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.
October 31, 2008
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.
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