And I daresay that his church-going friends would already know what to wear to synagogue.”
What else would I say?
I’d say, “My parents insisted that I wear Shabbosdik clothes to schule as a rite of passage when I started first grade of Sunday school. To this day, my regard for the honor of schule and Shabbos derives in large measure from that guidance. I went on to become a rabbi, and when I left the rabbinate, at least it was not due to my attire.”
Wait a minute. I apologize for boasting about my lifelong commitment to the appropriate rabbinical dress-code. Noop. I did go through a period as most rabbis do, of believing that I would bridge the gap between me and my younger congregants by becoming “Rabbi Skippy,” just one of the boys, jeans and work-shirt, even to the office. Wrong. As much as a rabbi’s credibility rises and falls on his menschlichkeit and scholarship, we also weigh it by the dignity with which he presents himself. Thus the words of one of my mentors: “You need not become like them in order to influence them.” Had I only listened to his sage advice sooner.
I recently attended a meeting at which a friend peevedly told me that his rabbi attended a bris in a work-shirt and khakis. Known for his candor, I asked my friend how he responded. “I told him,” he said, “that a rabbi should dress like a rabbi!”
I know. You will say that this rant is just the crankiness of a crabby man on his way to old age. Possibly. But, think about it this way: We buy our kids the most extravagant tallesim and the most ornate zeckelach. Their yarmulkes are works of art and they will receive sterling Kiddush cups that you will proudly display. And guess what? There’s nothing wrong with any of that.
Perhaps we do it as a sign of our conspicuous consumption. But perhaps we also buy, wear, and display religious finery for our kids because we know deep down that they those objects belong to ages; they endure eternally.
In some mystical way, maybe we should start thinking about ourselves as the tallesim that wrap themselves around eternity. How do we embrace eternity when we dress ourselves down in vintage Pig Pen?
We know what to wear when we embrace a Bloody Mary at a cocktail party. Why should it be any worse when we ready ourselves and Shmerel to embrace the Eternal One?
Have you ever noticed how many no-brainers need an Einstein to figure them out? Let’s not talk about mega-no-brainers like the debacle in Iraq. Instead, let’s talk about a really dumb no-brainer (you’ll pardon the redundancy) on the near-and-dear Jewish home-front:
People have forgotten how to dress their kids – and themselves – when they come to schule.
My peeve transitions to full-blown rant when I go to schule on Shabbos and hear Shmerel squeaking out Ashrai to rehearse for his Bar Mitzvah. Mom and dad sit in their places as Shmerele reluctantly shuffles up to the bimah in grubby tee-shirt, faded jeans below his pupik, and oversized Nikes.
At first, I thought it was just Shmerel’s slack-jawed “why-are-you-bothering-me-this-is-a-waste-of-time” indifference that galled me. Regarding that, the rabbi and his parents should give him a swift dose of attitude adjustment and tell him to straighten up and fly right.
Then I realized that Shmerel’s his hip-hop uniform was as annoying as his attitude. Each Shabbos, Linda has to restrain me from asking his parents why they let the kid out of the house looking like a rapper. That would be too embarrassing and just not nice.
As a guy who always wears a suit to schule and has seen that his kids do the same, I would say, “If he visited church with a friend, you and I know that you would make sure that he dressed appropriately. And I daresay that his church-going friends would already know what to wear to synagogue.”
What else would I say?
I’d say, “My parents insisted that I wear Shabbosdik clothes to schule as a rite of passage when I started first grade of Sunday school. To this day, my regard for the honor of schule and Shabbos derives in large measure from that guidance. I went on to become a rabbi, and when I left the rabbinate, at least it was not due to my attire.”
Wait a minute. I apologize for boasting about my lifelong commitment to the appropriate rabbinical dress-code. Noop. I did go through a period as most rabbis do, of believing that I would bridge the gap between me and my younger congregants by becoming “Rabbi Skippy,” just one of the boys, jeans and work-shirt, even to the office. Wrong. As much as a rabbi’s credibility rises and falls on his menschlichkeit and scholarship, we also weigh it by the dignity with which he presents himself. Thus the words of one of my mentors: “You need not become like them in order to influence them.” Had I only listened to his sage advice sooner.
I recently attended a meeting at which a friend peevedly told me that his rabbi attended a bris in a work-shirt and khakis. Known for his candor, I asked my friend how he responded. “I told him,” he said, “that a rabbi should dress like a rabbi!”
I know. You will say that this rant is just the crankiness of a crabby man on his way to old age. Possibly. But, think about it this way: We buy our kids the most extravagant tallesim and the most ornate zeckelach. Their yarmulkes are works of art and they will receive sterling Kiddush cups that you will proudly display. And guess what? There’s nothing wrong with any of that.
Perhaps we do it as a sign of our conspicuous consumption. But perhaps we also buy, wear, and display religious finery for our kids because we know deep down that they those objects belong to ages; they endure eternally.
In some mystical way, maybe we should start thinking about ourselves as the tallesim that wrap themselves around eternity. How do we embrace eternity when we dress ourselves down in vintage Pig Pen?
We know what to wear when we embrace a Bloody Mary at a cocktail party. Why should it be any worse when we ready ourselves and Shmerel to embrace the Eternal One?
November 04, 2006
SUNDAY MORNING IN SOLITUDE WITH MY NY TIMES
My hometown in Greenville, South Carolina, still has a few redeeming qualities. Premier among them is a tiny Jewish-style delicatessen, Greenfield’s. I say “Jewish style,” because it serves outstanding bagels imported from New York, but slices ham on the same slicer as the kosher corned beef.
Yet, I enjoy an occasional lox-and-bagel at Greenfield’s on Sunday morning. My only problem: Half of the Jewish community does precisely the same. Had I been a plumber, this would not pose a problem. But I am, after all, Herr Rabbiner, the know-it-all of everything Jewish.
As I try to spend a moment reading my beloved New York Times, I am relentlessly interrupted by the local Yehudim. Uninvited, they pull up a chair and ask penetrating questions that I would have happily answered them on Shabbos – had they only been in schule:
“Rabbi, I’ve always (this in itself is a sign of danger) wanted to know,” one gushy congregant asks, “whether I should put up a tombstone for my baby . . . Fifi my poodle?”
“I’ve only got a moment, Rabbi, but a gentile friend wants me tell him why Jews don’t believe in Jesus instead of going to hell.”
“Is it true that some people think Jews have horns because some fanatics still wear those little black boxes on their heads?”
“Rabbi, if I wear my toupee to schule, do I still have to wear a yarmulke?”
“If they really cared, why can’t the Rabbis change all of the holidays to weekends?”
Alas, no one has yet to ask me “How many rungs were in Jacob’s ladder?” or “How many commandments are in the Ten Commandments?”
Then one Sunday morning I was approached by a youngish woman who whispered in my ear, “Rabbi, Jack and I are getting divorced.”
“How sad,” I tell her.
“Sad?” she smiles seductively. “Not me. Now I have a chance to have an affair with you!”
Without responding yes or no, I finally closed my New York Times and drove down the street to MacDonald’s to have a biscuit and a Coke . . . ah, a mechayeh, uninterrupted.
My hometown in Greenville, South Carolina, still has a few redeeming qualities. Premier among them is a tiny Jewish-style delicatessen, Greenfield’s. I say “Jewish style,” because it serves outstanding bagels imported from New York, but slices ham on the same slicer as the kosher corned beef.
Yet, I enjoy an occasional lox-and-bagel at Greenfield’s on Sunday morning. My only problem: Half of the Jewish community does precisely the same. Had I been a plumber, this would not pose a problem. But I am, after all, Herr Rabbiner, the know-it-all of everything Jewish.
As I try to spend a moment reading my beloved New York Times, I am relentlessly interrupted by the local Yehudim. Uninvited, they pull up a chair and ask penetrating questions that I would have happily answered them on Shabbos – had they only been in schule:
“Rabbi, I’ve always (this in itself is a sign of danger) wanted to know,” one gushy congregant asks, “whether I should put up a tombstone for my baby . . . Fifi my poodle?”
“I’ve only got a moment, Rabbi, but a gentile friend wants me tell him why Jews don’t believe in Jesus instead of going to hell.”
“Is it true that some people think Jews have horns because some fanatics still wear those little black boxes on their heads?”
