HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT CRABMEAT'S FAUX?
The operative word for the kashrut-observant Jew of the 21st century is “faux.” That is, we prefer to eat kosher imitations of goyische food than food that our ancestors considered “traditional.”
Where did it all start, you ask? Its origin is in the Jews’ discovery of mayonnaise. The consistency of mayonnaise is so much like faux cream that it is the only foodstuff whose hechsher specifically identifies it as “pareve,” so close is the resemblance.
My recollection of nearly 50 years ago is that pareve faux coffee-cream and butter were still miraculous to the kosher palate. Thus, on public occasions, a card was placed at each table assuring the bamboozled diners that they need not fear; the cream and butter were certified non-dairy.
We zap the clock forward to the 21st century. The kashrut-observant world is obsessed with all means of kosher faux treferai. Trust me, my travels even in the Chasidic world have taught me that Chasidim are even more zealous about faux kosher than their clean-shaven brethren.
Certain fish with fins and scales, pollock I think, is indistinguishable from crabmeat and lobster. If the factory molds it in a different shape, it becomes faux shrimp.
A fatty, tough cut of beef ironically called “plate,” when properly cured and smoked, makes for equally carcinogenic faux bacon. Through my own dabbling with veal breast, I have come to make an indistinguishable faux ham.
Attend any Chasidic wedding, and indulge yourself in a bacchanalian “sh’morg.” Kishe and knishes? I think not. Faux sushi napped in wasabi. And we all love the faux Alfredo sauce dripping down our beards as we discuss an intricate comment of Rashi on last week’s Torah portion. Then, not to be undone, we delight in our faux filet mignon oozing a pat of faux garlic butter.
This leaves me with only one dilemma: How does any pious Chasid know the taste of authentic crabmeat to be able to announce, “Ah, now that faux crabmeat tastes like the real thing!”? How does that guy in beard and payes know good faux from bad?
Please,please, help me resolve that conundrum, I’ll reward you with a pot of steaming oyster stew if you do. Faux? Only you and I will know.
August 07, 2006
July 11, 2006
THINGS GO BETTER
I came from a home in which any meat that momma served was pot-roasted for six hours. Growing up, though, I had occasion to eat dinner in the homes of affluent friends. They frequently served a cut unknown to us peasants, “ribeye,” which was juicy, pink, marbled with fat, some of which had caramelized around the roast’s edges. Could this be a hors d’ouvres of the mythical Shor Ha-Bor that would be served upon the messiah’s arrival?
Ribeye, I vowed, would one day be the signature of my own arrival to affluence. On a rabbi’s salary, I never gained riches, but soon ribeye became the highlight of every family occasion, even as the price to serve six skyrocketed to over $120.
Then there are the occasions when we really wanted to impress our guests. We tried to do so recently with a ribeye roast that cost nearly $200, as we welcomed our new machatonim.
I had long believed that the less one played with a fine cut of meat the better: a little salt, pepper and perhaps some garlic, then straight into the oven. Recently, though, I had read in one of those silly hausfrau magazines about a “simply delicious, secret” glaze made from a list of exotic herbs and spices. Then, I violated the cardinal rule of haute cuisine: “Never experiment on recipes with guests.”
I bathed and rubbed the ribeye with the “secret” glaze until the ruby-red meat turned a morbid brown. Upon roasting, though, the ribeye was beautifully glazed and rich-pink within. As I presented my masterpiece, I smugly announced that the glaze was a “secret” recipe of herbs and spices, and that I would defy the guests to tell me what they were.
Before I collapsed into a puddle of humiliation, I remember only the pained expression that crossed each guest’s face as he or she attempted to savor the roast’s miserable “secret” glaze. Only my four-year-old granddaughter Sophie penetrated the secrecy and loudly, and correctly, announced, “Zayde, why did you pour Coca-Cola on the meat?”
I came from a home in which any meat that momma served was pot-roasted for six hours. Growing up, though, I had occasion to eat dinner in the homes of affluent friends. They frequently served a cut unknown to us peasants, “ribeye,” which was juicy, pink, marbled with fat, some of which had caramelized around the roast’s edges. Could this be a hors d’ouvres of the mythical Shor Ha-Bor that would be served upon the messiah’s arrival?
Ribeye, I vowed, would one day be the signature of my own arrival to affluence. On a rabbi’s salary, I never gained riches, but soon ribeye became the highlight of every family occasion, even as the price to serve six skyrocketed to over $120.
Then there are the occasions when we really wanted to impress our guests. We tried to do so recently with a ribeye roast that cost nearly $200, as we welcomed our new machatonim.
I had long believed that the less one played with a fine cut of meat the better: a little salt, pepper and perhaps some garlic, then straight into the oven. Recently, though, I had read in one of those silly hausfrau magazines about a “simply delicious, secret” glaze made from a list of exotic herbs and spices. Then, I violated the cardinal rule of haute cuisine: “Never experiment on recipes with guests.”
I bathed and rubbed the ribeye with the “secret” glaze until the ruby-red meat turned a morbid brown. Upon roasting, though, the ribeye was beautifully glazed and rich-pink within. As I presented my masterpiece, I smugly announced that the glaze was a “secret” recipe of herbs and spices, and that I would defy the guests to tell me what they were.
Before I collapsed into a puddle of humiliation, I remember only the pained expression that crossed each guest’s face as he or she attempted to savor the roast’s miserable “secret” glaze. Only my four-year-old granddaughter Sophie penetrated the secrecy and loudly, and correctly, announced, “Zayde, why did you pour Coca-Cola on the meat?”
July 01, 2006
“YOU’D NEVER BELIEVE IT WAS TRAIFE!”
My son Ben is on his way to becoming a talented chef. As hedonistic as Jews are, he is likely to be more successful than his sister the physician or his brother the executive.
His mentor is proprietor of Mike’s Bistro in Manhattan, a superior restaurant that happens to be kosher.
At that point, similarity to the “typical” kosher restaurant ends. One will find no pickles on the table, surly waiters or greasy kugel. The restaurant is home to haute cuisine: Duck Panzanella, Ginger-Crusted Mahi-Mahi, Wild Mushroom Farfalle, the finest wines, the most comfortable ambiance.
“You’d never believe it was kosher!” Right? Of course, if you consider restaurant-style kashrut a cuisine, not a religious mandate. Then the “typical” kosher restaurant becomes a study in inferiority – ill-prepared food, impatiently served, ordered from fly-specked menus.
But, it is also a study in Jews being a tormented minority, especially for those of us who see everything in terms of being a tormented minority. The truth is that kosher food becomes increasingly attractive as it becomes increasingly goyisch.
Quenelles de poisson roll lighter off the tongue than gefilte fish does, because one is more likely to eat them at Pierre’s, while Yehudim are more likely to eat the latter at dingy delicatessens called “Moishe’s.” The same is true of gnocchi above knishes, Plaza del Lago above Kol Tuv Pizza. Hollandaise above schmaltz. Tarte de Pomme, oui! Apfelschalet, nein!
Dream along with me about a world in which we are dominant, and the goyim are the tormented minority. Consider them emerging from a grimy establishment called “Yankel’s,” rapturously exclaiming, “You’d never believe it was traife! Imagine that chopped liver, better than pate. And darling, what about the kugel? How could I ever go back to gratin dauphinois? The tzimmes made me forget that I have ever eaten ratatouille.”
Now wake up! You and I will remain a tormented minority. We will forever judge the quality of kosher food on how un-kosher it seems. I have already told Ben that this poses no problem, so long as he remembers how to make a good matzo-ball soup.
My son Ben is on his way to becoming a talented chef. As hedonistic as Jews are, he is likely to be more successful than his sister the physician or his brother the executive.
His mentor is proprietor of Mike’s Bistro in Manhattan, a superior restaurant that happens to be kosher.
At that point, similarity to the “typical” kosher restaurant ends. One will find no pickles on the table, surly waiters or greasy kugel. The restaurant is home to haute cuisine: Duck Panzanella, Ginger-Crusted Mahi-Mahi, Wild Mushroom Farfalle, the finest wines, the most comfortable ambiance.
“You’d never believe it was kosher!” Right? Of course, if you consider restaurant-style kashrut a cuisine, not a religious mandate. Then the “typical” kosher restaurant becomes a study in inferiority – ill-prepared food, impatiently served, ordered from fly-specked menus.
