A CAFFEINATED MEETING OF THE IN-LAWS
I have never understood why people drink decaffeinated coffee. Maybe it’s because I personally think that any coffee – even the vaunted Starbuck’s – tastes and lingers in the throat like wet cigarettes. How I know the taste and texture of wet cigarettes is simply up to ones conjecture.
What then? The only real reason that justifies drinking coffee is the, nerve-chilling amphetamine buzz one gets from drinking the stuff that’s full of caffeine – Super-Sumatra-Kenyata-Double-Deep-Dark-Roasted-Kona-Brain-Buster.
This and its cousins are brews that are not to be taken lightly. Indeed, they should be saved for special occasions when hyperkinetic attitude adjustment is the order of the day. I had one such day nearly 12 years ago that I remember with an afterglow of yet-to-be-resolved caffeine overdose.
It was the day that I drove the 90 miles from Atlanta to Macon, Georgia, to meet my soon-to-be in-laws. I knew little of them, and what I knew was dire: No, Linda and I could not sleep in the same room. No, I was not welcome at the Thanksgiving table until the engagement was “official.” What did I really do for a living? Would you please explain it again? Do people actually make money doing that?
How to confront such a dire situation? Drink coffee, plenty of it. Start drinking it before breakfast. Then, with my toast and jelly. Then, as I hit the road. Then, rolling down the highway. Then, whenever I stopped for gas – many times, of course, for we all know what coffee does to ones bladder.
Too much. By the time I got to Macon, my ears buzzed, my eyes spun, my teeth and follicles tingled, my arms and legs shook. Worst, my mind raced. The already skeptical in-laws greeted me feebly from the top of the stairs. Uncontrollably, I hailed words like bullets from a machine gun . . .
“Hello-Mom-and-Dad-I-hope-you-don’t-mind-me-calling-you-Mom-and-Dad-because-I’m-so-in-love-with-your-daughter-and-I-promise-to-make-a-good-husband-for-her-even-if-you-don’t-know-what-I do-for-a-llving-and-we-sleep-in-the-same-bedroom-and-I-really-want-to-get-to-know-you-better-because-I-know-that-you’ll-love-me-when-you-really-get-to-know-me-and-I-know-I’ll-have-made-it-when-you-invite-me-to-Thanksgiving-dinner . . . “
The in-laws were astounded. “I hope he doesn’t always talk so fast.”
“Not after he’s taken a cold shower,” Linda explained. “He’s always that way when he has too much caffeine.”
“Too much caffeine?” her mother chafed. “And here I thought it was because he wanted us to love him.”
April 22, 2009
April 17, 2009
“IT FREAKS ME OUT”
How was your Seder? Mine was absolutely delightful. Imagine this: My children and grandchildren live in Atlanta, some 140 miles away from my little hamlet of Greenville. Only in my wildest dreams would I imagine celebrating the Sedarim in Atlanta, as there also resides my former wife, with whom the kids celebrate theirs.
Please know that for 18 years, life has been more unpleasant than pleasant between the two of us. Miraculously, things have changed. Perhaps it’s because of the much touted realignment of the sun. And perhaps with time she has become more forgiving of her once errant husband. All credit to her.
So, for the price of me roasting two turkeys and baking a potato kugel, and a lot of teshuvah, Linda and I are graciously welcomed at her table – and there are the kids and the grandchildren.
Nothing could possibly be better. Sophie and Simeon flawlessly recite the Four Questions. Who would expect less from a day school education at $20,000 a year. Dinner is delicious, especially the Pflaumenkuchen von Fulda. The grandchildren break our bank stealing and redeeming the afikomon.
The Seder attains its crescendo as the children gleefully sing Chad Gadyo. Everyone chants at the top of their voices but seven-year-old Sophie. She will have nothing to do with it.
“What’s wrong?” I beg her?
“Zayde,” she says, “Chad Gadyo ‘freaks me out’.” First of all, the kid gets killed. Then the dog bites the cat, and he’ll surely be put to sleep. Children shouldn’t play with fire, and oxen are scary. The shochet is murdered by the Malach Ha-Moves. HaShem is supposed to kill him, but I haven’t even ever seen HaShem. That’s why it ‘freaks me out’.”
At least, I say to myself, at age seven she has already become a philosopher, albeit a neurotic one. Finally, her five-year-old brother, a real mazik, injects a dose of reality into the situation. “You know that part about the boy’s two zuzim?” he announces. “I don’t have any money at all!”
How was your Seder? Mine was absolutely delightful. Imagine this: My children and grandchildren live in Atlanta, some 140 miles away from my little hamlet of Greenville. Only in my wildest dreams would I imagine celebrating the Sedarim in Atlanta, as there also resides my former wife, with whom the kids celebrate theirs.
Please know that for 18 years, life has been more unpleasant than pleasant between the two of us. Miraculously, things have changed. Perhaps it’s because of the much touted realignment of the sun. And perhaps with time she has become more forgiving of her once errant husband. All credit to her.
So, for the price of me roasting two turkeys and baking a potato kugel, and a lot of teshuvah, Linda and I are graciously welcomed at her table – and there are the kids and the grandchildren.
Nothing could possibly be better. Sophie and Simeon flawlessly recite the Four Questions. Who would expect less from a day school education at $20,000 a year. Dinner is delicious, especially the Pflaumenkuchen von Fulda. The grandchildren break our bank stealing and redeeming the afikomon.
The Seder attains its crescendo as the children gleefully sing Chad Gadyo. Everyone chants at the top of their voices but seven-year-old Sophie. She will have nothing to do with it.
“What’s wrong?” I beg her?
“Zayde,” she says, “Chad Gadyo ‘freaks me out’.” First of all, the kid gets killed. Then the dog bites the cat, and he’ll surely be put to sleep. Children shouldn’t play with fire, and oxen are scary. The shochet is murdered by the Malach Ha-Moves. HaShem is supposed to kill him, but I haven’t even ever seen HaShem. That’s why it ‘freaks me out’.”
At least, I say to myself, at age seven she has already become a philosopher, albeit a neurotic one. Finally, her five-year-old brother, a real mazik, injects a dose of reality into the situation. “You know that part about the boy’s two zuzim?” he announces. “I don’t have any money at all!”
April 01, 2009
KONKLET AND HAM STEAK
Well, we finally shot the pilot episode of my new cooking show, “Rabbi Ribeye.” Quite an experience: A jazz band blasted out my theme song, a bluesy version of Hava Nagila. The audience chanted, “Ra-a-a-a-b-b-i Ribeye! Ra-a-a-a-b-b-i Ribeye!” I couldn’t decide whether to preen in the pool of narcissism or just crawl in a hole.
The producer had already determined the menu. “We want it Jewish,” he said, “but not too Jewish.” Show biz. I dithered until I remembered the venerable Jewish hamburger.
In my family, we called it a “konklet,” apparently a corruption of the word “cutlet.” It’s ground beef stretched with matzo meal, grated onion, potato, and carrot, fried in schmaltz and onions.
To my surprise, the pilot was to be shot outdoors. Naturally, they did not give me a stove to cook on, but a charcoal grill. Imagine, the cast-iron skillet that I inherited from my bobbe, frying her beloved konklet on TV in front of a hundred starving goyim, while the band ground out “Erev Shel Shoshanim” to a Samba beat. And, did I tell you? The grate was tilted inward on a thirty-degree angle.
So, wearing asbestos mitts, I tended the konklet until they slid to one side, and then pitched the skillet back until they slid to the other. The results: Half burnt, half raw konklet, onions a pile of greasy coal-dust, schmaltz a grimy mauve.
Now, the final indignity – and if I am lying, take away my Cuisinart. The band leader reached into his back pocket, pulled out a ham steak, and tossed it on the grill, rubbing up against my bobbe’s skillet. “Try that!” he prated. “That wins the prize over your ‘kumquat’ any day!”
I politely brought the show to a halt, amazingly, to thunderous applause. I cringed. But, surprise, the producer was delighted. “The best!” he repeated, “The absolute best, especially the way you acted soooo surprised when Mac brought out that ham steak. You should win an Emmy just for that. The syndicators will love it!"
What did Newton Minnow call television? A “vast wasteland.” Well, tell Mr. Minnow I have good news. His wasteland is now filled with ham and konklet.
Well, we finally shot the pilot episode of my new cooking show, “Rabbi Ribeye.” Quite an experience: A jazz band blasted out my theme song, a bluesy version of Hava Nagila. The audience chanted, “Ra-a-a-a-b-b-i Ribeye! Ra-a-a-a-b-b-i Ribeye!” I couldn’t decide whether to preen in the pool of narcissism or just crawl in a hole.
The producer had already determined the menu. “We want it Jewish,” he said, “but not too Jewish.” Show biz. I dithered until I remembered the venerable Jewish hamburger.
In my family, we called it a “konklet,” apparently a corruption of the word “cutlet.” It’s ground beef stretched with matzo meal, grated onion, potato, and carrot, fried in schmaltz and onions.
To my surprise, the pilot was to be shot outdoors. Naturally, they did not give me a stove to cook on, but a charcoal grill. Imagine, the cast-iron skillet that I inherited from my bobbe, frying her beloved konklet on TV in front of a hundred starving goyim, while the band ground out “Erev Shel Shoshanim” to a Samba beat. And, did I tell you? The grate was tilted inward on a thirty-degree angle.
So, wearing asbestos mitts, I tended the konklet until they slid to one side, and then pitched the skillet back until they slid to the other. The results: Half burnt, half raw konklet, onions a pile of greasy coal-dust, schmaltz a grimy mauve.
Now, the final indignity – and if I am lying, take away my Cuisinart. The band leader reached into his back pocket, pulled out a ham steak, and tossed it on the grill, rubbing up against my bobbe’s skillet. “Try that!” he prated. “That wins the prize over your ‘kumquat’ any day!”
I politely brought the show to a halt, amazingly, to thunderous applause. I cringed. But, surprise, the producer was delighted. “The best!” he repeated, “The absolute best, especially the way you acted soooo surprised when Mac brought out that ham steak. You should win an Emmy just for that. The syndicators will love it!"
What did Newton Minnow call television? A “vast wasteland.” Well, tell Mr. Minnow I have good news. His wasteland is now filled with ham and konklet.
March 12, 2009
PEANUT MORBIDITY
When the Hebrews wandered through the wilderness, they survived on manna. American Jews survive on peanut butter. Yet, the Jewish immigrants of a few generations ago didn’t even know what peanuts were. They assumed that since they were called “nuts,” they must have grow from trees, and they dogmatically recited over them the blessing, “borei pri ha-etz,” just like a walnut or pecan.
But, George Washington Carver knew better than the rabbonim that peanuts were legumes that grew directly from the ground. Hence its proper blessing is “borei pri ha-adamah.” There was great consternation among the Jews of New York and Chicago, for the sacrilege having recited the wrong beracha for decades. Alas, nothing could be done but recite an additional Ashamnu and gargle with lye.