“Rabbi, if I wear my toupee to schule, do I still have to wear a yarmulke?”
“If they really cared, why can’t the Rabbis change all of the holidays to weekends?”
Alas, no one has yet to ask me “How many rungs were in Jacob’s ladder?” or “How many commandments are in the Ten Commandments?”
Then one Sunday morning I was approached by a youngish woman who whispered in my ear, “Rabbi, Jack and I are getting divorced.”
“How sad,” I tell her.
“Sad?” she smiles seductively. “Not me. Now I have a chance to have an affair with you!”
Without responding yes or no, I finally closed my New York Times and drove down the street to MacDonald’s to have a biscuit and a Coke . . . ah, a mechayeh, uninterrupted.
October 26, 2006
THE BLOOD-SUGAR CONSPIRACY
Do you have diabetes? If not, are you sure that you’re Jewish? Remember a generation ago? The misery of sterilizing the equipment, watching Mama stab herself with a dull, thick needle, trying to calculate the right injection of insulin, and maintaining a stringent diet.
My mother was meticulous. Not like crabby Mr. Finkelstein who lived next door, the one who hated children and chased them off his property with an outstretched cane. He browbeat his mousy wife into buying him chazerai. He inhaled it with a grunt, as his helpless children watched his blood sugar rise and plummet.
Finally, his son Irving moved in with Papa and Mama to police him. He straightened out his diet, got his medications in order, watched him like a spy, and suffered great abuse.
But, Mr. Finkelstein’s blood sugar remained perilously high. The doctor hadn’t a clue. The children said that everything was under control, each meal measured, and insulin dispensed.
Mr. Finkelstein tolerated only one child. Me. It was probably because we walked to schule together on dark, frigid Chicago mornings, as he would rasp bitterly about his children, his idiot-son Irving, and of course, how “none of my rotten kids go to schule.”
The schule was a cabal of crabby old men griping about their children. Each one had an assignment. Every morning, Mr. Finkelstein’s mission was to put out breakfast for his conspirators. The aroma of brewing coffee was so enticing that we could barely finish Alenu. Always the same menu: sweet-sour herring, kichel rolled in coarse sugar, coffee, and always a l’chayim over a shot of schnapps, hidden under the bimah. Every once in a while, Mr. Finkelstein would surreptitiously pour me a schnapps, so I “wouldn’t be too cold waiting for the bus.”
Aha! A robust breakfast, just like in the Old Country, was the secret to the old man’s rocketing blood sugar: sugar in the herring, the kichel, the coffee, and of course, the daily l’chayim.
I kept our clandestine breakfasts to myself, now being one of the cronies. Off I would trudge to school. But, one day at 9:00 AM a teacher smelled alcohol on my breath. I was hauled off to the principal’s office and my mother summoned.
“What did you do? Is this the son we raised?” my mother barked. I knew that I would be black-and-blue by lunchtime and slashed by her well-honed tongue. An explanation wad demanded. Finally, they tortured the truth out of me about schule, the old men, their secret breakfast, and starting the day with a schnapps.
“And Mr. Finkelstein has this breakfast with you?” My mother smelled the rat.
I got my swift, exacting punishment. But, before we walked in our door, Mama appeared before Irving and ended his quest for the ultimate answer.
The Finkelstein’s held a family meeting. They decided that the old man should no longer go to schule. He was ferocious. Irving would stand guard at the door every morning, and from next door I would hear: “Anti-Semite! I’m going to schule! You are not going to schule! All right, so I won’t eat breakfast! Why should I trust you? Because I’m your father! You’re not my father when you act like a baby!”
Ah, so what became of Irving? Truth be told, his kidneys failed and he went on dialysis at the age of 48. Mr. Finkelstein, though, lived to a crabby 93, a refugee from too much schnapps and too little insulin.
I am certain that when Morris Finkelstein arrived at Heaven’s gate, God was right there waiting for him. Then He hoisted a shot-glass twinkling with schnapps, offered Morris a l’chayim, and welcoming him home.
Do you have diabetes? If not, are you sure that you’re Jewish? Remember a generation ago? The misery of sterilizing the equipment, watching Mama stab herself with a dull, thick needle, trying to calculate the right injection of insulin, and maintaining a stringent diet.
My mother was meticulous. Not like crabby Mr. Finkelstein who lived next door, the one who hated children and chased them off his property with an outstretched cane. He browbeat his mousy wife into buying him chazerai. He inhaled it with a grunt, as his helpless children watched his blood sugar rise and plummet.
Finally, his son Irving moved in with Papa and Mama to police him. He straightened out his diet, got his medications in order, watched him like a spy, and suffered great abuse.
But, Mr. Finkelstein’s blood sugar remained perilously high. The doctor hadn’t a clue. The children said that everything was under control, each meal measured, and insulin dispensed.
Mr. Finkelstein tolerated only one child. Me. It was probably because we walked to schule together on dark, frigid Chicago mornings, as he would rasp bitterly about his children, his idiot-son Irving, and of course, how “none of my rotten kids go to schule.”
The schule was a cabal of crabby old men griping about their children. Each one had an assignment. Every morning, Mr. Finkelstein’s mission was to put out breakfast for his conspirators. The aroma of brewing coffee was so enticing that we could barely finish Alenu. Always the same menu: sweet-sour herring, kichel rolled in coarse sugar, coffee, and always a l’chayim over a shot of schnapps, hidden under the bimah. Every once in a while, Mr. Finkelstein would surreptitiously pour me a schnapps, so I “wouldn’t be too cold waiting for the bus.”
Aha! A robust breakfast, just like in the Old Country, was the secret to the old man’s rocketing blood sugar: sugar in the herring, the kichel, the coffee, and of course, the daily l’chayim.
I kept our clandestine breakfasts to myself, now being one of the cronies. Off I would trudge to school. But, one day at 9:00 AM a teacher smelled alcohol on my breath. I was hauled off to the principal’s office and my mother summoned.
“What did you do? Is this the son we raised?” my mother barked. I knew that I would be black-and-blue by lunchtime and slashed by her well-honed tongue. An explanation wad demanded. Finally, they tortured the truth out of me about schule, the old men, their secret breakfast, and starting the day with a schnapps.
“And Mr. Finkelstein has this breakfast with you?” My mother smelled the rat.
I got my swift, exacting punishment. But, before we walked in our door, Mama appeared before Irving and ended his quest for the ultimate answer.
The Finkelstein’s held a family meeting. They decided that the old man should no longer go to schule. He was ferocious. Irving would stand guard at the door every morning, and from next door I would hear: “Anti-Semite! I’m going to schule! You are not going to schule! All right, so I won’t eat breakfast! Why should I trust you? Because I’m your father! You’re not my father when you act like a baby!”
Ah, so what became of Irving? Truth be told, his kidneys failed and he went on dialysis at the age of 48. Mr. Finkelstein, though, lived to a crabby 93, a refugee from too much schnapps and too little insulin.
I am certain that when Morris Finkelstein arrived at Heaven’s gate, God was right there waiting for him. Then He hoisted a shot-glass twinkling with schnapps, offered Morris a l’chayim, and welcoming him home.
October 15, 2006
WHO ATE THE MEATBALLS?
No one will ever be able to convince me otherwise. The manna that rained down from heaven was ground beef. It is the most versatile of all foods:
Hamburgers. Meatloaf. Sausage. Ragout. Meatballs. Spaghetti sauce. Meatballs and beans. Meatballs in cholent. Creamed ground beef on toast.
In our family, ground beef has attained legendary proportions. The story is told of how my Aunt Leah made a pot of meatballs to be served the next evening.
Aunt Leah was a huge woman who, as I remember, snored loudly, suffered from sleep apnea, and slept the sleep of the dead. Her husband, Uncle Izzy, was puny and hyperactive. Most nights he wandered the house, turning the radio on and off, ruffling the newspaper, starting but never finishing the crossword puzzle.
Knowing that Aunt Leah slept deeply, Izzy would occasionally raid the refrigerator. That night, he ate half the pot of meatballs. It wasn’t until Leah came to warm them that she discovered the great escape. She instantly lined up Izzy and the four kids, ready to prosecute with a leather sharpening strop, her favorite weapon of inquisition.
“Who ate the meatballs?!” she demanded.