But, it is also a study in Jews being a tormented minority, especially for those of us who see everything in terms of being a tormented minority. The truth is that kosher food becomes increasingly attractive as it becomes increasingly goyisch.
Quenelles de poisson roll lighter off the tongue than gefilte fish does, because one is more likely to eat them at Pierre’s, while Yehudim are more likely to eat the latter at dingy delicatessens called “Moishe’s.” The same is true of gnocchi above knishes, Plaza del Lago above Kol Tuv Pizza. Hollandaise above schmaltz. Tarte de Pomme, oui! Apfelschalet, nein!
Dream along with me about a world in which we are dominant, and the goyim are the tormented minority. Consider them emerging from a grimy establishment called “Yankel’s,” rapturously exclaiming, “You’d never believe it was traife! Imagine that chopped liver, better than pate. And darling, what about the kugel? How could I ever go back to gratin dauphinois? The tzimmes made me forget that I have ever eaten ratatouille.”
Now wake up! You and I will remain a tormented minority. We will forever judge the quality of kosher food on how un-kosher it seems. I have already told Ben that this poses no problem, so long as he remembers how to make a good matzo-ball soup.
June 15, 2006
A YOKEL GETS NO SUPPER
My friend Arnie, despite his Jewish birth, lives like gentile in a gentile world. That seems to be slowly changing. Perhaps a little of it is due to the chopped liver that I occasionally serve him.
Arnie recently regaled me in his first experience of a “real New York” Bar Mitzvah. The father of the bochur was the lead counsel for a television network. The mother was a society matron. Arnie expected a celebration that was equally dignified. And indeed, the service was. In fact, he used the word “uninspiring,” as though his Yiddishkeit was already better prepared for my son’s Lubavitcher wedding next month.
Arnie thus had every reason to expect an equally sophisticated celebration on Saturday evening. Then, his world of lofty Jewish expectations came crashing down. You entered, he said, through a huge kids’ ballroom blaring hip-hop music and cluttered with video games. Interspersed among the games were screens narcissistically broadcasting the Bar-Mitzvah bochur’s picture and the caption, “He’s the One!”
The next ballroom, Arnie told me with his eyes wide open like Alice in Wonderland’s, was a bacchanalia – a League of Nations, he said, of every imaginable cuisine: sushi, Peking duck, Weiner schnitzel, spareribs, pork Wellington, Dom Perignon, a bar of shrimp, crab legs and men in white jackets shucking fresh oysters . . .
Arnie, the cosmopolitan multimillionaire, said that he felt like a complete yokel. He assumed that the decadent buffet was the evening’s dinner, indulged himself accordingly. Only then did he discover that this was merely the appetizer course and that he had already eaten too much to enjoy the entrees of prime rib of beef and duck l’orange.
I commiserated with him and reassured him that even though I had spent 12 years in yeshiva, I had made precisely the same mistake at my first “real New York” Bar Mitzvah.
“But what about all the pork and shellfish?” he asked.
“OK, Jews cheat. Let’s just hope it’s here and not in their business. Did you cheat?”
“No comment.”
Then I taught Arnie his first Yiddish expression: “Schver tzu zein a Yid.”
My friend Arnie, despite his Jewish birth, lives like gentile in a gentile world. That seems to be slowly changing. Perhaps a little of it is due to the chopped liver that I occasionally serve him.
Arnie recently regaled me in his first experience of a “real New York” Bar Mitzvah. The father of the bochur was the lead counsel for a television network. The mother was a society matron. Arnie expected a celebration that was equally dignified. And indeed, the service was. In fact, he used the word “uninspiring,” as though his Yiddishkeit was already better prepared for my son’s Lubavitcher wedding next month.
Arnie thus had every reason to expect an equally sophisticated celebration on Saturday evening. Then, his world of lofty Jewish expectations came crashing down. You entered, he said, through a huge kids’ ballroom blaring hip-hop music and cluttered with video games. Interspersed among the games were screens narcissistically broadcasting the Bar-Mitzvah bochur’s picture and the caption, “He’s the One!”
The next ballroom, Arnie told me with his eyes wide open like Alice in Wonderland’s, was a bacchanalia – a League of Nations, he said, of every imaginable cuisine: sushi, Peking duck, Weiner schnitzel, spareribs, pork Wellington, Dom Perignon, a bar of shrimp, crab legs and men in white jackets shucking fresh oysters . . .
Arnie, the cosmopolitan multimillionaire, said that he felt like a complete yokel. He assumed that the decadent buffet was the evening’s dinner, indulged himself accordingly. Only then did he discover that this was merely the appetizer course and that he had already eaten too much to enjoy the entrees of prime rib of beef and duck l’orange.
I commiserated with him and reassured him that even though I had spent 12 years in yeshiva, I had made precisely the same mistake at my first “real New York” Bar Mitzvah.
“But what about all the pork and shellfish?” he asked.
“OK, Jews cheat. Let’s just hope it’s here and not in their business. Did you cheat?”
“No comment.”
Then I taught Arnie his first Yiddish expression: “Schver tzu zein a Yid.”
June 01, 2006
IT’S HARD TO BE A JEW . . . ON SUNDAY
Any time that I have the opportunity to escape my goyische hometown of Greenville to visit New York, my spirits are lifted as if I were praying before the Holy Wall in Jerusalem. Even more so recently, when the trip was to commemorate my son Ben’s graduation from Yeshiva University and his engagement to Joy, a Syrian-Sephardic girl whose Oriental beauty conjures an image of the exotic Shulamith in the Song of Songs.
That evening, the family celebrated the events at a simply delightful kosher restaurant, Mike’s Bistro (shameless plug) where Ben has been interning. But the wonderful experience was overshadowed the following Sunday by attempting to drink a simple cup of coffee on my way to the airport.
Prior to the trip, I suggest that the bride and groom join me at a little restaurant across the Yeshiva campus. As we enter, I realize that the diner is a dump that observes kashrut. Recognizing that I would not eat again for a number of hours, which would wreak havoc on my blood sugar, I decide to get a simple bite to eat. What could be wrong, I think, with a salad or a slice of kosher pizza?
Strutting to the counter, I see pizzas festooned with broccoli and green pepper. But green pepper hurts my stomach and I just don’t like broccoli. Would you not assume that a simple cheese pizza was also in the offing? No, they say, all the cheese pizzas were frozen from before Shabbos and would take at least a half-hour to thaw.
“Well then, OK,” I tell the server, “let me have a salad.” I note from the menu that I have my choice of between “iceberg” lettuce and “mixed greens.” Having been force-fed iceberg lettuce as a child, I opt for mixed greens. The server brings forth the mixed greens, but does he serve them to me? No, he starts chopping iceberg lettuce and adding it to the greens in huge proportions, telling me that the iceberg was “left over from before Shabbos.”
“All right, the menu says I get a choice of toppings for my salad. I’ll have the ‘fresh white albacore tuna’.” But I look over to the counter and see that the tuna bears a dark brown crust. “Is that fresh white albacore?” I ask. “It was, but that was before Shabbos.”
“Well then, give me the black olives.” “Uh, we mix them with the leftover green ones before Shabbos.” “How about red peppers?” But I already know the answer: You can’t light Shabbos candles until the red and green had been mixed together.
“Fine, just pour me a cup of coffee.” “I hope you like that black because we haven’t had a delivery from the dairy since before Shabbos.”
“What about a Diet Coke?” I ask with exasperation. “Sorry, we only have regular. They won’t be delivering Diet until tomorrow because of Shabbos.”
Ah, the Starbuck’s coffee and Hershey bar at LaGuardia might as well have been nectar and ambrosia from the gods. For the first time in my life, I actually dreamt of being back in goyische Greenville, where black and green olives come out of separate jars and you can get fresh milk for your coffee seven days a week. I instantly kissed Greenville’s earth, drank a Diet Coke and reveled in Ruby Tuesday’s salad bar, where I lustily ate mixed greens with fresh toppings of my choice.
God willing, the next time I return to New York, it will be for the Ben and Joy’s wedding. I have already told the machatonim that they may do whatever they please but not have the wedding too soon after Shabbos, so that at least the pizza will be fresh.
