Category Archives: (not-so-traditional) Tradition, Tradition!

Holiday rituals and recipes

The Worst of Days

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In just a few minutes it will be Tisha B’av, the ninth day in the Hebrew month of Av, a day when the worst sh*t in Jewish history has gone done time after time:

The Mishnah discusses the Five Great Calamities that happened in Jerusalem on the same day years apart, including the destruction of both temples and the Bar Kochba’s failed revolt against the Romans.

And the pattern continues: The Jews were kicked out of England on the ninth of Av in the year 1290 CE, Spain kicked us out on the same day in 1492, Germany declared war on Russia in 1914, the Nazis began deporting Jews out of the Warsaw ghetto in 1942. Sometimes there’s a time zone gaffe, but bad things still happen when it’s Tisha B’Av somewhere: The AMIA bombing in Buenos Aires took place on the 10th of Av in 1994.

Observant Jews fast on this day, and some prepare a special meal the afternoon before, consisting of only bread, water and a hard-boiled egg. According to Aish.com, “the egg is the only food which gets harder the more it is cooked � a symbol of the Jewish people’s ability to withstand persecution.”

Many rabbis interpret the awful happenings as a consequence for not heeding God’s warnings. Sara Yocheved Rigler’s highly relevant and thoughtful article “When God Moved Out” on Aish.com puts this into a perspective even the most secular among us can grasp. Even if we aren’t Orthodox, isn’t it vital as humans to examine the consequences of our actions � before we act? Shouldn’t we mourn our own collective stupidity and ignorance � and make better choices? As non-observant Jews, what are the effects if we don’t teach our children the significance of mystical connections between ancient history and this moment, right now?

Being something of a fast-and-loose Jew myself, it’s not likely that I’ll meet the Talmudic standards of mourning for this day. I’m not sure my synagogue is having any kind of service. I would take the day off, except I already have several deadline-related appointments on my schedule. But my neshama cannot let it slide completely: We’ll eat hard-boiled eggs for dinner, discuss the strange and mighty coincidence of these historical events, wonder and be grateful for the ease of our lives, and see how we might listen better to God.

On The Doorpost Of Your Condo, Cave, Whateva

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mezuzah vinemezOy, have you heard about the Florida condo association that tried to slap a Jewish resident with a fat fine for putting up a mezuzah? 28 year-old Laurie Richter knew better than to be intimidated by the building manager and cooly pointed out in a letter to the board that there were Christmas wreaths up until February in the building, so it obviously wasn’t an aesthetic issue.

“Clearly, the Rules and Regulations of the Port Condominium could not have intended to interfere with people practicing their religion,” she wrote in a letter to the association.

Richter won her right to affix the prayers to the doorposts of her house, and on her gates if she wishes, but not before the attorney general, a state representative and the ADL got involved. All the fuss embarrassed the bejeebus out of the condo association, who sniffly put out a press release that all Richter had to do was ask permission. Puh-leez! It’s not like a mezuzah is just some decoration like a freakin’ lawn gnome or one of those tacky nylon flags people put out to show support for their favorite team — and any homeowner’s association should know the difference. And this is Florida for criminey’s sakes — you can’t swing a cat without making a Jewish person sneeze. No excuse for such ignorance, unless, of course it’s more insidious.

In any case, such nonsense won’t happen again, as State Rep Julio Robaina of Miami has sponsored a bill that includes a provision to ensure residents can post a mezuzah. The language states: “No association may prohibit the attachment of religious items at the door or at the entrance of a unit. The board may adopt reasonable size restrictions for such items.” So no three-foot neon jobbies, ‘k?

Speaking of mezuzot, as you know, I’m shopping. I’ll probably buy locally from one of the synagogue gift shops, but I’m digging these two gorgeous items from the Mezuzahstore.com and Artazia.com. I’ve always figured we were covered with on the front door and one on the back, but maybe one for each of the bedroom doors will help us all sleep better, nu?

I’ve been brushing up on mezuzah protocol and the official prayer, but as usual, the new Yenta front door presents a problem: There is a glass door that opens outward and another that open into the interior. So do I affix the mezuzah on the outside of the first door, which would put it actually on the house instead of on the door frame, or do I put it between the two? Any help would be appreciated.

Shabbat, Not Stress, For The Modern Jewish Mom

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mjmI don’t know what Friday afternoon looks like at your house, but let me share a glimpse of what Yenta Central looks like: I am, of course, sitting at the tiny table masquerading as a home office in the middle of the livingroom. One child is reading The Adventures of Captain Underpants out loud at the top of his lungs; the other has brought all of her shoes and stuffed animals out of the bedroom and is lining them up in the hallway: “Look, Mommy, boats! Lots and lots of boats!” El Yenta Man went down to the garage hours ago to see about the fifteen loads of laundry that mysteriously can’t seem to fold themselves; it’s unlikely that his long absence means he’s taught the socks to find their mates, but rather that he has mastered the high score on the old Defender game that I keep hiding.