Silence. Then, one by one, she seethed at the children: “Did YOU eat the meatballs?!” For the first time in their lives, the kids told the truth, “Ma, honest, we didn’t eat the meatballs!”
“And Izzy, what about you?”
”Sweetie, how could I have eaten the meatballs? I’m always sleeping in bed right next to you”
Oh no, that was not the end of the story. Aunt Leah, you see, was a plodding woman. At an occasional Purim party or Pesach Seder, she would announce, “I still can’t figure out who ate the meatballs.”
Years went by. Uncle Izzy lay on his death bed. As the end neared, he beckoned Aunt Leah to draw near. Then he gasped and whispered, “I ate the meatballs.” That was his final breath.
The children cried and hugged, but Aunt Leah smugly announced, “Aha, I knew it all along! The red on the towel wasn’t because he cut himself! It was tomato sauce!”
No one will ever be able to convince me otherwise. The manna that rained down from heaven was ground beef. It is the most versatile of all foods:
Hamburgers. Meatloaf. Sausage. Ragout. Meatballs. Spaghetti sauce. Meatballs and beans. Meatballs in cholent. Creamed ground beef on toast.
In our family, ground beef has attained legendary proportions. The story is told of how my Aunt Leah made a pot of meatballs to be served the next evening.
Aunt Leah was a huge woman who, as I remember, snored loudly, suffered from sleep apnea, and slept the sleep of the dead. Her husband, Uncle Izzy, was puny and hyperactive. Most nights he wandered the house, turning the radio on and off, ruffling the newspaper, starting but never finishing the crossword puzzle.
Knowing that Aunt Leah slept deeply, Izzy would occasionally raid the refrigerator. That night, he ate half the pot of meatballs. It wasn’t until Leah came to warm them that she discovered the great escape. She instantly lined up Izzy and the four kids, ready to prosecute with a leather sharpening strop, her favorite weapon of inquisition.
“Who ate the meatballs?!” she demanded.
Silence. Then, one by one, she seethed at the children: “Did YOU eat the meatballs?!” For the first time in their lives, the kids told the truth, “Ma, honest, we didn’t eat the meatballs!”
“And Izzy, what about you?”
”Sweetie, how could I have eaten the meatballs? I’m always sleeping in bed right next to you”
Oh no, that was not the end of the story. Aunt Leah, you see, was a plodding woman. At an occasional Purim party or Pesach Seder, she would announce, “I still can’t figure out who ate the meatballs.”
Years went by. Uncle Izzy lay on his death bed. As the end neared, he beckoned Aunt Leah to draw near. Then he gasped and whispered, “I ate the meatballs.” That was his final breath.
The children cried and hugged, but Aunt Leah smugly announced, “Aha, I knew it all along! The red on the towel wasn’t because he cut himself! It was tomato sauce!”
October 03, 2006
HEAVEN – A NICE PLACE TO SPEND SOME TIME
A few days ago, I spent five minutes in hell. As I left the doctor’s office, I was accompanied by a pathetic woman struggling to negotiate the few steps outside the building.
Dressed from Salvation Army counters. A two-year-old on one hip. A baby-bag slung over her shoulder. Hugely pregnant. And wincing with such horrific pain each time she stepped forward on her tiptoe that her hair was matted with greasy sweat. I swear that I saw white-hot sparks crackle from the blacktop.
I offered her my arm and asked if I could carry the baby. I brought her to her battered car and asked how I could help. No, there was nothing more I could do.
Please don’t see this as a plea for adulation. I was simply doing what Momma taught me. And I knew that if I didn’t, she would instantly have reached down from heaven and administered an omnipotent frosk, “Let that be a lesson to you!”
Besides, I did not create heaven. I spent five minutes in hell.
Ironic thing about heaven. When we talk about heaven, the conversation is usually so contention and shrill. “Our side will get there. You won’t get there. It’s in this book. No, it’s in that book. Follow him. Follow me. Blah, blah, blah.” In my own times, I have added my own voice to the shrillness, and I dread to say that in moments of weakness, I might do it again.
But, an inner whisper that has lately brought me to unrelentingly bitter tears has given birth to a more calm and measured vision of heaven. It did not come to me as a theological epiphany, so I confess in advance to its doctrinal impurity.
Life batters me, and it batters you. Life can be so damned mean, and for every time we deserve it, ten times the meanness comes by way of people who are greedy, ruthless, and just plain heartless. Sometimes it is so unbearable that it can no longer be numbed by a martini or hope in a heaven that is a contentious and smug place where I get in and you keep out.
To the broken of heart and those who withstand the worst of unbearable meanness, this is the peace and healing that I believe heaven will bring:
Heaven is a place where everyone is nice.
No stiff, fancy doctrine or hoo-hah to obfuscate the basic promise.
“I see you need a job. I’ll take a chance on you. I’ll train you. When can you start?” Nice.
“I see that you’re crying. Would you like a tissue? Would you like to talk? Maybe I can help.” Nice.
“I see that your family has no place to eat. Come, eat and stay with us. Tomorrow we’ll go find someone who can help you get on the right track.” Nice.
“Let me carry that bag. Help you cross the street. Hold open the door. Give you my seat on the bus.” Nice.
“Let me prop you up and help with your baby, walk you to your car. Let me give you at least a moment of heaven before you must descend back to your hell.” Nice.
Heaven is a place where everyone is nice.
Ah, sounds like a heaven we could replicate on earth. Right. Right, were their no insurmountable walls barring a world full of niceness. Not merely the Saddam’s and Hitler’s, but a receptionist who doesn’t offer a wheelchair to someone wincing in pain or a boss who won’t give a kid a chance.
This is precisely why the broken of heart and the spat-upon need keep faith in a heaven boding peaceful, calming niceness. Meanwhile, we who are blessed with the ability would do well to share some of the appetizers of heaven to folks here on earth. Perhaps that will tide them over by the reassurance that there is a good measure of niceness yet to be found among us.
A few days ago, I spent five minutes in hell. As I left the doctor’s office, I was accompanied by a pathetic woman struggling to negotiate the few steps outside the building.
Dressed from Salvation Army counters. A two-year-old on one hip. A baby-bag slung over her shoulder. Hugely pregnant. And wincing with such horrific pain each time she stepped forward on her tiptoe that her hair was matted with greasy sweat. I swear that I saw white-hot sparks crackle from the blacktop.
I offered her my arm and asked if I could carry the baby. I brought her to her battered car and asked how I could help. No, there was nothing more I could do.
Please don’t see this as a plea for adulation. I was simply doing what Momma taught me. And I knew that if I didn’t, she would instantly have reached down from heaven and administered an omnipotent frosk, “Let that be a lesson to you!”
Besides, I did not create heaven. I spent five minutes in hell.
Ironic thing about heaven. When we talk about heaven, the conversation is usually so contention and shrill. “Our side will get there. You won’t get there. It’s in this book. No, it’s in that book. Follow him. Follow me. Blah, blah, blah.” In my own times, I have added my own voice to the shrillness, and I dread to say that in moments of weakness, I might do it again.
But, an inner whisper that has lately brought me to unrelentingly bitter tears has given birth to a more calm and measured vision of heaven. It did not come to me as a theological epiphany, so I confess in advance to its doctrinal impurity.
Life batters me, and it batters you. Life can be so damned mean, and for every time we deserve it, ten times the meanness comes by way of people who are greedy, ruthless, and just plain heartless. Sometimes it is so unbearable that it can no longer be numbed by a martini or hope in a heaven that is a contentious and smug place where I get in and you keep out.
To the broken of heart and those who withstand the worst of unbearable meanness, this is the peace and healing that I believe heaven will bring:
Heaven is a place where everyone is nice.
No stiff, fancy doctrine or hoo-hah to obfuscate the basic promise.
“I see you need a job. I’ll take a chance on you. I’ll train you. When can you start?” Nice.
“I see that you’re crying. Would you like a tissue? Would you like to talk? Maybe I can help.” Nice.
“I see that your family has no place to eat. Come, eat and stay with us. Tomorrow we’ll go find someone who can help you get on the right track.” Nice.
“Let me carry that bag. Help you cross the street. Hold open the door. Give you my seat on the bus.” Nice.
“Let me prop you up and help with your baby, walk you to your car. Let me give you at least a moment of heaven before you must descend back to your hell.” Nice.