Any time that I have the opportunity to escape my goyische hometown of Greenville to visit New York, my spirits are lifted as if I were praying before the Holy Wall in Jerusalem. Even more so recently, when the trip was to commemorate my son Ben’s graduation from Yeshiva University and his engagement to Joy, a Syrian-Sephardic girl whose Oriental beauty conjures an image of the exotic Shulamith in the Song of Songs.
That evening, the family celebrated the events at a simply delightful kosher restaurant, Mike’s Bistro (shameless plug) where Ben has been interning. But the wonderful experience was overshadowed the following Sunday by attempting to drink a simple cup of coffee on my way to the airport.
Prior to the trip, I suggest that the bride and groom join me at a little restaurant across the Yeshiva campus. As we enter, I realize that the diner is a dump that observes kashrut. Recognizing that I would not eat again for a number of hours, which would wreak havoc on my blood sugar, I decide to get a simple bite to eat. What could be wrong, I think, with a salad or a slice of kosher pizza?
Strutting to the counter, I see pizzas festooned with broccoli and green pepper. But green pepper hurts my stomach and I just don’t like broccoli. Would you not assume that a simple cheese pizza was also in the offing? No, they say, all the cheese pizzas were frozen from before Shabbos and would take at least a half-hour to thaw.
“Well then, OK,” I tell the server, “let me have a salad.” I note from the menu that I have my choice of between “iceberg” lettuce and “mixed greens.” Having been force-fed iceberg lettuce as a child, I opt for mixed greens. The server brings forth the mixed greens, but does he serve them to me? No, he starts chopping iceberg lettuce and adding it to the greens in huge proportions, telling me that the iceberg was “left over from before Shabbos.”
“All right, the menu says I get a choice of toppings for my salad. I’ll have the ‘fresh white albacore tuna’.” But I look over to the counter and see that the tuna bears a dark brown crust. “Is that fresh white albacore?” I ask. “It was, but that was before Shabbos.”
“Well then, give me the black olives.” “Uh, we mix them with the leftover green ones before Shabbos.” “How about red peppers?” But I already know the answer: You can’t light Shabbos candles until the red and green had been mixed together.
“Fine, just pour me a cup of coffee.” “I hope you like that black because we haven’t had a delivery from the dairy since before Shabbos.”
“What about a Diet Coke?” I ask with exasperation. “Sorry, we only have regular. They won’t be delivering Diet until tomorrow because of Shabbos.”
Ah, the Starbuck’s coffee and Hershey bar at LaGuardia might as well have been nectar and ambrosia from the gods. For the first time in my life, I actually dreamt of being back in goyische Greenville, where black and green olives come out of separate jars and you can get fresh milk for your coffee seven days a week. I instantly kissed Greenville’s earth, drank a Diet Coke and reveled in Ruby Tuesday’s salad bar, where I lustily ate mixed greens with fresh toppings of my choice.
God willing, the next time I return to New York, it will be for the Ben and Joy’s wedding. I have already told the machatonim that they may do whatever they please but not have the wedding too soon after Shabbos, so that at least the pizza will be fresh.
May 18, 2006
DA VINCI AND THE BIBLE - A SUBJECT OF INTERPRETATION
Maybe it’s because I am so accustomed to having the Jewish understanding of the Bible delegitimized that I cannot get overly excited at the hoopla over the Da Vinci Code. Have I read it? Sure. Will I see the movie? Doubtful. Foolish, I know, but I still have a hard time thinking of Forrest Gump going toe-to-toe with the Apostles.
I’ve also read Constantine’s Sword, the Gnostic Gospels and copious chunks of Sts. Augustine and John Chrysostom, watching them vacillate between teaching Christianity as fact and fiction.
This might be precisely the point in putting to rest the rancor over a 21st-century pop-hit of fiction-purporting-to-be-fact or vice versa. The source of real interest in the Da Vinci Codes is not the response among fundamentalist Christians. For them, the stuff of the Da Vinci Codes is heresy, plain and simple. Their rejection of this fact-cum-fiction is a function of their pure faith. I say God bless them, and leave them alone. We Jews, too, have entire movements that reject the legitimacy of any faith less than in the verbatim Divine revelation of the Torah at Sinai, and I say, bless them, too.
The real test of the Da Vinci Code and its like falls more squarely on those of us whose faith is unwavering, yet derived of an interpretive reading of the Bible, or even more radically, from an alternative notion of what it means for the Bible to be “true.”
Ironically, Jesus himself subscribed to an interpretive, far from literal, understanding of the Bible via the Midrash and other contemporary sources. The Gospels are rife with his references to them, including Hillel’s citation of the Golden Rule and the majority of the Lord’s Prayer, crafted from the traditional Kaddish.
In such an interpretive tradition, variant explanations of “how things got to the way they are” may never have been intended as truth, but simply points of interest. Or, perhaps they were differing accounts of the same events told around family campfires from one generation to the next, until one reigned supreme, or another was ruled too barbaric or silly, or one seemed to be most supportive of the rising faith. Is this any less “the truth” when God guides the Story of All Stories to emerge from the spirit of His people?
Then too, perhaps we have confused the modern Western notion of literalism with Oriental truth, forgetting that our Bible is in its entirety an Oriental document. The notion of “truth” in the Oriental tradition is that which delivers a transcendent, ennobling and enduring lesson:
Does it really matter whether Creation took place in six 24-hour days, or that unlike any other early creation epic, ours has the world created solely by one benevolent God? Or perhaps that God creating the world over eons is a sign of His majesty, that anything less would infer His wimpiness. Likewise, did Methuselah literally live 969 years? Who cares? What’s important is that God’s world was built on men who were larger than life (like the fabled George Washington and Abraham Lincoln).
Likewise, should faith be intimidated by scientific inquiry? Why not consider scientific truth and Divine truth two seemingly incomparable slices taken vertically and horizontally by a CT scan? Better yet, let people of faith covenant among themselves that truth is defined by loving ones neighbor, taking the destitute poor into ones home, doing justly, loving mercy, walking humbly, the redemptive power of a loving God, the God who welcomes the repentant. Scientific inquiry, then, may be helpful, but it will never be the truth, because it is cold, merciless, soulless, ruthless.
We whose faith is built on an interpretive tradition and a differing understanding of truth dare not be smug or strut with superiority. But, neither should we be defensive. We ought declare our faith without equivocation, lustily chant our hymns and prayers, relish our sacred texts and defend them without apology to those sad souls who deride them as meaningless.
We Jews have experienced plenty of attempted debunking of our own beloved traditions. Thus, even though I am not a Christian, I can speak to you about the Da Vinci Code and its like: You will encounter plenty of challenging, even threatening, forces along the path. Some of you will see them as points of interest. Some of you will see them as heresy.
But, let there be no mistaking. From Matthew through Revelations, you have your truth. Nothing, certainly no book nor movie, will ever stand in its way.
Maybe it’s because I am so accustomed to having the Jewish understanding of the Bible delegitimized that I cannot get overly excited at the hoopla over the Da Vinci Code. Have I read it? Sure. Will I see the movie? Doubtful. Foolish, I know, but I still have a hard time thinking of Forrest Gump going toe-to-toe with the Apostles.
I’ve also read Constantine’s Sword, the Gnostic Gospels and copious chunks of Sts. Augustine and John Chrysostom, watching them vacillate between teaching Christianity as fact and fiction.
This might be precisely the point in putting to rest the rancor over a 21st-century pop-hit of fiction-purporting-to-be-fact or vice versa. The source of real interest in the Da Vinci Codes is not the response among fundamentalist Christians. For them, the stuff of the Da Vinci Codes is heresy, plain and simple. Their rejection of this fact-cum-fiction is a function of their pure faith. I say God bless them, and leave them alone. We Jews, too, have entire movements that reject the legitimacy of any faith less than in the verbatim Divine revelation of the Torah at Sinai, and I say, bless them, too.
The real test of the Da Vinci Code and its like falls more squarely on those of us whose faith is unwavering, yet derived of an interpretive reading of the Bible, or even more radically, from an alternative notion of what it means for the Bible to be “true.”
