IN THE HOSPITAL, WE CATER TO YOUR NEEDS
I would tell you that I am in excellent health. In fact, I have recently lost 32 kg, but don’t tell the editor! But, if you’d ask my doctors, you’d be certain that I have one foot in the grave: a pacemaker, diabetes, high blood pressure, s small stroke and other assorted maladies.
You may thus assume that I am familiar with hospital life. You should not be surprised that I had one of my perennial visits to the hospital just last week for a minor procedure.
All went well, thank God, and the cuisine was expectedly miserable. I would have considered it normal were it not for the obnoxious message on my dinner tray, “Our goal is to enhance your dining experience by offering you personalized service and warm hospitality that you deserve and we deliver. We’re here to cater to you.”
That “we cater to you” baloney busted my gut. So, I decided to put them to the test. I simply requested my normal diet: my meals should be vegetarian (in Greenville, kosher is too much to expect), soft and dietetic.
On their first attempt at dinner, the attendant brought mashed potatoes, dietetic pudding and a slice of . . . meatloaf, because “it was soft.” On the second try, she brought fried fish, with ice cream for dessert. The fried fish, she reasoned, was softer than the alternative, fried chicken. The third time, she presented vegetables cooked to mush in a ham-flecked stock.
Obviously, neither Jesus nor his Disciples, who observed kashrut and after whom the hospital was named, were watching over me. Linda finally walked in, and after we stopped laughing over my culinary plight, she ran home for some of her matzo ball soup, potato kugel and gefilte fish.
In the aftermath, I tried to think of even one indigenously Jewish food that was was not “soft.” Kugel? Matzo balls? Gefilte fish? The only “hard” Jewish food that I could recollect was crunchy matzo. Matzo? Didn’t the goyim eat that at the Last Supper? Aha! Something else we stole from them! It’s all part of an international Jewish conspiracy. What will be next? Lox and bagels?
March 27, 2006
March 13, 2006
STARBUCK'S REVENGE
My mother and father did not have a marriage. They had a lifelong love affair. My father’s given name was Simeon. His friends called him “Sim” or “Si.” My mother never called him anything but “my dear Shimondel.” In turn, I never once heard my father call my mother by her birth name, Sophie. She was always, “my darling.”
My mother was far from the world’s greatest cook, so she wisely prepared basic, unadorned meals. To her great fortune, my father was a man of simple tastes whose palate was indifferent to an extraordinary recipe, much less haute cuisine. Were my mother to have made a particularly tasty dinner, my father’s highest accolade was, “Darling, this is a recipe that you can keep.”
Thus, as you can imagine, breakfast was the quintessential picture of simplicity. Each morning for 48 years of their marriage, my mother would align before him glasses of orange juice, milk and water. Before him, too, was a bowl of cornflakes and sliced bananas. He would pour half the milk in the bowl, eat the flakes, drink the remaining milk, the juice, and then the water each day in the same order.
As breakfast would end each morning for 48 years, my mother would make the same offer: “Would you care for a cup of coffee, Shimondel?” And each morning for 48 years, my father would politely respond, “No thank you, my darling.”
Slowly, my father descended into Alzheimer’s. We were finally obliged to place him in a nursing home. One morning, my mother and I arrived just as the attendant was helping him eat breakfast. He heartily ate a plate of eggs and toast. And, as you might have guessed, he concluded the meal with a robust cup of coffee.
“Shimondel,” my mother asked with loving consternation, “After all these years you started drinking coffee with breakfast?”
In his senility, she expected no response at all. Imagine our surprise as he looked up from his cup and softly announced with complete clarity, “Darling, this is a recipe that you could keep!”
My mother and father did not have a marriage. They had a lifelong love affair. My father’s given name was Simeon. His friends called him “Sim” or “Si.” My mother never called him anything but “my dear Shimondel.” In turn, I never once heard my father call my mother by her birth name, Sophie. She was always, “my darling.”
My mother was far from the world’s greatest cook, so she wisely prepared basic, unadorned meals. To her great fortune, my father was a man of simple tastes whose palate was indifferent to an extraordinary recipe, much less haute cuisine. Were my mother to have made a particularly tasty dinner, my father’s highest accolade was, “Darling, this is a recipe that you can keep.”
Thus, as you can imagine, breakfast was the quintessential picture of simplicity. Each morning for 48 years of their marriage, my mother would align before him glasses of orange juice, milk and water. Before him, too, was a bowl of cornflakes and sliced bananas. He would pour half the milk in the bowl, eat the flakes, drink the remaining milk, the juice, and then the water each day in the same order.
As breakfast would end each morning for 48 years, my mother would make the same offer: “Would you care for a cup of coffee, Shimondel?” And each morning for 48 years, my father would politely respond, “No thank you, my darling.”
Slowly, my father descended into Alzheimer’s. We were finally obliged to place him in a nursing home. One morning, my mother and I arrived just as the attendant was helping him eat breakfast. He heartily ate a plate of eggs and toast. And, as you might have guessed, he concluded the meal with a robust cup of coffee.
“Shimondel,” my mother asked with loving consternation, “After all these years you started drinking coffee with breakfast?”
In his senility, she expected no response at all. Imagine our surprise as he looked up from his cup and softly announced with complete clarity, “Darling, this is a recipe that you could keep!”
March 06, 2006
SLICE IT RARE FOR THE SAKE OF THE POOR
Contrary to my usual perception as rabbi in our little village, I was recently asked to prepare a buffet for a local charity ball. The greatest irony, to be sure, was that 200 gentiles unwittingly dined on haute cuisine prepared in a meticulously kosher kitchen.
Now on to the strictly kosher menu: First, my jambalaya, a dish that originated with French-Canadians who immigrated to Louisiana. Jambalaya is highly seasoned rice containing chicken, sausage, vegetables and shrimp, or so they thought. For Yehudim who do mix fish with meat, halibut is a delicious substitute for the mud-groveling crustacean, and the goyim were none the wiser.
Then, I brought forth a tureen of Caribbean ceviche, which one might call “sushi for cowards”: raw tuna, tomatoes, onions, peppers, all pickled together for a few hours in lime juice. As the local aristocrats bathed in it, all I could think was that it would be wonderful to serve at a bris.
The piece de resistance, however, posed a deep dilemma. In the course of gathering contributions, I had unthinkingly schnorred a monstrous chunk of treife roast beef from a local hotel. The hotel would roast it in its oven.
Ah, but who would carve it? By now, you should know that the only schlemiel who knew how to wield a knife was . . . the rabbi! For three hours, I sliced roast beef for 200. “Would you like yours rare? Well done? Another slice? Some sauce for that?
They loved every morsel. And whom do you think they assumed roasted it? I tried not to burst their balloon: “Wherever did you get that roast?” From a friend. “How did you roast it?” In a friend’s oven. “What seasonings did you use?” That’s a secret. “How long did you marinate it?” Hours and hours.
When I arrived home, I kashered my hands and tongue with a blowtorch. I made these solemn vows: to teach someone else how to carve a roast, to never get so drunk on Purim that I blurt out this episode, and to warn my grandchildren to be careful what they schnorr.
Contrary to my usual perception as rabbi in our little village, I was recently asked to prepare a buffet for a local charity ball. The greatest irony, to be sure, was that 200 gentiles unwittingly dined on haute cuisine prepared in a meticulously kosher kitchen.
Now on to the strictly kosher menu: First, my jambalaya, a dish that originated with French-Canadians who immigrated to Louisiana. Jambalaya is highly seasoned rice containing chicken, sausage, vegetables and shrimp, or so they thought. For Yehudim who do mix fish with meat, halibut is a delicious substitute for the mud-groveling crustacean, and the goyim were none the wiser.
Then, I brought forth a tureen of Caribbean ceviche, which one might call “sushi for cowards”: raw tuna, tomatoes, onions, peppers, all pickled together for a few hours in lime juice. As the local aristocrats bathed in it, all I could think was that it would be wonderful to serve at a bris.
The piece de resistance, however, posed a deep dilemma. In the course of gathering contributions, I had unthinkingly schnorred a monstrous chunk of treife roast beef from a local hotel. The hotel would roast it in its oven.
Ah, but who would carve it? By now, you should know that the only schlemiel who knew how to wield a knife was . . . the rabbi! For three hours, I sliced roast beef for 200. “Would you like yours rare? Well done? Another slice? Some sauce for that?
They loved every morsel. And whom do you think they assumed roasted it? I tried not to burst their balloon: “Wherever did you get that roast?” From a friend. “How did you roast it?” In a friend’s oven. “What seasonings did you use?” That’s a secret. “How long did you marinate it?” Hours and hours.
When I arrived home, I kashered my hands and tongue with a blowtorch. I made these solemn vows: to teach someone else how to carve a roast, to never get so drunk on Purim that I blurt out this episode, and to warn my grandchildren to be careful what they schnorr.
February 21, 2006
EIGHT IS FOR . . . ?
The perennial “fifth question” at the Pesach Seder is how to keep the kids entertained. Steal the afikomon? Fine. It provides a moment’s distraction and rarely pays off with a new Mercedes.
What about promising them hotdogs for dinner? Fine. But where are the buns?
The truth: If there is success in keeping the kids entertained, it varies from family to family. My straight-laced father provided our solution upon the arrival of his first granddaughter. It has worked ever since.
He built anticipation for the end of the Seder when we would sing the traditional Chad Gadya and Echad Mi Yode’a. For Chad Gadya, he would let out with the most raucous sound effects: The two “zuzim” (coins) would loudly ring “cling, cling!” into a make-believe platter. The kid would bray “meeeeeh!” The cat, “meeeeeow!” The water would “splooosh!” and so on.
By the time we arrived at the Malach Ha-Moves, everyone’s face would stream with tears, jeering “Booooooo!” Then, as God avenged the evil Angel of Death, we would cheer “Huuuuurrah!" to welcome the conquering hero. Even the Mayor and Archbishop, who once joined us for our Seder, lustily shared the giddy festivities.
Echad Mi Yode’a posed a different issue, for it does not lend itself to silly noises. Ah, but it does lend itself to equally silly hand motions. One God is simple: We motion toward heaven and earth. The Patriarchs call for pointing to the men at the table. Likewise the Matriarchs. For seven, we pretend to fall asleep as on Shabbat. Nine calls for us – male and female – to stick out our bellies anticipating childbirth.
Now, have you figured out the dilemma? The number eight has only one slightly lewd Jewish significance. My ingenious father devised an acceptable way to commemorate the bris without any male pulling down his pants at the Seder table.
