Everybody having a fine Pesach week? I always break out my Manischewitz shirt at work to let everyone know not to offer me donuts.

Better Jews than I are Counting the Omer this month. Midianite Manna sewed up some absolutely gorgeous cloth counting calendars: You can put chocolate in the little pockets or an inspiration card for each day. I might try this next year.

Seeing as I didn’t learn anything about Omer counting in Reform school, this year I’ll just count down the days until pizza and beer.

Anyway, Passover week brings another important number for Yo, Yenta!: My 8th Bloggiversary! Off to celebrate with a flourless chocolate torte.

If you’d like to give me a gift, please vote for Yo, Yenta! for Best Blogger in the Best of Savannah Readers’ Poll. You can also vote for El Yenta Man as Best Personal Trainer (might want to put his real name, though!)

And I suppose this year I qualify for another category; perhaps you’ll also see fit to vote for me there: Best Newspaper Columnist.

Speaking of which, I thought I’d share this week’s Civil Society Column with my Yo, Yenta! readers, as it focuses on next week’s Yom Ha’Shoah events.

From ConnectSavannah.com:

Get three Jewish mothers in one room and there’s bound to be kvetching (complaining), kvelling (bragging about the kids) and some good, hard laughter.

There was plenty of all when I met with Melinda Stein and Degi Ruben last week to talk about the upcoming Holocaust Remembrance program at the Jewish Educational Alliance, though it’s pretty difficult to find anything funny about the Holocaust.

Still, we managed to sneak in a few cackles here and there. Keeping a sense of humor in the face of macabre circumstances is an essential component of sanity. And, as these ladies can tell you, of survival.

Read the rest here.

A continued Chag Sameach to all!

So, tomorrow is a first for El Yenta Me and me: Hosting the Passover seder.

Actually now that I think about it, many years ago while were dating, the two of us did host a weird gathering of friends on the first night of Passover at a sushi restaurant. EYM’s impressive interpretation of the wasabi as the bitter herbs and the salty soy sauce as slaves’ tears swept me off my feet, but that doesn’t count as the real deal.

In a few hours, my parents, my Brother the Doctor and his Parisian wife-to-be will arrive in Savannah, turning the tables on our traditional Scottsdale sojourn, which was a Miami sojourn for a few years before that. Instead of being wandering Jews this time, we’ll get to stay right here at home.

Well, technically, the seder will be held two blocks away at my in-laws’ house, but we’re in charge of the menu and the service.

To say I’m famisht is to severely understate the level of spaz at which I’m operating: This week’s Civil Society Column is overdue, there is still pasta in the pantry and I lost the grocery list somewhere in the recesses of my filthy minivan (does the banishing of chametz apply to the cars, too? If so, I’m screwed.)

I know I’m not alone in the stress. As I was wandering around Publix last night, list-less and listless, I ran into three other Jewish mothers, all of us with the same dark circles under our eyes and boxes of matzah and jars of gefilte fish piled high in our carts. We all agreed that starting on the first cup of wine early sounded like a fantastic idea.

But of course, the whole point of all this whack preparation is so that we may relax and recline as we tell the story of Exodus tomorrow evening, reminding ourselves that our ancestors’ haste is not necessary for us because we’re free. We can lollygag around the seder table as long as we like, though it seems like most not-so-observant folks prefer to keep it short, maybe because of tortuous childhood memories.

My dad always led a nicely-timed, basic Maxwell House Haggadah seder, skipping chunks if people got cranky and wrapping it up with “Chad Gadya” before anyone passed out from too much wine. Personally, I always wanted it to be longer and perhaps a little more tortuous, figuring even it took all night and the afikomen got stale, it would still suck less than moping around the desert for 40 years. Things have been even more truncated and less structured since the arrival of my own kids, and though I do enjoy a Ten Plagues puppet show as much as the next gal, I’ve always insisted that they stay at the table ’til the bitter end.

I may get my wish for length this year with The New American Haggadah, which is big and beautiful and has enough text to keep us busy ’til dawn.

It’s a fairly intimidating piece of work, put together by hipster Judaism’s mental giants: Edited by Jonathan Safran Foer (whom I’ve read religiously) and translated from Hebrew by author Nathan Englander (whose heralded What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank I’ve yet to crack), this ain’t yo papa’s flimsy, wine-stained haggadah.

Thoughtful, interpretative and intellectual commentary comes from Judaica expert Nathaniel Deutsch, the Atlantic‘s Jeffrey Goldberg and philosophic author Rebecca Newberger along with playful snark from Lemony Snicket, and the four kibbitz through the pages like a table full of beard-stroking rabbis. A timeline of Judaism runs along the margins, reminding of what-all’s happened since that epic circling in the Sinai.