Ironically, Jesus himself subscribed to an interpretive, far from literal, understanding of the Bible via the Midrash and other contemporary sources. The Gospels are rife with his references to them, including Hillel’s citation of the Golden Rule and the majority of the Lord’s Prayer, crafted from the traditional Kaddish.
In such an interpretive tradition, variant explanations of “how things got to the way they are” may never have been intended as truth, but simply points of interest. Or, perhaps they were differing accounts of the same events told around family campfires from one generation to the next, until one reigned supreme, or another was ruled too barbaric or silly, or one seemed to be most supportive of the rising faith. Is this any less “the truth” when God guides the Story of All Stories to emerge from the spirit of His people?
Then too, perhaps we have confused the modern Western notion of literalism with Oriental truth, forgetting that our Bible is in its entirety an Oriental document. The notion of “truth” in the Oriental tradition is that which delivers a transcendent, ennobling and enduring lesson:
Does it really matter whether Creation took place in six 24-hour days, or that unlike any other early creation epic, ours has the world created solely by one benevolent God? Or perhaps that God creating the world over eons is a sign of His majesty, that anything less would infer His wimpiness. Likewise, did Methuselah literally live 969 years? Who cares? What’s important is that God’s world was built on men who were larger than life (like the fabled George Washington and Abraham Lincoln).
Likewise, should faith be intimidated by scientific inquiry? Why not consider scientific truth and Divine truth two seemingly incomparable slices taken vertically and horizontally by a CT scan? Better yet, let people of faith covenant among themselves that truth is defined by loving ones neighbor, taking the destitute poor into ones home, doing justly, loving mercy, walking humbly, the redemptive power of a loving God, the God who welcomes the repentant. Scientific inquiry, then, may be helpful, but it will never be the truth, because it is cold, merciless, soulless, ruthless.
We whose faith is built on an interpretive tradition and a differing understanding of truth dare not be smug or strut with superiority. But, neither should we be defensive. We ought declare our faith without equivocation, lustily chant our hymns and prayers, relish our sacred texts and defend them without apology to those sad souls who deride them as meaningless.
We Jews have experienced plenty of attempted debunking of our own beloved traditions. Thus, even though I am not a Christian, I can speak to you about the Da Vinci Code and its like: You will encounter plenty of challenging, even threatening, forces along the path. Some of you will see them as points of interest. Some of you will see them as heresy.
But, let there be no mistaking. From Matthew through Revelations, you have your truth. Nothing, certainly no book nor movie, will ever stand in its way.
April 26, 2006
COLUMBUS DISCOVERS . . . CACKALACKY
Not too long ago we visited the children in our sister state of North Carolina. My eyes caught a tee-shirt referring to North Carolina as “North Cackalaky.” Odd, I thought, but not odd enough to trace its origin.
A few weeks later while strolling down Main Street of our hometown, Greenville, South Carolina, I beheld another tee-shirt calling South Carolina, “South Cackalacky.” Now my curiosity could not be restrained.
I searched the internet only to find that no one really knew what “cackalacky” meant. There are over 200 definitions, ranging from an Indian word, to the corruption of the name “Carolina” by local mountain people, to the sound of a chicken coop.
I even discovered a website, www.cakalacky.com, which I assumed held definitive authority of the word’s meaning. Their “Cackalacky,” though, is a spicy pepper condiment manufactured in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.
I contacted the president of Cackalacky, who turned out to be a landsman Yehudi. But, before I could say a word, he shouted with great surprise, “You aren’t Marc Wilson, the columnist, are you?”
“Yes,” I answered. “How did you know?”
“I read your column in the Judische Allgemeine!”
“Well,” he said, “I have always assumed that ‘cackalcky’ was how the goyim referred to the Yiddish accent of the Jewish peddlers who sold their wares in North and South, Carolina.”
Ah, I thought, not only have the Jews discovered the polio vaccine, theory of relativity and dirigible balloon. They have also given names to two of the original American colonies, North and South, Cackalacky . . . I mean “Carolina.”
Then was Christopher Columbus, who discovered America, also a Jew? We had always heard rumors to that effect. Perhaps he loaded up his ships in 1492 with a Jewish crew to escape the Spanish Inquisition and take refuge in the New World. Perhaps he mustered his crew with the Hebrew cry, “Kacha lechu!” (“This is how we shall go!”). And so they went.
I ask you, doesn’t “kacha lechu” sound just like “cakalacky”? I’ll let you ponder that. But keep in mind: These Jews are a very strange people. So you never know. You never know.
Not too long ago we visited the children in our sister state of North Carolina. My eyes caught a tee-shirt referring to North Carolina as “North Cackalaky.” Odd, I thought, but not odd enough to trace its origin.
A few weeks later while strolling down Main Street of our hometown, Greenville, South Carolina, I beheld another tee-shirt calling South Carolina, “South Cackalacky.” Now my curiosity could not be restrained.
I searched the internet only to find that no one really knew what “cackalacky” meant. There are over 200 definitions, ranging from an Indian word, to the corruption of the name “Carolina” by local mountain people, to the sound of a chicken coop.
I even discovered a website, www.cakalacky.com, which I assumed held definitive authority of the word’s meaning. Their “Cackalacky,” though, is a spicy pepper condiment manufactured in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.
I contacted the president of Cackalacky, who turned out to be a landsman Yehudi. But, before I could say a word, he shouted with great surprise, “You aren’t Marc Wilson, the columnist, are you?”
“Yes,” I answered. “How did you know?”
“I read your column in the Judische Allgemeine!”
“Well,” he said, “I have always assumed that ‘cackalcky’ was how the goyim referred to the Yiddish accent of the Jewish peddlers who sold their wares in North and South, Carolina.”
Ah, I thought, not only have the Jews discovered the polio vaccine, theory of relativity and dirigible balloon. They have also given names to two of the original American colonies, North and South, Cackalacky . . . I mean “Carolina.”
Then was Christopher Columbus, who discovered America, also a Jew? We had always heard rumors to that effect. Perhaps he loaded up his ships in 1492 with a Jewish crew to escape the Spanish Inquisition and take refuge in the New World. Perhaps he mustered his crew with the Hebrew cry, “Kacha lechu!” (“This is how we shall go!”). And so they went.
I ask you, doesn’t “kacha lechu” sound just like “cakalacky”? I’ll let you ponder that. But keep in mind: These Jews are a very strange people. So you never know. You never know.
April 16, 2006
WORTHINESS, DISCOVERED 35 YEARS LATER
I have done some horrible things in my life, mostly long ago. For most of them, I have been forgiven. I thank God for keeping to a limit those people who still wish me ill and for granting me chances to regain my respect.
I have largely been blessed by forgiveness. But I have yet to forgive myself. Ask Linda about waking up to screaming nightmares and fits of crying at the memory of wrongdoings that cannot be undone. Ask her most about the episodes of self-deprecation and worthlessness. What good has my life ever done? What worthy deed have I ever done that has not been undone by some equal but opposite hurtful act?
Certainly, there are moments of joy. Family celebrations. A loving wife. Delight from my children. Bliss from my grandchildren. Sometimes I wonder whether a man should expect any more sources of happiness.
Saddest of all is that when the morose cycle starts, I simply don’t have the moxie to count my blessings and contrast them to the horrific pain that people I meet every day have suffered. The preoccupation with my own failures and my inability to put insignificant woes in perspective only redoubles my self-perception as a whiner and narcissist.
The month before this Passover brought on one of those hellish pits deeper than I have sustained in years. I suffered a stroke. None of our kids could come to the Seder. The congregation that I’d led for the last four High Holy Days informed me that my services were no longer required. My application for a job at Barnes and Noble was rejected because I was “too smart.” And, to gild my already withering lily, I attended a Shabbat service at which the young rabbi reminded me precisely of my own salad days 30 years ago. Despite therapy and pills, my setback of worthlessness was of immeasurable proportions.
Then a zap emanated from the heart of an incomprehensible God, a seeming manipulation of smoke and mirrors. This, keep in mind, is the very God to whom we whack ourselves on the chest as we mechanically declare our worthlessness. But this is also the very God whose timing is impeccable, and sometimes winks down from Heaven and chuckles, “Just didn’t want you to think that I’ve forgotten you!”