They should have known better, because the Americans’ favorite utilization of peanut butter is to slather it with grape jam, upon which, for reasons unknown, (here we go again!) one recites the “borei pri ha-etz,” not “borei pri ha-gafen” nor “borei pri ha-adamah,” despite it growing directly from a vine.
The iconic Elvis Presley took matters a step further and doted on sandwiches of toasted peanut butter and bananas, while a huge gold “Chai” dangled from his stumpy neck. My father, on the other hand, ate a sandwich of peanut butter, butter, and cheese every day of his adult life. They say that when he died, his arteries miraculously were not clogged, but he blew out his aorta nonetheless.
As I say, peanut butter is nothing more than gooey blasphemy.
The only honorable use of the peanut for human consumption is converting it to oil. It’s actually pretty good oil, too. You can fry almost anything in it because no matter how scalding it is, it will not decompose. But, when you stop to think of it, this, too, is more of a curse than a blessing. It refuses to go away. You can’t destroy it, no matter how hard you try, just like King Kong. Its curse will survive forever and ever.
I say that our ancestors were right the first time around. Say an extra Ashamnu and gargle with lye. But, for God’s sake, stay away from the morbid peanut. Look what happened to Elvis.
When the Hebrews wandered through the wilderness, they survived on manna. American Jews survive on peanut butter. Yet, the Jewish immigrants of a few generations ago didn’t even know what peanuts were. They assumed that since they were called “nuts,” they must have grow from trees, and they dogmatically recited over them the blessing, “borei pri ha-etz,” just like a walnut or pecan.
But, George Washington Carver knew better than the rabbonim that peanuts were legumes that grew directly from the ground. Hence its proper blessing is “borei pri ha-adamah.” There was great consternation among the Jews of New York and Chicago, for the sacrilege having recited the wrong beracha for decades. Alas, nothing could be done but recite an additional Ashamnu and gargle with lye.
They should have known better, because the Americans’ favorite utilization of peanut butter is to slather it with grape jam, upon which, for reasons unknown, (here we go again!) one recites the “borei pri ha-etz,” not “borei pri ha-gafen” nor “borei pri ha-adamah,” despite it growing directly from a vine.
The iconic Elvis Presley took matters a step further and doted on sandwiches of toasted peanut butter and bananas, while a huge gold “Chai” dangled from his stumpy neck. My father, on the other hand, ate a sandwich of peanut butter, butter, and cheese every day of his adult life. They say that when he died, his arteries miraculously were not clogged, but he blew out his aorta nonetheless.
As I say, peanut butter is nothing more than gooey blasphemy.
The only honorable use of the peanut for human consumption is converting it to oil. It’s actually pretty good oil, too. You can fry almost anything in it because no matter how scalding it is, it will not decompose. But, when you stop to think of it, this, too, is more of a curse than a blessing. It refuses to go away. You can’t destroy it, no matter how hard you try, just like King Kong. Its curse will survive forever and ever.
I say that our ancestors were right the first time around. Say an extra Ashamnu and gargle with lye. But, for God’s sake, stay away from the morbid peanut. Look what happened to Elvis.
March 04, 2009
BIBLE KIDNEY BELT
"Bible Belt."
For us liberals, the words trip off the tongue with a sneer, an epithet, a lament, an obituary for where we live. Well, let me tell you that I recently spent an evening right here in Taylors at the buckle of the Bible Belt, and I did not find the experience the fodder for cynicism whatsoever. I’m even inclined to do it again.
Some of my newfound friends who are unapologetically fundamentalist Christians are so serious about Judaism that they practice it as it was at Jesus’ time, “searching for the Hebraic roots of their faith.” These five or six families get together every Friday evening for to kindle the Sabbath lights, sanctify the wine, consecrate the bread, share a festive dinner, recite the traditional grace, and study the Torah.
That’s where I fit in. A Jewish woman regularly has her nails done by one of the group. The manicurist is always full of questions. “Why do the Jews do this? What does the Bible say about that?” The woman was typically at a loss for answers. She referred her to me.
We were soon invited to one of the group’s traditional Sabbath dinners, carefully prepared in compliance with the kosher laws: salmon, salad, rice, broccoli casserole, and in deference to the South, a Red Velvet Cake. Then we engaged in three full hours of Torah study – stimulating, reverent . . . and, no, they were quick to say, they were not damning me behind my back. That was not part of “their” doctrine, they averred.
In the course of discussion, I mentioned that I was going to the hospital the next Monday to zap a kidney stone. I’d been urinating blood for weeks, and I was routinely doubled over in pain.
“Do you mind if we pray for you?” one said. “No, of course not.” “Praying to Jesus won’t offend you?” “No, of course not.”
They did not pray one at a time, as I had expected. Instead, they beehive-buzzed around me all at once. Then, above the din I heard one pray, “May Marc be healed, but not by the hands of man!”
Well, think what you want. By the next morning, I stopped urinating blood, and by mid-afternoon, the pain was gone. Like I said, think what you want.
Monday, still in disbelief, I went to the hospital to make sure that what I felt was real. Already on my gurney in that ridiculous wisp of a gown, the doctor announced that the procedure was unnecessary, yanked the IV from my arm, and instructed me to get dressed and go home.
Hmm . . . “healed, but not by the hands of man.”
Did the episode make we want to embrace Christianity? No. But it did draw me closer to the laser-penetrating faith by which this beehive of believers lives. Could it be found in Judaism? Not in its mainstream, any more, I guess, than in mainstream Christianity.
All I do know is that I was embraced by a group of newfound friends who were neither apologetic nor restrained in offering the intensity of their spirit toward a relative stranger – me. At that point, I firmly believe that it could have risen heavenward through Jesus, Yahweh, Buddha, Krishna, or the Bab, or anyone or thing who manifests the Supreme Power.
The message: Miracles happen, sometimes even by the simple exposure to people who believe that miracles happen. It is bad theology, I know, for any parent whose child suffers from leukemia. Then, the miraculous power may be that the presence of spirit-filled people may not cure, but can heal the broken heart and the vacuousness of loss.
Otherwise, in the sagacious words of Billy Joel, I would prefer to leave a tender moment alone. I will not let your psychobabble try to explain it to me. I felt the perceptible presence of healing in that very mundane room and it healed me . . . not by the hands of man.
"Bible Belt."
For us liberals, the words trip off the tongue with a sneer, an epithet, a lament, an obituary for where we live. Well, let me tell you that I recently spent an evening right here in Taylors at the buckle of the Bible Belt, and I did not find the experience the fodder for cynicism whatsoever. I’m even inclined to do it again.
Some of my newfound friends who are unapologetically fundamentalist Christians are so serious about Judaism that they practice it as it was at Jesus’ time, “searching for the Hebraic roots of their faith.” These five or six families get together every Friday evening for to kindle the Sabbath lights, sanctify the wine, consecrate the bread, share a festive dinner, recite the traditional grace, and study the Torah.
That’s where I fit in. A Jewish woman regularly has her nails done by one of the group. The manicurist is always full of questions. “Why do the Jews do this? What does the Bible say about that?” The woman was typically at a loss for answers. She referred her to me.
We were soon invited to one of the group’s traditional Sabbath dinners, carefully prepared in compliance with the kosher laws: salmon, salad, rice, broccoli casserole, and in deference to the South, a Red Velvet Cake. Then we engaged in three full hours of Torah study – stimulating, reverent . . . and, no, they were quick to say, they were not damning me behind my back. That was not part of “their” doctrine, they averred.
In the course of discussion, I mentioned that I was going to the hospital the next Monday to zap a kidney stone. I’d been urinating blood for weeks, and I was routinely doubled over in pain.
“Do you mind if we pray for you?” one said. “No, of course not.” “Praying to Jesus won’t offend you?” “No, of course not.”
They did not pray one at a time, as I had expected. Instead, they beehive-buzzed around me all at once. Then, above the din I heard one pray, “May Marc be healed, but not by the hands of man!”
Well, think what you want. By the next morning, I stopped urinating blood, and by mid-afternoon, the pain was gone. Like I said, think what you want.
Monday, still in disbelief, I went to the hospital to make sure that what I felt was real. Already on my gurney in that ridiculous wisp of a gown, the doctor announced that the procedure was unnecessary, yanked the IV from my arm, and instructed me to get dressed and go home.
Hmm . . . “healed, but not by the hands of man.”
Did the episode make we want to embrace Christianity? No. But it did draw me closer to the laser-penetrating faith by which this beehive of believers lives. Could it be found in Judaism? Not in its mainstream, any more, I guess, than in mainstream Christianity.
All I do know is that I was embraced by a group of newfound friends who were neither apologetic nor restrained in offering the intensity of their spirit toward a relative stranger – me. At that point, I firmly believe that it could have risen heavenward through Jesus, Yahweh, Buddha, Krishna, or the Bab, or anyone or thing who manifests the Supreme Power.
The message: Miracles happen, sometimes even by the simple exposure to people who believe that miracles happen. It is bad theology, I know, for any parent whose child suffers from leukemia. Then, the miraculous power may be that the presence of spirit-filled people may not cure, but can heal the broken heart and the vacuousness of loss.
Otherwise, in the sagacious words of Billy Joel, I would prefer to leave a tender moment alone. I will not let your psychobabble try to explain it to me. I felt the perceptible presence of healing in that very mundane room and it healed me . . . not by the hands of man.
February 24, 2009
"YOU" JEWS AND YOUR FISH
America is a young country. When a Jew says that his family has been in the US for 100 years, it’s like a Jekke saying that his mishpocho has been in Frankfurt for a millennium.
When my parents and I moved to San Francisco, we discovered a pair of distant, distant relatives who established their roots there two generations before the Great Earthquake of 1906. Cousins Charles and Frances, a brother and sister, were a dotty 90-year-old couple who spent most of their time at the opera, ballet, symphony, and theater.
They were a delight to have around, as they regaled us in stories of the Great Earthquake, the graciousness of the old days among the wealthy, cultured German Jews, the charity balls with the Sutros and Fleishackers, and the arrival of the slothful Ostjuden with their Old World nonsense.
They told me, the astonished yeshiva bochur, how their Reform temple celebrated the Sabbath on Sunday, of its Quad Suite organ, and its magnificent choir resplendent with voices from the opera.
The only thing plebian about Charles and Frances was their passion for fishing. Given their love for my folks, though, they never shared the fruits of their expeditions. Then one day they appeared at the door, somewhat sheepishly, bearing a neatly wrapped package of rockfish from Half Moon Bay. They wrinkled their noses self-consciously.
As Frances presented the fish, she said in her usual genteel voice, “I don’t know too much about the kosher laws, but I know that fish have to be soaked and salted to make them acceptable. I couldn’t bear it, so I broiled one, and I couldn’t even touch it, it was so tough and salty.”
I could see that my mother was about to try to explain, but then she thought the better of it.