Rather than me telling you his solution, why don’t you submit your hypotheses to me, MarcWilson1216@aol.com? All correct answers will receive an autographed picture of me from the neck up, lest I be tempted to provide you a more graphic depiction!
The perennial “fifth question” at the Pesach Seder is how to keep the kids entertained. Steal the afikomon? Fine. It provides a moment’s distraction and rarely pays off with a new Mercedes.
What about promising them hotdogs for dinner? Fine. But where are the buns?
The truth: If there is success in keeping the kids entertained, it varies from family to family. My straight-laced father provided our solution upon the arrival of his first granddaughter. It has worked ever since.
He built anticipation for the end of the Seder when we would sing the traditional Chad Gadya and Echad Mi Yode’a. For Chad Gadya, he would let out with the most raucous sound effects: The two “zuzim” (coins) would loudly ring “cling, cling!” into a make-believe platter. The kid would bray “meeeeeh!” The cat, “meeeeeow!” The water would “splooosh!” and so on.
By the time we arrived at the Malach Ha-Moves, everyone’s face would stream with tears, jeering “Booooooo!” Then, as God avenged the evil Angel of Death, we would cheer “Huuuuurrah!" to welcome the conquering hero. Even the Mayor and Archbishop, who once joined us for our Seder, lustily shared the giddy festivities.
Echad Mi Yode’a posed a different issue, for it does not lend itself to silly noises. Ah, but it does lend itself to equally silly hand motions. One God is simple: We motion toward heaven and earth. The Patriarchs call for pointing to the men at the table. Likewise the Matriarchs. For seven, we pretend to fall asleep as on Shabbat. Nine calls for us – male and female – to stick out our bellies anticipating childbirth.
Now, have you figured out the dilemma? The number eight has only one slightly lewd Jewish significance. My ingenious father devised an acceptable way to commemorate the bris without any male pulling down his pants at the Seder table.
Rather than me telling you his solution, why don’t you submit your hypotheses to me, MarcWilson1216@aol.com? All correct answers will receive an autographed picture of me from the neck up, lest I be tempted to provide you a more graphic depiction!
February 20, 2006
A TEA PARTY IN THE AMERICAN WONDERLAND
Would you care for a cup of tea?
For Pa, Bubbe and the rest of my Eastern European ancestors, the complexities undergirding that question are proof that the infamous Boston Tea Party was waged by Lithuanian Jews, not American revolutionaries.
The British, of course, are preoccupied with the ethnic purity of their tea: Where in the Himalayas? First flush? How tippy? Single estate? Which garden? My Bubbe, on the other hand, knew only Swee-Touch-Nee and Wissotzky. Otherwise, who cared about origin or subtleties?
A cup of tea did accompany sweets at an occasional afternoon repast or card game. But tea attained its zenith for its restorative powers. Its astringent quality together with its scalding heat made it a perfect esophageal clog-buster after a heavy meal of brisket, kugel and chopped liver. I remember no Shabbos dinner being complete without it. And, I never returned to school having eaten a salami omelet for lunch unless I washed it down with hot tea.
Jewish mothers knew that tea flushed out all kinds of toxins, particularly when it was laced with honey and a shot of schnapps. Science has found this true, although I have yet to understand my mother’s belief in its efficacy over an ingrown toenail. In my childhood home, the therapeutic effectiveness of a cup of tea was regarded as second only to administering the dreaded enema.
As a child, I could gauge the stature of an occasion by one particular tea ritual. At special dinners, each guest would receive a personal tea bag. When we were among family and friends, anyone who insisted on an individual bag was called “fancy” (or a Yekke!) behind his or her back. Bags were shared, for a bag had not paid its dues unless it produced two or three cups of tea.
Akin to the one-versus-many dichotomy came the cup-versus-glass consideration. A visit from a New York relative or the president of the landsmanschaft called for tea from a cup. Otherwise, tea was served in a thick-sided glass. And, no, not just any glass. Ironically, Jews would for some reason associate morbidity with their beloved tea by drinking it out of glasses that had once held candles used to memorialize their dead! Pragmatically, the thick glasses did hold up to the heat. But, you and I know that pragmatism aside, one gained some kind of lachrymose boasting rights by having a matching service of twelve “yahrzeit glasses.”
A pristine cup of first-flush Assam Darial may be befouled by sweetening, but a scalding glass of Wissotzky demanded it. Can anyone find lump-sugar in the supermarket anymore? This confirms my theory that its only purpose was for our immigrant ancestors to place a cube of it between their front teeth and sweeten their tea by sucking through it. The magic of utilizing only one lump for an entire glass of boiling tea was second only to the miracle of being able to sleep poppa, mama, four kids, two uncles and a border in a one-bedroom tenement. Then again, both my grandmothers had dentures by the age of 60.
I was introduced to drinking tea in the spirit of losing my virginity. Bubbe poured tea into a saucer and blew on it until it was lukewarm. This rite continued until the I was forced to drink a cup of half-tea and half-strawberry preserves. By the time I should have been ready for a steaming glass of brown-black Swee-Touch-Nee, I was probably off with my buddies in somebody’s basement getting drunk on a purloined six-pack of cheap beer. But, then again, didn’t all of us?
Would you care for a cup of tea?
For Pa, Bubbe and the rest of my Eastern European ancestors, the complexities undergirding that question are proof that the infamous Boston Tea Party was waged by Lithuanian Jews, not American revolutionaries.
The British, of course, are preoccupied with the ethnic purity of their tea: Where in the Himalayas? First flush? How tippy? Single estate? Which garden? My Bubbe, on the other hand, knew only Swee-Touch-Nee and Wissotzky. Otherwise, who cared about origin or subtleties?
A cup of tea did accompany sweets at an occasional afternoon repast or card game. But tea attained its zenith for its restorative powers. Its astringent quality together with its scalding heat made it a perfect esophageal clog-buster after a heavy meal of brisket, kugel and chopped liver. I remember no Shabbos dinner being complete without it. And, I never returned to school having eaten a salami omelet for lunch unless I washed it down with hot tea.
Jewish mothers knew that tea flushed out all kinds of toxins, particularly when it was laced with honey and a shot of schnapps. Science has found this true, although I have yet to understand my mother’s belief in its efficacy over an ingrown toenail. In my childhood home, the therapeutic effectiveness of a cup of tea was regarded as second only to administering the dreaded enema.
As a child, I could gauge the stature of an occasion by one particular tea ritual. At special dinners, each guest would receive a personal tea bag. When we were among family and friends, anyone who insisted on an individual bag was called “fancy” (or a Yekke!) behind his or her back. Bags were shared, for a bag had not paid its dues unless it produced two or three cups of tea.
Akin to the one-versus-many dichotomy came the cup-versus-glass consideration. A visit from a New York relative or the president of the landsmanschaft called for tea from a cup. Otherwise, tea was served in a thick-sided glass. And, no, not just any glass. Ironically, Jews would for some reason associate morbidity with their beloved tea by drinking it out of glasses that had once held candles used to memorialize their dead! Pragmatically, the thick glasses did hold up to the heat. But, you and I know that pragmatism aside, one gained some kind of lachrymose boasting rights by having a matching service of twelve “yahrzeit glasses.”
A pristine cup of first-flush Assam Darial may be befouled by sweetening, but a scalding glass of Wissotzky demanded it. Can anyone find lump-sugar in the supermarket anymore? This confirms my theory that its only purpose was for our immigrant ancestors to place a cube of it between their front teeth and sweeten their tea by sucking through it. The magic of utilizing only one lump for an entire glass of boiling tea was second only to the miracle of being able to sleep poppa, mama, four kids, two uncles and a border in a one-bedroom tenement. Then again, both my grandmothers had dentures by the age of 60.
I was introduced to drinking tea in the spirit of losing my virginity. Bubbe poured tea into a saucer and blew on it until it was lukewarm. This rite continued until the I was forced to drink a cup of half-tea and half-strawberry preserves. By the time I should have been ready for a steaming glass of brown-black Swee-Touch-Nee, I was probably off with my buddies in somebody’s basement getting drunk on a purloined six-pack of cheap beer. But, then again, didn’t all of us?
February 17, 2006
JUDISCHE AUFSCHNITT
My father, alav ha-ahalom, was a masterful photographer. He took miserable snapshots, but was an expert at various types of technical photography, among them photographing coins for various publications. This is more difficult than it seems, because it requires impeccable attention to detail and avoidance of shadow and glare.
Once in my childhood years, dad was contacted by a couple, Klaus and Gerda, to document their entire collection of skiing medallions. A few days later, they arrived at our home dragging two huge valises full of their fortune. Entering, they spied our mezuzah and furtively rolled their eyes, as though they were walking into a haunted house.
My mother pulled my dad aside and whispered to him, “I think they’re Nazis.” Of course, she said that about anyone who had a German accent and upon seeing a mezuzah did not cry out, “Landsmann!” My father curtly growled at her to be quiet.
Klaus and Gerda obviously considered their medallions so dear that they would not leave them with my father. Instead, they lurked over his shoulder all day as one-by-one he took precise pictures of each coin.
Dinnertime was quickly approaching. Nazis or not, my mother was an extremely hospitable woman. She filled the table with platters of corned beef, salami, pastrami, bologna, rye bread and rolls, potato salad and coleslaw, and beckoned Klaus and Gerda to dinner. They ate heartily, but Klaus whispered to Gerda just loud enough for us to hear, “Judische aufschnitt,” assuming that stupid Americans did not understand their language. My father, who was entirely fluent in German, snapped back at them, “What you think, that we would serve you schmutzig Schweinfleisch?
Klaus and Gerda remained conspicuously silent until my father completed photographing their prized collection of skiing medallions. They paid dad in cash, loaded up their valises and were on their way, not kissing the mezuzah as they left.
As soon as the door swung shut, my mother grabbed dad by the arm. “Well, now do you think they’re Nazis?”
“No, darling,” he said in his most loving, patronizing voice, “I just think that they didn’t like your potato salad!”
My father, alav ha-ahalom, was a masterful photographer. He took miserable snapshots, but was an expert at various types of technical photography, among them photographing coins for various publications. This is more difficult than it seems, because it requires impeccable attention to detail and avoidance of shadow and glare.
Once in my childhood years, dad was contacted by a couple, Klaus and Gerda, to document their entire collection of skiing medallions. A few days later, they arrived at our home dragging two huge valises full of their fortune. Entering, they spied our mezuzah and furtively rolled their eyes, as though they were walking into a haunted house.
My mother pulled my dad aside and whispered to him, “I think they’re Nazis.” Of course, she said that about anyone who had a German accent and upon seeing a mezuzah did not cry out, “Landsmann!” My father curtly growled at her to be quiet.