And so, on the Monday of Passover week, when worthlessness seemed its most dismal, an email arrived without fanfare from a student whom I had taught 35 years ago. Am I the same Marc Wilson? Do I remember him? Yes, of course I remember him. I describe his looks and even recall his Hebrew name. He continues:
My parents wanted me to be serous about Hebrew school, but they never thought I would be wearing Tefillin. There was a period I even thought about being a Rabbi. Even though it was so long ago, I do remember you had a passion for teaching. It’s too bad most of my regular teachers never had that. Lastly, I would really like to say thank you. You really did leave me with things I still carry with me to this day and try to pass on to my kids.
How God knew that at that particular moment I was obsessed with the worthlessness of my life is a non-issue. God knows everything. Why God chose to be gracious to me, no one knows, certainly not I. The injustice of God not showering grace upon people who are vastly more deserving, and whose pain is vastly greater, is incomprehensible.
There is simply no way to measure the worthiness for which one receives such a Divine gift. It is a pure manifestation of God’s grace to one who hasn’t earned it, but who is in deepest need. It is given as a reprieve from the depths of self-inflicted hell, a chance to look down upon a gap of 35 years and realize that maybe we did fill it here and there with a shot of inspiration or kindness that has endured.
I have already sent the email for framing. And of this, too, you may be sure: When everyone at our Seder exclaimed, “Next year in Jerusalem!” I shed tears that this year I might attain to a personal Jerusalem in which even small acts of kindness should suffice to banish the demons of worthlessness.
I have done some horrible things in my life, mostly long ago. For most of them, I have been forgiven. I thank God for keeping to a limit those people who still wish me ill and for granting me chances to regain my respect.
I have largely been blessed by forgiveness. But I have yet to forgive myself. Ask Linda about waking up to screaming nightmares and fits of crying at the memory of wrongdoings that cannot be undone. Ask her most about the episodes of self-deprecation and worthlessness. What good has my life ever done? What worthy deed have I ever done that has not been undone by some equal but opposite hurtful act?
Certainly, there are moments of joy. Family celebrations. A loving wife. Delight from my children. Bliss from my grandchildren. Sometimes I wonder whether a man should expect any more sources of happiness.
Saddest of all is that when the morose cycle starts, I simply don’t have the moxie to count my blessings and contrast them to the horrific pain that people I meet every day have suffered. The preoccupation with my own failures and my inability to put insignificant woes in perspective only redoubles my self-perception as a whiner and narcissist.
The month before this Passover brought on one of those hellish pits deeper than I have sustained in years. I suffered a stroke. None of our kids could come to the Seder. The congregation that I’d led for the last four High Holy Days informed me that my services were no longer required. My application for a job at Barnes and Noble was rejected because I was “too smart.” And, to gild my already withering lily, I attended a Shabbat service at which the young rabbi reminded me precisely of my own salad days 30 years ago. Despite therapy and pills, my setback of worthlessness was of immeasurable proportions.
Then a zap emanated from the heart of an incomprehensible God, a seeming manipulation of smoke and mirrors. This, keep in mind, is the very God to whom we whack ourselves on the chest as we mechanically declare our worthlessness. But this is also the very God whose timing is impeccable, and sometimes winks down from Heaven and chuckles, “Just didn’t want you to think that I’ve forgotten you!”
And so, on the Monday of Passover week, when worthlessness seemed its most dismal, an email arrived without fanfare from a student whom I had taught 35 years ago. Am I the same Marc Wilson? Do I remember him? Yes, of course I remember him. I describe his looks and even recall his Hebrew name. He continues:
My parents wanted me to be serous about Hebrew school, but they never thought I would be wearing Tefillin. There was a period I even thought about being a Rabbi. Even though it was so long ago, I do remember you had a passion for teaching. It’s too bad most of my regular teachers never had that. Lastly, I would really like to say thank you. You really did leave me with things I still carry with me to this day and try to pass on to my kids.
How God knew that at that particular moment I was obsessed with the worthlessness of my life is a non-issue. God knows everything. Why God chose to be gracious to me, no one knows, certainly not I. The injustice of God not showering grace upon people who are vastly more deserving, and whose pain is vastly greater, is incomprehensible.
There is simply no way to measure the worthiness for which one receives such a Divine gift. It is a pure manifestation of God’s grace to one who hasn’t earned it, but who is in deepest need. It is given as a reprieve from the depths of self-inflicted hell, a chance to look down upon a gap of 35 years and realize that maybe we did fill it here and there with a shot of inspiration or kindness that has endured.
I have already sent the email for framing. And of this, too, you may be sure: When everyone at our Seder exclaimed, “Next year in Jerusalem!” I shed tears that this year I might attain to a personal Jerusalem in which even small acts of kindness should suffice to banish the demons of worthlessness.
April 02, 2006
UNNATURAL FOOD
One of my greatest pleasures is to baby-sit for my four-year-old granddaughter, Sophie. Naturally, she is a genius and the most beautiful child in the universe.
“Zayde,” she says to me one recent Saturday evening, “I’m hungry.”
“What would you like, my sweet Soshkeleh?” I call her by my mother’s name of endearment.
“Chicken fingers and ketchup.”
“Chicken fingers and ketchup? I can’t give you chicken fingers and ketchup. You know that chickens have no fingers!”
At this point, Soshkeleh realizes that it’s going to be a long, frustrating evening, because Zayde would rather play around with her than feed her supper.
“You know what else you can’t have, Soshkeleh? Boneless chicken wings. After all, how would chickens fly if they didn’t have bones in their wings?”
“Zayde, chickens don’t fly!”
“Nonetheless . . . “ I say. “And you know what else you can’t have? Boneless chicken breast. The chicken would fall over if it didn’t have bones in its breast, whether it could fly or not. It’s just not natural!”
“How about a fish-burger with American cheese?” Now Soshkeleh is more giddy than hungry.
“Look, Soshkeleh,” I admonish her, “I’ve told you before. It’s unnatural. What part of a fish is square? And a fish-burger is just an imitation of a hamburger, so it should be made out of ham, not fish, and since we keep kosher, we can’t have one anyways. Besides, a fish-burger has no bones, so it would flop around in the water, and not play and swim with its friends. No wonder they made it into a sandwich.
“And as far as American cheese is concerned, do you know what the French call French fries? Fried potatoes. Maybe we should call American cheese ‘fried cheese.’ It’s just not natural!”
Poor Soshkeleh. By now, my four-year-old genius has come to the realization that every food is unnatural.
“Zayde, can I pleeeese have something to eat?”
“Well, I tell you, Soshkeleh,” I usually don’t let little girls have dessert before their supper, but just this one time I’ll make an exception. Let’s go for ice cream. I’m warning you of only one thing: You may not order jelly-bean flavor. It’s not natural.”
One of my greatest pleasures is to baby-sit for my four-year-old granddaughter, Sophie. Naturally, she is a genius and the most beautiful child in the universe.
“Zayde,” she says to me one recent Saturday evening, “I’m hungry.”
“What would you like, my sweet Soshkeleh?” I call her by my mother’s name of endearment.
“Chicken fingers and ketchup.”
“Chicken fingers and ketchup? I can’t give you chicken fingers and ketchup. You know that chickens have no fingers!”
At this point, Soshkeleh realizes that it’s going to be a long, frustrating evening, because Zayde would rather play around with her than feed her supper.
“You know what else you can’t have, Soshkeleh? Boneless chicken wings. After all, how would chickens fly if they didn’t have bones in their wings?”
“Zayde, chickens don’t fly!”
“Nonetheless . . . “ I say. “And you know what else you can’t have? Boneless chicken breast. The chicken would fall over if it didn’t have bones in its breast, whether it could fly or not. It’s just not natural!”
“How about a fish-burger with American cheese?” Now Soshkeleh is more giddy than hungry.
“Look, Soshkeleh,” I admonish her, “I’ve told you before. It’s unnatural. What part of a fish is square? And a fish-burger is just an imitation of a hamburger, so it should be made out of ham, not fish, and since we keep kosher, we can’t have one anyways. Besides, a fish-burger has no bones, so it would flop around in the water, and not play and swim with its friends. No wonder they made it into a sandwich.
“And as far as American cheese is concerned, do you know what the French call French fries? Fried potatoes. Maybe we should call American cheese ‘fried cheese.’ It’s just not natural!”