On went Cousin Frances: “My goodness, how long do you have to salt your beef? No wonder that Jews like ‘them’ have such high blood pressure.” There could be no doubt as to the “them” to whom she was referring. “I guess that’s why ‘you people’ are always saying how hard it is to be a Jew. How ever do you prepare your eggs?”
America is a young country. When a Jew says that his family has been in the US for 100 years, it’s like a Jekke saying that his mishpocho has been in Frankfurt for a millennium.
When my parents and I moved to San Francisco, we discovered a pair of distant, distant relatives who established their roots there two generations before the Great Earthquake of 1906. Cousins Charles and Frances, a brother and sister, were a dotty 90-year-old couple who spent most of their time at the opera, ballet, symphony, and theater.
They were a delight to have around, as they regaled us in stories of the Great Earthquake, the graciousness of the old days among the wealthy, cultured German Jews, the charity balls with the Sutros and Fleishackers, and the arrival of the slothful Ostjuden with their Old World nonsense.
They told me, the astonished yeshiva bochur, how their Reform temple celebrated the Sabbath on Sunday, of its Quad Suite organ, and its magnificent choir resplendent with voices from the opera.
The only thing plebian about Charles and Frances was their passion for fishing. Given their love for my folks, though, they never shared the fruits of their expeditions. Then one day they appeared at the door, somewhat sheepishly, bearing a neatly wrapped package of rockfish from Half Moon Bay. They wrinkled their noses self-consciously.
As Frances presented the fish, she said in her usual genteel voice, “I don’t know too much about the kosher laws, but I know that fish have to be soaked and salted to make them acceptable. I couldn’t bear it, so I broiled one, and I couldn’t even touch it, it was so tough and salty.”
I could see that my mother was about to try to explain, but then she thought the better of it.
On went Cousin Frances: “My goodness, how long do you have to salt your beef? No wonder that Jews like ‘them’ have such high blood pressure.” There could be no doubt as to the “them” to whom she was referring. “I guess that’s why ‘you people’ are always saying how hard it is to be a Jew. How ever do you prepare your eggs?”
February 14, 2009
IT MUST HAVE BEEN THE BROCCOLI CASSEROLE
Small towns like Greenville are rife with Christian fundamentalists. They assume that we know about the Torah, holidays, ceremonies, philosophy, and history. Uh-huh.
Some of them are so serious about Judaism that they practice it as it was at Jesus’ time, “searching for the Hebraic roots of their faith.” So, five or six families will get together on Friday evenings for candles, Kiddush, Motzi, Shabbat, Benschen, and Torah study.
That’s where I fit in. A local Donna Gracia regularly had her nails done by one such Judeophile, who was always full of questions. “Why do the Jews do this? What does the Bible say about that?” How many answers do you think the dowager could give her?
She referred her to her rabbi. Our invitation included traditional Shabbat dinner, tastefully kosher – salmon, salad, rice, and a miserable broccoli casserole. Then we engaged in four hours of Torah study – stimulating, reverent . . . And, no, they were quick to say, they were not damning me behind my back. That was not part of “their” doctrine.
In the course of discussion, I mentioned that I was going in to zap a kidney stone. I’d been peeing blood for weeks, and I was constantly doubled over in pain.
“Do you mind if we pray for you?” one said. “No, of course not.” “Jesus won’t offend you?” “No, of course not.”
At once, they beehive-buzzed around me. Above the din I heard one pray, “May Marc be healed, but not by the hands of man!”
Well, think what you want. By the next morning, I stopped peeing blood, and by mid-afternoon, the pain had stopped. Like I said, think what you want. It made me no surer of Jesus, but of the power of sincere faith and spirit all imploded into the one needing it most.
The next day, I went to the hospital just to make sure. Already on my gurney, the doctor announced that the procedure was unnecessary, pulled the IV from my arm, and instructed me to go home.
As I got in the car, I pronounced to Linda, “It’s a miracle!” Ever the skeptic, she declared, “No, honey, I think it was just the broccoli casserole.”
Small towns like Greenville are rife with Christian fundamentalists. They assume that we know about the Torah, holidays, ceremonies, philosophy, and history. Uh-huh.
Some of them are so serious about Judaism that they practice it as it was at Jesus’ time, “searching for the Hebraic roots of their faith.” So, five or six families will get together on Friday evenings for candles, Kiddush, Motzi, Shabbat, Benschen, and Torah study.
That’s where I fit in. A local Donna Gracia regularly had her nails done by one such Judeophile, who was always full of questions. “Why do the Jews do this? What does the Bible say about that?” How many answers do you think the dowager could give her?
She referred her to her rabbi. Our invitation included traditional Shabbat dinner, tastefully kosher – salmon, salad, rice, and a miserable broccoli casserole. Then we engaged in four hours of Torah study – stimulating, reverent . . . And, no, they were quick to say, they were not damning me behind my back. That was not part of “their” doctrine.
In the course of discussion, I mentioned that I was going in to zap a kidney stone. I’d been peeing blood for weeks, and I was constantly doubled over in pain.
“Do you mind if we pray for you?” one said. “No, of course not.” “Jesus won’t offend you?” “No, of course not.”
At once, they beehive-buzzed around me. Above the din I heard one pray, “May Marc be healed, but not by the hands of man!”
Well, think what you want. By the next morning, I stopped peeing blood, and by mid-afternoon, the pain had stopped. Like I said, think what you want. It made me no surer of Jesus, but of the power of sincere faith and spirit all imploded into the one needing it most.
The next day, I went to the hospital just to make sure. Already on my gurney, the doctor announced that the procedure was unnecessary, pulled the IV from my arm, and instructed me to go home.
As I got in the car, I pronounced to Linda, “It’s a miracle!” Ever the skeptic, she declared, “No, honey, I think it was just the broccoli casserole.”
February 10, 2009
THE KEY TO INFLUENCE: FEED THE REPORTERS FRESH SALMON
Ninety-five percent of the nation looked aghast on the contemptuousness of that shnook Blagojevich. We Chicagoans knew better. We snicker at you rubes who think that duplicity like his happens only on bad TV.
Sociology-types would trace Blagojevich’s blatant double-dealing to the fast-and-loose atmosphere set by Hizonner da Mare Richard J. Daley. They do beg comparison. No matter how much Blagojevich would have prospered financially, he would always have been a second-stringer.
Mayor Daley appeared unimpressed with money. He and his beloved Sis continued to live in the modest home Back of the (Stock) Yards, along with descendants of the other Irish immigrants. Aside from tailored suits to flatter his matzo-ball girth, he played himself as one of the people.
Sheer power was Mayor Daley’s rate of exchange, elevating the faithful everyman and humbling the disloyal bigshot. Mayor Daley was the one, after all who “found” the extra box of ballots that put JFK over the top, ensuring the presidency for a Democrat coreligionist.
Blagojevich collected his bounty in payoffs. Mayor Daley collected a court of loyalists who paid homage to his agenda, and thus themselves became rich – a judge here, an alderman there, graft, porkpie, and the cumulatively effect of minor acts of corruption.
Loyalty had its benefits for the commoner, as well. Before each election, Harry Speck appeared at our doorstep. As a kid, I thought he was some kind of important public official. Actually, he was one of Hizzoner’s precinct captains, attempting to buy voter loyalty by offering to fix any of my dad’s outstanding traffic tickets. As a law enforcement officer, my dad made quick dispatch of him.
This did not stop my dad from wrapping a $5 bill around his driver’s license, as all Chicagoans did, so when stopped by a cop, the cop smiled and told him to “be more careful the next time.”
When I got a little older, I too learned the ropes of Pax Daleyum. Once I was in a fender-bender and cited for negligence. I called my insurance man. He told me to bring $40 to traffic court and give it to his lawyer, Newberger. That’s all it would take. “What if we lose?” I sputtered like a dope.
“You won’t lose.”
Sure enough, at the appointed hour, I presented Newberger $40 in cash. When my case was called, he approached the docket. Apparently, the arresting cop had not shown up. The case was dismissed for failure to produce prosecution. $20 to Newberger, $20 to the cop. But, we didn’t lose.
Heaven forbid, though, if you were a resident of the 46th Ward, where all the anti-corruption, intellectual liberals lived. Hizzoner was the bane of their existence. He and the machine were well aware of this, hence the deepest potholes in the streets, the never-to-be-fixed broken curbs, the monthly accumulation of street-side garbage. Go ahead. Be idealistic. Just be prepared to break an axle. We, the faithful, had our potholes repaved at the first sign of spring.
The real story of Daley’s Chicago was not about retribution. Often it was the warning implicit in the humor of the mighty, like the good-natured fun he poked at the press. Once he suggested that the Department of Sanitation (!) stock the Chicago River with salmon, as it meandered between the Tribune Tower and the hideous Sun-Times building. At noontime, he said, let the City give the reporters fishing rods, provide them with open grills and plenty of cold beer. “You’d be surprised,” Hizzoner opined, “how much better your attitude would be before we held one of those 1:00 press conferences.”
This, friends, is not a Blagojevich move.
This is why, by Illinois standards, he would always be a second-stringer. He demanded money, not the power and influence that comes from people paying homage to a fearsome, yet imminently loveable, humpty-dumpty Irishman. Greedy Blagojevich would wind up in jail because he practiced slimy greed, not graciously dyeing the river green for St. Patrick’s Day.
Once-Governor Blagojevich will forever be remembered as a greasy punk. Not Hizzoner da Mare. He fixed the curbs, filled the potholes, collected the garbage, ran the CTA buses in blizzards, made a president, fed the reporters fresh salmon. Blagojevich thought it took $500,000 to become a heavy hitter. Mayor Daley had already figured out that all it took was a sawbuck wrapped around a driver’s license to buy you all the influence you needed and then some.
Ninety-five percent of the nation looked aghast on the contemptuousness of that shnook Blagojevich. We Chicagoans knew better. We snicker at you rubes who think that duplicity like his happens only on bad TV.
Sociology-types would trace Blagojevich’s blatant double-dealing to the fast-and-loose atmosphere set by Hizonner da Mare Richard J. Daley. They do beg comparison. No matter how much Blagojevich would have prospered financially, he would always have been a second-stringer.
Mayor Daley appeared unimpressed with money. He and his beloved Sis continued to live in the modest home Back of the (Stock) Yards, along with descendants of the other Irish immigrants. Aside from tailored suits to flatter his matzo-ball girth, he played himself as one of the people.
Sheer power was Mayor Daley’s rate of exchange, elevating the faithful everyman and humbling the disloyal bigshot. Mayor Daley was the one, after all who “found” the extra box of ballots that put JFK over the top, ensuring the presidency for a Democrat coreligionist.
Blagojevich collected his bounty in payoffs. Mayor Daley collected a court of loyalists who paid homage to his agenda, and thus themselves became rich – a judge here, an alderman there, graft, porkpie, and the cumulatively effect of minor acts of corruption.