Klaus and Gerda obviously considered their medallions so dear that they would not leave them with my father. Instead, they lurked over his shoulder all day as one-by-one he took precise pictures of each coin.
Dinnertime was quickly approaching. Nazis or not, my mother was an extremely hospitable woman. She filled the table with platters of corned beef, salami, pastrami, bologna, rye bread and rolls, potato salad and coleslaw, and beckoned Klaus and Gerda to dinner. They ate heartily, but Klaus whispered to Gerda just loud enough for us to hear, “Judische aufschnitt,” assuming that stupid Americans did not understand their language. My father, who was entirely fluent in German, snapped back at them, “What you think, that we would serve you schmutzig Schweinfleisch?
Klaus and Gerda remained conspicuously silent until my father completed photographing their prized collection of skiing medallions. They paid dad in cash, loaded up their valises and were on their way, not kissing the mezuzah as they left.
As soon as the door swung shut, my mother grabbed dad by the arm. “Well, now do you think they’re Nazis?”
“No, darling,” he said in his most loving, patronizing voice, “I just think that they didn’t like your potato salad!”
February 11, 2006
WANNA SUPERSIZE THAT MATZO BALL?
My life as a rabbi has been one of inversion, like looking at the world through the wrong end of a telescope. As a young man in my 20’s, I began my career in the teeming metropolis of Chicago.
Five years later, I moved on to a synagogue in the smaller but still substantial city of Atlanta. Now, 33 years have passed, and I find myself an unemployed rabbi and “culinary humorist” in the pimple-sized town of Greenville, South Carolina, the most backward place in the country.
Could it get any smaller than Greenville, you ask?
Well, I recently received a call from the president of a schule comprised of 20 families located in a hamlet among the Appalachian Mountains, 200 km from my home. They required a rabbi to preside over Shabbat services twice a month.
Would I be interested?
This, I said, would require some consideration.
A week passed, and I received a call from a sisterhood officer. “We understand that you are a caterer,” she said, “and we need someone to prepare our congregation’s Seder.”
“For 20 families?” I inquired.
“Oh no, for about 150 guests, mostly Christians, who want to see how the Seder compares to the Last Supper.”
“And who will conduct the Seder?” I asked. “You have certainly heard that I am being considered for the position of your rabbi.”
“Oh, didn’t you hear?” she responded. “We’ve already taken care of the rabbi situation. She will be conducting the Seder.”
“And I?” remembering all the meaningful and joyous Sedarim I used to conduct, “What would I be doing?”
“Well, naturally, you would be in the kitchen cooking, serving and cleaning up.”
It is too early to tell you my decision, because we have yet to celebrate Tu B’Shevat.
But I will tell you what instinctively came to mind. It was King David’s lament of Saul and Jonathan, “How the mighty have fallen!”
I envisioned my epitaph, however, carved on a slab of brisket reading, “How the mighty have fallen . . . into a pot of chicken soup!”
My life as a rabbi has been one of inversion, like looking at the world through the wrong end of a telescope. As a young man in my 20’s, I began my career in the teeming metropolis of Chicago.
Five years later, I moved on to a synagogue in the smaller but still substantial city of Atlanta. Now, 33 years have passed, and I find myself an unemployed rabbi and “culinary humorist” in the pimple-sized town of Greenville, South Carolina, the most backward place in the country.
Could it get any smaller than Greenville, you ask?
Well, I recently received a call from the president of a schule comprised of 20 families located in a hamlet among the Appalachian Mountains, 200 km from my home. They required a rabbi to preside over Shabbat services twice a month.
Would I be interested?
This, I said, would require some consideration.
A week passed, and I received a call from a sisterhood officer. “We understand that you are a caterer,” she said, “and we need someone to prepare our congregation’s Seder.”
“For 20 families?” I inquired.
“Oh no, for about 150 guests, mostly Christians, who want to see how the Seder compares to the Last Supper.”
“And who will conduct the Seder?” I asked. “You have certainly heard that I am being considered for the position of your rabbi.”
“Oh, didn’t you hear?” she responded. “We’ve already taken care of the rabbi situation. She will be conducting the Seder.”
“And I?” remembering all the meaningful and joyous Sedarim I used to conduct, “What would I be doing?”
“Well, naturally, you would be in the kitchen cooking, serving and cleaning up.”
It is too early to tell you my decision, because we have yet to celebrate Tu B’Shevat.
But I will tell you what instinctively came to mind. It was King David’s lament of Saul and Jonathan, “How the mighty have fallen!”
I envisioned my epitaph, however, carved on a slab of brisket reading, “How the mighty have fallen . . . into a pot of chicken soup!”
January 30, 2006
PANHANDLERS IN JAIL FOR THE 30-DAY PLAN
On occasional visits, long before I moved here, I remember downtown as a blown-out moonscape. Now, as a resident, I delight in its renaissance and walk its length and shop its stores almost weekly.
Just like you, I get panhandled. Even for this bleeding-heart liberal it’s annoying, disruptive, sometimes threatening. But I have news for you: It’s only going to get worse. If you want your downtown to look upscale and prosperous, the number of panhandlers will keep pace.
Linda, who works professionally with the homeless, and I know the wariness that should accompany the approach of a panhandler. He may be a druggie, an alcoholic, a scam artist, simply too lazy to work or interested in using your buck for some other nefarious activity. Sometimes to hedge our contribution, we will accompany the panhandler to Subway and talk with him while he finishes his sandwich. Other times we too avert our eyes, sometimes with a twinge of guilt, sometimes with an edge of disdain.
But even the most hardhearted among us realize that many, if not most, panhandlers we encounter are deeply troubled people. They may be so impaired as to be incapable of finding the simplest kinds of self-support, unable to find or keep jobs, foraging for food, no network of family to accept even minimal responsibility, perhaps the scars of abuse or incest. The chronically mentally ill among them are people will likely survive only with supervised housing and intensive, professional case management, and never get better at all.
And let us also acknowledge that some panhandlers know where the resources are but simply refuse to avail themselves of them, consciously opting for a life on the street. Is this, too, a kind of mental impairment? There is no simple answer.
At first blush, the “just arrest ‘em” crackdown now imposed on panhandlers in downtown Greenville seems shortsighted, if not ridiculous. But, on second thought, I say yes-and-no. Assuming that your typical panhandlers cannot pony up a $541 fine, the question is “What happens to them during their 30 days in jail”?
The cynic’s assumption is that they will simply go back to panhandling, either here or up the road in Spartanburg. Despite county jail being a place of punishment, not a social service agency, we might still anticipate that it could make some minimal intervention during the panhandlers’ 30-day stay. The ultimate objective: What, if anything, can be done to point this person to the resources that will keep him from returning to the streets?
The jail could, or perhaps it already does, have a rudimentary link-up with various social service organizations to assess deficiencies and move panhandlers into to therapeutic programs: mental health, treatment for substance abuse, job-skills training, homeless and spousal abuse programs. It could attempt to locate families of men and women who make their lives begging on the street. It could identify those who are chronically mentally ill who will never make it alone, who will probably forever require a supervised living situation.
And yes, it could also identify the spongers and those who consciously refuse to avail themselves of extant resources and give them no more than a swift kick in the pants, which may be all they require.
To what extent does our county jail offer such interventions for its 30-day denizens? One would have to assume not much. Please God, may we soon be proved wrong.
The liberals among us may see these 30 days as a window to the possibility of public institutions restoring to wholeness victimized, spat-upon, social outcasts. Other people who maintain with equal credibility that government need stay out of social welfare should still see those 30 days as a strategy for keeping undesirables off our pristine streets and one day with the right help even watch them become responsible contributors to the commonweal.
On occasional visits, long before I moved here, I remember downtown as a blown-out moonscape. Now, as a resident, I delight in its renaissance and walk its length and shop its stores almost weekly.
Just like you, I get panhandled. Even for this bleeding-heart liberal it’s annoying, disruptive, sometimes threatening. But I have news for you: It’s only going to get worse. If you want your downtown to look upscale and prosperous, the number of panhandlers will keep pace.
Linda, who works professionally with the homeless, and I know the wariness that should accompany the approach of a panhandler. He may be a druggie, an alcoholic, a scam artist, simply too lazy to work or interested in using your buck for some other nefarious activity. Sometimes to hedge our contribution, we will accompany the panhandler to Subway and talk with him while he finishes his sandwich. Other times we too avert our eyes, sometimes with a twinge of guilt, sometimes with an edge of disdain.
But even the most hardhearted among us realize that many, if not most, panhandlers we encounter are deeply troubled people. They may be so impaired as to be incapable of finding the simplest kinds of self-support, unable to find or keep jobs, foraging for food, no network of family to accept even minimal responsibility, perhaps the scars of abuse or incest. The chronically mentally ill among them are people will likely survive only with supervised housing and intensive, professional case management, and never get better at all.
And let us also acknowledge that some panhandlers know where the resources are but simply refuse to avail themselves of them, consciously opting for a life on the street. Is this, too, a kind of mental impairment? There is no simple answer.
At first blush, the “just arrest ‘em” crackdown now imposed on panhandlers in downtown Greenville seems shortsighted, if not ridiculous. But, on second thought, I say yes-and-no. Assuming that your typical panhandlers cannot pony up a $541 fine, the question is “What happens to them during their 30 days in jail”?
The cynic’s assumption is that they will simply go back to panhandling, either here or up the road in Spartanburg. Despite county jail being a place of punishment, not a social service agency, we might still anticipate that it could make some minimal intervention during the panhandlers’ 30-day stay. The ultimate objective: What, if anything, can be done to point this person to the resources that will keep him from returning to the streets?
The jail could, or perhaps it already does, have a rudimentary link-up with various social service organizations to assess deficiencies and move panhandlers into to therapeutic programs: mental health, treatment for substance abuse, job-skills training, homeless and spousal abuse programs. It could attempt to locate families of men and women who make their lives begging on the street. It could identify those who are chronically mentally ill who will never make it alone, who will probably forever require a supervised living situation.
And yes, it could also identify the spongers and those who consciously refuse to avail themselves of extant resources and give them no more than a swift kick in the pants, which may be all they require.
To what extent does our county jail offer such interventions for its 30-day denizens? One would have to assume not much. Please God, may we soon be proved wrong.
The liberals among us may see these 30 days as a window to the possibility of public institutions restoring to wholeness victimized, spat-upon, social outcasts. Other people who maintain with equal credibility that government need stay out of social welfare should still see those 30 days as a strategy for keeping undesirables off our pristine streets and one day with the right help even watch them become responsible contributors to the commonweal.