Heaven is a place where everyone is nice.
Ah, sounds like a heaven we could replicate on earth. Right. Right, were their no insurmountable walls barring a world full of niceness. Not merely the Saddam’s and Hitler’s, but a receptionist who doesn’t offer a wheelchair to someone wincing in pain or a boss who won’t give a kid a chance.
This is precisely why the broken of heart and the spat-upon need keep faith in a heaven boding peaceful, calming niceness. Meanwhile, we who are blessed with the ability would do well to share some of the appetizers of heaven to folks here on earth. Perhaps that will tide them over by the reassurance that there is a good measure of niceness yet to be found among us.
September 14, 2006
HIGH HOLIDAYS TORTURE TABLES
“Good things come to those who wait.”
So, I waited and waited for 35 years to abdicate the rabbinate. For the first time, I will spend the Yom Tovim with my family, not having to worry about my sermons or whether the chazzan would take too long singing Kol Nidre.
After all those years, I will finally have the time and energy to prepare my own gourmet holiday feasts. Whether they are delicious or not, my family and friends will have to feed my fragile ego by telling me that they were “marvelous,” and once again, I will have to klop an Al Chet for the sin of arrogance.
But how many years did I spend in other people’s dining rooms futilely trying to ingest Yom Tov meals that we would universally declare torturous?
Have any of you had gritty gefilte fish? No, not gritty from too much matzo meal, but gritty because they were riddled with shrapnel of fish bones that the balaboste was either too lazy or too cruel to remove.
While we are on the subject of appetizers, how could I not forget walking with a congregant to his house for lunch on Rosh Hashanah. He prated on and on about his wife’s cooking, every superlative synonym, as if he’d swallowed Roget’s for breakfast.
Nu? You have already figured out the rest of the story, but not the magnitude of its horror. Each place was set with a reddish-brown lump atop the customary leaf of lettuce. After Kiddush and Motzi, the balabos insisted, “Go ahead, try it.”
I tried. And the liver oozed blood. Rare chopped liver. The prospects of chug-a-lugging liver blood and contracting e-coli ran neck-and-neck in my imagination. Then, an atypical stroke of genius: I reached under the table with my fork and stabbed my hands and arms with the tines. Reaching up, I asked the balaboste what kind of oil she used.
“Canola.”
“Canola?” I shrieked. “You can’t imagine how allergic I am to canola,” and displayed the horrible “rash” on my arm. Beware of rare chopped, and keep your fork nearby.
What do you eat before Yom Kippur? Scientists have debated the issue, but none of them has found anything yet to prevent my backache. Beside, isn’t rotten the way we’re supposed to feel on Yom Kippur?
One Erev One Yom Kippur dinner was particularly memorable. To set the backdrop, the hosts had a huge parrot that kept screaming, “Elliot!” throughout the meal. The lady of the house preceded the main course with a chicken soup that shimmered with layer of fat so thick and shiny that women were furtively checking their hairdos in it. Not to be outdone, the turkey was so hairy that it begged fitting as a toupee.
Then there was another Erev Yom Kippur trying to go into the fast on a dinner of Froot Loops Chicken. Someone must have thought that it was the culinary equivalent of A+B=C. Sweet chicken tastes good. Breaded chicken tastes good. Therefore, Froot Loops Chicken must taste good. Maybe in your world. In my world, it’s one of those “funny recipes from kids” on Leno. How about chocolate-dipped herring?
A girlfriend once took me home on Rosh Hashanah to meet the family. The aroma of holiday dinner wafted from her aunt’s kitchen. A beautiful table was set with honey, apples and round challah.
I recited the Kiddush. They were impressed. They presented the appetizer. Hmm. It was too smooth to be gefilte fish. And besides, it was pink. I tentatively tasted it.
“This is delicious,” I said to the host. “What is it?”
“It’s crabmeat salad. It’s our tradition to eat it on the first night of Rosh Hashanah.”
Fortunately, the dog ate it ravenously. Afterward, I asked my girlfriend if there were any other family secrets that I should know about. I made it plain that crabmeat salad even once a year was a deal breaker. Then I told her that if we were to go any further, I would happily dye the gefilte fish pink.
“Good things come to those who wait.”
So, I waited and waited for 35 years to abdicate the rabbinate. For the first time, I will spend the Yom Tovim with my family, not having to worry about my sermons or whether the chazzan would take too long singing Kol Nidre.
After all those years, I will finally have the time and energy to prepare my own gourmet holiday feasts. Whether they are delicious or not, my family and friends will have to feed my fragile ego by telling me that they were “marvelous,” and once again, I will have to klop an Al Chet for the sin of arrogance.
But how many years did I spend in other people’s dining rooms futilely trying to ingest Yom Tov meals that we would universally declare torturous?
Have any of you had gritty gefilte fish? No, not gritty from too much matzo meal, but gritty because they were riddled with shrapnel of fish bones that the balaboste was either too lazy or too cruel to remove.
While we are on the subject of appetizers, how could I not forget walking with a congregant to his house for lunch on Rosh Hashanah. He prated on and on about his wife’s cooking, every superlative synonym, as if he’d swallowed Roget’s for breakfast.
Nu? You have already figured out the rest of the story, but not the magnitude of its horror. Each place was set with a reddish-brown lump atop the customary leaf of lettuce. After Kiddush and Motzi, the balabos insisted, “Go ahead, try it.”
I tried. And the liver oozed blood. Rare chopped liver. The prospects of chug-a-lugging liver blood and contracting e-coli ran neck-and-neck in my imagination. Then, an atypical stroke of genius: I reached under the table with my fork and stabbed my hands and arms with the tines. Reaching up, I asked the balaboste what kind of oil she used.
“Canola.”
“Canola?” I shrieked. “You can’t imagine how allergic I am to canola,” and displayed the horrible “rash” on my arm. Beware of rare chopped, and keep your fork nearby.
What do you eat before Yom Kippur? Scientists have debated the issue, but none of them has found anything yet to prevent my backache. Beside, isn’t rotten the way we’re supposed to feel on Yom Kippur?
One Erev One Yom Kippur dinner was particularly memorable. To set the backdrop, the hosts had a huge parrot that kept screaming, “Elliot!” throughout the meal. The lady of the house preceded the main course with a chicken soup that shimmered with layer of fat so thick and shiny that women were furtively checking their hairdos in it. Not to be outdone, the turkey was so hairy that it begged fitting as a toupee.
Then there was another Erev Yom Kippur trying to go into the fast on a dinner of Froot Loops Chicken. Someone must have thought that it was the culinary equivalent of A+B=C. Sweet chicken tastes good. Breaded chicken tastes good. Therefore, Froot Loops Chicken must taste good. Maybe in your world. In my world, it’s one of those “funny recipes from kids” on Leno. How about chocolate-dipped herring?
A girlfriend once took me home on Rosh Hashanah to meet the family. The aroma of holiday dinner wafted from her aunt’s kitchen. A beautiful table was set with honey, apples and round challah.
I recited the Kiddush. They were impressed. They presented the appetizer. Hmm. It was too smooth to be gefilte fish. And besides, it was pink. I tentatively tasted it.
“This is delicious,” I said to the host. “What is it?”
“It’s crabmeat salad. It’s our tradition to eat it on the first night of Rosh Hashanah.”
Fortunately, the dog ate it ravenously. Afterward, I asked my girlfriend if there were any other family secrets that I should know about. I made it plain that crabmeat salad even once a year was a deal breaker. Then I told her that if we were to go any further, I would happily dye the gefilte fish pink.
August 26, 2006
THE SCHOOLYARD LOSER
Anyone who has lost a schoolyard fight will tell you that you don’t need to wait until adulthood to know whether you’re a “winner” or a “loser.”
Despite superior grades and victories in science fairs and essay contests, I was a loser, with Coca-Cola-bottom glasses and pudgy-face crewcut. Kids picked on me. The desperate need to assert my machismo momentarily overruled my basic nature as a crybaby. So I took the bait and always lost.
Georgie was wiry and half my size. He was adept at teasing, and I was an easy mark. One Friday on the way home from school, resplendent in my Cub Scout uniform (which made fighting a cardinal sin), Georgie picked a fight, and I obliged. In a second, he had me pinned to the ground and pummeled me, encircle by a mob of third-graders jeering, “Fight! Fight! N**ger (albeit that Georgie was Caucasian) and a white! C’mon, Georgie! Beat that white!” I cried and ran home to momma. Loser.