Suddenly I realize it is less than an hour until sundown. My adrenal gland flushes my body with a once-a-week stress hormone: It’s the Shabbat-specific panic attack, unlike the daily low-grade buzz that simply repeats the same old neurotic gossip like one of those electronic marquees with the red scrolling letters: “Is anyone reading my silly blog? I am too told to be coloring my hair blue? Is this mole precancerous? Why are there still Jews who support George Bush?”.

I hit the “Shut Down” bar on my Mac and clap. “All right everyone! Clean it up! Now!” Resembling a cross between the Tasmanian Devil and Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest, I spin through the house tossing toys and shoes and grabbing collars, hissing orders like “wash your face!” “put Mr. Monkeypants and Baby Garbage back in the basket!” “for God’s sake stop whining!” and get responses like “Just one more chapter, puh-leeez!” and “Hey! You’re stepping in my ocean!” El Yenta Man surfaces from the garage, fresh and relaxed from his video game session, miraculously carrying a basket of clean towels, napkins and tablecloths. I thought ahead to defrost an organic chicken last night, there’s fresh kale to steam and a challah baked by the anonymous employees of Publix this morning. I say a silent prayer of gratitude for instant brown rice.

Fifty-five minutes later, I am panting with the aftereffects of hysteria, but the Shabbat table has come together: the candles have been lit on the bottom so they will stick in their holders, the napkins stand like crooked swans per El Yenta Boy’s trademark folding technique, and Little Yenta Girl’s snarly wild hair has been tamed on top of her head. Our family breathes three collective breaths together; the first one just to get to the moment, the second to look at each other and wonder at each other’s presence, and the final one that cracks open a deeper sense of being. In that moment of silence — the only one my extremely loud and active family experiences all week — I strike the match and usher in Shabbat: Baruch ata adonai… Peace descends like blanket crocheted with the softest wool by your bubbie — for about thirty seconds. Then the kids start bickering over who got a bigger piece of challah and someone spills the kiddush cup on the freshly washed tablecloth.

It’s not always that hectic, though never perfect by halachic or probably even Child Protective Services’ standards. But I know Meredith Jacobs doesn’t judge me for our messy traditions. Better known as Modern Jewish Mom, a Maryland maven who knows what to wear to synagogue and how to bake a honeycake, Ms. Jacobs understands that every family does Shabbat dinner differently, and the most important thing is that you do it — even if it’s pizza.

“It’s not the meal, it’s the mood,” she admonishes in her new book, The Modern Jewish Mom’s Guide to Shabbat. It’s the perfect tonic for families who want to bring more of a Shabbesdik feeling into the home, without any of that sanctimonious bullhockey that makes us less-than-perfect mamas feel guilty. In fact, her very point seems to be that Shabbat is a gift to decrease a family’s stress, not make more:

“I don’t believe there is a “right” way to do Shabbat…Start with what speaks to you and build from there…It doesn’t mean you do everything. It means taking the time to figure out what feels comfortable and what works for you and your family.”

Part siddur, part cookbook, with generous dashes of sass and style, the Guide bridges the ancient traditions with real life in a way that will remind you of gabbing with your best friend. Each chapter includes adorable illustrations (showcasing MJM’s apparent predilection for strappy high heels, God love her) and helpful tips (add a little water to the bottom of glass candleholders to prevent a mess), yet the history and essential aspects of Jewish life are explored much more deeply than the fun, glossy layout might belie.

MJM is very clear to remind her readers that she’s “just a mom,” but don’t let her self-effacing humility fool you: Girlfriend knows her Torah. Every relevant prayer is included here in Hebrew and English, including the Eishet Chayel — “Woman of Valor” — that every husband might consider memorizing. There’s a dip into kabbalah to put the Shabbat ritual into perspective, and never before has this Yenta found such a lovely, easy Havdalah service to end Shabbat once the three stars of Saturday make their appearance. And get this: MJM has interpreted each of the weekly parshas (Torah portion) in family-friendly terms, which instead of being intimidating, will surely inspire enlightened conversation between all generations.

Unlike so many other “Jewish 101”-type tomes, MJM’s Guide to Shabbat covers the ground only a mother can appreciate. The how-to chapter for creating shalom bayit (peace in the home), called “Wine, Not Whine” (heheheh, hear that kids?), includes essential direction for preparing your home for Shabbat, as well advice on how to remind little ones of their manners: “Pretend God is at the table. How would you act?” MJM also demystifies the challenge of DIY challah (bake for the whole month and freeze — brilliant!) and she isn’t stingy with the kosher recipes, either. There’s even an entire chapter devoted to projects with the kids — what home doesn’t need a glittery spice box made from a milk carton?

As MJM gets down with the practical and generates giggles with the frivolous, she’s never far away from the spiritual: The overreaching theme of this guide is to create peace — for yourself and your family one day a week. Religious or no, observing your particular kind of Sabbath facilitates the kind of close family connections we all need more of, as most of us spend the rest of week scattered all over creation in carpools, school, work and extracurriculars. What a relief to find a Jewish how-to book that lets you know it’s all right to do it your way! This is one to give every Jewish mother you know, whether they think they need it or not.