THE MESSIAH'S FIRST IMPRESSION
A colleague recently offered a provocative column exploring the nature of miracles, inexplicably the Grinch who Stole Chanukah. In passing, he debunked a list of purported wonderments, among them the redemptive powers of a “dead rabbi buried in Brooklyn,” his reference to Lubavitcher Rebbe, held by his chasidic adherents to have messianic powers (and actually buried in Queens).
Agree or disagree, he raised a significant, albeit tangential, question for us Jews, if not our Christian brethren: How will we know that the Messiah is really the Messiah? This should be vexing to Orthodox Jews – opinions of Maimonides, Nachmanides and the rest. But, so long as Conservative Jews still pray that God bring “a Redeemer,” they too need face the arcane question. It is, after all, a peek into the sincerity of ones belief in the world’s ultimate reconciliation, the purported bread-and-butter of religious belief.
But, for a society in which “the media is the message,” I am stuck on an even more esoteric question, one that tests the tug-of-war between the ephemeral and the enduring: What will the Messiah look like? Before we hear a syllable of a messianic lesson, will first impression even allow his/her foot in the door?
Will Conservative Jews instantly shut down the messianic possibilities of a man fur hat, beard and frockcoat, because of his presumed Orthodox intransigence? Will Orthodox Jews reject on sight someone in a three-piece suit before even considering his qualities of vision, charismatic leadership, piety and ethical merit?
Then there is the “nut factor” that all Jews praying for the Messiah must face: A man in need of a haircut appears around the corner dressed in flowing raiment, riding a donkey sidesaddle, led by a guy tooting a ram’s horn, just like in the Maxwell House Haggadah. Then he starts expounding from the Torah.
So, you tell me what your messiah will look like?
The easy way out is to say that the messiah will establish his/her credentials slowly over years of shared wisdom, decency and moral example. Maybe in antiquity. But, this is not antiquity. This is the world of establishing an impression in 17 seconds – haircut, suit, tie, posture.
Will this be a messiah for the Jews, or for all humanity? Yes, we teach, Jews will come first, which will provide its own problems of couture. He will guide us to wisdom, moral perfection and renewed nationhood. But Jewish tradition does teach that universal reconciliation will spring forth from our own redemption.
This we do know: As we sally forth to bring the messiah’s message to the nations, clothes and color won’t matter. In the first 17 seconds, glimmers of deliverance must be evoked by the aura conveyed through posture and presence – humility, dignity, resolve, warmth. Immediately thereafter, the messiah must pronounce and confirm the universality of his/her message.
This is precisely why the messianic era will be a time of miracles and wonders. Day by day, we work and pray for it, but its culmination will still demand perfect faith in the seemingly impossible, least among them whether the messiah wears a Borsalino, turban or Chasidic fur.
Perhaps this is precisely why we do not yet live in the era of The Messiah. We are still too cynical, polarized, closed-minded, indifferent, judgmental of externalities, or practitioners of the “17-second rule.”
As a first step, however, we should be sufficiently open to acknowledge that there are among us people larger than life who have become our personal savior or have profound messianic potential, whether or not they are acceptable or accepted as the one universal Messiah.
I am blessed to know what my personal messiah looks like. He happens, by the way, to be buried in Queens. Twice, his counsel literally saved my life and guided me to do better things with it. For me, his influence endures beyond the grave.
I am on no mission to have others believe as I do. But, I’d hate for the world to miss years of joyous redemption by whoever reconciles the world to harmony and peace, just because the best candidate was wearing Sears, not Versace.
A colleague recently offered a provocative column exploring the nature of miracles, inexplicably the Grinch who Stole Chanukah. In passing, he debunked a list of purported wonderments, among them the redemptive powers of a “dead rabbi buried in Brooklyn,” his reference to Lubavitcher Rebbe, held by his chasidic adherents to have messianic powers (and actually buried in Queens).
Agree or disagree, he raised a significant, albeit tangential, question for us Jews, if not our Christian brethren: How will we know that the Messiah is really the Messiah? This should be vexing to Orthodox Jews – opinions of Maimonides, Nachmanides and the rest. But, so long as Conservative Jews still pray that God bring “a Redeemer,” they too need face the arcane question. It is, after all, a peek into the sincerity of ones belief in the world’s ultimate reconciliation, the purported bread-and-butter of religious belief.
But, for a society in which “the media is the message,” I am stuck on an even more esoteric question, one that tests the tug-of-war between the ephemeral and the enduring: What will the Messiah look like? Before we hear a syllable of a messianic lesson, will first impression even allow his/her foot in the door?
Will Conservative Jews instantly shut down the messianic possibilities of a man fur hat, beard and frockcoat, because of his presumed Orthodox intransigence? Will Orthodox Jews reject on sight someone in a three-piece suit before even considering his qualities of vision, charismatic leadership, piety and ethical merit?
Then there is the “nut factor” that all Jews praying for the Messiah must face: A man in need of a haircut appears around the corner dressed in flowing raiment, riding a donkey sidesaddle, led by a guy tooting a ram’s horn, just like in the Maxwell House Haggadah. Then he starts expounding from the Torah.
So, you tell me what your messiah will look like?
The easy way out is to say that the messiah will establish his/her credentials slowly over years of shared wisdom, decency and moral example. Maybe in antiquity. But, this is not antiquity. This is the world of establishing an impression in 17 seconds – haircut, suit, tie, posture.
Will this be a messiah for the Jews, or for all humanity? Yes, we teach, Jews will come first, which will provide its own problems of couture. He will guide us to wisdom, moral perfection and renewed nationhood. But Jewish tradition does teach that universal reconciliation will spring forth from our own redemption.
This we do know: As we sally forth to bring the messiah’s message to the nations, clothes and color won’t matter. In the first 17 seconds, glimmers of deliverance must be evoked by the aura conveyed through posture and presence – humility, dignity, resolve, warmth. Immediately thereafter, the messiah must pronounce and confirm the universality of his/her message.
This is precisely why the messianic era will be a time of miracles and wonders. Day by day, we work and pray for it, but its culmination will still demand perfect faith in the seemingly impossible, least among them whether the messiah wears a Borsalino, turban or Chasidic fur.
Perhaps this is precisely why we do not yet live in the era of The Messiah. We are still too cynical, polarized, closed-minded, indifferent, judgmental of externalities, or practitioners of the “17-second rule.”
As a first step, however, we should be sufficiently open to acknowledge that there are among us people larger than life who have become our personal savior or have profound messianic potential, whether or not they are acceptable or accepted as the one universal Messiah.
I am blessed to know what my personal messiah looks like. He happens, by the way, to be buried in Queens. Twice, his counsel literally saved my life and guided me to do better things with it. For me, his influence endures beyond the grave.
I am on no mission to have others believe as I do. But, I’d hate for the world to miss years of joyous redemption by whoever reconciles the world to harmony and peace, just because the best candidate was wearing Sears, not Versace.
January 13, 2006
SECOND AVENUE DELI DEAD, HEARTBURN LINGERS (1/13/06)
My keyboard gently weeps as do I, over the demise of a timeless friend, New York’s Second Avenue Deli.
Loyal patrons were never the issue. Customers squeezed into a miniscule reception area waiting unimaginable hours, eased only by an hors de oeuvres of their nonpareil chopped liver schmeered on a chip of rye bread. No compromise of quality, gusto or huge portions caused the Deli’s demise.
Faulty management and greed were the Second’s fatal bullet. Abe Lebewohl, the murdered founder and patron saint of the Deli could spare them only so much disaster from beyond the grave. Then, in a matter of moments, murder by big business screwed Abe’s icon into the ground to join him. God Himself is now awash in mushroom-barley soup as seraphim chant, “Holy! Holy!”
Most of my colleagues are taking the easy way out of eulogizing the Second by looking at its menu and ascribing an appropriate adjective to each of its offerings. What a desecration. Not to say that Abe’s matzo ball soup, fricassee, pastrami and strudel were not divine.
The Second, though, is rightfully to be mourned for the demise of its ambiance: Now in my fifth decade, others in their eighth, we remember the Deli’s fare as we would the nurturing warmth of momma’s comfort food. When kashrut went out of style, the Deli remained kosher.
A tiny waitress, hair lacquered into a beehive, served your order in rhyme. The servers poured the matzo ball soup into your bowl with great fanfare, but otherwise they were crabby in that unique New York style of crabbiness. I once saw one of them bark at a neophyte patron, “If you don’t know what you want, why the hell are you here?” And let me at some other time regale you in the story of how the Deli once so seduced me with its delights that they had to rush me to the hospital with an attack of acute pancreatitis, from which I almost died.
O precious Abe, why are you not here when we need you most?
O crowning jewel of America’s Jerusalem, wherever again shall we find you?
My keyboard gently weeps as do I, over the demise of a timeless friend, New York’s Second Avenue Deli.
Loyal patrons were never the issue. Customers squeezed into a miniscule reception area waiting unimaginable hours, eased only by an hors de oeuvres of their nonpareil chopped liver schmeered on a chip of rye bread. No compromise of quality, gusto or huge portions caused the Deli’s demise.
Faulty management and greed were the Second’s fatal bullet. Abe Lebewohl, the murdered founder and patron saint of the Deli could spare them only so much disaster from beyond the grave. Then, in a matter of moments, murder by big business screwed Abe’s icon into the ground to join him. God Himself is now awash in mushroom-barley soup as seraphim chant, “Holy! Holy!”
Most of my colleagues are taking the easy way out of eulogizing the Second by looking at its menu and ascribing an appropriate adjective to each of its offerings. What a desecration. Not to say that Abe’s matzo ball soup, fricassee, pastrami and strudel were not divine.
The Second, though, is rightfully to be mourned for the demise of its ambiance: Now in my fifth decade, others in their eighth, we remember the Deli’s fare as we would the nurturing warmth of momma’s comfort food. When kashrut went out of style, the Deli remained kosher.
A tiny waitress, hair lacquered into a beehive, served your order in rhyme. The servers poured the matzo ball soup into your bowl with great fanfare, but otherwise they were crabby in that unique New York style of crabbiness. I once saw one of them bark at a neophyte patron, “If you don’t know what you want, why the hell are you here?” And let me at some other time regale you in the story of how the Deli once so seduced me with its delights that they had to rush me to the hospital with an attack of acute pancreatitis, from which I almost died.
O precious Abe, why are you not here when we need you most?
O crowning jewel of America’s Jerusalem, wherever again shall we find you?
January 10, 2006
YIDDISH CHOP SUEY
Adapting to the new culture was not particularly difficult for the first American generation of my family. Aunts, uncles and cousins facilely became physicians, professors and attorneys. My father was the director of a crime laboratory and an army colonel.
