THE GREAT GOOSE CONFLAGRATION OF 2005 (2/25/05)
Somewhere, I have a picture of family sitting at a long table in our backyard, waiting as my father cooked hotdogs on a primitive grill – a “feuer-topf” (fire-pot), as my mother called it – that we had purchased at the drugstore. It was simple fare, but memorably surrounded by extraordinary potato salad and garlicky pickles.
What happens, though, when a prodigal son strays too far from the values of his childhood? He moves to suburbia and purchases a twelve-foot grill, supercharged by jet propellant, blasting to 1600 degrees in 2.5 minutes. He is no longer daddy in a faux-toque. He is a nuclear engineer at his control panel.
I am that prodigal son. I have become proficient in grilling steaks, fish, poultry. I have even succeeded at shoving a beer can up a chicken’s derrière and grilling it upright, so it looks like it’s begging for life.
But, when did I stray too far? I have it on Sinaitic authority that it was when I attempted to cross the line between grilling and smoking. I almost paid with my life. It was swift. It was a precognition of Hades. It made me scream for my sainted parents to cradle me in their arms.
My own blast-furnace was equipped with a smoker-box. The allurement was irresistible. I had heard through my culinary meanderings that smoked goose was the apex of charcuterie. Kosher goose is hard to find, but I had one airlifted from Brooklyn. Early the next morning, the hickory chips were well soaked and thick blue-gray smoke filled the chamber. The recalcitrant goose would not stand upright, so I laid him flat. Then I swabbed the victim with a brandied brown-sugar glaze. Two big mistakes.
I had yet to offer my morning prayers, but I was already smug with self-adulating metaphors: I am Moses leading the Israelites toward the pillar of Divine smoke. I am Aaron the High Priest gaining his people’s atonement, presenting a cloud of incense in the Holy of Holies on Yom Kippur.
Moments later, I peeked out the window. I beheld the altar engulfed in flames and realized that this was not a replay of God’s fiery approval of Elijah’s offerings on Mount Carmel. Having flaunted basic safety rules, a fire extinguisher was nowhere in sight. I grabbed a towel and beat the fire out from around the poor goose, which by now looked like bowling ball.
But, the orange glow persisted from the bowels of the console that housed 20 gallons of propane, poised to bring an ignominious end to me, the house and . . . the goose. I fell and twisted my back. Linda came in from her workout and ran for the fire extinguisher, which only she knew was in the deepest recesses of the garage. I promised her a week of no manic outbursts for not regaling me in a litany of “Now have you learned your lesson?”
The goose, you ask? I refused to let his death be in vain. So, I scrubbed him with a Teflon pad until he looked like a refugee from a Siberian gulag. I roasted him to a mahogany-brown. To my amazement, the meat was succulent and delightfully smoky.
That night, I thanked my parents in heaven for one more chance to return to the humble virtue of grilling hotdogs on a feuer-topf from the corner drugstore. I promised that I would get rid of my turbo-charged model; maybe try to sell it to some guy from NASA, who already knows what it’s like to be blasted into another galaxy. I assured them that the closest I’d come to smoked-anything would be lox and bagels.
To this I finally heard my mother respond, “Sometimes a piece of sable is also nice.” Then and only then did I know that once again everything was right with the world. The Prodigal Son had returned.
February 27, 2005
February 15, 2005
THE TWO-HEAVEN DOCTRINE (2/15/05)
As usual, I was wedged between the preacher and the Imam in front of a World Religions class. We were doing our best to make our religions intelligible to a bunch of somnolent juniors and seniors. The kids perked up only at “Who goes to heaven?” The minister averred that only Christians do. The Imam was equally sure that only Muslims do. The only thing of which both were certain is that Jews don’t. I mustered the courage to say that Jews believe that all righteous people go to heaven. Surprisingly, a ripple of applause fluttered through the class.
