December 29, 2004

"AND HERE I THOUGHT YOU PEOPLE DIDN'T EAT PORK!"

My mother was a saint, but she was a miserable cook. We called her salmon loaf “the unmentionable,” and her turkey crumbled to the touch.

But there were exceptions. She did make a fine breast of veal. It was overcooked like everything else, but its layer of fat ensured that the meat remained juicy and carcinogenic.

As I ventured out on my own culinary odyssey, I discovered that veal breast had many of the same attributes as – forgive me – pork. So why not experiment? I glazed and roasted it until it shimmered. I contemplated the infamy of becoming the rabbi who perfected the elusive “kosher ham.”

One Friday afternoon as I was removing a gleaming veal breast from the oven, my minister friend Randy strolled in unannounced. He spied the roast and bellowed, “Cut me a slice of that, wouldya?” He savored the forkful and exploded, “Hot damn!” the Southern equivalent of “Wunderbar!” Then, “Cut me another slice!” And another. Pointing to the potato stuffing, “How about some of that?” “Hot damn!” After polishing off the roast, Randy raved, “And here I thought you people didn’t eat pork!” My kids wound up with salami sandwiches, but ever since that afternoon, we never call veal breast anything but “Hot Damn!”

As time has gone by, my quasi-porcine veal breast has become much enjoyed and requested by family and friends. Just last weekend I served one fully regaled, in honor of Linda’s mother’s birthday – apricot-brandy glaze, succulent meat stuffed with potatoes, carrots and onions, and a port-wine sauce. I would be hard-pressed to call it the pinnacle of my repertoire, but I do get a kick out of presenting this magnificently scored, glazed and studded glatt-kosher roast as if it were a scene from Good Housekeeping.

One day I may achieve the Cordon Bleu and even snooker them into believing that my veal is “the other white meat.” But, deep inside I will be beholden to a Jewish mother who, forever reminding me that I am a son of Israel, will declare from heaven, “Maishe Chayim, the kelbene brustel and potato kugel were delicious. But port-wine sauce? Feh. Goyishe nachas. And what is this ‘hot damn’ mishugas?”

December 27, 2004

MANY THANKS FOR A ROTTEN HOLIDAY SEASON

Let me be among the first to extend my thanks to the misanthropes on the Right and the Left and their minions for making this a rotten holiday season. Thanks for hijacking the one time of the year that we could still be unshakably assured of a little solace and peace.

To the Left: You roasted Christmas on an open fire with such a vengeance that you nearly charred it beyond recognition. To the Right: Not once did the angelic cry, “goodwill to men,” interfere with your accusation of a vast anti-Christian cabal. It could not help but make my coreligionists a little queasy about anti-Semitic intimations.

Thank you both.

To the Left: I do not remember the ACLU sponsoring one “Seasons Greetings” float to replace the “Merry Christmas” floats that you so ardently worked to ban from the Holiday parades on Main Street. To the Right: I do not remember El Rushbo once breaking into a few bars of It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year or Angels We Have Heard on High to modulate his attacks on the miscreants who would denigrate the birth of the Prince of Peace.

Thank you both.

Thanks to all you creeps, we have been gifted with the worst-case scenario holiday season.

What about the best-case scenario? Well how about letting the much touted “reason for the season” once and forever bring both sides of idiotic disputes to the contrite realization that we are piddling away our best energies acting like bunch of spoiled babies hiding behind self-righteousness and legal precedent. A pipe dream, you say? You’re probably right. The lasting capacity to transcend the defamation of Christmas, Chanukah and Kwanzaa belongs to those beloved few individuals who can retain their focus so clearly on "the reason" that they are impervious to the humbug. What else is new?

If not the best-case scenario, what might we reasonably expect? Perhaps we should revisit a word that has become foreign to our vocabulary: truce.

Cynics see truce as hypocrisy: temporary peace with an enemy on the assumption that after a respite, the strife will start all over again. Yet, at its best, a truce can plant a seed of the possibility of peace, which invariably begins with enemies recognizing their mutual humanity. If nothing else, a truce during a time of celebration bespeaks a level of civility that distinguishes humanity from animals.