By fifth grade, I owned two sources of pride: an Esterbrook fountain pen, just like my dad’s, and a bright red parka. The parka made me even pudgier, but my parents reassured me that it also made me look “just like a Royal Canadian Mountie.”
On the way out to recess, Mickey grabbed the Esterbrook from me. I clumsily chased after him. But Mickey, who still dances in a Broadway chorus line, was fast and wily. He dodged and weaved as I lumbered and stumbled. Then, in a final mockery, he opened the Esterbrook’s bladder and shot black ink over my Mountie coat.
A teacher put Mickey in detention for a week and made him pay for the cleaning. His parents were smug and treated it as a rite of passage. My parents, as usual, made no waves toward them and turned their wrath toward me. My mother saw the ruined coat as the squandering of hard-earned cash and understood nothing of the shame of being the schoolyard lummox. My father, the WWII hero, lectured me on how “the best defense is to just walk away.” I was grounded for a month. Loser.
A few years went by. Another creep discovered my vulnerability and goaded me. But, this was nerdy Talmud camp, so we were all a bunch of losers. I assessed my chances with Moishe and beat him until he started gasping. Not knowing what brutality I had inflicted, I ran to the dining hall to summon the doctor, who made short shrift of the incident. “You just knocked the wind out of him,” he dismissed me. “That’s what happens when you win the fight.”
“Win the fight.” After lo the many years, the victory still feels almost Pyrrhic: You beat Moishe to a pulp, then call the doctor while Moishe gasps for breath. And now he’s a professor at NYU. Loser.
Now no longer 7 or 17, but 57, what I wouldn’t do to have my column syndicated. For years, I’ve sent off packets to various syndicates, predictably receiving no response or a generic rejection note. Once, I did receive a response: The editor told me that my style and language usage were wonderful. “But,” he wrote, “Your writing has one fatal flaw that you’ll never overcome. It is insipid to the core.”
“Insipid to the core.” “Fatal flaw.” Loser.
From that day on, I haven’t spent much time mailing off packets. I fear that the response I receive would just make me want to run home crying to momma. A column of mine might appear here and there, and that makes me happy. And when it doesn’t, I put on my white jacket and pretend that I’m a chef. I make pate de foie, Peruvian ceviche and duck prosciutto. You may not like them. But this I promise: They’ll never be insipid to the core.
So much for the schoolyard loser.
Anyone who has lost a schoolyard fight will tell you that you don’t need to wait until adulthood to know whether you’re a “winner” or a “loser.”
Despite superior grades and victories in science fairs and essay contests, I was a loser, with Coca-Cola-bottom glasses and pudgy-face crewcut. Kids picked on me. The desperate need to assert my machismo momentarily overruled my basic nature as a crybaby. So I took the bait and always lost.
Georgie was wiry and half my size. He was adept at teasing, and I was an easy mark. One Friday on the way home from school, resplendent in my Cub Scout uniform (which made fighting a cardinal sin), Georgie picked a fight, and I obliged. In a second, he had me pinned to the ground and pummeled me, encircle by a mob of third-graders jeering, “Fight! Fight! N**ger (albeit that Georgie was Caucasian) and a white! C’mon, Georgie! Beat that white!” I cried and ran home to momma. Loser.
By fifth grade, I owned two sources of pride: an Esterbrook fountain pen, just like my dad’s, and a bright red parka. The parka made me even pudgier, but my parents reassured me that it also made me look “just like a Royal Canadian Mountie.”
On the way out to recess, Mickey grabbed the Esterbrook from me. I clumsily chased after him. But Mickey, who still dances in a Broadway chorus line, was fast and wily. He dodged and weaved as I lumbered and stumbled. Then, in a final mockery, he opened the Esterbrook’s bladder and shot black ink over my Mountie coat.
A teacher put Mickey in detention for a week and made him pay for the cleaning. His parents were smug and treated it as a rite of passage. My parents, as usual, made no waves toward them and turned their wrath toward me. My mother saw the ruined coat as the squandering of hard-earned cash and understood nothing of the shame of being the schoolyard lummox. My father, the WWII hero, lectured me on how “the best defense is to just walk away.” I was grounded for a month. Loser.
A few years went by. Another creep discovered my vulnerability and goaded me. But, this was nerdy Talmud camp, so we were all a bunch of losers. I assessed my chances with Moishe and beat him until he started gasping. Not knowing what brutality I had inflicted, I ran to the dining hall to summon the doctor, who made short shrift of the incident. “You just knocked the wind out of him,” he dismissed me. “That’s what happens when you win the fight.”
“Win the fight.” After lo the many years, the victory still feels almost Pyrrhic: You beat Moishe to a pulp, then call the doctor while Moishe gasps for breath. And now he’s a professor at NYU. Loser.
Now no longer 7 or 17, but 57, what I wouldn’t do to have my column syndicated. For years, I’ve sent off packets to various syndicates, predictably receiving no response or a generic rejection note. Once, I did receive a response: The editor told me that my style and language usage were wonderful. “But,” he wrote, “Your writing has one fatal flaw that you’ll never overcome. It is insipid to the core.”
“Insipid to the core.” “Fatal flaw.” Loser.
From that day on, I haven’t spent much time mailing off packets. I fear that the response I receive would just make me want to run home crying to momma. A column of mine might appear here and there, and that makes me happy. And when it doesn’t, I put on my white jacket and pretend that I’m a chef. I make pate de foie, Peruvian ceviche and duck prosciutto. You may not like them. But this I promise: They’ll never be insipid to the core.
So much for the schoolyard loser.
August 17, 2006
ALL THINGS CONSIDERED
Let me talk one more time about Ben and Joy’s wedding, and I promise it will be the last . . . unless you insist on seeing the pictures in my wallet.
It was a full-tilt Chasidische affair and resoundingly freilach. The only discordant note was the unanticipated Kabbalah-based distress that Meta and I faced as a divorced couple, despite decades that have transpired and our now amicable relationship. Fortunately, the issue was resolved, wounds have healed, perspectives have changed and most importantly, Ben and Joy are settling into a marriage that, please God, will last 120 years in health and happiness.
This is not a clarion call to anti-orthodox sentiment. Rather, it is about our attitude to the panorama of the Jewish experience. It is about the mandate to invoke freely the healing, conciliatory words “all things considered.”
The disposition of Lubavitch to our divorced status is patently indefensible. No Kabbalistic gymnastics or holy books could convince me otherwise. My gut reaction was of complete fire-breathing rejection. So it was, too, to the craziest outer fringe of those who believe in the Rebbe’s messianism (by the way, not including the vast majority of Lubavitchers who nonetheless believe that the Rebbe is the messiah).
But, all things considered, and these are operative words, they do magnificent work throughout the world, and not all of it is about marketing Judaism. Likewise, they and the Rebbe were there for me unconditionally in times of deep personal crisis, while colleagues that are more liberal turned their backs. And I am close enough to them to know that I have not been bamboozled.
All things considered.
I can’t see the orthodoxy of tearing toilet paper on Erev Shabbos or not shaking a woman’s hand. But I can certainly see the orthodoxy of Yeshiva University creating Einstein School of Medicine and Cordoza School of Law along with a superior rabbinical seminary.
All things considered.
Conservative Judaism? A cogent and sensible theology: God calls for each generation to engage in a tug-of-war to determine its point of equilibrium between tradition and change. Attentiveness to Halacha. Vibrancy of its services. But, then again, confusion between Halachic change to accommodate the whims of its constituencies versus responsiveness to the demands of justice and social realities. I cringe at some of its capricious changes, yet celebrate its perceptiveness of the future, not merely veneration of the past.
All things considered.
And the Reform? Feh? No. Incredible scholarship. Creative educational programming. Indignant calls for social justice. Some pundits would say that they are as “orthodox” in the Torah’s cry for social justice as the self-proclaimed “orthodox” are in their meticulous observance of ritual law. But still, they seem too easily confused between Judaism and ethical monotheism. Their Shabbat services often seem more like a hootenanny than a davenen. “Did you like my Selichot service?” a Reform colleague asked me. “It was terrific,” I answered, “but it didn’t have any Selichot prayers in it.”