It was not so simple for their immigrant parents. They took lessons in English, but it all came out sounding like Yiddish. They Americanized cherished Old World melodies, struggled to dance to them and called it “Yiddish Swing,” like trying to paint a moustache on the Mona Lisa.
We begged our bubbehs to make us their soothing foods – chicken soup, matzo balls, brisket, kugel, gefilte fish. What could be more comforting than a Shabbos dinner commencing with chopped liver and concluding with fruit compote?
But the immigrant generation still hungered for the culinary mainstream. My grandmother led the way:
Having never been inside a Chinese restaurant, she nonetheless insisted on serving what she imagined was “chop suey.” This delicacy was comprised of canned mushrooms and chunks of brisket simmered in soy sauce and chicken soup. It was then served over toasted rye rolls, as though we were celebrating Chiang Kai Chek’s bris.
In an attempt at multi-ethnicity, she also tried her hand at Italian cookery. Once a week she presented us with her concept of spaghetti – boiled noodles melded with cream of tomato soup and bland cheddar cheese, then baked in a casserole. It was scooped out as though it were a kugel and served as a side dish to that American-Jewish mainstay, tuna salad.
At the tender age of eight, my parents took me to a “real” Italian restaurant. I spied spaghetti on the menu but refused to eat it because of its aberrant look – not pinkish-orange and served in a chunk.
May I predict that one day I will succeed in renaming my bubbeh’s spaghetti tagliatelle con minestra di crema del pomodoro ed il formaggio and doll it up with a sprig of oregano? Gourmands will lick their plates and adulate me as though I were a disciple of Brillat-Savarin. Now, essen Sie gut mit un buon Appetito!
Adapting to the new culture was not particularly difficult for the first American generation of my family. Aunts, uncles and cousins facilely became physicians, professors and attorneys. My father was the director of a crime laboratory and an army colonel.
It was not so simple for their immigrant parents. They took lessons in English, but it all came out sounding like Yiddish. They Americanized cherished Old World melodies, struggled to dance to them and called it “Yiddish Swing,” like trying to paint a moustache on the Mona Lisa.
We begged our bubbehs to make us their soothing foods – chicken soup, matzo balls, brisket, kugel, gefilte fish. What could be more comforting than a Shabbos dinner commencing with chopped liver and concluding with fruit compote?
But the immigrant generation still hungered for the culinary mainstream. My grandmother led the way:
Having never been inside a Chinese restaurant, she nonetheless insisted on serving what she imagined was “chop suey.” This delicacy was comprised of canned mushrooms and chunks of brisket simmered in soy sauce and chicken soup. It was then served over toasted rye rolls, as though we were celebrating Chiang Kai Chek’s bris.
In an attempt at multi-ethnicity, she also tried her hand at Italian cookery. Once a week she presented us with her concept of spaghetti – boiled noodles melded with cream of tomato soup and bland cheddar cheese, then baked in a casserole. It was scooped out as though it were a kugel and served as a side dish to that American-Jewish mainstay, tuna salad.
At the tender age of eight, my parents took me to a “real” Italian restaurant. I spied spaghetti on the menu but refused to eat it because of its aberrant look – not pinkish-orange and served in a chunk.
May I predict that one day I will succeed in renaming my bubbeh’s spaghetti tagliatelle con minestra di crema del pomodoro ed il formaggio and doll it up with a sprig of oregano? Gourmands will lick their plates and adulate me as though I were a disciple of Brillat-Savarin. Now, essen Sie gut mit un buon Appetito!
January 06, 2006
WHAT WILL THE MESSIAH LOOK LIKE?
A colleague recently offered a provocative column exploring the nature of miracles, inexplicably the Grinch who Stole Chanukah. In passing, he debunked a list of purported wonderments, among them the redemptive powers of a “dead rabbi buried in Brooklyn,” his reference to Lubavitcher Rebbe, held by his chasidic adherents to have messianic powers (and actually buried in Queens).
Agree or disagree, he raised a significant, albeit tangential, question for us Jews, if not our Christian brethren: How will we know that the Messiah is really the Messiah? This should be vexing to Orthodox Jews – opinions of Maimonides, Nachmanides and the rest. But, so long as Conservative Jews still pray that God bring “a Redeemer,” they too need face the arcane question. It is, after all, a peek into the sincerity of ones belief in the world’s ultimate reconciliation, the purported bread-and-butter of religious belief.
But, for a society in which “the media is the message,” I am stuck on an even more esoteric question, one that tests the tug-of-war between the ephemeral and the enduring: What will the Messiah look like? Before we hear a syllable of a messianic lesson, will first impression even allow his/her foot in the door?
Will Conservative Jews instantly shut down the messianic possibilities of a man fur hat, beard and frockcoat, because of his presumed Orthodox intransigence? Will Orthodox Jews reject on sight someone in a three-piece suit before even considering his qualities of vision, charismatic leadership, piety and ethical merit?
Then there is the “nut factor” that all Jews praying for the Messiah must face: A man in need of a haircut appears around the corner dressed in flowing raiment, riding a donkey sidesaddle, led by a guy tooting a ram’s horn, just like in the Maxwell House Haggadah. Then he starts expounding from the Torah.
So, you tell me what your messiah will look like?
The easy way out is to say that the messiah will establish his/her credentials slowly over years of shared wisdom, decency and moral example. Maybe in antiquity. But, this is not antiquity. This is the world of establishing an impression in 17 seconds – haircut, suit, tie, posture.
Will this be a messiah for the Jews, or for all humanity? Yes, we teach, Jews will come first, which will provide its own problems of couture. He will guide us to wisdom, moral perfection and renewed nationhood. But Jewish tradition does teach that universal reconciliation will spring forth from our own redemption.
This we do know: As we sally forth to bring the messiah’s message to the nations, clothes and color won’t matter. In the first 17 seconds, glimmers of deliverance must be evoked by the aura conveyed through posture and presence – humility, dignity, resolve, warmth. Immediately thereafter, the messiah must pronounce and confirm the universality of his/her message.
This is precisely why the messianic era will be a time of miracles and wonders. Day by day, we work and pray for it, but its culmination will still demand perfect faith in the seemingly impossible, least among them whether the messiah wears a Borsalino, turban or Chasidic fur.
Perhaps this is precisely why we do not yet live in the era of The Messiah. We are still too cynical, polarized, closed-minded, indifferent, judgmental of externalities, or practitioners of the “17-second rule.”
As a first step, however, we should be sufficiently open to acknowledge that there are among us people larger than life who have become our personal savior or have profound messianic potential, whether or not they are acceptable or accepted as the one universal Messiah.
I am blessed to know what my personal messiah looks like. He happens, by the way, to be buried in Queens. Twice, his counsel literally saved my life and guided me to do better things with it. For me, his influence endures beyond the grave.
I am on no mission to have others believe as I do. But, I’d hate for the world to miss years of joyous redemption by whoever reconciles the world to harmony and peace, just because the best candidate was wearing Sears, not Versace.
A colleague recently offered a provocative column exploring the nature of miracles, inexplicably the Grinch who Stole Chanukah. In passing, he debunked a list of purported wonderments, among them the redemptive powers of a “dead rabbi buried in Brooklyn,” his reference to Lubavitcher Rebbe, held by his chasidic adherents to have messianic powers (and actually buried in Queens).
Agree or disagree, he raised a significant, albeit tangential, question for us Jews, if not our Christian brethren: How will we know that the Messiah is really the Messiah? This should be vexing to Orthodox Jews – opinions of Maimonides, Nachmanides and the rest. But, so long as Conservative Jews still pray that God bring “a Redeemer,” they too need face the arcane question. It is, after all, a peek into the sincerity of ones belief in the world’s ultimate reconciliation, the purported bread-and-butter of religious belief.
But, for a society in which “the media is the message,” I am stuck on an even more esoteric question, one that tests the tug-of-war between the ephemeral and the enduring: What will the Messiah look like? Before we hear a syllable of a messianic lesson, will first impression even allow his/her foot in the door?
Will Conservative Jews instantly shut down the messianic possibilities of a man fur hat, beard and frockcoat, because of his presumed Orthodox intransigence? Will Orthodox Jews reject on sight someone in a three-piece suit before even considering his qualities of vision, charismatic leadership, piety and ethical merit?
Then there is the “nut factor” that all Jews praying for the Messiah must face: A man in need of a haircut appears around the corner dressed in flowing raiment, riding a donkey sidesaddle, led by a guy tooting a ram’s horn, just like in the Maxwell House Haggadah. Then he starts expounding from the Torah.
So, you tell me what your messiah will look like?
The easy way out is to say that the messiah will establish his/her credentials slowly over years of shared wisdom, decency and moral example. Maybe in antiquity. But, this is not antiquity. This is the world of establishing an impression in 17 seconds – haircut, suit, tie, posture.
Will this be a messiah for the Jews, or for all humanity? Yes, we teach, Jews will come first, which will provide its own problems of couture. He will guide us to wisdom, moral perfection and renewed nationhood. But Jewish tradition does teach that universal reconciliation will spring forth from our own redemption.
This we do know: As we sally forth to bring the messiah’s message to the nations, clothes and color won’t matter. In the first 17 seconds, glimmers of deliverance must be evoked by the aura conveyed through posture and presence – humility, dignity, resolve, warmth. Immediately thereafter, the messiah must pronounce and confirm the universality of his/her message.
This is precisely why the messianic era will be a time of miracles and wonders. Day by day, we work and pray for it, but its culmination will still demand perfect faith in the seemingly impossible, least among them whether the messiah wears a Borsalino, turban or Chasidic fur.
Perhaps this is precisely why we do not yet live in the era of The Messiah. We are still too cynical, polarized, closed-minded, indifferent, judgmental of externalities, or practitioners of the “17-second rule.”
As a first step, however, we should be sufficiently open to acknowledge that there are among us people larger than life who have become our personal savior or have profound messianic potential, whether or not they are acceptable or accepted as the one universal Messiah.
I am blessed to know what my personal messiah looks like. He happens, by the way, to be buried in Queens. Twice, his counsel literally saved my life and guided me to do better things with it. For me, his influence endures beyond the grave.
I am on no mission to have others believe as I do. But, I’d hate for the world to miss years of joyous redemption by whoever reconciles the world to harmony and peace, just because the best candidate was wearing Sears, not Versace.
December 22, 2005
CULINARY SELF-DEFENSE
One more day and our new in-laws will descend on our modest home. Linda’s son is getting married.