The spontaneous Christmas Eve truce along the Western Front in 1914 has become so legendary that it is the subject of books and doctoral dissertations for its historical significance and psycho- and socio-dynamics. Snoopy and the Red Baron even declared their own personal truce. In three decades as a rabbi, I have seen many nasty divorces bode ill for a wedding or a Bar or Bat Mitzvah. I have always counseled, and often negotiated, a truce between the warring factions. In the instances that the families have complied, the civility and goodwill have been universally celebrated, while those that declared no truce left only disgust.

So here we have Christmas/Chanukah/Kwanzaa, the season, the reason, the possibility of respite, a little joy, a little less crankiness, a little more “let nothing you dismay.” In a word, it is a season ripe for a truce. We cry bitter tears that we know that we cannot speak of even momentary “truce” with al-Qaeda. That and similar traits are precisely what make them savage beasts, beneath humanity, incapable of civility.

But then there is home. We do claim the crown of humanity and civility. Yet, we enjoyed no holiday truce, no respite. Instead, a continued bombardment of ugly, shrill rhetoric on both sides of every issue from people who have the easiest access to the microphone: politicians, Hollywood types, media squawkers. Not one voice Left or Right, not even among the spotlight-grabbing clergy, pleading for a truce, a seasonal restraint from invective and counter-invective.

During the truce, talk radio would probably not garner the same market share. Celebrity preachers would not have O’Reilly’s bully pulpit for the gospel of hate. The ACLU would have to go back to actually defending someone’s civil rights. Popularity and advertising might temporarily decline.

The American audience does have quite an appetite for bloody red meat, eh? But, maybe for a while we can fill up on grandma’s treats, kick back contently and – even knowing that the War of Left and Right will kick up again on January 2 – enjoy at least a few weeks of peace and goodwill. Call it an illusion. I call it a start.

December 22, 2004

AVENGING THE SOUTH'S "GREAT MISFORTUNATE" AT $3.99 A POUND

So what happens when you’re a rabbi whose congregation decides to lynch you at the very moment your bipolarity rages out of control? You throw caution to the wind, quit your job in a huff and join the ranks of the long-term unemployed.

Stuck at home, I decided to test the hypothesis that I have talent in arts culinaires. I have yet to consult Dr. Freud, but my spirit first gravitated to cured salmon, Scandinavia’s prodigal child, gravlax.

My earlier years were laced with “lox,” not “lax”: oily, smoky, salty. Oh, I had seen gravlax in the deli showcase. But it was expensive, and my mother insisted that it was goyish. Now, though, I had the motivation and – forgive me, Mom – freedom, to sample the allurement of gentile debauchery. Besides, salmon is now the cheapest fish around: $3.99 a pound, with trout at $7.99 and sea bass an outrageous $14.99. Add a cup of salt, sugar, dill, a shot of Stoli, and ones pocketbook need not be raped at Zabar’s for $24.99 a pound.

My results? Superior! Firm yet velvety flesh. Lightly sweet, modulated by the vodka. An earthy undertone of dill. Oily, smoky, salty? Do we still live in the tenements? Alas, its position in the Holy Trinity alongside bagel and cream cheese may be forfeit. My mother was right. It’s not lox. Tres goyish.

But, how much gravlax can one man eat? Slowly I started bringing samples to a few appetizing stores and restaurants around town. Unanimous opinion? Delicious. Unlike any other cured item (including ham, I wondered) in the Greenville market. Soon, I became The Gravlax King of the South Carolina Upstate.

Recently, I popped in on a customer and spied a sign above the showcase displaying my tour de force: “Gravlax: Sweeter and Smoother than Yankee Lox!”