Loyalty had its benefits for the commoner, as well. Before each election, Harry Speck appeared at our doorstep. As a kid, I thought he was some kind of important public official. Actually, he was one of Hizzoner’s precinct captains, attempting to buy voter loyalty by offering to fix any of my dad’s outstanding traffic tickets. As a law enforcement officer, my dad made quick dispatch of him.
This did not stop my dad from wrapping a $5 bill around his driver’s license, as all Chicagoans did, so when stopped by a cop, the cop smiled and told him to “be more careful the next time.”
When I got a little older, I too learned the ropes of Pax Daleyum. Once I was in a fender-bender and cited for negligence. I called my insurance man. He told me to bring $40 to traffic court and give it to his lawyer, Newberger. That’s all it would take. “What if we lose?” I sputtered like a dope.
“You won’t lose.”
Sure enough, at the appointed hour, I presented Newberger $40 in cash. When my case was called, he approached the docket. Apparently, the arresting cop had not shown up. The case was dismissed for failure to produce prosecution. $20 to Newberger, $20 to the cop. But, we didn’t lose.
Heaven forbid, though, if you were a resident of the 46th Ward, where all the anti-corruption, intellectual liberals lived. Hizzoner was the bane of their existence. He and the machine were well aware of this, hence the deepest potholes in the streets, the never-to-be-fixed broken curbs, the monthly accumulation of street-side garbage. Go ahead. Be idealistic. Just be prepared to break an axle. We, the faithful, had our potholes repaved at the first sign of spring.
The real story of Daley’s Chicago was not about retribution. Often it was the warning implicit in the humor of the mighty, like the good-natured fun he poked at the press. Once he suggested that the Department of Sanitation (!) stock the Chicago River with salmon, as it meandered between the Tribune Tower and the hideous Sun-Times building. At noontime, he said, let the City give the reporters fishing rods, provide them with open grills and plenty of cold beer. “You’d be surprised,” Hizzoner opined, “how much better your attitude would be before we held one of those 1:00 press conferences.”
This, friends, is not a Blagojevich move.
This is why, by Illinois standards, he would always be a second-stringer. He demanded money, not the power and influence that comes from people paying homage to a fearsome, yet imminently loveable, humpty-dumpty Irishman. Greedy Blagojevich would wind up in jail because he practiced slimy greed, not graciously dyeing the river green for St. Patrick’s Day.
Once-Governor Blagojevich will forever be remembered as a greasy punk. Not Hizzoner da Mare. He fixed the curbs, filled the potholes, collected the garbage, ran the CTA buses in blizzards, made a president, fed the reporters fresh salmon. Blagojevich thought it took $500,000 to become a heavy hitter. Mayor Daley had already figured out that all it took was a sawbuck wrapped around a driver’s license to buy you all the influence you needed and then some.
February 02, 2009
SHONDEH IS THE JEWISH CRITERION
What Bernard Madoff did, to the gentile world, was an enormous crime. To the Jew it was a “shondeh,” the harshest Yiddish word for “disgrace.” I honestly don’t know how many gentiles are saying among themselves, “There goes another money-grubbing Jew.” It doesn’t really matter. I am ashamed by Madoff not because his story might generate anti-Semitism. For a Jew to betray the heritage to which we claim to be born is a shondeh.
This I tell you: We take no glory in Bernard Madoff even when you are not around. I’ve heard no one say in the covert Greenfield’s bagel place, “Boy, he really knew how to screw those dumb goyim.” Aside from swiping millions from Jewish institutions, he grabbed money from smart Jews, and plenty of smart goyim, who trusted him. The word I hear most when you are not around is, you guessed it, shondeh.
When I moved south in 1975, I was a snotty/snooty urban damnyankee pacifist. My assumptions were built on burning crosses, fire hoses, Bull Connor, George Wallace, and slurs against Jews almost as vituperative as they were toward African Americans. (“If them G.D. Jews hadn’t gotten them ni**as so stirred up, we wouldn’t be having the problems we do today!”). I assumed that little towns were places where Jews chose to live only at their own peril, and not only because you couldn’t get a hot pastrami sandwich there.
Then I received my delicious dose of reality: I found that for every Christian who wanted to convert me, a thousand venerated me because I was a leader of the Chosen People, and another thousand were simply curious.
Listen up now, Mr. Madoff, Mr. Shondeh: The decency and respect of the Jewish storekeeper in rural Upstate is legendary: Sarlins of Liberty, Fedders of Easley, Vigodskys of Westminster, Poliakoffs of Walhalla, Karelitzs of Fountain Inn, Burgens of Seneca . . . all of them venerated as saints – extending credit at no interest, building the community, stimulating education, leading in patriotism and civic organizations, charity without question from the cash register, often the only ones who were helpful to minorities.
Ask our anchorman Michael Cogdill. He will tell you that he was set on his direction of prominence by the Jewish storekeeper in his little town in North Carolina, who brought him into his home as if he were his own child.
No, they could not all have been saints 24-7. But, this I will tell you: They were not shondeh Jews, either. When I meet someone from Liberty and ask him if he knew the Sarlins, he always regales me of some act of kindness that they bestowed. I chalk another one up for not being a shondeh, but for being an exemplary member of the Chosen People. And Jerry Fedder? Not a “shyster Jew-lawyer,” but an honest man who never played fast and loose with the truth. And I chalk another one up for being one of the Chosen People, not a double-talking shondeh.
Ralph, Jerry, et al, did not do it to impress. Of this, I am sure. They had good mommas and poppas, who in turn had good mommas and poppas. They were quite sure of their chosen-ness without a scintilla of false pride.
Yes, there is a downside to being a member of a Chosen People. When you tarnish your chosen-ness, you are not just a crook or a thief. You are a shondeh. I am consistently surrounded by people who rightfully wear their chosen-ness with distinction. Jerry and Ralph, may he rest in peace, and the others, have set a backdrop of stiff comparison. When I do something wrong, I know full-well that it is a shondeh, not merely an oops or oversight. Where was Bernard Madoff’s armor to ward off shondeh? Where were the “Jerry and Ralph” in his life? Where did he lose it?
This is the sobering truth whether you and I accept it or not: When a Jew steals, it is not the same as when a gentile steals. He’s not a bad boy with his hand stuck in the cookie jar. He is a shondeh, a shondeh.
What Bernard Madoff did, to the gentile world, was an enormous crime. To the Jew it was a “shondeh,” the harshest Yiddish word for “disgrace.” I honestly don’t know how many gentiles are saying among themselves, “There goes another money-grubbing Jew.” It doesn’t really matter. I am ashamed by Madoff not because his story might generate anti-Semitism. For a Jew to betray the heritage to which we claim to be born is a shondeh.
This I tell you: We take no glory in Bernard Madoff even when you are not around. I’ve heard no one say in the covert Greenfield’s bagel place, “Boy, he really knew how to screw those dumb goyim.” Aside from swiping millions from Jewish institutions, he grabbed money from smart Jews, and plenty of smart goyim, who trusted him. The word I hear most when you are not around is, you guessed it, shondeh.
When I moved south in 1975, I was a snotty/snooty urban damnyankee pacifist. My assumptions were built on burning crosses, fire hoses, Bull Connor, George Wallace, and slurs against Jews almost as vituperative as they were toward African Americans. (“If them G.D. Jews hadn’t gotten them ni**as so stirred up, we wouldn’t be having the problems we do today!”). I assumed that little towns were places where Jews chose to live only at their own peril, and not only because you couldn’t get a hot pastrami sandwich there.
Then I received my delicious dose of reality: I found that for every Christian who wanted to convert me, a thousand venerated me because I was a leader of the Chosen People, and another thousand were simply curious.
Listen up now, Mr. Madoff, Mr. Shondeh: The decency and respect of the Jewish storekeeper in rural Upstate is legendary: Sarlins of Liberty, Fedders of Easley, Vigodskys of Westminster, Poliakoffs of Walhalla, Karelitzs of Fountain Inn, Burgens of Seneca . . . all of them venerated as saints – extending credit at no interest, building the community, stimulating education, leading in patriotism and civic organizations, charity without question from the cash register, often the only ones who were helpful to minorities.
Ask our anchorman Michael Cogdill. He will tell you that he was set on his direction of prominence by the Jewish storekeeper in his little town in North Carolina, who brought him into his home as if he were his own child.
No, they could not all have been saints 24-7. But, this I will tell you: They were not shondeh Jews, either. When I meet someone from Liberty and ask him if he knew the Sarlins, he always regales me of some act of kindness that they bestowed. I chalk another one up for not being a shondeh, but for being an exemplary member of the Chosen People. And Jerry Fedder? Not a “shyster Jew-lawyer,” but an honest man who never played fast and loose with the truth. And I chalk another one up for being one of the Chosen People, not a double-talking shondeh.
Ralph, Jerry, et al, did not do it to impress. Of this, I am sure. They had good mommas and poppas, who in turn had good mommas and poppas. They were quite sure of their chosen-ness without a scintilla of false pride.
Yes, there is a downside to being a member of a Chosen People. When you tarnish your chosen-ness, you are not just a crook or a thief. You are a shondeh. I am consistently surrounded by people who rightfully wear their chosen-ness with distinction. Jerry and Ralph, may he rest in peace, and the others, have set a backdrop of stiff comparison. When I do something wrong, I know full-well that it is a shondeh, not merely an oops or oversight. Where was Bernard Madoff’s armor to ward off shondeh? Where were the “Jerry and Ralph” in his life? Where did he lose it?
This is the sobering truth whether you and I accept it or not: When a Jew steals, it is not the same as when a gentile steals. He’s not a bad boy with his hand stuck in the cookie jar. He is a shondeh, a shondeh.
January 29, 2009
CHOLOV STARBUCKS
I’ve gone to Starbucks from Montreal to Port au Prince, but I never drink coffee there. Coffee gives me a tummy ache. But they do have a wonderful lemonade slush in which I could bathe when it is -30º outside. Their apple fritter is also nonpareil. The only reason that astronomers are interested in life on other planets is to see if it’s feasible to set up a Starbucks there, one per block, one per supermarket, one within each Starbucks.
In all my years of being a Starbucks devotee, the only item they’ve lacked is one accommodation for the (very) religious Jew. By a treaty signed in Liadi, Lubavitchers will drink a cup of black coffee in a Starbucks. Black, because they will whiten their coffee exclusively with Cholov Yisroel, milk/cream prepared from exclusively Jewish sources, under rabbinical supervision.
This has not fazed Starbucks from having planted themselves in orthodox communities. Ben, my Lubavitcher son, lives right across from one. One recent Sunday morning we repaired to the Starbucks to avoid a crying baby and shrill mother-in-law as we worked on his resume. I ordered my customary lemonade slushy, and Ben a Venti black coffee.
“Ben drinks black coffee?” I contemplated. This is a guy who doesn’t drink Coke without two extra tablespoons of sugar. Meanwhile, we found a table. He opened his laptop. He reached into his backpack. He removed a Zip-Loc bag that contained a white liquid. He whitened his coffee with it.