I get the sense that these are not our kind of people. They live in a 7,000 square foot house, fronting on a huge lawn and backing up on a scenic lake. We front onto utility poles and back up to a drainage canal.
They demanded that their daughter have a $2,500 wedding band, while Linda and I bought ours at a discount jeweler. Geoffrey is still suspect because he sells carpet, while the bride’s brother is a physician. Their idea of a good time is golf and tennis, while ours is eating, sitting around the table and gossiping.
Fortunately, I have my own means of escape: the kitchen. Someone whispered in their ear that I am a gourmand. The claim is dubious, but I will try to keep up the ruse until they return to Valhalla. Without a tennis court in sight, I will ply them on smoked turkey with pecan dressing, home-cured gravlax with dill sauce, glazed apples and sultanas, bourbon-soused chicken and the like.
I have no doubt that my family will be well sated, perhaps even to the point of loosening belts and unbuttoning at the waist. As for the in-laws, I see them all picking at the same turkey wing, politely departing the table and attempting a brisk walk down Main Street, which will be abandoned, as all the stores will be locked up for Christmas weekend.
Deprived of exercise, they will return to their hotel room, where the only show on television will be the Vienna Boys Choir chirping “Stille Nacht.” They will then sheepishly return to our home, where they will catch us gossiping . . . about them.
But, I have an image of saving the day, because they will have arrived just in time for a round of perfect Stolichnaya martinis. The room becomes hazy. Tongues become loosened. Finally, the mother of the bride falls into a bowl of chocolate mousse.
Stille Nacht. Heil'ge Nacht. Somehow, I don’t think that mother will be playing too much tennis tomorrow.
One more day and our new in-laws will descend on our modest home. Linda’s son is getting married.
I get the sense that these are not our kind of people. They live in a 7,000 square foot house, fronting on a huge lawn and backing up on a scenic lake. We front onto utility poles and back up to a drainage canal.
They demanded that their daughter have a $2,500 wedding band, while Linda and I bought ours at a discount jeweler. Geoffrey is still suspect because he sells carpet, while the bride’s brother is a physician. Their idea of a good time is golf and tennis, while ours is eating, sitting around the table and gossiping.
Fortunately, I have my own means of escape: the kitchen. Someone whispered in their ear that I am a gourmand. The claim is dubious, but I will try to keep up the ruse until they return to Valhalla. Without a tennis court in sight, I will ply them on smoked turkey with pecan dressing, home-cured gravlax with dill sauce, glazed apples and sultanas, bourbon-soused chicken and the like.
I have no doubt that my family will be well sated, perhaps even to the point of loosening belts and unbuttoning at the waist. As for the in-laws, I see them all picking at the same turkey wing, politely departing the table and attempting a brisk walk down Main Street, which will be abandoned, as all the stores will be locked up for Christmas weekend.
Deprived of exercise, they will return to their hotel room, where the only show on television will be the Vienna Boys Choir chirping “Stille Nacht.” They will then sheepishly return to our home, where they will catch us gossiping . . . about them.
But, I have an image of saving the day, because they will have arrived just in time for a round of perfect Stolichnaya martinis. The room becomes hazy. Tongues become loosened. Finally, the mother of the bride falls into a bowl of chocolate mousse.
Stille Nacht. Heil'ge Nacht. Somehow, I don’t think that mother will be playing too much tennis tomorrow.
December 14, 2005
UPPER MIDDLE CLASS CHARITABLE AUSTERITY
The background noise of my life, MSNBC, recently caught me with an interview of a rabbi and minister about the negative impact on local charities of the more focused giving in the aftermath of Katrina.
Neither minister was particularly impassioned about the question. The one clergyman suggested that work more arduously motivate the majority of Americans who give no charity whatsoever. That solution recalls the observation of the Rabbi of Lubavitch that “If we waited to understand the process of digestion before we ate, we would all surely die.
The other pastor was more candid, if not particularly magnanimous. The disaster, he said, was so immense that needs of other charities would just have to wait a year.
Both my colleagues were wrong.
I can think of at least ten solutions to the dilemma of how one can meet the needs of horrific tragedy while addressing local demands that are no less horrific: homelessness, hunger, family violence . . .
This is a suggestion that will take nary a pinch out of us denizens of the upper middle class. We know it because we personally use it:
Let all forms of broader “standard” charity – United Way, church/synagogue and the like – come directly from the checkbook, a chunk of salary and savings that is the bedrock of annual giving.
When special needs like Katrina pull our larger dollars elsewhere, let smaller at-home giving come from “upper middle class austerity.” First: At the end of each day, put all your pocket change into a charity box. Whatever faith you practice, before the Sabbath, do that and all the dollar bills in your wallet, too.
Food is a terrible thief of here-and-there dollars: Store brands and generics are almost invariably as good as high-ticket names. More poultry and less beef. More fruits and veggies, and for God’s sake, not just in salads. A few sliced apples, some brown sugar, a shot of cheap Marsala, a fistful of raisins, glaze in a skillet. The best side dish and dessert. $7.50 in better restaurants. And speaking of restaurants, don’t stop going, just cut back.
Whirl together mayo, anchovies, garlic, Worcestershire and mustard, serve on romaine . . . the sanctified Caesar salad. And the simple and frugal delight of homemade soup will always win out over top-of-the-line “homemade” Progresso.
Do you know how relatively inexpensive salmon and tilapia are? I can find the best of each at $3.99 a pound. Dress them up with a dusting of ground buckwheat or a blob of homemade tartar sauce. And by the way, despite our grandmothers’ whining, gefilte fish (or call it “Scandinavian fish-balls, whatever) is a no-brainer, and guess what? You can make it with salmon, and it doesn’t come out icky pink.
Gastronomists refer to this as “cuisine of necessity.” We call it “all that our grandmothers could get out of a chicken (eggs, schmaltz, soup and finally the main course), some matzo meal and a couple of root vegetables, and still eat like royalty on Sabbath and Holy Days.”
My doppelganger, Rabbi Ribeye, is delighted to share all his recipes that conform to the motto, “If it isn’t easy, we don’t make it!” – coq au vin, paella, demi-sec chutney, onion marmalade, chicken Marsala – all incredibly cheap and easy.
I’ve stopped taking most of my shirts to the cleaners. I’ve learned to iron. What a concept. We’ve forced ourselves to stop impulse buying. Kids need to learn a qualified “no” to their goofy extravagances. Not a “no” to everything, what the “no” is about, and that you, too, are saying “no’s” for yourselves.
Finally, the key is a little simple accounting. Keep a tally of what you’ve saved by an occasional coq au vin for four at $12, versus the same at $32 a person prepared by Chef D’Jean deMoutarde. Then, the “what you saved” goes directly to at-home charities that might have otherwise been pinched by Katrina.
None of this timid proposal forces a descent into lower class living. For most of us, it compels barely scraping the edge of the upper middle class.
Nobody asked me, but that’s how I see it. Write a check and help relieve the suffering of Katrina. Make your own salad dressing and help wipe out hunger at home.
The background noise of my life, MSNBC, recently caught me with an interview of a rabbi and minister about the negative impact on local charities of the more focused giving in the aftermath of Katrina.
Neither minister was particularly impassioned about the question. The one clergyman suggested that work more arduously motivate the majority of Americans who give no charity whatsoever. That solution recalls the observation of the Rabbi of Lubavitch that “If we waited to understand the process of digestion before we ate, we would all surely die.
The other pastor was more candid, if not particularly magnanimous. The disaster, he said, was so immense that needs of other charities would just have to wait a year.
Both my colleagues were wrong.
I can think of at least ten solutions to the dilemma of how one can meet the needs of horrific tragedy while addressing local demands that are no less horrific: homelessness, hunger, family violence . . .
This is a suggestion that will take nary a pinch out of us denizens of the upper middle class. We know it because we personally use it:
Let all forms of broader “standard” charity – United Way, church/synagogue and the like – come directly from the checkbook, a chunk of salary and savings that is the bedrock of annual giving.
When special needs like Katrina pull our larger dollars elsewhere, let smaller at-home giving come from “upper middle class austerity.” First: At the end of each day, put all your pocket change into a charity box. Whatever faith you practice, before the Sabbath, do that and all the dollar bills in your wallet, too.
Food is a terrible thief of here-and-there dollars: Store brands and generics are almost invariably as good as high-ticket names. More poultry and less beef. More fruits and veggies, and for God’s sake, not just in salads. A few sliced apples, some brown sugar, a shot of cheap Marsala, a fistful of raisins, glaze in a skillet. The best side dish and dessert. $7.50 in better restaurants. And speaking of restaurants, don’t stop going, just cut back.
Whirl together mayo, anchovies, garlic, Worcestershire and mustard, serve on romaine . . . the sanctified Caesar salad. And the simple and frugal delight of homemade soup will always win out over top-of-the-line “homemade” Progresso.
Do you know how relatively inexpensive salmon and tilapia are? I can find the best of each at $3.99 a pound. Dress them up with a dusting of ground buckwheat or a blob of homemade tartar sauce. And by the way, despite our grandmothers’ whining, gefilte fish (or call it “Scandinavian fish-balls, whatever) is a no-brainer, and guess what? You can make it with salmon, and it doesn’t come out icky pink.
Gastronomists refer to this as “cuisine of necessity.” We call it “all that our grandmothers could get out of a chicken (eggs, schmaltz, soup and finally the main course), some matzo meal and a couple of root vegetables, and still eat like royalty on Sabbath and Holy Days.”
My doppelganger, Rabbi Ribeye, is delighted to share all his recipes that conform to the motto, “If it isn’t easy, we don’t make it!” – coq au vin, paella, demi-sec chutney, onion marmalade, chicken Marsala – all incredibly cheap and easy.
I’ve stopped taking most of my shirts to the cleaners. I’ve learned to iron. What a concept. We’ve forced ourselves to stop impulse buying. Kids need to learn a qualified “no” to their goofy extravagances. Not a “no” to everything, what the “no” is about, and that you, too, are saying “no’s” for yourselves.
Finally, the key is a little simple accounting. Keep a tally of what you’ve saved by an occasional coq au vin for four at $12, versus the same at $32 a person prepared by Chef D’Jean deMoutarde. Then, the “what you saved” goes directly to at-home charities that might have otherwise been pinched by Katrina.
None of this timid proposal forces a descent into lower class living. For most of us, it compels barely scraping the edge of the upper middle class.
Nobody asked me, but that’s how I see it. Write a check and help relieve the suffering of Katrina. Make your own salad dressing and help wipe out hunger at home.
December 04, 2005
ZIP-ZAP, CHUNKS AND SLABS
What does one remember after forty years away from yeshiva? Esoteric Talmudic passages? Not all of us. Some of us remember cartoonish characters like our cook, Jones Flournoy, who enabled the likes of me never to grow too old or too serious.