Ah, this is the ultimate benefit to being the Gravlax King in the heart of Dixie, where the Civil War is still called “Our Great Misfortune, the War of Northern Aggression,” and lox is neither Scandinavian nor Jewish, simply “Yankee.” What a delicious irony that a Yankee-rabbi-liberal-antiwar-Democrat has apparently liberated the xenophobic South from the oily, smoky, salty scourge of Northern Aggression. The goyim should only know the truth.

Now on to convincing them that chopped liver is really pate de foie gras . . .

December 14, 2004

TAKE YOUR MITTS OFF THE CRECHE!

Would you please do me a favor? Stop fooling with Baby Jesus in the village square. And while you’re at it, don’t interrupt the kid singing Silent Night in the holiday pageant.

It’s been years since this rabbi objected to public displays of crèches, menorahs and Kwanzaa symbols. I am a card-carrying member of the ACLU and Anti-Defamation League, yet I am increasingly steamed by the absurdly radicalized efforts backed by court orders to strip Christmas of its Christianity in the American heartland.

Angry folks on both sides of the battle line have missed the boat entirely on how they are trying to justify or protest public displays of religious faith. Falwell, O’Reilly and the alphabet-soup of First Amendment advocacy groups are equally to blame for the most egregious error, focusing the vituperative debate on whether or not America is a “Christian country.” That argument leads to the ultimate conclusion that a majority may strong-arm religious preferences into the public sphere by highly questionable grandfather clause (Benjamin Franklin a Christian?) or mob rule.

We do, however, have a different way of looking at the controversy that might actually resolve the acrimony and grief. It would entail rethinking the dual significance of the means by which each faith articulates its cherished beliefs. There can be no doubt, for example, that a devout Christian sees the crèche as a powerful affirmation of faith. It is, per se, a religious symbol. Yet, for others of us – and dare I say even many Christians – it is an element of holiday décor and culture, one that consecrates the season more than a particular religious event. It need not lose its distinctly religious symbolism for a devout Christian, while adding rich holiday ambiance for the rest of us.

Dare I also say that the distinction often made between a public crèche and a public menorah is a nullity? Yes, the menorah is a beloved symbol of Jewish culture, history and celebration, a charming contribution to the seasonal melting pot. But, when faithful Jews kindle it, we affirm that it is “a commandment sanctified our God.” Thus, the public menorah, too, must be appreciated for both its distinctly religious and celebratory seasonal presence.

Kwanzaa is likewise full of beautiful African culture and symbolism. For many African Americans, however, is not merely cultural, but also an affirmation of faith, that pre-dated slavery and that brings African Americans a unique sense of identity. Should Kwanzaa, too, be denied its dual role as articulation of faith and public contributor to the community’s fabric?

Foolish us. We have already dealt with this inanity and simply do not realize it. The public domain is resplendent with Santa Claus, who for us is just that “jolly old elf.” But, you do not have to be a Church theologian to know that St. Nicholas of Myra is also a consecrated religious figure with his own day in the liturgical calendar and patron to 40+ causes. And the beloved Christmas tree, its source in the idolatry of the Druids? Who out there is shouting, “Pagans!”? Ah, you say, mere symbols that have transcended their sanctified origins? Don’t tell that to a Catholic born on December 6 or your local Wiccan.

My liberalism chokes on these words, but political correctness is a once healthy organism that has grown malignant, as it ventures to bleach once vivid colors out of the public square. Why are we sentenced to hearing sonorous etudes instead of the tumultuous Marching to Zion or The Lord is My Light? And why should the God once enrobed in multi-textured majesty be constricted in a straitjacket of papier-mâché? For fear of offending someone, we wind up offending everyone, or at least inspiring no one. Why aren’t the public thoroughfares the best place for reveling in a rainbow of sanctified symbols at a season consecrated even more by shared visions of peace and goodwill as they are by theological particulars?

When all is done, none of this Christmas hubbub is even vaguely about “majority rules.” To the contrary, it is about mutual appreciation as the sine qua non of a healthy public covenant: The forms and symbols of religious expression that are unique to your faith and mine are the very colors that give lustrous character and dimension to our beloved community. They may be “religious” to you and “cultural” to me, and vice versa, but in the spirit of “peace on earth, goodwill to men” and the beauteous bounty of the season, can’t we both just give a little on this one?