“I guess that’s Cholov Yisroel that you brought from home,” I wondered aloud. “What a novel way to park your cow at Starbucks!”
For a moment I thought, “What a mishugas.” The next moment I thought, “Well, maybe this is a way to protect the integrity of Judaism.” Finally, I came to a compromise. Neither mishugas nor mitzvah, but a fascinating social commentary: a perfect, if slightly goofy, amalgam of the very symbol of the contemporary American lifestyle, Starbucks, with a custom so esoteric and medieval that 99 percent of American Jews have never heard of it.
Not too shabby. This is America, Columbus’s Medinah, the Land of Opportunity, yes, even the opportunity to have your milk and Starbucks, too.
Leiben zol Columbus!
I’ve gone to Starbucks from Montreal to Port au Prince, but I never drink coffee there. Coffee gives me a tummy ache. But they do have a wonderful lemonade slush in which I could bathe when it is -30º outside. Their apple fritter is also nonpareil. The only reason that astronomers are interested in life on other planets is to see if it’s feasible to set up a Starbucks there, one per block, one per supermarket, one within each Starbucks.
In all my years of being a Starbucks devotee, the only item they’ve lacked is one accommodation for the (very) religious Jew. By a treaty signed in Liadi, Lubavitchers will drink a cup of black coffee in a Starbucks. Black, because they will whiten their coffee exclusively with Cholov Yisroel, milk/cream prepared from exclusively Jewish sources, under rabbinical supervision.
This has not fazed Starbucks from having planted themselves in orthodox communities. Ben, my Lubavitcher son, lives right across from one. One recent Sunday morning we repaired to the Starbucks to avoid a crying baby and shrill mother-in-law as we worked on his resume. I ordered my customary lemonade slushy, and Ben a Venti black coffee.
“Ben drinks black coffee?” I contemplated. This is a guy who doesn’t drink Coke without two extra tablespoons of sugar. Meanwhile, we found a table. He opened his laptop. He reached into his backpack. He removed a Zip-Loc bag that contained a white liquid. He whitened his coffee with it.
“I guess that’s Cholov Yisroel that you brought from home,” I wondered aloud. “What a novel way to park your cow at Starbucks!”
For a moment I thought, “What a mishugas.” The next moment I thought, “Well, maybe this is a way to protect the integrity of Judaism.” Finally, I came to a compromise. Neither mishugas nor mitzvah, but a fascinating social commentary: a perfect, if slightly goofy, amalgam of the very symbol of the contemporary American lifestyle, Starbucks, with a custom so esoteric and medieval that 99 percent of American Jews have never heard of it.
Not too shabby. This is America, Columbus’s Medinah, the Land of Opportunity, yes, even the opportunity to have your milk and Starbucks, too.
Leiben zol Columbus!
January 26, 2009
KASHRUT IN THE GRASS
I’ve always assumed that Jewish people did not choose hunting as a sport. Inflicting pain for recreation is forbidden. And besides, when you punch a hole in an animal and it dies, no question that it’s treife.
All of my assumption went sour when I paid a visit to the Ginsburg’s. Racks upon racks of spiffy-polished shotguns on display in the den, set upon set of antlers tastefully mounted on the living-room walls, booty from family hunting expeditions.
“So, I guess you do a lot of hunting,” I observed like a dumbbell.
“We go out early Saturday mornings so I can teach the boy the finer points of dropping a deer, you know, setting up the platform, making the right kinds of calls, where to spray the urine to attract the young’uns.” No, I didn’t know. “Rabbi Schwartz (the local Lubavitcher) told us that it was OK to hunt on Shabbos so long as we ‘field-kashered’ whatever we shot.”
I admit that I had never, even in Yeshiva, heard the phrase “field-kashered.” “Tell me how you field-kasher a deer?” I didn’t have to feign ignorance.
“Rabbi Schwartz said that so long as we slit the deer with a specially sharpened knife to let the blood drain, it was kosher.”
“I don’t think so,” I mumbled. I didn’t take the issue any further, so as not to impugn the credibility of my Lubavitcher friend.
Naturally, I promptly called Rabbi Schwartz to inform him that he had been cited as the authority that permitted hunting on Shabbos, so long as the prey had been field-kashered. “You’re kidding,” he said. “He may be an incredible sportsman, but an even better pathological liar.”
“How could we take care of this?” we looked at each other. We agreed that first we had to get him back into schule. “Ah,” Schwartz had an epiphany. “Get a spray-bottle, fill it with you-know-what, and give a couple of schpritzes around the doorway; it’s irresistible.”
“But once he gets inside, what do we do to make an impression on him?”
“Don’t worry,” the Lubavitcher averred. “He won’t get too far. Once he gets inside, we’ll just have to field-kasher him. After all, it is Shabbos.”
I’ve always assumed that Jewish people did not choose hunting as a sport. Inflicting pain for recreation is forbidden. And besides, when you punch a hole in an animal and it dies, no question that it’s treife.
All of my assumption went sour when I paid a visit to the Ginsburg’s. Racks upon racks of spiffy-polished shotguns on display in the den, set upon set of antlers tastefully mounted on the living-room walls, booty from family hunting expeditions.
“So, I guess you do a lot of hunting,” I observed like a dumbbell.
“We go out early Saturday mornings so I can teach the boy the finer points of dropping a deer, you know, setting up the platform, making the right kinds of calls, where to spray the urine to attract the young’uns.” No, I didn’t know. “Rabbi Schwartz (the local Lubavitcher) told us that it was OK to hunt on Shabbos so long as we ‘field-kashered’ whatever we shot.”
I admit that I had never, even in Yeshiva, heard the phrase “field-kashered.” “Tell me how you field-kasher a deer?” I didn’t have to feign ignorance.
“Rabbi Schwartz said that so long as we slit the deer with a specially sharpened knife to let the blood drain, it was kosher.”
“I don’t think so,” I mumbled. I didn’t take the issue any further, so as not to impugn the credibility of my Lubavitcher friend.
Naturally, I promptly called Rabbi Schwartz to inform him that he had been cited as the authority that permitted hunting on Shabbos, so long as the prey had been field-kashered. “You’re kidding,” he said. “He may be an incredible sportsman, but an even better pathological liar.”
“How could we take care of this?” we looked at each other. We agreed that first we had to get him back into schule. “Ah,” Schwartz had an epiphany. “Get a spray-bottle, fill it with you-know-what, and give a couple of schpritzes around the doorway; it’s irresistible.”
“But once he gets inside, what do we do to make an impression on him?”
“Don’t worry,” the Lubavitcher averred. “He won’t get too far. Once he gets inside, we’ll just have to field-kasher him. After all, it is Shabbos.”
January 05, 2009
A LITTLE COLOR ON THE PLATE
Once upon a time, my secretary and I would lunch at a mediocre Chinese buffet. When we’d come to the end of the line, she’d examine my plate and glower. This was my cue to return to the buffet and retrieve a spear of broccoli.
This was more a culinary issue than a health concern. You eat with your eyes before your palate. A plate has to have a little green on it. Rice, chicken, potato kugel, brisket, naked on a plate, bode of dreariness. A touch of color around the edge? Vivid. A hint of springtime. A stroll in the park. An intimation of youth. Just ask Dr. Phil or my secretary.
Even the best colorful intentions go awry when they turn obsessive. Example: At dinner on the weekend of an interview, I was presented a plate of the balaboste’s specialty, gefilte fish napped in aspic of raspberry Jell-O flecked with horseradish. “Doesn’t the color add a pretty touch?” she gloated.
Then there was my ditzy former sister-in-law. She thought that her chicken soup looked a little listless. So, she added in half a bottle of yellow food coloring. You’ve probably figured out that a perfectly tasty broth turned into a radiant pot of “pea” soup.
My winner of the color wars is not among Yehudim, but yokels. Traveling the rural South, I stopped at a country store for a Coke. If you’ve ever been in one, you’ll always see a five-gallon jar of pickles on the counter. Strange, I thought. I’ve never seen pickles that were dirty mauve.
“What kind of pickles are those?” I pointed.
“Why don’t you try one?” answered the balabos. “It’s on me.”
I reluctantly agreed to taste a nub.
I gagged. “Now will you tell me what they are?”
“Around here we eat our pickles purple,” he proudly announced. “After they’re just right, we soak ‘em in Kool-Aid for about two weeks.”
“They taste even better when you eat them with one of those pickled eggs,” pointing to the pink-stained ovals on the other counter.
I offered him a blessing and paid for my Twinkie, hopping into my Volvo, and praising God that the worst I’d had to eat until then was my Aunt Leah’s pitcha.
Once upon a time, my secretary and I would lunch at a mediocre Chinese buffet. When we’d come to the end of the line, she’d examine my plate and glower. This was my cue to return to the buffet and retrieve a spear of broccoli.
This was more a culinary issue than a health concern. You eat with your eyes before your palate. A plate has to have a little green on it. Rice, chicken, potato kugel, brisket, naked on a plate, bode of dreariness. A touch of color around the edge? Vivid. A hint of springtime. A stroll in the park. An intimation of youth. Just ask Dr. Phil or my secretary.
Even the best colorful intentions go awry when they turn obsessive. Example: At dinner on the weekend of an interview, I was presented a plate of the balaboste’s specialty, gefilte fish napped in aspic of raspberry Jell-O flecked with horseradish. “Doesn’t the color add a pretty touch?” she gloated.
Then there was my ditzy former sister-in-law. She thought that her chicken soup looked a little listless. So, she added in half a bottle of yellow food coloring. You’ve probably figured out that a perfectly tasty broth turned into a radiant pot of “pea” soup.
My winner of the color wars is not among Yehudim, but yokels. Traveling the rural South, I stopped at a country store for a Coke. If you’ve ever been in one, you’ll always see a five-gallon jar of pickles on the counter. Strange, I thought. I’ve never seen pickles that were dirty mauve.
“What kind of pickles are those?” I pointed.
“Why don’t you try one?” answered the balabos. “It’s on me.”
I reluctantly agreed to taste a nub.
I gagged. “Now will you tell me what they are?”
“Around here we eat our pickles purple,” he proudly announced. “After they’re just right, we soak ‘em in Kool-Aid for about two weeks.”
“They taste even better when you eat them with one of those pickled eggs,” pointing to the pink-stained ovals on the other counter.
I offered him a blessing and paid for my Twinkie, hopping into my Volvo, and praising God that the worst I’d had to eat until then was my Aunt Leah’s pitcha.
December 24, 2008
THE PRICE ON FOODISH FAME
From the outset, where to tape my new TV show has posed a problem. The first issue is finding a kitchen that is well equipped and accommodating to the cameras and audience.
But, the overarching concern is the ambiance we want to create. What is the concept behind the show? What persona do they want me to project? Not too intellectual, they tell me. They want the Sarah Palin crowd, not the Dalai Lama.
Most of all, what kind of food should I cook and yak about?