All things considered.
The problem must have already vexed our European ancestors, because they had coined the Yiddishism, “yeder ainer macht Shabbos farzich alien – everyone makes his own Shabbos.”
Call me a Pollyanna. Any Jewish community should be able to lop off at least a few rough edges, not to do everything as one, but to do more things as one. Otherwise, just listen to what we are inferring about ourselves. We all have “special needs,” right? In our everyday vocabulary, to whom do we refer as having “special needs”? Children. Disabled children. And what is our highest aspiration for them? To draw them into the “mainstream.”
All things considered.
Let me talk one more time about Ben and Joy’s wedding, and I promise it will be the last . . . unless you insist on seeing the pictures in my wallet.
It was a full-tilt Chasidische affair and resoundingly freilach. The only discordant note was the unanticipated Kabbalah-based distress that Meta and I faced as a divorced couple, despite decades that have transpired and our now amicable relationship. Fortunately, the issue was resolved, wounds have healed, perspectives have changed and most importantly, Ben and Joy are settling into a marriage that, please God, will last 120 years in health and happiness.
This is not a clarion call to anti-orthodox sentiment. Rather, it is about our attitude to the panorama of the Jewish experience. It is about the mandate to invoke freely the healing, conciliatory words “all things considered.”
The disposition of Lubavitch to our divorced status is patently indefensible. No Kabbalistic gymnastics or holy books could convince me otherwise. My gut reaction was of complete fire-breathing rejection. So it was, too, to the craziest outer fringe of those who believe in the Rebbe’s messianism (by the way, not including the vast majority of Lubavitchers who nonetheless believe that the Rebbe is the messiah).
But, all things considered, and these are operative words, they do magnificent work throughout the world, and not all of it is about marketing Judaism. Likewise, they and the Rebbe were there for me unconditionally in times of deep personal crisis, while colleagues that are more liberal turned their backs. And I am close enough to them to know that I have not been bamboozled.
All things considered.
I can’t see the orthodoxy of tearing toilet paper on Erev Shabbos or not shaking a woman’s hand. But I can certainly see the orthodoxy of Yeshiva University creating Einstein School of Medicine and Cordoza School of Law along with a superior rabbinical seminary.
All things considered.
Conservative Judaism? A cogent and sensible theology: God calls for each generation to engage in a tug-of-war to determine its point of equilibrium between tradition and change. Attentiveness to Halacha. Vibrancy of its services. But, then again, confusion between Halachic change to accommodate the whims of its constituencies versus responsiveness to the demands of justice and social realities. I cringe at some of its capricious changes, yet celebrate its perceptiveness of the future, not merely veneration of the past.
All things considered.
And the Reform? Feh? No. Incredible scholarship. Creative educational programming. Indignant calls for social justice. Some pundits would say that they are as “orthodox” in the Torah’s cry for social justice as the self-proclaimed “orthodox” are in their meticulous observance of ritual law. But still, they seem too easily confused between Judaism and ethical monotheism. Their Shabbat services often seem more like a hootenanny than a davenen. “Did you like my Selichot service?” a Reform colleague asked me. “It was terrific,” I answered, “but it didn’t have any Selichot prayers in it.”
All things considered.
The problem must have already vexed our European ancestors, because they had coined the Yiddishism, “yeder ainer macht Shabbos farzich alien – everyone makes his own Shabbos.”
Call me a Pollyanna. Any Jewish community should be able to lop off at least a few rough edges, not to do everything as one, but to do more things as one. Otherwise, just listen to what we are inferring about ourselves. We all have “special needs,” right? In our everyday vocabulary, to whom do we refer as having “special needs”? Children. Disabled children. And what is our highest aspiration for them? To draw them into the “mainstream.”
All things considered.
August 16, 2006
HARRY IS STILL MEETING SALLY
During our recent visit to New York, Linda and I took the opportunity to walk around the Lower East Side. It is now a trendy area, full of bars, bistros and expensive apartments, but once it was a neighborhood full of decrepit tenements through which thousands of Jewish immigrants passed on their way to a better life in America.
Some remnants are still intact. Shmatta clothing hangs from racks in the streets. One tenement has been converted into a museum to remind us of the squalor in which our ancestors lived.
And one grimy “kosher style” delicatessen, Katz’s, remains in its original environs. One notices on entry that Katz’s origins go back at least to World War II, as a fly-specked sign declares “Send a Salami to Your Boy in the Army!” which actually rhymes in some American dialects.
Katz’s forever gained international fame about 15 years ago in a memorable film, “When Harry Met Sally.” It was the setting for Sally to prove to the doubting Harry over a pastrami sandwich that a woman can deceive a man into believing that she is having an orgasm. At the conclusion of her tawdry, and I assume, realistic display, an older woman sitting at the next table announces to a waiter, “I want whatever she’s having!”
One cannot imagine how infamous that scene has become. But, do you know what has become even more infamous? The table at which Sally performed her feat. Everyone knows precisely where it is. Do people fight over sitting there? What do you think? Do they order the pre-coital pastrami sandwich? What do you think? Do the women attempt to perform Sally’s infamous deed? I’ll let you use your imagination.
As I am nearing 60, I made the proprietor a suggestion for one more kosher-style item on his menu, small and blue. The only drawback is that it would require the presence of a doctor and pharmacist. Viagra. Now those of us sitting at the next table will again be able to proclaim to the waiter with renewed self-assurance, “I want whatever he’s having!”
During our recent visit to New York, Linda and I took the opportunity to walk around the Lower East Side. It is now a trendy area, full of bars, bistros and expensive apartments, but once it was a neighborhood full of decrepit tenements through which thousands of Jewish immigrants passed on their way to a better life in America.
Some remnants are still intact. Shmatta clothing hangs from racks in the streets. One tenement has been converted into a museum to remind us of the squalor in which our ancestors lived.
And one grimy “kosher style” delicatessen, Katz’s, remains in its original environs. One notices on entry that Katz’s origins go back at least to World War II, as a fly-specked sign declares “Send a Salami to Your Boy in the Army!” which actually rhymes in some American dialects.
Katz’s forever gained international fame about 15 years ago in a memorable film, “When Harry Met Sally.” It was the setting for Sally to prove to the doubting Harry over a pastrami sandwich that a woman can deceive a man into believing that she is having an orgasm. At the conclusion of her tawdry, and I assume, realistic display, an older woman sitting at the next table announces to a waiter, “I want whatever she’s having!”
One cannot imagine how infamous that scene has become. But, do you know what has become even more infamous? The table at which Sally performed her feat. Everyone knows precisely where it is. Do people fight over sitting there? What do you think? Do they order the pre-coital pastrami sandwich? What do you think? Do the women attempt to perform Sally’s infamous deed? I’ll let you use your imagination.
As I am nearing 60, I made the proprietor a suggestion for one more kosher-style item on his menu, small and blue. The only drawback is that it would require the presence of a doctor and pharmacist. Viagra. Now those of us sitting at the next table will again be able to proclaim to the waiter with renewed self-assurance, “I want whatever he’s having!”
August 12, 2006
THE CELLPHONE – CHASIDISM’S TRUE MORAL ENEMY
My son, albeit a modern orthodox young man, is not what you would call a Lubavitcher Chasid. Yet, he recently married a most sweet and exotically beautiful Syrian bride on the steps of 770 Eastern Parkway, the world headquarters of the Lubavitcher/Chabad Chasidim. He was regaled in full Chasidic garb, she wore a classically modest gown and thick “deck-tichel” (veil), and I even got to wear my fedora.
You must know that Benjy getting married in a Lubavitcher ceremony made me tremendously proud. I kvell. I say this neither gratuitously nor with apology. Since 16, I have been close to Chabad, and they have been a consistently positive influence in my life. The Rebbe’s divinely enlightened wisdom and guidance literally saved my life. Is the Rebbe still alive? Certainly. He lives in my soul.
Simply put, Lubavitchers are my people. Thus, my reverence does not preclude me from lighthearted laughing at some of the Chasidic communities’ idiosyncrasies. Knowing as I do the typically robust Lubavitcher sense of humor, I assume that (maybe) they would be laughing along with us.