Among mainstream Christians, I have never been taunted for my unsaved-ness, neither from the pulpit, nor from personal friends nor colleagues. But when I channel-surf on Sunday mornings, I hear my damnation flow forth from Fundamentalist pulpits like a mighty stream. Some Fundamentalists, knowing that I am a rabbi, have the inquisitiveness to raise the issue face-to-face. Though I understand their motives, I honor their integrity and explain where Judaism stands on the issue of heaven. My intent, I tell them, is not to delegitimize Christianity, but to establish the validity of my own faith.
My patience is short-circuited, though, by the countless times that I have had a Fundamentalist close an encounter with “I’ll miss you in heaven.” Most recently, I was blessed by this lament from a man who had just told me that Dr. King was a “womanizin’ comm-o-nist.” Atypical for me, I had the wit to respond, “Frankly, Chuck, I’ve already seen enough of you down here on earth!”
In my momentary rage, I impulsively always want to jump into a theological spitting match. Here’s what I ache to say:
“Maybe its you Fundamentalists who have this idea of heaven all wrong. Maybe heaven isn’t a place where doctrine trumps deed. Maybe we’ve been dupes to empower you to define heaven and become its gatekeepers. Maybe the measure of who gets through the pearly gates has to do with the content of ones character, not ones beliefs. Maybe you’re the ones not going to heaven unless you have lived righteous lives, no matter what you believe.”
Then I calm down. No one, I say to myself, is out to delegitimize Fundamentalism. Instead, I have arrived at a theological proposition that is not nearly so rancorous but just as radical:
I have come to believe that there are two heavens. The Fundamentalist heaven is a parochial place (or “state”) defined by faith in a set of doctrines, central to which is the redemptive power of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.
The broader heaven is the realm of souls who have lived righteous lives on earth. Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi made the assertion even more succinctly: The righteous person is one whose inclination to do good triumphs over his impulse to do evil. For most of us, certainly for me, the struggle is exhausting and unending. Will I go to heaven? Every day, every hour, is a new test. Does it require faith? Certainly. Faith in God’s word that good is to be found in acting on God’s mandate. Faith that God desires our upward climb, not our perfection.
Hence, the question is not “Are you going to heaven?” but “To which heaven are you going?” I do have my prejudices. God knows that there are many saintly men and women that the two heavens would share. But, too many souls I yearn to encounter are excluded from Fundamentalist heaven because of their doctrinal shortcomings. If I should merit going to heaven, some of the sages that I would never meet in Fundamentalist heaven would include Mahatma Gandhi, Mother Theresa, Bahullah, Dr. King, Maimonides, Aristotle and Pope John XXIII. I’d also like to meet some of the saints who came before the “Big Split,” the ones who Fundamentalist preachers never seem to invoke, like Nicholas of Mitra, Francis of Assisi, Thomas Aquinas, Ignatius Loyola.
Knowing that I might encounter the guy who said that Dr. King was a “womanizin’ comm-o-nist” and the preachers who reassured me that I was going to hell, let me concisely state the two-heaven doctrine: You have your heaven, and we have ours. We are satisfied to be in ours. If you are satisfied to be in yours, God bless you. I am willing to take my chances and never feel that any other justification is due.
As usual, I was wedged between the preacher and the Imam in front of a World Religions class. We were doing our best to make our religions intelligible to a bunch of somnolent juniors and seniors. The kids perked up only at “Who goes to heaven?” The minister averred that only Christians do. The Imam was equally sure that only Muslims do. The only thing of which both were certain is that Jews don’t. I mustered the courage to say that Jews believe that all righteous people go to heaven. Surprisingly, a ripple of applause fluttered through the class.
Among mainstream Christians, I have never been taunted for my unsaved-ness, neither from the pulpit, nor from personal friends nor colleagues. But when I channel-surf on Sunday mornings, I hear my damnation flow forth from Fundamentalist pulpits like a mighty stream. Some Fundamentalists, knowing that I am a rabbi, have the inquisitiveness to raise the issue face-to-face. Though I understand their motives, I honor their integrity and explain where Judaism stands on the issue of heaven. My intent, I tell them, is not to delegitimize Christianity, but to establish the validity of my own faith.
