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.
November 20, 2008
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.
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