Poor Soshkeleh. By now, my four-year-old genius has come to the realization that every food is unnatural.
“Zayde, can I pleeeese have something to eat?”
“Well, I tell you, Soshkeleh,” I usually don’t let little girls have dessert before their supper, but just this one time I’ll make an exception. Let’s go for ice cream. I’m warning you of only one thing: You may not order jelly-bean flavor. It’s not natural.”
March 27, 2006
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?
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 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.
September 30, 2005
THAT "RED STUFF"
Our little ones always tell us the truth. My three-year-old granddaughter, Sophie, upon learning to read the word “fat,” proudly announced, “My zayde is fat!”
So far, my grandson, Sim, has been slightly more merciful. At the tender age of two, he had already told his friends that his zayde was “a good cooker.” I asked him what he liked best.
“That red stuff.”
What “red stuff” does he mean? Maybe it’s ketchup. “No, silly!” he says to his dumbkopf zayde. “You know, the ‘red stuff’ I put on everything!”
Finally, it strikes me. Sim already has a sophisticated palate. The “red stuff” is my fig conserve, a mélange of gritty-seeded figs, acerbic lemon zest and aromatic bay, reduced in a high-proof peach liqueur. It is intended as a sauce for halibut I make, which friends tell me “tastes just like lobster.”
I planned to try it out at Shabbat dinner, so I asked Sim if he wanted to taste some fish with “zayde’s special sauce.” The fish got only brief acknowledgement, but he licked the sauce off it until it looked like a science-fiction prop. Then came the chicken and more dipping in the sauce. Potato kugel dipped in sauce. Challah dipped in sauce. Cookies dipped in sauce. Then, finally, eschewing any semblance of manners, dipping his fingers and licking them clean.
The next Tuesday, Sim called and requested more sauce. “Do you want to share it with your friends?” I ask. “No, just for me!”
My mind is instantly drawn to theology: How different would the world be if the serpent had urged Eve to share the apple with Adam, and Eve said, “No, just for me!” A moment later, I am drawn back to simple economics: $20 each week for the four boxes of figs that it takes to produce a cup of the conserve. That’s over $1,000 a year spent on “red stuff” for Shabbat dinner. The zayde in me says, “Nothing is too good for your grandchildren.” But, the ogre in me responds, “$1,000 a year? Let him learn to eat his kugel with ketchup!”
Our little ones always tell us the truth. My three-year-old granddaughter, Sophie, upon learning to read the word “fat,” proudly announced, “My zayde is fat!”
So far, my grandson, Sim, has been slightly more merciful. At the tender age of two, he had already told his friends that his zayde was “a good cooker.” I asked him what he liked best.
“That red stuff.”
What “red stuff” does he mean? Maybe it’s ketchup. “No, silly!” he says to his dumbkopf zayde. “You know, the ‘red stuff’ I put on everything!”
Finally, it strikes me. Sim already has a sophisticated palate. The “red stuff” is my fig conserve, a mélange of gritty-seeded figs, acerbic lemon zest and aromatic bay, reduced in a high-proof peach liqueur. It is intended as a sauce for halibut I make, which friends tell me “tastes just like lobster.”
I planned to try it out at Shabbat dinner, so I asked Sim if he wanted to taste some fish with “zayde’s special sauce.” The fish got only brief acknowledgement, but he licked the sauce off it until it looked like a science-fiction prop. Then came the chicken and more dipping in the sauce. Potato kugel dipped in sauce. Challah dipped in sauce. Cookies dipped in sauce. Then, finally, eschewing any semblance of manners, dipping his fingers and licking them clean.
The next Tuesday, Sim called and requested more sauce. “Do you want to share it with your friends?” I ask. “No, just for me!”
My mind is instantly drawn to theology: How different would the world be if the serpent had urged Eve to share the apple with Adam, and Eve said, “No, just for me!” A moment later, I am drawn back to simple economics: $20 each week for the four boxes of figs that it takes to produce a cup of the conserve. That’s over $1,000 a year spent on “red stuff” for Shabbat dinner. The zayde in me says, “Nothing is too good for your grandchildren.” But, the ogre in me responds, “$1,000 a year? Let him learn to eat his kugel with ketchup!”
September 12, 2005
WHAT DOES KATRINA (DIS)PROVE ABOUT HOMO HOMINI LUPUS? (9/14/05)
Homo homini lupus. “Man is a beast to his fellow man.”
The damning aphorism is associated with John Hobbes. Not a pleasant thought and certainly rooted a long litany of horrors: Crusades, Holocaust, enslavement of African Americans, Killing Fields of Cambodia, Saddam’s genocide.
Sometimes the lines of distinction become obscured through protest, civil disobedience, or military intervention. But sometimes, most vexing and conscience-shaking, are the instances in which heretofore civil people descend into bestiality when the values of decency are either stripped away or challenged to the nth degree by uncontrollable, immeasurable disaster.
Katrina presented such a quagmire of protracted, intolerable disasters. It vindicated Hobbes’s observation almost to the point of victory – but, thanks be unto God – not entirely. A man expropriating food from a supermarket to provide simple sustenance for his family. Bestiality? Waiting for more civilized distribution committees to be formed while children languish and die? I think not. Be that bestiality, then call me a beast.
Likewise, saving ones family before another’s. Bestiality? Could we accept that as the punchline of a sermon delivered by the most pious man of the cloth? Doubtful. Not sharing when sharing might mean death for everyone? A tough call. But, is the instinct for human survival necessarily an ipso facto sign of bestiality?
No, the real issue of homo homini lupus is about looting and sniping.
How easy and foolish it would be to say that the problem here is racism or classism or some kind of negative nurturing that happens before a child is old enough to defend against it. The common denominator of all these simpleminded explanations is that they are pernicious baloney.
This we do know: Bold, instantaneous, righteously indignant outcries “Stop this at once!” from spokespeople of morality – particularly clergy – were relatively tepid, few and far between. The outcries were unexpected as well, because we have heard so many otherwise articulate clergypeople consistently hammer home that salvation is entirely detached from honorable deeds.
Likewise, as the victims are stacked up liked cordwood, snipers are arrested, decent people are acknowledged and heroes are rewarded, we will discover only one transcendent truth: We will find a statistically equal distribution of beast and angel – black and white, privileged and underprivileged, Christian and Jew, churchgoers and atheists . . . ah yes, and open-minded and bigots.
Finally, upbringing will matter more than any other factor, but it won’t simply be at momma’s breast. It will be comprehensive. It will include the kind of neighborhood, even block, about which Dr. King spoke, where every mother was understood to be the guarantor, disciplinarian and tattletale of every other mother’s son and daughter. It will include schools that are not afraid of teaching values, despite the canards warning of a cabal of secular humanism. It will include churches and synagogues that preach as core doctrine that heaven derives from good deeds.
We would hope that sooner, rather than later, we will ponder the what-if’s God or whatever natural force spins another Katrina our way: levees, pumps, evacuation routes, integrity of construction, emergency shelter and provisions. What about homo homini lupus? Will it become part of the agenda when we think about how to save lives when disasters kick us in the gut? Will Hobbes win the battle that evil can never be erased from human nature? Or, will taking potshots at firefighters and cops one day become just an ugly memory, because we have finally figured out ways to nurture our kids and not tolerate even the first time they act like a little beast?
Hobbes and I, I’m sorry to say, are still cynical. Please, please, prove us wrong.
Homo homini lupus. “Man is a beast to his fellow man.”
The damning aphorism is associated with John Hobbes. Not a pleasant thought and certainly rooted a long litany of horrors: Crusades, Holocaust, enslavement of African Americans, Killing Fields of Cambodia, Saddam’s genocide.
Sometimes the lines of distinction become obscured through protest, civil disobedience, or military intervention. But sometimes, most vexing and conscience-shaking, are the instances in which heretofore civil people descend into bestiality when the values of decency are either stripped away or challenged to the nth degree by uncontrollable, immeasurable disaster.
Katrina presented such a quagmire of protracted, intolerable disasters. It vindicated Hobbes’s observation almost to the point of victory – but, thanks be unto God – not entirely. A man expropriating food from a supermarket to provide simple sustenance for his family. Bestiality? Waiting for more civilized distribution committees to be formed while children languish and die? I think not. Be that bestiality, then call me a beast.