It should be a no-brainer. A rabbi should have a kitchen that looks like a tenement. And the food? Duh. Chicken soup. Brisket. Kugel. “Not so easy,” the producer says. “We’re in the South. We still need Jewish, but with a Southern spin.”
So, the program then puts me in jeans, tee-shirt, and Braves cap, cooking matzo-meal fried chicken, kneidlach-cum-hush-puppies, tzimmes-cum-sweet-potato-pie, cholent-cum-Brunswick stews. We’ll tape the show in an old barn cooking on a wood-burning stove.
“OK,” I thought. “This is the price I pay for stardom. Maybe the producers know best.”
Iterations of the show come and go. One day the producer announces that he has the perfect venue – a fitness club. This is so weird. No denying that the facility is superb. But, what does an obese rabbi-cook of the old school have to do with a fitness club?
“Not to worry,” the producer says. “A new concept. Shorts and a hoody. Fifteen minutes exercising with a personal trainer. A challenge to lose 20 pounds. Then, you’ll spend the rest of the show cooking healthy food – like vegetarian chopped liver.”
“I make REAL kosher food,” I belch. “REAL liver. REAL schmaltz. I thought this was supposed to be about REAL kosher food.”
“No worry,” the producer calms me. “We’ll have a dietician evaluate each dish on camera. What if you were to make a bowl of chopped liver, and she says that it will clog your arteries? What would you answer?”
“I’d rip open my shirt and point to the scar from my pacemaker.” I’d shout, “There’s nothing about chopped liver that I don’t already know!”
“Perfect!” the producer shouts. “Now, let’s get ready to shoot!”
Emes, I have not made up a word of this story.
OK, so I’ll live only to 118. The Food Network calls and, dammit, I’m going to answer.
From the outset, where to tape my new TV show has posed a problem. The first issue is finding a kitchen that is well equipped and accommodating to the cameras and audience.
But, the overarching concern is the ambiance we want to create. What is the concept behind the show? What persona do they want me to project? Not too intellectual, they tell me. They want the Sarah Palin crowd, not the Dalai Lama.
Most of all, what kind of food should I cook and yak about?
It should be a no-brainer. A rabbi should have a kitchen that looks like a tenement. And the food? Duh. Chicken soup. Brisket. Kugel. “Not so easy,” the producer says. “We’re in the South. We still need Jewish, but with a Southern spin.”
So, the program then puts me in jeans, tee-shirt, and Braves cap, cooking matzo-meal fried chicken, kneidlach-cum-hush-puppies, tzimmes-cum-sweet-potato-pie, cholent-cum-Brunswick stews. We’ll tape the show in an old barn cooking on a wood-burning stove.
“OK,” I thought. “This is the price I pay for stardom. Maybe the producers know best.”
Iterations of the show come and go. One day the producer announces that he has the perfect venue – a fitness club. This is so weird. No denying that the facility is superb. But, what does an obese rabbi-cook of the old school have to do with a fitness club?
“Not to worry,” the producer says. “A new concept. Shorts and a hoody. Fifteen minutes exercising with a personal trainer. A challenge to lose 20 pounds. Then, you’ll spend the rest of the show cooking healthy food – like vegetarian chopped liver.”
“I make REAL kosher food,” I belch. “REAL liver. REAL schmaltz. I thought this was supposed to be about REAL kosher food.”
“No worry,” the producer calms me. “We’ll have a dietician evaluate each dish on camera. What if you were to make a bowl of chopped liver, and she says that it will clog your arteries? What would you answer?”
“I’d rip open my shirt and point to the scar from my pacemaker.” I’d shout, “There’s nothing about chopped liver that I don’t already know!”
“Perfect!” the producer shouts. “Now, let’s get ready to shoot!”
Emes, I have not made up a word of this story.
OK, so I’ll live only to 118. The Food Network calls and, dammit, I’m going to answer.
December 09, 2008
THINGS GO BETTER WITH COKE . . . OR ELSE
Which character do we most closely associate with Coca-Cola? Santa Claus. This was a sharp marketer’s idea to keep kids drinking ice-cold Coke even in the depths of winter. Nowhere will you see a billboard, magazine, or commercial without Santa chugging down a Coke.
But, Coke can also be magnanimous at Christmas time. They pay to dispatch Santa Claus’s to bring cheer to disadvantaged children. Despite my religious inclinations, I play Santa six times each holiday season.
Deprived children tug at me and will not let me go. They kiss and hug me. I give them candy and presents. “Santa, Santa!” they cry. If they ask whether I am the “real Santa,” I let them pull my white beard, and they know that I am the one and only.
But then there was one time . . . Twenty or so kids abandoned by their parents. Most of them were three or four years old, still full of wonderment. They, too, would tug at my beard, and knew that I was real.
But one seven-year-old already knew better. He looked at me cynically from across the room. He finally sidled up to me and gave me such a swift kick in the shins that I cursed at him before I could regain my composure. Now he had all the evidence that he needed and shouted over and again, “That’s not really Santa! He’s a fake! He cursed at me! He’s a fake!”
What should I do? Quick as I could, I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into a corner. “Look, kid,” I growled at him. “If you don’t tell them you were joking, I’m going to make sure you never have another Coca-Cola for the rest of your life!”
His eyes widened. “You could really do that?” “Just try me,” I growled back. In a moment, a shout emerged. “I was just kidding! That is the real Santa!”
Even a Jewish Santa, I guess, is worth the benefit of the doubt when a life without Coke is as stake. After all, even the surliest kid isn’t willing to drink seltzer for the rest of his life on a bet with Santa Claus.
Which character do we most closely associate with Coca-Cola? Santa Claus. This was a sharp marketer’s idea to keep kids drinking ice-cold Coke even in the depths of winter. Nowhere will you see a billboard, magazine, or commercial without Santa chugging down a Coke.
But, Coke can also be magnanimous at Christmas time. They pay to dispatch Santa Claus’s to bring cheer to disadvantaged children. Despite my religious inclinations, I play Santa six times each holiday season.
Deprived children tug at me and will not let me go. They kiss and hug me. I give them candy and presents. “Santa, Santa!” they cry. If they ask whether I am the “real Santa,” I let them pull my white beard, and they know that I am the one and only.
But then there was one time . . . Twenty or so kids abandoned by their parents. Most of them were three or four years old, still full of wonderment. They, too, would tug at my beard, and knew that I was real.
But one seven-year-old already knew better. He looked at me cynically from across the room. He finally sidled up to me and gave me such a swift kick in the shins that I cursed at him before I could regain my composure. Now he had all the evidence that he needed and shouted over and again, “That’s not really Santa! He’s a fake! He cursed at me! He’s a fake!”
What should I do? Quick as I could, I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into a corner. “Look, kid,” I growled at him. “If you don’t tell them you were joking, I’m going to make sure you never have another Coca-Cola for the rest of your life!”
His eyes widened. “You could really do that?” “Just try me,” I growled back. In a moment, a shout emerged. “I was just kidding! That is the real Santa!”
Even a Jewish Santa, I guess, is worth the benefit of the doubt when a life without Coke is as stake. After all, even the surliest kid isn’t willing to drink seltzer for the rest of his life on a bet with Santa Claus.
November 20, 2008
COOKIES FOR KRISTALLNACHT
Can one find humor in Kristallnacht?
Some of us in Greenville had good intentions. We planned an event to commemorate Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass. We anticipated an attendance of 350, but 700 people showed up.
Then, someone got the idea to serve cookies and coffee after the program. Only American Jews would come up with the idea of serving Kiddush to honor Kristallnacht. Some of us objected. No, we were reassured, the collation would not be garish. The cookies would be simple and keeping in the spirit of the occasion, nothing more. Mrs. Goldberg, the sisterhood president, asked if flowers were appropriate. Before I could have my say, someone answered, “so long as they are not ostentation.”
Mrs. Goldberg went on to clarify: The sisterhood would bake the cookies, but not lay them out on platters, nor bring the platters. Who would? It would have to be someone else. Who would lay them out? Someone else. “And, we can’t be responsible for the napkins and tablecloths, just the cookies.” I dared not ask Mrs. Goldberg about the coffee. The only alternative would be to schlep three KM to Starbucks and buy jugs of coffee there.
Just then, Mrs. Schwartz, God bless her, stepped forward. She would take care of all of the arrangements herself. Everyone seemed relieved, even grateful. All but Mrs. Goldberg. Seems that she and Mrs. Schwartz had a long-standing feud over some long-forgotten issue.
No, announced Mrs. Goldberg, that would be unacceptable. Moreover, she publicly divested Mrs. Schwartz of her position as Social Action Chairwoman.
Mrs. Dunning, the only gentile member of the sisterhood, demanded that Mrs. Goldberg send Mrs. Schwartz an apology. You can only imagine the response.
Getting wind of this, we who planned the Kristallnacht commemoration pasken’d a shayleh: “Keep your cookies, your no-trays, your no-napkins, your no-tablecloths, and your no-coffee. We’ll just have to suffer the deprivation.”
So, Kristallnacht in Greenville went on, inspired and meaningful, but cookie-less. Some of us thought it was a dumb idea to begin with. Now, none of us can figure out whether it was slapstick comedy or profound tragedy.
You be the jury.
Can one find humor in Kristallnacht?
Some of us in Greenville had good intentions. We planned an event to commemorate Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass. We anticipated an attendance of 350, but 700 people showed up.
Then, someone got the idea to serve cookies and coffee after the program. Only American Jews would come up with the idea of serving Kiddush to honor Kristallnacht. Some of us objected. No, we were reassured, the collation would not be garish. The cookies would be simple and keeping in the spirit of the occasion, nothing more. Mrs. Goldberg, the sisterhood president, asked if flowers were appropriate. Before I could have my say, someone answered, “so long as they are not ostentation.”
Mrs. Goldberg went on to clarify: The sisterhood would bake the cookies, but not lay them out on platters, nor bring the platters. Who would? It would have to be someone else. Who would lay them out? Someone else. “And, we can’t be responsible for the napkins and tablecloths, just the cookies.” I dared not ask Mrs. Goldberg about the coffee. The only alternative would be to schlep three KM to Starbucks and buy jugs of coffee there.
Just then, Mrs. Schwartz, God bless her, stepped forward. She would take care of all of the arrangements herself. Everyone seemed relieved, even grateful. All but Mrs. Goldberg. Seems that she and Mrs. Schwartz had a long-standing feud over some long-forgotten issue.
No, announced Mrs. Goldberg, that would be unacceptable. Moreover, she publicly divested Mrs. Schwartz of her position as Social Action Chairwoman.
Mrs. Dunning, the only gentile member of the sisterhood, demanded that Mrs. Goldberg send Mrs. Schwartz an apology. You can only imagine the response.
Getting wind of this, we who planned the Kristallnacht commemoration pasken’d a shayleh: “Keep your cookies, your no-trays, your no-napkins, your no-tablecloths, and your no-coffee. We’ll just have to suffer the deprivation.”