My patience is short-circuited, though, by the countless times that I have had a Fundamentalist close an encounter with “I’ll miss you in heaven.” Most recently, I was blessed by this lament from a man who had just told me that Dr. King was a “womanizin’ comm-o-nist.” Atypical for me, I had the wit to respond, “Frankly, Chuck, I’ve already seen enough of you down here on earth!”
In my momentary rage, I impulsively always want to jump into a theological spitting match. Here’s what I ache to say:
“Maybe its you Fundamentalists who have this idea of heaven all wrong. Maybe heaven isn’t a place where doctrine trumps deed. Maybe we’ve been dupes to empower you to define heaven and become its gatekeepers. Maybe the measure of who gets through the pearly gates has to do with the content of ones character, not ones beliefs. Maybe you’re the ones not going to heaven unless you have lived righteous lives, no matter what you believe.”
Then I calm down. No one, I say to myself, is out to delegitimize Fundamentalism. Instead, I have arrived at a theological proposition that is not nearly so rancorous but just as radical:
I have come to believe that there are two heavens. The Fundamentalist heaven is a parochial place (or “state”) defined by faith in a set of doctrines, central to which is the redemptive power of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.
The broader heaven is the realm of souls who have lived righteous lives on earth. Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi made the assertion even more succinctly: The righteous person is one whose inclination to do good triumphs over his impulse to do evil. For most of us, certainly for me, the struggle is exhausting and unending. Will I go to heaven? Every day, every hour, is a new test. Does it require faith? Certainly. Faith in God’s word that good is to be found in acting on God’s mandate. Faith that God desires our upward climb, not our perfection.
Hence, the question is not “Are you going to heaven?” but “To which heaven are you going?” I do have my prejudices. God knows that there are many saintly men and women that the two heavens would share. But, too many souls I yearn to encounter are excluded from Fundamentalist heaven because of their doctrinal shortcomings. If I should merit going to heaven, some of the sages that I would never meet in Fundamentalist heaven would include Mahatma Gandhi, Mother Theresa, Bahullah, Dr. King, Maimonides, Aristotle and Pope John XXIII. I’d also like to meet some of the saints who came before the “Big Split,” the ones who Fundamentalist preachers never seem to invoke, like Nicholas of Mitra, Francis of Assisi, Thomas Aquinas, Ignatius Loyola.
Knowing that I might encounter the guy who said that Dr. King was a “womanizin’ comm-o-nist” and the preachers who reassured me that I was going to hell, let me concisely state the two-heaven doctrine: You have your heaven, and we have ours. We are satisfied to be in ours. If you are satisfied to be in yours, God bless you. I am willing to take my chances and never feel that any other justification is due.
February 02, 2005
A LITTLE SOMETHING FOR THE TABLE
Food can be a tempestuous mistress. I always treat my paramour with unconditional love. She tempts me, rouses my senses, then deceives me and leaves me to languish on Hades’ threshold.
The macabre dance begins innocently, even joyously. She beckons me to an orgy. Now, no one in orgiastic flagrante delicto calls it an “orgy.” In my vernacular, the euphemism for a food orgy is “for the table.” It usually convenes at New York’s quintessential Jewish dining establishment, the Second Avenue Deli, surrounded by family and friends. They love the food. I am enthralled. I look at the long list of appetizers and want them all. Do they want to share some, I ask? No, they’ve ordered quite enough already.
Then I make my treacherous offer: “How about if I order some ‘for the table’?” Laughter. They know that the question is purely rhetorical. Moments later, arrayed in front of me are plates and bowls of the most delectable and toxic chopped liver, kishke in gravy, kasha varnishkes, chicken fricassee, farfel, gefilte fish, tzimmes, matzo ball and mushroom-barley soups, accompanied by a stack of rye bread and a pot of emerald-green pickles.