Truth is, I might not be cool enough or deep enough for the New American Haggadah, with its smart language and clean, classic layout. Israeli calligrapher Oded Ezer evokes a distinct mood to go along with this new take on a 3000 year-old story with inky Hebrew and stone-washed tones. One writer likened it to “a new pair of ‘distressed’ jeans” that you’d pay through the nose for at the mall; there is an element of fashionable wearedness that comes through, though unlike a pair of denim drawers made in China, this book seems built to last.

It’s going to go great with the finger puppets.

A cheerful seder to my tribe and a blessed Easter to my Christian friends. Chag sameach to all y’all!

…even if it is performed by puppets. How is possible no one ever thought of pairing “Dayenu” with Freddie Mercury before?

Well done, Aish.com!

Passover starts in less than three weeks.

This likely has many of you in the throes of gastric distress, not just for the epic cleaning to be done but for the anticipation of eight straight days of eating matzah. It’s not called the “the bread of affliction” for nothing, people.

I cannot, and will not, help you sweep stale pieces of Kashi out of the corners of your kitchen. But I can help prevent the uncomfortable binding sensation: Gluten-free matzah.

Yes, going gluten-free is super trendy these days, and those of us with gluten sensitivities deeply appreciate Yehuda’s addition to the wheatless pantry. Instead of wheat flour, this flat food is made of tapioca starch, potato starch, potato flour, pressed palm oil, natural vinegar, egg yolks, honey, and salt.

But can it really be Passover without the usual bland Streit’s squares?

Hmm, let’s see: Looks like matzah, with those weird little hyphen-shaped holes. It’s got the Orthodox Union hechsher on it with “Kosher for Passover.” (However, the OU does not recommend it for use at the seder for “sacramental purposes.”)

The Yenta family conducted a taste test of a box of Yehuda Gluten Free Mazto-style Squares last week with much skepticism. The three other members have in the past pronounced their displeasure with certain gluten-free meal experiments such as corn pasta and spelt challah. However, with a five-dollar bribe (which I will be writing off next year as “research”,) they were convinced to crack the crackers.

Yenta Boy reported that Yehudas were saltier than regular matzah but had a nice, light texture. Most importantly, he wanted to know “If we use it for the afikomen and I find it, do I get another five bucks?”

Little Yenta Girl was an easy sell. In fact, she chewed thoughtfully through three pieces before announcing that she needed just one more to make sure she really, really liked them.

Then came El Yenta Man, who lumps “gluten-free” into the “silly New Age sh*t” category in his brain. “These are actually really good,” he gasped, wide-eyed. Then his eyes narrowed. “But that doesn’t mean you can serve those gross hamburger buns again.”

Me, I think they taste exactly like Pringles. Without the MSG and other nasties, natch.

Also (most awesomely) available from Yehuda: Gluten-free noodles. Hellloooo raisin kugel!

Looking forward to a delish, digestively-peaceful Pesach.

Still reeling from yesterday’s shocking attack on a young rabbi and his two sons in front of a Jewish school in Toulouse, France.

Reports say that the gunman shot into the cluster of children and adults in front of Ozer Hatorah school from a motorbike and may have been wearing a video camera around his neck. Forensics have already linked the shooter to last week’s murders of four dark-skinned French soldiers, and there’s question on whether these are serial killings or hate crimes. Obviously, both. Today authorities are tracking down French paratroopers with Neo-Nazi connections.

I am filled with sadness for the mother left on this earth without her husband and sons. May her community and faith couch her bereft heart, and may the police catch the motherf*cker who did this.

Yesterday also brought more death in Jewish news: Convicted Nazi concentration camp guard John Demjanjuk took his last breath in a German nursing home over the weekend. I’m sure there’s someone who’s mourning for him, but I won’t shed a tear over one less Nazi in the world.

I wrote this about him last May.

Also, my heart is with the mother of Trayvon Martin, the 17 year-old boy shot and killed by neighborhood watchman overzealous vigilante George Zimmerman Feb. 26. Zimmerman has not been arrested, as Florida’s laws allow a person to shoot someone in “self-defense,” even if the other person in unarmed. Martin was carrying only a bag of Skittles, a detail that brings tears to my eyes every time I read it.

I know I wrote a little last week about the centennial celebration of the Girl Scouts held in Savannah, but after spending the weekend immersed in Scout culture and attending the special Sunday service at my synagogue, I felt I needed to share a bit more.

Yes, that little Brownie is the future Yenta—I always did think my little beanie was my own personal yarmulke.

Most days I’m already a huge cheerleader for my adopted city and its tremendous history, but in my opinion, being the birthplace of one of the most influential and positive organizations ever created for girls is pretty epic. Little Yenta Girl (Troop 30113) and I were swept away with pride to be part of it all, knowing that Jewish girls were there from the very beginning.