So, Kristallnacht in Greenville went on, inspired and meaningful, but cookie-less. Some of us thought it was a dumb idea to begin with. Now, none of us can figure out whether it was slapstick comedy or profound tragedy.
You be the jury.
November 12, 2008
WHENCE THE CHIPS?
Mendel would say that I inherited double-dominant chocolate-craving genes from my parents. My father would need his jacket cleaned weekly because of a Hershey bar left in his pocket. My mother the diabetic would adjust her insulin in anticipation of a chocolate sundae.
My rebbetzin prudently keeps our chocolate to a minimum. She knows she should by all the candy wrappers she finds in my car. The only stuff that’s usually in the cabinet is a couple bags of chocolate chips that she uses for baking.
Naturally, when the craving overwhelms me, I grab a handful of the chips and down them before she can catch me. My secret does not last long. “Maaaaaarc!” she shrieks across the house. “I hope you enjoyed your chips! How am I going to bake the cookies?”
“All right, all right, I’ll go buy more,” I offer in self-defense.
“I don’t think so. Where are you going to find pareve chocolate chips in Greenville?”
She’s right. The once-pareve Nestlé’s, Hershey’s, Baker’s, are no longer pareve. No, they are now milchig. Another clear-cut case of anti-Semitism. No pareve chocolate chips in tiny Greenville.
So she commands, “The next time you’re in [huge] Atlanta to see the kids, you’ll buy up all the pareve chocolate chips you can find! How soon are you going to see the kids?”
I know the answer she expects. I postpone my appointments and whiz 200 KM to clear the grocery shelves of chips on the pretext of visiting the grandchildren. Oh yes, we have one more granddaughter in Brooklyn. There one may procure chocolate chips at every corner drugstore. I pay $578 for my ticket, carry an extra suitcase, and buy every bag of chips in Borough Park.
Upon my return, we resume our peaceful marriage. Then she announces that her parents are coming and that she’s going to bake a chocolate chip cake. I cower in fear. “Maaaaaarc!” she rants. “Again with the chips?”
By now, you know the exercise: I clear the papers from my desk, fill up my gas tank, and call my kids to prepare the bedroom, because Zayde is coming to visit. The grandbabies are delighted. I break out in acne.
Mendel would say that I inherited double-dominant chocolate-craving genes from my parents. My father would need his jacket cleaned weekly because of a Hershey bar left in his pocket. My mother the diabetic would adjust her insulin in anticipation of a chocolate sundae.
My rebbetzin prudently keeps our chocolate to a minimum. She knows she should by all the candy wrappers she finds in my car. The only stuff that’s usually in the cabinet is a couple bags of chocolate chips that she uses for baking.
Naturally, when the craving overwhelms me, I grab a handful of the chips and down them before she can catch me. My secret does not last long. “Maaaaaarc!” she shrieks across the house. “I hope you enjoyed your chips! How am I going to bake the cookies?”
“All right, all right, I’ll go buy more,” I offer in self-defense.
“I don’t think so. Where are you going to find pareve chocolate chips in Greenville?”
She’s right. The once-pareve Nestlé’s, Hershey’s, Baker’s, are no longer pareve. No, they are now milchig. Another clear-cut case of anti-Semitism. No pareve chocolate chips in tiny Greenville.
So she commands, “The next time you’re in [huge] Atlanta to see the kids, you’ll buy up all the pareve chocolate chips you can find! How soon are you going to see the kids?”
I know the answer she expects. I postpone my appointments and whiz 200 KM to clear the grocery shelves of chips on the pretext of visiting the grandchildren. Oh yes, we have one more granddaughter in Brooklyn. There one may procure chocolate chips at every corner drugstore. I pay $578 for my ticket, carry an extra suitcase, and buy every bag of chips in Borough Park.
Upon my return, we resume our peaceful marriage. Then she announces that her parents are coming and that she’s going to bake a chocolate chip cake. I cower in fear. “Maaaaaarc!” she rants. “Again with the chips?”
By now, you know the exercise: I clear the papers from my desk, fill up my gas tank, and call my kids to prepare the bedroom, because Zayde is coming to visit. The grandbabies are delighted. I break out in acne.
October 31, 2008
STABBED INTO GOOD MANNERS
I am not an expert at many things, but I do have good table manners. This was my father’s special mission in life. Whenever I would forget to say “please” or slobber my soup, he would reach over and stab my hand with his fork. This in itself was dreadfully bad manners, but no matter, it obviously worked.
Some parents were apparently not so demanding. About four years ago, I sat at a dinner next to a candidate for President, who shall remain nameless. As dinner concluded and he was preparing to speak, he stopped the server and told him to leave his dinner fork. With that, he proceeded to pick his teeth in front of an audience of 1,200. He never received his party’s nomination. I doubt that it was over the tooth-picking, but for me, it certainly didn’t help.
Lest one think that crude manners are reserved for the goyische species, let me tell you about this:
Once I was invited to dinner at a rabbinical home. The rebbetzin put out a wonderful spread, simply delicious. As I expected of a Bais Yaakov girl, her conduct was demur and impeccable. Not so my host. He threw chunks of bread to the kids. He dangled his beard in the soup. He held his spoon like a derrick. He chewed with his mouth open. He licked his knife, which is also dangerous. (Is this how Moshe Rabbenu came to his speech impediment?) And yes, all stereotypes aside, he really did wipe his mouth with his sleeve.
By now, the rebbetzin had a point of comparison.
“Look how nicely Rabbi Wilson eats,” she announced. “He has such good manners.”
Her husband paused, impassive, indifferent.
“See, Sheindel,” he finally said. “What’s the difference? He looks like a goy. He talks like a goy. He dresses like a goy. Why shouldn’t he eat like a goy?”
Nu, what did you want me to do? I almost reached over and stabbed him with my fork. But, at the last moment, I restrained myself. After all, that would not have been good manners.
I am not an expert at many things, but I do have good table manners. This was my father’s special mission in life. Whenever I would forget to say “please” or slobber my soup, he would reach over and stab my hand with his fork. This in itself was dreadfully bad manners, but no matter, it obviously worked.
Some parents were apparently not so demanding. About four years ago, I sat at a dinner next to a candidate for President, who shall remain nameless. As dinner concluded and he was preparing to speak, he stopped the server and told him to leave his dinner fork. With that, he proceeded to pick his teeth in front of an audience of 1,200. He never received his party’s nomination. I doubt that it was over the tooth-picking, but for me, it certainly didn’t help.
Lest one think that crude manners are reserved for the goyische species, let me tell you about this:
Once I was invited to dinner at a rabbinical home. The rebbetzin put out a wonderful spread, simply delicious. As I expected of a Bais Yaakov girl, her conduct was demur and impeccable. Not so my host. He threw chunks of bread to the kids. He dangled his beard in the soup. He held his spoon like a derrick. He chewed with his mouth open. He licked his knife, which is also dangerous. (Is this how Moshe Rabbenu came to his speech impediment?) And yes, all stereotypes aside, he really did wipe his mouth with his sleeve.
By now, the rebbetzin had a point of comparison.
“Look how nicely Rabbi Wilson eats,” she announced. “He has such good manners.”
Her husband paused, impassive, indifferent.
“See, Sheindel,” he finally said. “What’s the difference? He looks like a goy. He talks like a goy. He dresses like a goy. Why shouldn’t he eat like a goy?”
Nu, what did you want me to do? I almost reached over and stabbed him with my fork. But, at the last moment, I restrained myself. After all, that would not have been good manners.
October 28, 2008
THE PATHOS IN THE PICTURES
When I was a young rabbi, I counted among my dearest friends an elderly man . . . warm, generous, pious, a loving husband, father, grandfather, respected – even venerated – by the community. He has long since passed on.
He and I would frequently have lunch. Occasionally, he would offer me a book on a philosophical or historical topic that he would encourage me to read.
Once, traveling to New York, I grabbed one of them and in an idle moment started to read. Two seconds later, an envelope dropped from between the pages. Unsealed and unaddressed. Right or wrong, I looked. A handful of Playboy photos dropped out, each with lurid comments scribbled in his unmistakable handwriting.
A gasp of disbelief.
Shortly thereafter, a frantic voice, desperate for composure, appeared on my voicemail: “Marc, there might have been an envelope in the book I loaned you. Please just disregard it. Someone left it in my office, and I must have shoved it in the book while I wasn’t thinking.”
I returned his call: ”Not to worry,” I had the presence of mind, not piety, to say. “I saw the envelope and didn’t open it because it was yours. I’ll seal it up and return it to you.”
“A sheynem dank (many thanks),” he said to me, almost whispering. “He might be looking for it.”
Until he died, he never spoke to me quite the same as before. Still with warmth, still sharing a book or quote, but always with a barely audible edge of self-consciousness and shame.
From time to time, the Rolodex of my memory spins and stops unanticipated at that episode. I have always found it easier to crystallize the emotions that I do not feel for him, those that prevent from me from standing in judgment. No, I say to myself, he was not a pervert. Not a hypocrite. Not a lecher. Not a cheat. Not a dirty old man. I resist thinking any of those, regardless of what other people might have seen in him. Labels come more easily to most of us than understanding does.
It is infinitely harder for me to articulate what he was. Perhaps the best description is the simplest: Underneath it all, he was just so very sad. Simply a sad man, well cloaked in prosperity, yet so very sad. His memory does not evoke consternation, but empathy for my own fears of old-man-ness – unrequited yearning for bygone youth, bittersweet remembrances, and salad days. The pathos in the pictures tells me that he contended then, as I do now, with a life drawn only in one direction, so afraid of the loss of vigor and the promise of a world brimming with possibilities, so scared of becoming dependent, a burden.
Tell me that I am naïve, or projecting my own neuroses, or rationalizing the hypocrisy of a friend. But, I know that those pictures speak of a sadness he shared with every one of us who aches for just one more yesterday: excitement that once coursed through our veins, bowties and corsages to the prom, iridescent dreams of young love. Oh, for one more moment of teenage innocence. She would squeeze your hand and you hers, and all in the world was right.
What other chances for comfort and love and prosperity might there have been in the freshness of youth, had only this-or-that opportunity been seized, or had poor judgment or a misstep not led to a lesser place? Enough Googling – I say to myself – of classmates who became professors and authors and playwrights and business magnates.
I am blessed with a loving wife, whom I cherish, with whom, please God, I will grow old. Kids and grandkids, too, the quintessence of my being. My elderly friend was blessed with them, too. Still, who could not dream of the deliciousness left behind in the salad days? The success, the riches, even sometimes – let us confess – the pictorials in Playboy? All craving for just one more serving of vivid youth.
I pray that in heaven above, God has finally granted my friend a place of peace. As for me, let my epitaph speak Wordsworth’s final intimation:
To me the meanest flower that blows
Can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
When I was a young rabbi, I counted among my dearest friends an elderly man . . . warm, generous, pious, a loving husband, father, grandfather, respected – even venerated – by the community. He has long since passed on.