December 02, 2004

THE BITTERSWEET TALE OF AN IMPERFECT SANTA

Lately, I’ve been shopping around for fat guys to play Santa. Long story, but I’ll try to make it brief:

Jewish or not, I got a burn in my belly when I discovered that our mall would allow parents to snap a picture of their kid with Santa only if they first paid to have Santa’s helpers take a suite of “formal” pictures.

Imagine, a kid watching Santa fend off parents like paparazzi all for the cause of filthy lucre. So, I got hacked off at the mall.

What to do? I put together a project called “Laps of Love”: Find a few fat guys to play Santa. Me first. Find a central location. Sit Santa on a throne. Invite folks to bring their kids and their cameras. Let Santa’s helpers give the kids candy, trinkets, cookies and cider while the parents snap away. On the way out, have a bucket to accept contributions for homeless families.

No overhead. No bureaucracy. No profits. All goodies donated. Ah, the spirit of giving. Welcome back.

Now, on to find the Santas. Plenty of fat guys in Greenville County, the home of deep-fried everything, cream-gravied everything, and otherwise healthy vegetables cooked with fatback. A newspaper reporter. A construction foreman. An asthmatic evangelist. A cabbie. My shoemaker. All practicing their ho-ho-ho’s and fattening up at Henry’s BBQ (voted best in the country by Playboy, or so I have been told).

Yesterday I popped in on my shoemaker to confirm his appointed hour, and my eyes beheld another perfect Santa – appropriately rotund, full white beard – hanging around the shoemaker’s shop. Shooting the bull with the shoemaker and his wife, laughing that deep, Santa-esque laugh, having a jolly time.

“Another candidate!” I announced.

“I have your friend the shoemaker playing Santa to raise money for homeless kids. You look like you’d do a perfect job, too. What about it?”

To my surprise, his response brought him to the edge of anger as his voice rose:


“I don’t believe in Santa Claus! I won’t do something like that! It’s all bull****! Kids don’t need that stuff! I never needed it!”

“But,” I sputtered, “it’s to help homeless kids.”

“I told you already! I don’t believe in Santa Claus! It’s all bull****!”

The shoemaker and his wife did not press the issue. Ironic, I thought. I apologized for the intrusion and instinctively looked downward, as you probably would. There I beheld the reason for the unbridled wrath. Both his hands were grotesquely mangled and malformed, an image that would likely scare most little children at their mere sight.

No, he could not play Santa. But, I projected, the rage was more than a day in the making, something etched deeply in his psyche. Kids are cruel, and his own childhood was doubtlessly filled with name-calling, rejected, treated like a freak, unable to throw or bat or fish like the other guys, an otherwise strapping young man unable to make it with the girls, little children fleeing in fear of the bogeyman, unfit for ROTC or army service.

One wonders what compassion or rejection in the world of sixty years ago his own parents, siblings, family and teachers showed him. One also wonders whether in some rural fundamentalist church his defects were not preached as signs of damnation to him or his parents. One wonders whether his little sliver of society – male, 1950’s, Southern, rural – could have offered him a chance encounter with someone(s) sufficiently understanding and compassionate to help him transcend the cruelty and make peace with his disfigurement. Who only knows?

This I do know: The joviality of that fat guy shooting the breeze with the shoemaker was real. It was not the mask of denial. It was the signature of trust that was earned through years of kindness and genuineness. He will, though, probably never make peace with people like me who, even unwittingly, challenge his wholeness. Or is it his masculinity? Or is it the long-touted myth of Southern manhood? He could not, would not, simply hold up a hand and say, “It’s better that I not.” Forever embittered, folks like me and my schemes will forever remain “bull****.”

What, then, can we do for an imperfect Santa? Only wish him well, I guess. And that God surround him with people whom he can trust, those who neither pity him nor deny him his wholeness, but simply have him as their friend.