(Here’s the Connect story I wrote about the wonderful exhibit at Mickve Israel, on display for the rest of the year. The exhibit was also picked up by the nationally-read Jewish Week)

The local organizers from the Girl Scouts of Historic Georgia did one amazing job getting everyone over the Talmadge Bridge for Saturday’s “Bridging to the Next Century” ritual and putting on a super party in Forsyth Park (nothing more exiting in the world than six free jumpyhouses.) LYG and her friends had a blast “swapping” little tsotchkes with other troops—some came as far as California.

On Sunday, dozens of houses of worship held an afternoon service in honor of the impact founder Juliette Gordon Low and her Girl Scouts have made on the women of America. LYG read in her loud, clear voice the Girl Scout Promise and Law, which had me kvelling all over myself.

Girl Scouts of the U.S.A. CEO Anna Maria Chavez could have chosen any one of them to attend, but she decided to come to Mickve Israel. Maybe she wanted to drive home the Girl Scouts values of inclusion and diversity, or maybe she was just curious: When she gave her speech at the bima, she said “You know, I’ve never been in a synagogue before.”

Either way, it was an extra special day to be a Jewish Girl Scout.

At the lovely reception afterwards (one of the best parts about Mickve Israel is that we have a full-time chef, the marvelous Brian Graves), there was one more distinctive surprise not found anywhere else: A batch of oatmeal cookies baked from the very first Girl Scout cookie recipe produced by Savannah’s legendary Gottlieb’s Kosher Bakery.

They tasted rather historical, that is to say a pretty dusty and dry. Clearly over the years, the Girl Scout cookie bakers have added a helluva lot more sugar to their wares.

Oh, it’s my favorite holiday, the Feast of Esther, the time when it’s marginally OK to pass a flask at synagogue.

Of course, I did not that share information with the Shalom Schoolers last Sunday, but I did invent a new Purim game totally on the fly:

Better than Pin the Tail on the Donkey because it doesn’t involve a mule’s tuchus, “Put the Jewel in Esther’s Crown” only needs a blindfold, a marker and some sparkly stickers. Closest one to the center of the Star gets a prize. Actually, because I’m that kind of teacher, all the kids got prizes. But only after they answered a Judaica trivia question first. You can totally steal the idea for next year.

You can’t get a full view because I had to choose a photo that didn’t show any punim (it is not kosher to post pics of people’s kids without asking,) but I felt my costume was rather inspired. Do you not love the turban? It the one my mother-in-law wore when she was recovering from breast cancer, before the dementia. (Yes, she is still with us, in body and spirit if not mind, thanks for asking.)

The wild satin jacket is courtesy of my Bubba Reggie, of blessed memory. The handmade bloomers have traveled with me ever since I left Tucscon in my VW bus almost 20 years ago.

Of course, for last night’s mini-Megillah fest I went as my usual Haman. The ever-good sported El Yenta Man did his Queen Vashti drag routine, in spite of not having the proper-sized balloon bosom. Why do not more adults dress up for this holiday? It’s FUN.

Yes, that is a noose and a Snooki wig and that is how we roll.

Speaking of Puriming it up like a pimp, I brought along a bit of my homemade honey pear liqueur to nip on before the service. I noticed a hip-looking, white-haired lady at our table that I’d never met before, so I offered her a shot. Call it Southern Jewish hospitality, yo.

Turns out she’s a writer from New York doing a story about Savannah (and our 100th anniversary of the Girl Scouts celebrations—check my Jewishy G.S. piece in this week’s Connect) for a travel syndicate.

Knocking back my homemade hooch, she introduced herself as Amy F. J. Stone. We started playing Jewish geography, and she humbly revealed that she is the founding editor of a little Jewish feminist magazine called Lilith.

This may mean very little to most of you, but to us Jewish feminists, it’s a rather big deal. In continuous publication since 1976, Lilith magazine “charts Jewish women’s lives with exuberance, rigor, affection, subversion and style” with brain-challenging social criticism, thoughtful reviews and awesome articles about how hamantaschen are just upside-down vaginas. Though I’ve only perused a couple of copies a year (it’s a quarterly) online or at friends’ houses, I just bought a subscription.

Ms. Stone herself has her own entry in the Jewish Woman’s Archive, which makes her a real macher in my book. I had the honor of showing her around town this afternoon and we had great fun (even though I left the flask at home.) Be on the lookout for fabulous travel article about Savannah in your Sunday paper in the next few months…

So Purim Sameach and all that. Next year, if I promise to bring enough pear liqueur for everybody, will you all promise to come in costume?

Could there be better way to ring in Passover next month than rocking a shirt with the stuttering star of the story?

Two tablet, ten commandments, four colors. This is what I call hipster sederwear, yo.

The term “Hebro” was recently coined by Stuntrocker Dave Rosen, and I cannot stop singing “We could be Hebros” to the David Bowie tune. And now, neither can you, right?