One of the mandates of a Chasidic wedding, as you likely know, is that men and women are separated from beginning to end. This I can understand for the ceremony, as it is a sacred time of worship. I might even understand it during the smorgasbord – universally called “the sh’morg” – extravaganza, when vodka and other libations flow freely and might loosen the tongue to speak licentiously to the opposite sex.
(Let me digress for a moment and talk about this binge called “the sh’morg.” The sh’morg, not the pious words spoken to the bride and groom by the Rabbi, is the true yardstick of a bounteous wedding. The lamb-chop station. The pasta station. The stir-fry station. The sushi station. What is it about Chasidim and sushi? Once I heard a landsman in beard and payes announce that the faux crabmeat “tasted just like the real thing.” A-ha.)
End of the sh’morg. Back to the festivities.
I can even see how during the dancing the separation is justified, as skirts and tzitzis go swirling in the frenzy.
But, I will never understand why men’s and women’s dinner tables must also be separated by a nine-foot mechitza. I mean, what immorality could possibly be perpetrated by pious men and women sitting next to each other while fressing on a nine-course glatt-kosher bacchanalia? After an orgy of more faux-crabmeat, prime rib and Viennese pastry, I certainly do want to go to bed, but not with someone else’s wife, or probably even my own. And take a Tagamet first.
Let me tell you what really ought to be banned from Chasidic weddings: Cellphones. Separated as they are, cellphones are the only way that men and women are able to communicate with each other during the evening. How many times have I seen husbands and wives innocently use their cell-phones to determine when to leave the reception? Or, “Did you call the babysitter? “No, I thought that you called that babysitter.”
Cellphones for innocent purposes, you say? How do you know that Yankel or Reizel is not clandestinely calling a paramour for a tryst the next afternoon at the Pierre, and doing it under cover of the din and the raucous Chasidic music? Or that Sh’muel isn’t calling in an inside trade on a new offering of an Oriental hi-tech, Kin Ah Hora.
Please, please tell my Chasidic friends that I am just having a good time at their expense and that I need to dunk my mind in the mikvah. But, also remind them that I, like they, can always tell the difference in the look in a man’s eyes when he’s hungry for strudel or for something more toothsome.
My son, albeit a modern orthodox young man, is not what you would call a Lubavitcher Chasid. Yet, he recently married a most sweet and exotically beautiful Syrian bride on the steps of 770 Eastern Parkway, the world headquarters of the Lubavitcher/Chabad Chasidim. He was regaled in full Chasidic garb, she wore a classically modest gown and thick “deck-tichel” (veil), and I even got to wear my fedora.
You must know that Benjy getting married in a Lubavitcher ceremony made me tremendously proud. I kvell. I say this neither gratuitously nor with apology. Since 16, I have been close to Chabad, and they have been a consistently positive influence in my life. The Rebbe’s divinely enlightened wisdom and guidance literally saved my life. Is the Rebbe still alive? Certainly. He lives in my soul.
Simply put, Lubavitchers are my people. Thus, my reverence does not preclude me from lighthearted laughing at some of the Chasidic communities’ idiosyncrasies. Knowing as I do the typically robust Lubavitcher sense of humor, I assume that (maybe) they would be laughing along with us.
One of the mandates of a Chasidic wedding, as you likely know, is that men and women are separated from beginning to end. This I can understand for the ceremony, as it is a sacred time of worship. I might even understand it during the smorgasbord – universally called “the sh’morg” – extravaganza, when vodka and other libations flow freely and might loosen the tongue to speak licentiously to the opposite sex.
(Let me digress for a moment and talk about this binge called “the sh’morg.” The sh’morg, not the pious words spoken to the bride and groom by the Rabbi, is the true yardstick of a bounteous wedding. The lamb-chop station. The pasta station. The stir-fry station. The sushi station. What is it about Chasidim and sushi? Once I heard a landsman in beard and payes announce that the faux crabmeat “tasted just like the real thing.” A-ha.)
End of the sh’morg. Back to the festivities.
I can even see how during the dancing the separation is justified, as skirts and tzitzis go swirling in the frenzy.
But, I will never understand why men’s and women’s dinner tables must also be separated by a nine-foot mechitza. I mean, what immorality could possibly be perpetrated by pious men and women sitting next to each other while fressing on a nine-course glatt-kosher bacchanalia? After an orgy of more faux-crabmeat, prime rib and Viennese pastry, I certainly do want to go to bed, but not with someone else’s wife, or probably even my own. And take a Tagamet first.
Let me tell you what really ought to be banned from Chasidic weddings: Cellphones. Separated as they are, cellphones are the only way that men and women are able to communicate with each other during the evening. How many times have I seen husbands and wives innocently use their cell-phones to determine when to leave the reception? Or, “Did you call the babysitter? “No, I thought that you called that babysitter.”
Cellphones for innocent purposes, you say? How do you know that Yankel or Reizel is not clandestinely calling a paramour for a tryst the next afternoon at the Pierre, and doing it under cover of the din and the raucous Chasidic music? Or that Sh’muel isn’t calling in an inside trade on a new offering of an Oriental hi-tech, Kin Ah Hora.
Please, please tell my Chasidic friends that I am just having a good time at their expense and that I need to dunk my mind in the mikvah. But, also remind them that I, like they, can always tell the difference in the look in a man’s eyes when he’s hungry for strudel or for something more toothsome.
August 07, 2006
HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT CRABMEAT'S FAUX?
The operative word for the kashrut-observant Jew of the 21st century is “faux.” That is, we prefer to eat kosher imitations of goyische food than food that our ancestors considered “traditional.”
Where did it all start, you ask? Its origin is in the Jews’ discovery of mayonnaise. The consistency of mayonnaise is so much like faux cream that it is the only foodstuff whose hechsher specifically identifies it as “pareve,” so close is the resemblance.
My recollection of nearly 50 years ago is that pareve faux coffee-cream and butter were still miraculous to the kosher palate. Thus, on public occasions, a card was placed at each table assuring the bamboozled diners that they need not fear; the cream and butter were certified non-dairy.
We zap the clock forward to the 21st century. The kashrut-observant world is obsessed with all means of kosher faux treferai. Trust me, my travels even in the Chasidic world have taught me that Chasidim are even more zealous about faux kosher than their clean-shaven brethren.
Certain fish with fins and scales, pollock I think, is indistinguishable from crabmeat and lobster. If the factory molds it in a different shape, it becomes faux shrimp.
A fatty, tough cut of beef ironically called “plate,” when properly cured and smoked, makes for equally carcinogenic faux bacon. Through my own dabbling with veal breast, I have come to make an indistinguishable faux ham.
Attend any Chasidic wedding, and indulge yourself in a bacchanalian “sh’morg.” Kishe and knishes? I think not. Faux sushi napped in wasabi. And we all love the faux Alfredo sauce dripping down our beards as we discuss an intricate comment of Rashi on last week’s Torah portion. Then, not to be undone, we delight in our faux filet mignon oozing a pat of faux garlic butter.
This leaves me with only one dilemma: How does any pious Chasid know the taste of authentic crabmeat to be able to announce, “Ah, now that faux crabmeat tastes like the real thing!”? How does that guy in beard and payes know good faux from bad?
Please,please, help me resolve that conundrum, I’ll reward you with a pot of steaming oyster stew if you do. Faux? Only you and I will know.
The operative word for the kashrut-observant Jew of the 21st century is “faux.” That is, we prefer to eat kosher imitations of goyische food than food that our ancestors considered “traditional.”
Where did it all start, you ask? Its origin is in the Jews’ discovery of mayonnaise. The consistency of mayonnaise is so much like faux cream that it is the only foodstuff whose hechsher specifically identifies it as “pareve,” so close is the resemblance.
My recollection of nearly 50 years ago is that pareve faux coffee-cream and butter were still miraculous to the kosher palate. Thus, on public occasions, a card was placed at each table assuring the bamboozled diners that they need not fear; the cream and butter were certified non-dairy.
We zap the clock forward to the 21st century. The kashrut-observant world is obsessed with all means of kosher faux treferai. Trust me, my travels even in the Chasidic world have taught me that Chasidim are even more zealous about faux kosher than their clean-shaven brethren.
Certain fish with fins and scales, pollock I think, is indistinguishable from crabmeat and lobster. If the factory molds it in a different shape, it becomes faux shrimp.
A fatty, tough cut of beef ironically called “plate,” when properly cured and smoked, makes for equally carcinogenic faux bacon. Through my own dabbling with veal breast, I have come to make an indistinguishable faux ham.