Jones was about 60 years old. He knew absolutely nothing about cooking, but the boys loved to play baseball with him. He was a magnificent pitcher, a star in the Negro League in the days that American baseball was still segregated.
Whenever you’d ask Jones about the day’s menu, he’d have one answer: “Zip-Zap.” I have never found a foodstuff in any language called “Zip-Zap,” so I assume that it meant, “I don’t know, so leave me alone.”
Breakfast zip-zap was inevitably hardboiled eggs and dark rye bread. Zip-zap at lunch meant tuna fish and dark rye bread. Shabbos dinner was zip-zap elevated to haute cuisine: dry, roasted chicken, moistened by bowls of ketchup and mayonnaise that accompanied it.
On other nights of the week, zip-zap’s identity took on two alternating forms of beef. I could never coordinate them with legitimate cuts of meat, because Jones simply referred to them as “chunks” and “slabs.” Naturally, they were accompanied by dark rye bread.
The student body was served its chunks or slabs at the dinner hour of 6:00 PM. We who attended university each evening in downtown Chicago did not return to yeshiva until 10:00. You know, of course, what was waiting: chunks or slabs wedged between slices of dark rye bread, wrapped in a plastic bag and left to ferment under the kitchen lights. How more of us did not die from botulism is part of the DaVinci Code.
Later in life, I did not partake in zip-zap, chunks or slabs. But, the tradition has not died. Whenever I prepare my kids’ supper, their first question is “What kind of zip-zap are we having?” When I tell them that it will be beef, they instantly respond, “Chunks or slabs?” Ach, I think, they may not be great rabbinical scholars, but at least a little of the best of yeshiva has rubbed off on them.
What does one remember after forty years away from yeshiva? Esoteric Talmudic passages? Not all of us. Some of us remember cartoonish characters like our cook, Jones Flournoy, who enabled the likes of me never to grow too old or too serious.
Jones was about 60 years old. He knew absolutely nothing about cooking, but the boys loved to play baseball with him. He was a magnificent pitcher, a star in the Negro League in the days that American baseball was still segregated.
Whenever you’d ask Jones about the day’s menu, he’d have one answer: “Zip-Zap.” I have never found a foodstuff in any language called “Zip-Zap,” so I assume that it meant, “I don’t know, so leave me alone.”
Breakfast zip-zap was inevitably hardboiled eggs and dark rye bread. Zip-zap at lunch meant tuna fish and dark rye bread. Shabbos dinner was zip-zap elevated to haute cuisine: dry, roasted chicken, moistened by bowls of ketchup and mayonnaise that accompanied it.
On other nights of the week, zip-zap’s identity took on two alternating forms of beef. I could never coordinate them with legitimate cuts of meat, because Jones simply referred to them as “chunks” and “slabs.” Naturally, they were accompanied by dark rye bread.
The student body was served its chunks or slabs at the dinner hour of 6:00 PM. We who attended university each evening in downtown Chicago did not return to yeshiva until 10:00. You know, of course, what was waiting: chunks or slabs wedged between slices of dark rye bread, wrapped in a plastic bag and left to ferment under the kitchen lights. How more of us did not die from botulism is part of the DaVinci Code.
Later in life, I did not partake in zip-zap, chunks or slabs. But, the tradition has not died. Whenever I prepare my kids’ supper, their first question is “What kind of zip-zap are we having?” When I tell them that it will be beef, they instantly respond, “Chunks or slabs?” Ach, I think, they may not be great rabbinical scholars, but at least a little of the best of yeshiva has rubbed off on them.
November 17, 2005
KOSHER WATER
Not too long ago, a yokel purchased a piece of property not far from where I live. But this was a most fortunate man. Under his barren land lay the largest pure water spring in the state. He had become a rich man nearly overnight. He bottled the water for consumers and food producers, and it was so pure that with proper sterilization it was sold all over the country to hospitals and research institutions.
One day the yokel sought me out. He was frantic. His salesman has tried to sell water to a company that produced kosher soups. He was told that his water would not be acceptable unless it was under rabbinical supervision.
The poor yokel could not appreciate the absurdity of the question, because he had not the slightest idea about kashrut. Assuming that he was a Bible-believing Christian, I referred him to the relevant passages in Leviticus and Deuteronomy, which he knew by heart. “But it doesn’t say anything about water!” he observed.
What could I tell him? That some rabbinical organization was trying to extort money from the suppliers of the water that went into the soup? So, standing in this facility that was producing absolutely sterile water for nuclear reactors, I made up some doubletalk about how they needed assurance that the water was “really pure.”
“Well, Rabbi,” he asked the obvious question, “can’t you tell them that it’s really pure?”
Another dilemma. I tried to explain to the befuddled yokel that he needed one of those rabbis with the beards and black hats and long black coats. He finally understood when I explained that I was like an Episcopalian and they were like Baptists.
I lost touch with the yokel, but I assume that his water is now kosher to orthodox standards, before it becomes polluted by the chicken and noodles.
The whole episode reminds me of the day in school that we looked at a drop of water through a microscope. We saw all kinds of one-cell creatures swimming around, and as I remember, none of them had fins and scales. Understandably, from that day forward, my beverage of choice has been Warsteiner.
Not too long ago, a yokel purchased a piece of property not far from where I live. But this was a most fortunate man. Under his barren land lay the largest pure water spring in the state. He had become a rich man nearly overnight. He bottled the water for consumers and food producers, and it was so pure that with proper sterilization it was sold all over the country to hospitals and research institutions.
One day the yokel sought me out. He was frantic. His salesman has tried to sell water to a company that produced kosher soups. He was told that his water would not be acceptable unless it was under rabbinical supervision.
The poor yokel could not appreciate the absurdity of the question, because he had not the slightest idea about kashrut. Assuming that he was a Bible-believing Christian, I referred him to the relevant passages in Leviticus and Deuteronomy, which he knew by heart. “But it doesn’t say anything about water!” he observed.
What could I tell him? That some rabbinical organization was trying to extort money from the suppliers of the water that went into the soup? So, standing in this facility that was producing absolutely sterile water for nuclear reactors, I made up some doubletalk about how they needed assurance that the water was “really pure.”
“Well, Rabbi,” he asked the obvious question, “can’t you tell them that it’s really pure?”
Another dilemma. I tried to explain to the befuddled yokel that he needed one of those rabbis with the beards and black hats and long black coats. He finally understood when I explained that I was like an Episcopalian and they were like Baptists.
I lost touch with the yokel, but I assume that his water is now kosher to orthodox standards, before it becomes polluted by the chicken and noodles.
The whole episode reminds me of the day in school that we looked at a drop of water through a microscope. We saw all kinds of one-cell creatures swimming around, and as I remember, none of them had fins and scales. Understandably, from that day forward, my beverage of choice has been Warsteiner.
November 13, 2005
FINALLY THE FIRST AT SOMETHING
Rabbis are insufferable braggarts. I may thus opine because I am one of them. Other than a handful of the most humble and righteous, one not need wait to ask rabbis where we have most recently spoken or when our last article appeared.
We particularly like boasting about being “the first,” as if this conferred some mystical authority: the first rabbi to shake the Pope’s hand when he was still an Archbishop, the first rabbi to meet
Until this September, I had been “the first” at absolutely nothing. September brought us to
October 26, 2005
YOU NEVER KNOW
I make no apologies for my devotion to Chasidism, particularly to the Chabad-Lubavitch movement, its tireless outreach and nonjudgmental welcome to Jews of all callings and backgrounds. Moreover, it asks nothing in return.
Do I agree with every point of the movement’s theology and lifestyle? No, but enough to make me an adherent. In fact, we often joke about how a rabbi so seemingly atypical, in a decidedly un-Chabad town like Greenville, is so devoted to the work of Chabad. Hence my title, “Closet Lubavitcher”!
Their most recent, now deceased, Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Schneerson, is understood by all Lubavitchers as irreplaceable. Do they consider him a miracle-worker? Perhaps, or at least a great cosmic influence. Is he the Messiah? This is the subject of tremendous controversy, even condemnation, in the secular media and other Jewish movements. Let’s simply say that many Lubavitchers openly declare him the Messiah, while for others the idea hovers as a distinct possibility.
Two years before his death, the Rebbe became my “savior.” In a scant 30 seconds, he stroked my arm and offered me guidance at the most dismal time of my life. Those few words, I now realize now, marked the beginning of my emotional and spiritual restoration and intervened in my imminent suicide.
That was then. Now, let me tell you about my recent transcendent, or spooky, experience – depending how you look at it – with the Rebbe:
A few months ago, I spent a week in New York working on a project. By serendipity, my driver to the airport was a young Lubavitcher. At the sight of my yarmulke, he asked whether I had ever visited the Ohel (Rebbe’s tomb)? I told him that I had not, but if we had time, I would certainly like to pay my respects. Knowing that people flock to the Ohel to ask for the Rebbe’s intercession, and remembering his life-saving advice for me 13 years earlier, it was the least I could do.
Arriving at the Ohel, my driver recommended that I write a “pan,” an acronym for “pidyon nefesh,” a “redemption of the soul,” to place on the Rebbe’s tomb. What could it hurt, I thought. So, I prayed for universal peace and for the safety of my family.
Then, I asked for something out of the ordinary: Three years earlier, I had departed my congregation in Greenville under acrimonious, some would say crazy, circumstances. Many congregants were left angry and estranged. Little by little, some had forgiven me, and our relationships had slowly resumed. For others, the anger still burned.
But, the Goldberg’s (name changed), with whom we were particularly close and whose friendship we especially cherished, stopped talking to us and refused all pleas of forgiveness – would not even answer calls, notes, emails, coming to the door or responding to mediators.
So, I prayed on my pan that there would be reconciliation with congregants who were still estranged and particularly for forgiveness from the Goldberg’s. I dropped the shredded pan, as is the custom, on the Rebbe’s tomb and noted that it was 6:00, time to leave for the airport. Shortly thereafter, I called Linda to tell her that the plane was departing on time.
“You’ll never guess who called,” Linda announced. “The Goldberg’s.”
Astonished, I asked her if there had been any particular reason.
“No. An incredible surprise. They just wanted to say hello.”
“And do you remember about what time they called?”
“It must have been around 6:05.”
Please understand my purpose. My personal feelings aside, relating this wonder-story is not to convince anyone to believe in miracles, nor to believe that the Rebbe is the Messiah, nor that I was at all worthy of Divine intercession.