Likewise, saving ones family before another’s. Bestiality? Could we accept that as the punchline of a sermon delivered by the most pious man of the cloth? Doubtful. Not sharing when sharing might mean death for everyone? A tough call. But, is the instinct for human survival necessarily an ipso facto sign of bestiality?
No, the real issue of homo homini lupus is about looting and sniping.
How easy and foolish it would be to say that the problem here is racism or classism or some kind of negative nurturing that happens before a child is old enough to defend against it. The common denominator of all these simpleminded explanations is that they are pernicious baloney.
This we do know: Bold, instantaneous, righteously indignant outcries “Stop this at once!” from spokespeople of morality – particularly clergy – were relatively tepid, few and far between. The outcries were unexpected as well, because we have heard so many otherwise articulate clergypeople consistently hammer home that salvation is entirely detached from honorable deeds.
Likewise, as the victims are stacked up liked cordwood, snipers are arrested, decent people are acknowledged and heroes are rewarded, we will discover only one transcendent truth: We will find a statistically equal distribution of beast and angel – black and white, privileged and underprivileged, Christian and Jew, churchgoers and atheists . . . ah yes, and open-minded and bigots.
Finally, upbringing will matter more than any other factor, but it won’t simply be at momma’s breast. It will be comprehensive. It will include the kind of neighborhood, even block, about which Dr. King spoke, where every mother was understood to be the guarantor, disciplinarian and tattletale of every other mother’s son and daughter. It will include schools that are not afraid of teaching values, despite the canards warning of a cabal of secular humanism. It will include churches and synagogues that preach as core doctrine that heaven derives from good deeds.
We would hope that sooner, rather than later, we will ponder the what-if’s God or whatever natural force spins another Katrina our way: levees, pumps, evacuation routes, integrity of construction, emergency shelter and provisions. What about homo homini lupus? Will it become part of the agenda when we think about how to save lives when disasters kick us in the gut? Will Hobbes win the battle that evil can never be erased from human nature? Or, will taking potshots at firefighters and cops one day become just an ugly memory, because we have finally figured out ways to nurture our kids and not tolerate even the first time they act like a little beast?
Hobbes and I, I’m sorry to say, are still cynical. Please, please, prove us wrong.
September 07, 2005
REAL MEN DON'T SHOP AND COOK
After my second divorce, I moved to Atlanta to care for my parents. Each day meant trips to doctors, therapists, shopping and preparing three healthy meals. All this proved a mixed blessing for a somewhat eligible bachelor. Each woman I dated, of course, had her idiosyncrasies. Naturally, I had none.
Every time we went out to dinner, for example, Cindy’s son would call with an alleged emergency and demand that she come home. Carol’s son would always need me to help him with his homework. Laurie was a Maoist who would argue ideology even as we dined in the most bourgeoisie restaurants. Two things that my girlfriends did have in common, though: They appreciated that I was devoted to my parents and that I was a good cook.
But, then there was Rachel, a concert pianist. I attended a recital, and much to my folly, she cast her net to trap me. We dated pleasantly for about four months. She was, as you might expect, quite a prima donna, but I enjoyed her artistic ways and her kids.
Then, things started to go sour. On our next date came the moment of truth. She wanted, she said, “a real man,” not one who occupied his days “shopping and cooking.” She said that she had purchased an expensive Ermenegildo Zegna tie to reward me when I morphed into a “real man.”
I told her that I would take the matter under advisement. The only use that I had for her Zegna tie was to wrap it tightly around her neck. Finally, with my wits about me, I asked for another date. “Bring the tie,” I told her. “I’ve become a real man.”
I presented myself at her house carrying a bag. We proceeded to the kitchen table, as I announced, “No more shopping and cooking! I am now a real man!” I produced a loaf of bread and jars of peanut butter and jelly. “Now may I have my tie?”
Shortly thereafter, Linda came into my life. Now she shops and I cook, or vice versa. As for Rachel, I hope she finds her “real man,” and that he likes Zegna ties and she likes lots of peanut butter and jelly.
After my second divorce, I moved to Atlanta to care for my parents. Each day meant trips to doctors, therapists, shopping and preparing three healthy meals. All this proved a mixed blessing for a somewhat eligible bachelor. Each woman I dated, of course, had her idiosyncrasies. Naturally, I had none.
Every time we went out to dinner, for example, Cindy’s son would call with an alleged emergency and demand that she come home. Carol’s son would always need me to help him with his homework. Laurie was a Maoist who would argue ideology even as we dined in the most bourgeoisie restaurants. Two things that my girlfriends did have in common, though: They appreciated that I was devoted to my parents and that I was a good cook.
But, then there was Rachel, a concert pianist. I attended a recital, and much to my folly, she cast her net to trap me. We dated pleasantly for about four months. She was, as you might expect, quite a prima donna, but I enjoyed her artistic ways and her kids.
Then, things started to go sour. On our next date came the moment of truth. She wanted, she said, “a real man,” not one who occupied his days “shopping and cooking.” She said that she had purchased an expensive Ermenegildo Zegna tie to reward me when I morphed into a “real man.”
I told her that I would take the matter under advisement. The only use that I had for her Zegna tie was to wrap it tightly around her neck. Finally, with my wits about me, I asked for another date. “Bring the tie,” I told her. “I’ve become a real man.”
I presented myself at her house carrying a bag. We proceeded to the kitchen table, as I announced, “No more shopping and cooking! I am now a real man!” I produced a loaf of bread and jars of peanut butter and jelly. “Now may I have my tie?”
Shortly thereafter, Linda came into my life. Now she shops and I cook, or vice versa. As for Rachel, I hope she finds her “real man,” and that he likes Zegna ties and she likes lots of peanut butter and jelly.
September 01, 2005
A YOUNG REBBETZIN REFLECTS ON TEFILLIN
Most Unusual Impressions . . .
“Sensual.”
“Intimate.”
One almost wishes that English owned words that conveyed those emotions in a more sanctified manner. But, as the Biblical pesukim and passages from Chazal and Chasidus punctuated our conversation, one can have no doubt that our discussion of Tefillin was on the most sacred level.
Rebbetzin Miriam is still in her twenties and on shlichus with her husband Rabbi Mendel (names changed). She sat with me for two hours to respond to my questions on Tefillin from the perspective of a knowledgeable, devout Chasidah for whom the performance of the mitzvah is vicarious.
Born into a Lubavitcher family, experiencing Tefillin in childhood was a natural function of growing up in a religious home. Her first active encounter with the mitzvah came in pre-adolescence, when her father injured himself, and she was obliged to wrap the Tefillin around his arm. Yes, it was a privilege, she remembers. But, more than that, she said, the tactile sensation awoke and elevated her senses as only an intimacy with G-d could.
The awareness, however latent, became one and inseparable from Miriam’s spiritual growth. That growth naturally advanced as she studied the Biblical, Rabbinic and Chasidic insights into the mitzvah’s transcendent power.
Did this make her envious, even angry, that she had been denied that profound experience? “No,” she states emphatically. “Tefillin is part of ‘their’ path to intimacy with G-d. ‘We’ have our own.” More about that later.
Did her transformation to wife and mother affect her perception of Tefillin? Here again, her responses were unexpected as she describes her feelings in intimate, sensual terms:
“The first time that I saw Mendel in his Tefillin, we were still engaged. He came by after davenen to run an errand, and I could see the marks that the straps had left on his arm. Without thinking twice, I said to myself, ‘Now I know that my groom is not a boy or just one of the guys, but a real man.’.”
Somehow, the act of donning Tefillin had instinctively affirmed that her groom had truly attained manhood, that he brought with him the qualities, maturity and spiritual groundedness to raise a family that would be healthy in all imaginable ways. (By the way, after seven years they seem to be succeeding beautifully!)
Coming full-circle, the Rebbetzin makes sure that I get the point: “Mendel contributes to the family through the man’s path. I contribute through the woman’s path. We are guided by the essentially different ways that man and woman attain intimacy with G-d and each other.”
This begs the question of Tefillin taking holiness to the point of spiritual overload. I ask her, “If The Rebbe is the ultimate symbol of holiness, then what sense of super-spirituality does one achieve by beholding The Rebbe adorned in his Tefillin?”