“Please join me!” I beckon them. Joey and Ben may take a forkful, but they know that my offering is gratuitous. None of this preprandial fare “for the table” deters me from the main event, a sandwich as high as Haman’s gallows of corned beef, pastrami and chopped liver . . . and an order of French fries.
By dinner’s end, everyone else is ready for a stroll around Rockefeller Center. I am ready to hang from Haman’s gallows. But after the acute gastritis subsides, oh, the memories. And does it stop me from ordering “for the table” on our next soiree? You guess.
But once it almost did. I had eaten myself stuporous so many times that the Malach Ha-Moves did not pass over on the night of the Seder. Surrounded by the entire family, I collapsed from pancreatitis, which brings excruciating pain. More critically it can impair a variety of other organs, the damage from which I suffer to this day. Had I not received immediate heroic treatment, Chad Gadya would have ended one verse too soon.
When I awoke, still groggy from my narcotic cocktail, my mother, Linda, three kids, two step-kids, and two kids-in-law were surrounding my bed. My mother wept. I was feeble, but I still had a little of my wit: “How did they let all of you into ICU?” Pause. “Ah, I get it. This must be what they call the deathbed scene.” At this, the nurse administered another knockout punch.
Weeks later, I asked my mother if after that episode everyone was upset. “Oh no,” she said. “When we got home, it was time for lunch. So we pulled everything milchig out of the refrigerator and ate like it was going out of style. Joey said that you would have loved it, because you would have had so much food in front of you that we brought out exclusively ‘for the table’!”
Food can be a tempestuous mistress. I always treat my paramour with unconditional love. She tempts me, rouses my senses, then deceives me and leaves me to languish on Hades’ threshold.
The macabre dance begins innocently, even joyously. She beckons me to an orgy. Now, no one in orgiastic flagrante delicto calls it an “orgy.” In my vernacular, the euphemism for a food orgy is “for the table.” It usually convenes at New York’s quintessential Jewish dining establishment, the Second Avenue Deli, surrounded by family and friends. They love the food. I am enthralled. I look at the long list of appetizers and want them all. Do they want to share some, I ask? No, they’ve ordered quite enough already.
Then I make my treacherous offer: “How about if I order some ‘for the table’?” Laughter. They know that the question is purely rhetorical. Moments later, arrayed in front of me are plates and bowls of the most delectable and toxic chopped liver, kishke in gravy, kasha varnishkes, chicken fricassee, farfel, gefilte fish, tzimmes, matzo ball and mushroom-barley soups, accompanied by a stack of rye bread and a pot of emerald-green pickles.
“Please join me!” I beckon them. Joey and Ben may take a forkful, but they know that my offering is gratuitous. None of this preprandial fare “for the table” deters me from the main event, a sandwich as high as Haman’s gallows of corned beef, pastrami and chopped liver . . . and an order of French fries.
By dinner’s end, everyone else is ready for a stroll around Rockefeller Center. I am ready to hang from Haman’s gallows. But after the acute gastritis subsides, oh, the memories. And does it stop me from ordering “for the table” on our next soiree? You guess.
But once it almost did. I had eaten myself stuporous so many times that the Malach Ha-Moves did not pass over on the night of the Seder. Surrounded by the entire family, I collapsed from pancreatitis, which brings excruciating pain. More critically it can impair a variety of other organs, the damage from which I suffer to this day. Had I not received immediate heroic treatment, Chad Gadya would have ended one verse too soon.
When I awoke, still groggy from my narcotic cocktail, my mother, Linda, three kids, two step-kids, and two kids-in-law were surrounding my bed. My mother wept. I was feeble, but I still had a little of my wit: “How did they let all of you into ICU?” Pause. “Ah, I get it. This must be what they call the deathbed scene.” At this, the nurse administered another knockout punch.
Weeks later, I asked my mother if after that episode everyone was upset. “Oh no,” she said. “When we got home, it was time for lunch. So we pulled everything milchig out of the refrigerator and ate like it was going out of style. Joey said that you would have loved it, because you would have had so much food in front of you that we brought out exclusively ‘for the table’!”
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