Available here, with plenty of time to plan a coordinating outfit around it before April 6.

What’s that, Christian friends? You want one for Pentecost? Fabulous for you, Hebro comes in a New Testament version, too.

So. The Mormon practice of posthumously baptizing dead Jews.

I think how I stated it pretty clearly how I feel about it in this post from 2008.

I’m not even really sure how such a thing can even be done, since even I know that baptism has something to do with dunking a person in water (a ritual likely inspired by the Jewish mikveh, anyway) so unless the Mormons are going around digging up bones and ashes to concoct some gross Jewish soup in their Tabernacle, the whole idiotic thing is a symbolic and pathetic pretense of “saving” souls when they’re really just trying kiss God’s tuchus. As if spirituality is actually some game where the more people you convert over to your narrow way of thinking, the bigger the prize.

Even after a massive campaign to get the Mormon Church cease and desist with their blasphemous scorecards, the nonsense continues. Researcher and former Mormon Helen Radkey has uncovered evidence that they’ve recently done their unholy voodoo for Anne Frank (who would probably forgive them since she did, in spite of everything, believe people are good at heart.)

They must believe that they get extra points for the really famous Jews:

Radkey also recently found Holocaust survivor and author Elie Wiesel on one of the church’s extensive genealogical databases (guess who else kept long, creepy lists like that? Hitler, that’s who.) Wiesel, who’s still very much alive, is not amused.

The Church of Latter-Day Saints claims it performs these proxy baptisms “because all who have lived on the earth have not had the opportunity to be baptized by proper authority during life on earth,” and everyone should have a chance to get into heaven.

Considering the ancient covenant of Abraham that ensures Jews a place in the World to Come, surely they won’t mind giving up their ancestors for a little posthumous circumcision?

I am having a dream where I am surrounded by cookies…chocolate-enrobed wafers piled up at my feet…stacks of coconut caramel chewies blocking doorways…a tower of lemon sugar drops threatening to topple on my head…

Wait, this isn’t a dream. It’s my livingroom.

The boxes that Little Yenta Girl sold for her Girl Scout troop have arrived, turning my house into an ersatz high-calorie warehouse. Now we have to separate them, deliver them and collect the money before people start banging on the door, hollering for their Thin Mints. This is all after spending several afternoons going to door-to-door to sell them six weeks ago with her grandpa, who has about as much patience for this as I do.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the Girl Scouts. I love sit-a-pons, I love the stinkin’ badges, I love LYG’s awesome troop leaders.

I also love the Girl Scouts’ fist-pumping feminist agenda, I love the social justice they teach, I love that they embrace transgender children. I wholly support this All-American organization of rational empowerment for young women.

(Yes, rational, not “radical,” as Indiana representative Bob Morris wrote in a laughably misinformed letter to his local paper this week, claiming that the Girl Scouts “sexualizes” young girls, and all its role models are feminists, lesbians and communists. While Morris is a ridiculous idiot, I do know some pretty freakin’ awesome feminist lesbian communists who have much to teach.)

The 100th anniversary of the Girl Scouts is this year, and many of you know that the Scouts were first started right here in Savannah, GA. A bright, feisty woman named Juliette Gordon Low (everyone called her “Daisy”) gathered together some neighborhood girls to get them involved in outdoor activities and expose them to business, art, science and social activism. Girls with disabilities were welcomed, and everyone was encouraged to learn skills of self-reliance and to contribute to the world.

(And, because the Yenta can suss out any yiddishe connection within two degrees of separation, you can see here that three of the first five Girl Scout leaders were Jewish.)

I think it’s safe to to say, Daisy was a feminist with an inclusive attitude for all.

Resourceful from the very start, the Girl Scouts began fundraising for charity and to provide camping experiences for their young charges. Cookies were an easy sell, and the first Girl Scout treats were first sold in Oklahoma in 1917 as a service project. The idea caught on fast (I mean, duh, cookies, hello) and demand grew to make these lil’ tasties into one of the most iconic fundraisers of all time.

Back in Savannah, Gottlieb’s kosher bakery was a huge supplier of Girl Scout cookies, sold in wax paper bags for a quarter.

There are some amazing photos on display at Congregation Mickve Israel over the next few months, thanks for balabusta and former G.S. leader Carol Greenberg. She’s put together an incredible exhibit of historic uniforms, badges and more—call the temple for info if you’d like to visit.

So, yes, Girl Scout cookies. Deliciousness for a good cause. Happy to be a part of it all.

But sending the girls out into neighborhoods to collect orders in advance, then having to pick them all up and distribute them while being on the hook for the cash is just silly. I paid for my lunch yesterday using a cell phone, for heaven’s sake.

Surely after a hundred years, the smart and resourceful Girl Scouts can come up with a better way to hawk their wares?