I have only one purpose: It is to tell people smug or doubting that we never know. We expect, and we never know. We are so often thwarted. Life wearies us, and we never know. The sun may yet shine from the abyss. To the arrogant and smug who claim to know, this epitaph: You never know. If you did, you might not bother to show up.
A serendipitous ride to the Ohel? I think not.
I make no apologies for my devotion to Chasidism, particularly to the Chabad-Lubavitch movement, its tireless outreach and nonjudgmental welcome to Jews of all callings and backgrounds. Moreover, it asks nothing in return.
Do I agree with every point of the movement’s theology and lifestyle? No, but enough to make me an adherent. In fact, we often joke about how a rabbi so seemingly atypical, in a decidedly un-Chabad town like Greenville, is so devoted to the work of Chabad. Hence my title, “Closet Lubavitcher”!
Their most recent, now deceased, Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Schneerson, is understood by all Lubavitchers as irreplaceable. Do they consider him a miracle-worker? Perhaps, or at least a great cosmic influence. Is he the Messiah? This is the subject of tremendous controversy, even condemnation, in the secular media and other Jewish movements. Let’s simply say that many Lubavitchers openly declare him the Messiah, while for others the idea hovers as a distinct possibility.
Two years before his death, the Rebbe became my “savior.” In a scant 30 seconds, he stroked my arm and offered me guidance at the most dismal time of my life. Those few words, I now realize now, marked the beginning of my emotional and spiritual restoration and intervened in my imminent suicide.
That was then. Now, let me tell you about my recent transcendent, or spooky, experience – depending how you look at it – with the Rebbe:
A few months ago, I spent a week in New York working on a project. By serendipity, my driver to the airport was a young Lubavitcher. At the sight of my yarmulke, he asked whether I had ever visited the Ohel (Rebbe’s tomb)? I told him that I had not, but if we had time, I would certainly like to pay my respects. Knowing that people flock to the Ohel to ask for the Rebbe’s intercession, and remembering his life-saving advice for me 13 years earlier, it was the least I could do.
Arriving at the Ohel, my driver recommended that I write a “pan,” an acronym for “pidyon nefesh,” a “redemption of the soul,” to place on the Rebbe’s tomb. What could it hurt, I thought. So, I prayed for universal peace and for the safety of my family.
Then, I asked for something out of the ordinary: Three years earlier, I had departed my congregation in Greenville under acrimonious, some would say crazy, circumstances. Many congregants were left angry and estranged. Little by little, some had forgiven me, and our relationships had slowly resumed. For others, the anger still burned.
But, the Goldberg’s (name changed), with whom we were particularly close and whose friendship we especially cherished, stopped talking to us and refused all pleas of forgiveness – would not even answer calls, notes, emails, coming to the door or responding to mediators.
So, I prayed on my pan that there would be reconciliation with congregants who were still estranged and particularly for forgiveness from the Goldberg’s. I dropped the shredded pan, as is the custom, on the Rebbe’s tomb and noted that it was 6:00, time to leave for the airport. Shortly thereafter, I called Linda to tell her that the plane was departing on time.
“You’ll never guess who called,” Linda announced. “The Goldberg’s.”
Astonished, I asked her if there had been any particular reason.
“No. An incredible surprise. They just wanted to say hello.”
“And do you remember about what time they called?”
“It must have been around 6:05.”
Please understand my purpose. My personal feelings aside, relating this wonder-story is not to convince anyone to believe in miracles, nor to believe that the Rebbe is the Messiah, nor that I was at all worthy of Divine intercession.
I have only one purpose: It is to tell people smug or doubting that we never know. We expect, and we never know. We are so often thwarted. Life wearies us, and we never know. The sun may yet shine from the abyss. To the arrogant and smug who claim to know, this epitaph: You never know. If you did, you might not bother to show up.
A serendipitous ride to the Ohel? I think not.
October 25, 2005
NEUROTIC SALAMI
Please believe me when I tell you that kosher salami contributes to child abuse.
In the American-Jewish world of the 1950’s, sending ones child to nursery was a sign of dishonor. It inferred that daddy did not earn enough to allow mother to stay home and raise the toddlers, for she, too, was obliged to bring home a paycheck. The Wilson’s were not wealthy, but my parents scrimped to have my early years at home.
At nursery, youngsters were fed bland lunches and treats like jelly sandwiches, cookies and milk. At home, Jewish children were fed a nourishing fodder-trough of leftovers: brisket, meatloaf, casserole, sausage and beans . . . unintended early training for obesity, diabetes and heart disease.
My personal favorite at age four was salami with mustard on chewy rye. You must know that back then, no self-respecting American-Jewish household ate soft, neonatal salami. Rather, it was hung in the kitchen until it was wrinkled and chewy enough to loosen three molars.
Salami or not, from time to time, my mother would ignore me as lunch hour approached, talking on the phone to a childhood friend. I would whine for my lunch, which brought an ominous glare.
Once – and only once – after whining repeatedly, I reached up for the alluring salami and bit a huge chunk out of it. At this, my mother whacked me across the kitchen, bouncing me off the wall and forcing the purloined salami from my mouth. All the while, she kept up her conversation, never changing her tone of voice.
At the end of her conversation, she reminded me that she rarely hit me, but that this occasion – “playing with food,” she called it – deserved special treatment and clobbered me twice again.
51 years later, as we sat at my mother’s deathbed, we reminisced about incidents from childhood and laughed. She had remarkably clear memory for a woman who would die just days later. But guess what? She had nary a recollection of the punishment she meted out for her only child’s craving for a chunk of salami. Three whacks may have turned me neurotic, but at least my manners have gotten significantly better.
Please believe me when I tell you that kosher salami contributes to child abuse.
In the American-Jewish world of the 1950’s, sending ones child to nursery was a sign of dishonor. It inferred that daddy did not earn enough to allow mother to stay home and raise the toddlers, for she, too, was obliged to bring home a paycheck. The Wilson’s were not wealthy, but my parents scrimped to have my early years at home.
At nursery, youngsters were fed bland lunches and treats like jelly sandwiches, cookies and milk. At home, Jewish children were fed a nourishing fodder-trough of leftovers: brisket, meatloaf, casserole, sausage and beans . . . unintended early training for obesity, diabetes and heart disease.
My personal favorite at age four was salami with mustard on chewy rye. You must know that back then, no self-respecting American-Jewish household ate soft, neonatal salami. Rather, it was hung in the kitchen until it was wrinkled and chewy enough to loosen three molars.
Salami or not, from time to time, my mother would ignore me as lunch hour approached, talking on the phone to a childhood friend. I would whine for my lunch, which brought an ominous glare.
Once – and only once – after whining repeatedly, I reached up for the alluring salami and bit a huge chunk out of it. At this, my mother whacked me across the kitchen, bouncing me off the wall and forcing the purloined salami from my mouth. All the while, she kept up her conversation, never changing her tone of voice.
At the end of her conversation, she reminded me that she rarely hit me, but that this occasion – “playing with food,” she called it – deserved special treatment and clobbered me twice again.
51 years later, as we sat at my mother’s deathbed, we reminisced about incidents from childhood and laughed. She had remarkably clear memory for a woman who would die just days later. But guess what? She had nary a recollection of the punishment she meted out for her only child’s craving for a chunk of salami. Three whacks may have turned me neurotic, but at least my manners have gotten significantly better.
October 08, 2005
NO, I CAN'T DO THE SPLIT
Being a student in yeshiva was my first exposure to the personalities of young men from various regions of the States. New Yorkers were pushy. Californians had a more casual attitude. Kids from Boston were a little snobby.
Then there were the boys from the South. The southern United States had seceded from the Union over the inferiority and enslavement of blacks. The South lost, but many pundits would say that 150 years later they are still fighting the war.
Some bigotry still rears its ugly head, but more is focused on a deprecatory attitude toward “servants” – janitors, automobile attendants, ticket takers, waitresses – no “please” nor “thank you,” just, “Hurry up! Who do you think you are?”
Once upon a time, going to an ice cream parlor with Alan, a yeshiva bochur from the Deep South, was particularly embarrassing. The sweet young waitress approached our table. Alan ordered “a banana split . . . with no banana.” The waitress looked at him. “We don’t have that on the menu,” she said quizzically.
“Nonetheless,” Alan said, as though speaking to a recalcitrant kindergartener, “certainly the kitchen can make one up especially for me.” Again, a completely befuddled look from the waitress.
I tried to clarify the situation. “Just bring the man this banana split,” as I pointed to the menu, “and take off the banana.”
Alan of the South glared of me and chided, “I am perfectly capable of explaining to the servant precisely what I want, without your interference.”
Finally, I pretended to go to the bathroom, caught the waitress’s eye, handed her five dollars and asked her to bring out the “banana split without the banana,” just as I had explained to her.
The five dollars made up for Alan’s refusal to leave her a tip because “it would teach her not to be so uppity toward the upper class.”
I only pray that in his life to come Alan of the South would make the mistake of ordering “kirschtort . . . with no cherries” from a muscular waiter named Bruno.
Being a student in yeshiva was my first exposure to the personalities of young men from various regions of the States. New Yorkers were pushy. Californians had a more casual attitude. Kids from Boston were a little snobby.
Then there were the boys from the South. The southern United States had seceded from the Union over the inferiority and enslavement of blacks. The South lost, but many pundits would say that 150 years later they are still fighting the war.
Some bigotry still rears its ugly head, but more is focused on a deprecatory attitude toward “servants” – janitors, automobile attendants, ticket takers, waitresses – no “please” nor “thank you,” just, “Hurry up! Who do you think you are?”
Once upon a time, going to an ice cream parlor with Alan, a yeshiva bochur from the Deep South, was particularly embarrassing. The sweet young waitress approached our table. Alan ordered “a banana split . . . with no banana.” The waitress looked at him. “We don’t have that on the menu,” she said quizzically.
“Nonetheless,” Alan said, as though speaking to a recalcitrant kindergartener, “certainly the kitchen can make one up especially for me.” Again, a completely befuddled look from the waitress.
I tried to clarify the situation. “Just bring the man this banana split,” as I pointed to the menu, “and take off the banana.”
Alan of the South glared of me and chided, “I am perfectly capable of explaining to the servant precisely what I want, without your interference.”
Finally, I pretended to go to the bathroom, caught the waitress’s eye, handed her five dollars and asked her to bring out the “banana split without the banana,” just as I had explained to her.
The five dollars made up for Alan’s refusal to leave her a tip because “it would teach her not to be so uppity toward the upper class.”
I only pray that in his life to come Alan of the South would make the mistake of ordering “kirschtort . . . with no cherries” from a muscular waiter named Bruno.
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