He and I would frequently have lunch. Occasionally, he would offer me a book on a philosophical or historical topic that he would encourage me to read.
Once, traveling to New York, I grabbed one of them and in an idle moment started to read. Two seconds later, an envelope dropped from between the pages. Unsealed and unaddressed. Right or wrong, I looked. A handful of Playboy photos dropped out, each with lurid comments scribbled in his unmistakable handwriting.
A gasp of disbelief.
Shortly thereafter, a frantic voice, desperate for composure, appeared on my voicemail: “Marc, there might have been an envelope in the book I loaned you. Please just disregard it. Someone left it in my office, and I must have shoved it in the book while I wasn’t thinking.”
I returned his call: ”Not to worry,” I had the presence of mind, not piety, to say. “I saw the envelope and didn’t open it because it was yours. I’ll seal it up and return it to you.”
“A sheynem dank (many thanks),” he said to me, almost whispering. “He might be looking for it.”
Until he died, he never spoke to me quite the same as before. Still with warmth, still sharing a book or quote, but always with a barely audible edge of self-consciousness and shame.
From time to time, the Rolodex of my memory spins and stops unanticipated at that episode. I have always found it easier to crystallize the emotions that I do not feel for him, those that prevent from me from standing in judgment. No, I say to myself, he was not a pervert. Not a hypocrite. Not a lecher. Not a cheat. Not a dirty old man. I resist thinking any of those, regardless of what other people might have seen in him. Labels come more easily to most of us than understanding does.
It is infinitely harder for me to articulate what he was. Perhaps the best description is the simplest: Underneath it all, he was just so very sad. Simply a sad man, well cloaked in prosperity, yet so very sad. His memory does not evoke consternation, but empathy for my own fears of old-man-ness – unrequited yearning for bygone youth, bittersweet remembrances, and salad days. The pathos in the pictures tells me that he contended then, as I do now, with a life drawn only in one direction, so afraid of the loss of vigor and the promise of a world brimming with possibilities, so scared of becoming dependent, a burden.
Tell me that I am naïve, or projecting my own neuroses, or rationalizing the hypocrisy of a friend. But, I know that those pictures speak of a sadness he shared with every one of us who aches for just one more yesterday: excitement that once coursed through our veins, bowties and corsages to the prom, iridescent dreams of young love. Oh, for one more moment of teenage innocence. She would squeeze your hand and you hers, and all in the world was right.
What other chances for comfort and love and prosperity might there have been in the freshness of youth, had only this-or-that opportunity been seized, or had poor judgment or a misstep not led to a lesser place? Enough Googling – I say to myself – of classmates who became professors and authors and playwrights and business magnates.
I am blessed with a loving wife, whom I cherish, with whom, please God, I will grow old. Kids and grandkids, too, the quintessence of my being. My elderly friend was blessed with them, too. Still, who could not dream of the deliciousness left behind in the salad days? The success, the riches, even sometimes – let us confess – the pictorials in Playboy? All craving for just one more serving of vivid youth.
I pray that in heaven above, God has finally granted my friend a place of peace. As for me, let my epitaph speak Wordsworth’s final intimation:
To me the meanest flower that blows
Can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
October 19, 2008
TRENDY SCHMALTZ
Now that things are moving forward with my TV show, I’ve become something of a celebrity in Greenville. Lest I get a swelled head, I remind myself that the most famous person in Greenville was a baseball player bribed by a Jewish gangster to throw the World Series.
Amazingly, local periodicals are running features about me. One magazine even sent out a camera crew to shoot photos of how I cook. Naturally, they asked for the typical Jewish menu: chicken soup, matzo balls, gefilte fish.
I denude the chicken to ensure that the soup would be healthful. I was left with plenty of skin, so I decided to fulfill a secret passion: to render a pot of schmaltz. It is the single most deadly foodstuff that Mephistopheles created. If Linda sees me in its presence, she sends me to the doghouse. All she knows is that my matzo balls and chopped liver have a je ne se qua that she has not been able to replicate.
Here come the photographers. I line up the carrots, celery, and chicken for the photo shoot. Meanwhile, one of them spies the pot of schmaltz.
“That’s rendered chicken fat,” I tell her apologetically, “and it is toxic.” “So, it’s like lard?” she asks. “I bet you could make a really flaky pie crust with it.” “Not exactly,” I tell her. “We usually use it with mashed potatoes.” “And what are those? she says, pointing to the gribenes. “Uh, we like to call them ‘Jewish popcorn’. Try one.” She pronounces it “delicious,” as the cholesterol rushes through her pristine arteries.
With that, she starts snapping pictures of the schmaltz, gribenes, and me. “Wait! What about my chicken soup?” “No, no, we know what the readers like. This is so much more interesting.” “I’m a chef!” I shout, “not a yokel!”
So, schmaltz has become my culinary legacy in a fancy magazine, my picture surrounded by ads for haute couture and Rolex watches. Now the entire world knows that I’m a fraud. No more hiding from the truth. But, none of that really matters in the larger scheme. Nothing will be as traumatic as what Linda has to say.
Now that things are moving forward with my TV show, I’ve become something of a celebrity in Greenville. Lest I get a swelled head, I remind myself that the most famous person in Greenville was a baseball player bribed by a Jewish gangster to throw the World Series.
Amazingly, local periodicals are running features about me. One magazine even sent out a camera crew to shoot photos of how I cook. Naturally, they asked for the typical Jewish menu: chicken soup, matzo balls, gefilte fish.
I denude the chicken to ensure that the soup would be healthful. I was left with plenty of skin, so I decided to fulfill a secret passion: to render a pot of schmaltz. It is the single most deadly foodstuff that Mephistopheles created. If Linda sees me in its presence, she sends me to the doghouse. All she knows is that my matzo balls and chopped liver have a je ne se qua that she has not been able to replicate.
Here come the photographers. I line up the carrots, celery, and chicken for the photo shoot. Meanwhile, one of them spies the pot of schmaltz.
“That’s rendered chicken fat,” I tell her apologetically, “and it is toxic.” “So, it’s like lard?” she asks. “I bet you could make a really flaky pie crust with it.” “Not exactly,” I tell her. “We usually use it with mashed potatoes.” “And what are those? she says, pointing to the gribenes. “Uh, we like to call them ‘Jewish popcorn’. Try one.” She pronounces it “delicious,” as the cholesterol rushes through her pristine arteries.
With that, she starts snapping pictures of the schmaltz, gribenes, and me. “Wait! What about my chicken soup?” “No, no, we know what the readers like. This is so much more interesting.” “I’m a chef!” I shout, “not a yokel!”
So, schmaltz has become my culinary legacy in a fancy magazine, my picture surrounded by ads for haute couture and Rolex watches. Now the entire world knows that I’m a fraud. No more hiding from the truth. But, none of that really matters in the larger scheme. Nothing will be as traumatic as what Linda has to say.
October 16, 2008
RECIPES FOR THE BIPOLAR PALATE
Have you already figured out that I am as bipolar as a rubber band? When I am up, I am a hyena. When I am down, I make Hamlet look like Jerry Lewis. Thank God for leading-edge medication, an understanding therapist, and a loving and ever-patient wife.
You probably do not know that I am a columnist for BP Hope, a magazine for manic-depressives. Usually I write book reviews – self-help books, autobiographies, even a DVD that follows crazy-quilt images through the eyes of a bipolar photographer.
Then, an editor determines that I like to fool around in the kitchen. “How would you like to write a food column for BP?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. A bipolar food column?” “Sure,” he says, “simple dishes like salads that won’t become too frustrating. And for God’s sake, no alcohol!”
Nah, I think. This will never work. What we need is “bipolar food” for bipolar people – obvious dishes like sweet-and-sour meatballs. What about hot-and-sour soup? Frosted Flakes breaded chicken? Now let’s get creative: Crush up Sugar Pops and shape into matzo balls. I knew a hausfrau who shrouded her gefilte fish in aspic of lemon juice, horseradish, and raspberry gelatin. Now, that’s what I call a bipolar recipe.
Why limit ourselves to bipolarity? Paranoids might get a rush out of chicken feet from the soup. God knows what they’ve walked through. What about masochists? Give them the hairy cow’s knuckle from pitcha. The chronically depressed? Teach them to make oatmeal. Obsessive-compulsive? Show them how to mix five flavors of jam together, like my bubbe used to. Manic? Here’s how to make a fresh hot cup of coffee, coffee, coffee, then a bottle of Coke. Delusions of grandeur? Tell them your recipe for gefilte fish is really quenelles de poisson. Ah, schizophrenia: Feed their hallucinations with onion sundaes and chocolate-dipped herring.
Wait! My mind is running too fast! I’m suffering from delusions! I’m so worried! I might get fired! I’m craving raw garlic! I need my potato chips NOW!
What’s that, Boss? You want me to review Alice in Wonderland? Whatever you say. But have you ever read that book? You may not know what you’re getting me into.
Have you already figured out that I am as bipolar as a rubber band? When I am up, I am a hyena. When I am down, I make Hamlet look like Jerry Lewis. Thank God for leading-edge medication, an understanding therapist, and a loving and ever-patient wife.
You probably do not know that I am a columnist for BP Hope, a magazine for manic-depressives. Usually I write book reviews – self-help books, autobiographies, even a DVD that follows crazy-quilt images through the eyes of a bipolar photographer.
Then, an editor determines that I like to fool around in the kitchen. “How would you like to write a food column for BP?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. A bipolar food column?” “Sure,” he says, “simple dishes like salads that won’t become too frustrating. And for God’s sake, no alcohol!”
Nah, I think. This will never work. What we need is “bipolar food” for bipolar people – obvious dishes like sweet-and-sour meatballs. What about hot-and-sour soup? Frosted Flakes breaded chicken? Now let’s get creative: Crush up Sugar Pops and shape into matzo balls. I knew a hausfrau who shrouded her gefilte fish in aspic of lemon juice, horseradish, and raspberry gelatin. Now, that’s what I call a bipolar recipe.
Why limit ourselves to bipolarity? Paranoids might get a rush out of chicken feet from the soup. God knows what they’ve walked through. What about masochists? Give them the hairy cow’s knuckle from pitcha. The chronically depressed? Teach them to make oatmeal. Obsessive-compulsive? Show them how to mix five flavors of jam together, like my bubbe used to. Manic? Here’s how to make a fresh hot cup of coffee, coffee, coffee, then a bottle of Coke. Delusions of grandeur? Tell them your recipe for gefilte fish is really quenelles de poisson. Ah, schizophrenia: Feed their hallucinations with onion sundaes and chocolate-dipped herring.
Wait! My mind is running too fast! I’m suffering from delusions! I’m so worried! I might get fired! I’m craving raw garlic! I need my potato chips NOW!
What’s that, Boss? You want me to review Alice in Wonderland? Whatever you say. But have you ever read that book? You may not know what you’re getting me into.
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