Here the Rebbetzin’s response is entirely unexpected and provocative. She says that she can barely force herself to look at pictures of The Rebbe wrapped in his Tefillin. In fact, she routinely skips over those pictures when they are in a book that she is reading.
“Why?” I ask.
“I don’t really know how to put it into words, but I feel almost like I’m intruding on a moment that’s too intimate, when The Rebbe communes with G-d that closely. It’s like peeking in on him in the most personal of times, like violating his privacy.”
“It’s strange, I know,” she continues without being asked, “but I feel the same kind of vicarious sensuality when Mendel helps a man leig Tefillin for the first time. That moment is the most intimate connection that a man can have with a mitzvah, a holy time that his bare skin comes into the closest contact with a manifestation of G-d’s power.
“This is not a simple matter of slapping some leather on a person’s arm. This is the most sensory encounter than a man can have with God, and my husband is the catalyst for it. It makes me proud, but I also realize that it forever bonds Mendel to him, mentor to disciple, in this first, most intimate, metaphysical meeting.”
Now, I am intrigued even more by her lack of envy at being an observer, not a participant, in the mitzvah of Tefillin. Again, Miriam emphasizes that it is not an issue of depravation. To the contrary, Tefillin and the other time-bound mitzvot are “man’s way.” Women’s mitzvot are “woman’s way.”
“What do you mean by ‘way’?”
“The ‘way’ to gain intimacy with G-d. G-d’s mitzvot fill the empty places in the soul. Man has desperately empty places when it comes to the holiness of time and the sanctity of tactile things. For example, man sees a field of wheat and instinctively thinks of how many bushels it will produce, not its beauty. Thus, man’s intimacy with G-d can come only through focusing on commandments that attune him to the sacredness of time and beauty of the tactile world. So much of this is embodied in mitzvos like Tefillin.
“Woman, on the other hand, is profoundly aware of the sanctity of time and beauty of the tactile world, much of which comes through the miracles of her physical cycles and childbirth and rearing. She beholds nature and instinctively perceives its majesty, not how much you can get for that dozen roses. She sees a man in Tefillin and perceives communion with G-d, not merely a collection of laws. She alone is G-d’s partner in declaring when the mundane, workaday world ends and when the taste of the World to Come, Shabbos, begins. This is the ‘woman’s way’ of gaining intimacy with God.”
“Sensual.”
“Intimate.”
Not exactly words that we contemplate when we consider the mitzvah of Tefillin. But, maybe it’s time to add a few new words to the lexicon we use to describe the richness of mitzvot. Better yet, let’s not think of “adding” the words, but simply “rediscovering” them, for there can be no doubt that the nearness of Tefillin binds more than leather to skin. How much more intimacy and sensuality, in their holiest sense, can they bring into our lives?
As we concluded our conversation, Rebbetzin Miriam looked as though she had said nothing particularly profound. As for me, a man, I was transformed forever. Not bad, Rebbetzin. Not bad at all.
Most Unusual Impressions . . .
“Sensual.”
“Intimate.”
One almost wishes that English owned words that conveyed those emotions in a more sanctified manner. But, as the Biblical pesukim and passages from Chazal and Chasidus punctuated our conversation, one can have no doubt that our discussion of Tefillin was on the most sacred level.
Rebbetzin Miriam is still in her twenties and on shlichus with her husband Rabbi Mendel (names changed). She sat with me for two hours to respond to my questions on Tefillin from the perspective of a knowledgeable, devout Chasidah for whom the performance of the mitzvah is vicarious.
Born into a Lubavitcher family, experiencing Tefillin in childhood was a natural function of growing up in a religious home. Her first active encounter with the mitzvah came in pre-adolescence, when her father injured himself, and she was obliged to wrap the Tefillin around his arm. Yes, it was a privilege, she remembers. But, more than that, she said, the tactile sensation awoke and elevated her senses as only an intimacy with G-d could.
The awareness, however latent, became one and inseparable from Miriam’s spiritual growth. That growth naturally advanced as she studied the Biblical, Rabbinic and Chasidic insights into the mitzvah’s transcendent power.
Did this make her envious, even angry, that she had been denied that profound experience? “No,” she states emphatically. “Tefillin is part of ‘their’ path to intimacy with G-d. ‘We’ have our own.” More about that later.
Did her transformation to wife and mother affect her perception of Tefillin? Here again, her responses were unexpected as she describes her feelings in intimate, sensual terms:
“The first time that I saw Mendel in his Tefillin, we were still engaged. He came by after davenen to run an errand, and I could see the marks that the straps had left on his arm. Without thinking twice, I said to myself, ‘Now I know that my groom is not a boy or just one of the guys, but a real man.’.”
Somehow, the act of donning Tefillin had instinctively affirmed that her groom had truly attained manhood, that he brought with him the qualities, maturity and spiritual groundedness to raise a family that would be healthy in all imaginable ways. (By the way, after seven years they seem to be succeeding beautifully!)
Coming full-circle, the Rebbetzin makes sure that I get the point: “Mendel contributes to the family through the man’s path. I contribute through the woman’s path. We are guided by the essentially different ways that man and woman attain intimacy with G-d and each other.”
This begs the question of Tefillin taking holiness to the point of spiritual overload. I ask her, “If The Rebbe is the ultimate symbol of holiness, then what sense of super-spirituality does one achieve by beholding The Rebbe adorned in his Tefillin?”
Here the Rebbetzin’s response is entirely unexpected and provocative. She says that she can barely force herself to look at pictures of The Rebbe wrapped in his Tefillin. In fact, she routinely skips over those pictures when they are in a book that she is reading.
“Why?” I ask.
“I don’t really know how to put it into words, but I feel almost like I’m intruding on a moment that’s too intimate, when The Rebbe communes with G-d that closely. It’s like peeking in on him in the most personal of times, like violating his privacy.”
“It’s strange, I know,” she continues without being asked, “but I feel the same kind of vicarious sensuality when Mendel helps a man leig Tefillin for the first time. That moment is the most intimate connection that a man can have with a mitzvah, a holy time that his bare skin comes into the closest contact with a manifestation of G-d’s power.
“This is not a simple matter of slapping some leather on a person’s arm. This is the most sensory encounter than a man can have with God, and my husband is the catalyst for it. It makes me proud, but I also realize that it forever bonds Mendel to him, mentor to disciple, in this first, most intimate, metaphysical meeting.”
Now, I am intrigued even more by her lack of envy at being an observer, not a participant, in the mitzvah of Tefillin. Again, Miriam emphasizes that it is not an issue of depravation. To the contrary, Tefillin and the other time-bound mitzvot are “man’s way.” Women’s mitzvot are “woman’s way.”
“What do you mean by ‘way’?”
“The ‘way’ to gain intimacy with G-d. G-d’s mitzvot fill the empty places in the soul. Man has desperately empty places when it comes to the holiness of time and the sanctity of tactile things. For example, man sees a field of wheat and instinctively thinks of how many bushels it will produce, not its beauty. Thus, man’s intimacy with G-d can come only through focusing on commandments that attune him to the sacredness of time and beauty of the tactile world. So much of this is embodied in mitzvos like Tefillin.
“Woman, on the other hand, is profoundly aware of the sanctity of time and beauty of the tactile world, much of which comes through the miracles of her physical cycles and childbirth and rearing. She beholds nature and instinctively perceives its majesty, not how much you can get for that dozen roses. She sees a man in Tefillin and perceives communion with G-d, not merely a collection of laws. She alone is G-d’s partner in declaring when the mundane, workaday world ends and when the taste of the World to Come, Shabbos, begins. This is the ‘woman’s way’ of gaining intimacy with God.”
“Sensual.”
“Intimate.”
Not exactly words that we contemplate when we consider the mitzvah of Tefillin. But, maybe it’s time to add a few new words to the lexicon we use to describe the richness of mitzvot. Better yet, let’s not think of “adding” the words, but simply “rediscovering” them, for there can be no doubt that the nearness of Tefillin binds more than leather to skin. How much more intimacy and sensuality, in their holiest sense, can they bring into our lives?
As we concluded our conversation, Rebbetzin Miriam looked as though she had said nothing particularly profound. As for me, a man, I was transformed forever. Not bad, Rebbetzin. Not bad at all.
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