Attend any Chasidic wedding, and indulge yourself in a bacchanalian “sh’morg.” Kishe and knishes? I think not. Faux sushi napped in wasabi. And we all love the faux Alfredo sauce dripping down our beards as we discuss an intricate comment of Rashi on last week’s Torah portion. Then, not to be undone, we delight in our faux filet mignon oozing a pat of faux garlic butter.
This leaves me with only one dilemma: How does any pious Chasid know the taste of authentic crabmeat to be able to announce, “Ah, now that faux crabmeat tastes like the real thing!”? How does that guy in beard and payes know good faux from bad?
Please,please, help me resolve that conundrum, I’ll reward you with a pot of steaming oyster stew if you do. Faux? Only you and I will know.
July 11, 2006
THINGS GO BETTER
I came from a home in which any meat that momma served was pot-roasted for six hours. Growing up, though, I had occasion to eat dinner in the homes of affluent friends. They frequently served a cut unknown to us peasants, “ribeye,” which was juicy, pink, marbled with fat, some of which had caramelized around the roast’s edges. Could this be a hors d’ouvres of the mythical Shor Ha-Bor that would be served upon the messiah’s arrival?
Ribeye, I vowed, would one day be the signature of my own arrival to affluence. On a rabbi’s salary, I never gained riches, but soon ribeye became the highlight of every family occasion, even as the price to serve six skyrocketed to over $120.
Then there are the occasions when we really wanted to impress our guests. We tried to do so recently with a ribeye roast that cost nearly $200, as we welcomed our new machatonim.
I had long believed that the less one played with a fine cut of meat the better: a little salt, pepper and perhaps some garlic, then straight into the oven. Recently, though, I had read in one of those silly hausfrau magazines about a “simply delicious, secret” glaze made from a list of exotic herbs and spices. Then, I violated the cardinal rule of haute cuisine: “Never experiment on recipes with guests.”
I bathed and rubbed the ribeye with the “secret” glaze until the ruby-red meat turned a morbid brown. Upon roasting, though, the ribeye was beautifully glazed and rich-pink within. As I presented my masterpiece, I smugly announced that the glaze was a “secret” recipe of herbs and spices, and that I would defy the guests to tell me what they were.
Before I collapsed into a puddle of humiliation, I remember only the pained expression that crossed each guest’s face as he or she attempted to savor the roast’s miserable “secret” glaze. Only my four-year-old granddaughter Sophie penetrated the secrecy and loudly, and correctly, announced, “Zayde, why did you pour Coca-Cola on the meat?”
I came from a home in which any meat that momma served was pot-roasted for six hours. Growing up, though, I had occasion to eat dinner in the homes of affluent friends. They frequently served a cut unknown to us peasants, “ribeye,” which was juicy, pink, marbled with fat, some of which had caramelized around the roast’s edges. Could this be a hors d’ouvres of the mythical Shor Ha-Bor that would be served upon the messiah’s arrival?
Ribeye, I vowed, would one day be the signature of my own arrival to affluence. On a rabbi’s salary, I never gained riches, but soon ribeye became the highlight of every family occasion, even as the price to serve six skyrocketed to over $120.
Then there are the occasions when we really wanted to impress our guests. We tried to do so recently with a ribeye roast that cost nearly $200, as we welcomed our new machatonim.
I had long believed that the less one played with a fine cut of meat the better: a little salt, pepper and perhaps some garlic, then straight into the oven. Recently, though, I had read in one of those silly hausfrau magazines about a “simply delicious, secret” glaze made from a list of exotic herbs and spices. Then, I violated the cardinal rule of haute cuisine: “Never experiment on recipes with guests.”
I bathed and rubbed the ribeye with the “secret” glaze until the ruby-red meat turned a morbid brown. Upon roasting, though, the ribeye was beautifully glazed and rich-pink within. As I presented my masterpiece, I smugly announced that the glaze was a “secret” recipe of herbs and spices, and that I would defy the guests to tell me what they were.
Before I collapsed into a puddle of humiliation, I remember only the pained expression that crossed each guest’s face as he or she attempted to savor the roast’s miserable “secret” glaze. Only my four-year-old granddaughter Sophie penetrated the secrecy and loudly, and correctly, announced, “Zayde, why did you pour Coca-Cola on the meat?”
July 01, 2006
“YOU’D NEVER BELIEVE IT WAS TRAIFE!”
My son Ben is on his way to becoming a talented chef. As hedonistic as Jews are, he is likely to be more successful than his sister the physician or his brother the executive.
His mentor is proprietor of Mike’s Bistro in Manhattan, a superior restaurant that happens to be kosher.
At that point, similarity to the “typical” kosher restaurant ends. One will find no pickles on the table, surly waiters or greasy kugel. The restaurant is home to haute cuisine: Duck Panzanella, Ginger-Crusted Mahi-Mahi, Wild Mushroom Farfalle, the finest wines, the most comfortable ambiance.
“You’d never believe it was kosher!” Right? Of course, if you consider restaurant-style kashrut a cuisine, not a religious mandate. Then the “typical” kosher restaurant becomes a study in inferiority – ill-prepared food, impatiently served, ordered from fly-specked menus.
But, it is also a study in Jews being a tormented minority, especially for those of us who see everything in terms of being a tormented minority. The truth is that kosher food becomes increasingly attractive as it becomes increasingly goyisch.
Quenelles de poisson roll lighter off the tongue than gefilte fish does, because one is more likely to eat them at Pierre’s, while Yehudim are more likely to eat the latter at dingy delicatessens called “Moishe’s.” The same is true of gnocchi above knishes, Plaza del Lago above Kol Tuv Pizza. Hollandaise above schmaltz. Tarte de Pomme, oui! Apfelschalet, nein!
Dream along with me about a world in which we are dominant, and the goyim are the tormented minority. Consider them emerging from a grimy establishment called “Yankel’s,” rapturously exclaiming, “You’d never believe it was traife! Imagine that chopped liver, better than pate. And darling, what about the kugel? How could I ever go back to gratin dauphinois? The tzimmes made me forget that I have ever eaten ratatouille.”
Now wake up! You and I will remain a tormented minority. We will forever judge the quality of kosher food on how un-kosher it seems. I have already told Ben that this poses no problem, so long as he remembers how to make a good matzo-ball soup.
My son Ben is on his way to becoming a talented chef. As hedonistic as Jews are, he is likely to be more successful than his sister the physician or his brother the executive.
His mentor is proprietor of Mike’s Bistro in Manhattan, a superior restaurant that happens to be kosher.
At that point, similarity to the “typical” kosher restaurant ends. One will find no pickles on the table, surly waiters or greasy kugel. The restaurant is home to haute cuisine: Duck Panzanella, Ginger-Crusted Mahi-Mahi, Wild Mushroom Farfalle, the finest wines, the most comfortable ambiance.
“You’d never believe it was kosher!” Right? Of course, if you consider restaurant-style kashrut a cuisine, not a religious mandate. Then the “typical” kosher restaurant becomes a study in inferiority – ill-prepared food, impatiently served, ordered from fly-specked menus.
But, it is also a study in Jews being a tormented minority, especially for those of us who see everything in terms of being a tormented minority. The truth is that kosher food becomes increasingly attractive as it becomes increasingly goyisch.
Quenelles de poisson roll lighter off the tongue than gefilte fish does, because one is more likely to eat them at Pierre’s, while Yehudim are more likely to eat the latter at dingy delicatessens called “Moishe’s.” The same is true of gnocchi above knishes, Plaza del Lago above Kol Tuv Pizza. Hollandaise above schmaltz. Tarte de Pomme, oui! Apfelschalet, nein!
Dream along with me about a world in which we are dominant, and the goyim are the tormented minority. Consider them emerging from a grimy establishment called “Yankel’s,” rapturously exclaiming, “You’d never believe it was traife! Imagine that chopped liver, better than pate. And darling, what about the kugel? How could I ever go back to gratin dauphinois? The tzimmes made me forget that I have ever eaten ratatouille.”
Now wake up! You and I will remain a tormented minority. We will forever judge the quality of kosher food on how un-kosher it seems. I have already told Ben that this poses no problem, so long as he remembers how to make a good matzo-ball soup.
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