Four Questions In ASL

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Mah Nishtana Sign Language
El Yenta Boy thinks he’s pretty hot stuff ’cause he’s had the Ma Nishtana down since he was three, so I thought I’d up the challenge and make him learn it in sign language this year. Just kidding. (Hat tip: Bangitout.) But I have a question for those parents of multiple kids out there: When is time to pass the baton to the next youngest child? Little Yenta Girl isn’t ready to take over yet, but I foresee heartbreak next year when I tell my son he’s being passed over for a younger chanter. He has such a Jewish neshama (soul), though; he’ll probably be leading the seder by the time he’s nine.

Like many of you this week, I’m up to my ears in chametz and shmutz (crumbs and dirt), though I’ll never live up to Chabad’s Chametz Wizard. Add in switching over the winter wardrobe for the summer clothes and simultaneously packing for a family visit to Arizona in a few days, as well as preparing to move out of the in-laws’ beach house to a home of our own next month, you’ve got one frazzled Yenta here. Looking forward to taking next week off — you know you’ve left the last vestige of your punk rock lifestyle behind when visiting your parents sounds like the epitome of rest and relaxation.

Which brings me to what could be perhaps the fifth question: If we’re not actually going to be inhabiting our (not) home during Passover, can I leave this bag of pita in the freezer and just give my born-again neighbor a dollar?

Purim’s A Real Drag

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Mark!!Ahem, why yes, this is El Yenta Man, listening attentively to the Megillah reading in 2006. Tell me, have you ever seen a more beautiful Purim Queen?

I suppose some wives might have issues with their husbands cross-dressing, but not me. In fact, El Yenta Man was a little resistant to going in drag to last year’s Purim fiesta but did so at my urging, because I wanted him to show solidarity with our son, who went as Hermione from Harry Potter. Personally, I find a man who’s comfortable with his feminine side (and can rock my leather pants) a real turn-on. Anytime you want to borrow the tiara, baby, it’s yours.

My girlie men got a fantastic reception, but that was last year at our hippie Reconstructionist under-the-redwoods shul a few miles north of San Francisco. Will our family hold fast to our iconoclastic, gender-bending ideals at our new synagogue in the deep South, the one so set in its Protestant-inspired ways that it’s still using prayer books from 1952? I don’t know if the boys can hang. I once heard some of the old ladies complain that they let “shvartzes” (a derogatory Yiddish term for a black person) on the bima; I can already see the lemon-sour lips and hands clutched to their hearts when my man minces in on platform shoes.

I’ll have to ‘splain to them that Purim is just a gay holiday, that’s all, and it’s a good thing. The Jewish Journal reported that some L.A. Jews found Purim’s identity-skewing possibilities a fabulous platform to bring unaffiliated LGBT Jews back into the fold, and The Washington Post quoted it as the “quintessential coming-out story” last week.

Actually, Purim is so fey that even post-modern cynics like Faithhacker at Jewcy.com concede that Purim is just the gay Jewish Halloween, even if she thinks it’s a far stretch to associate Esther’s sacrifices to sock-stuffed brassieres.

My suspicion is that most of you don’t even wear costumes on Purim — you think “oh ho ho, that’s for the children, I’m just going to stand back here with the other parents in our Dockers and Puma sneakers and get sloshed on blackberry Manischewitz.” You’re missing out, really. I’m not saying you have to get all drag-a-licious and break out the sequined loin cloth, but maybe you could poke the boundaries just a little, as a reminder of what this holiday is about — the defeat of those who would destroy us and the freedom to be who we are.

Just think about it. In the meantime, I’m certain you will enjoy Shabot6000’s timeless Shushan Flash cartoon. That is, if you don’t find robots in drag offensive.

Chag Sameach to all this Sunday!

Purim Costumes Made Easy

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doraCartoon characters may be all the rage in Israel for Purim, but I’ll tell you what, a plastic Spongebob cape is not gonna fly for my kids at the synagogue’s Megillah reading. What kind of neurotic Jewish mother would I be if I made it as simple as buying some leftover Halloween schlock Wal-Mart? I couldn’t take the guilt.

When I was a girl, there was none of this commercial nonsense on Purim: You wrapped some tulle around your waist and put on too much of your mother’s blue eyeshadow and you were Queen Esther, no fussing allowed. (Your idea to go naked under a bathrobe as Vashti was shot down three years in a row.)

Your brother had two choices: He could make a robe out of some hideous sheet and use your mom’s brown eyepencil and make a goatee to be Mordecai, or take her mascara, brush on a Hitler moustache and don a three-cornered hat made out of construction paper and a thousand staples to be Haman. Things were simple back then.

But my daughter has been wearing her Wonder Woman costume for five straight days (to school, to the grocery store, out to dinner, over her pajamas.) I may have to explain that Queen Esther is feeling a little superheroine-ish these days. *Sigh* Yet Another Bad Jewish Mother Moment.

(For those scrambling for ideas to wear to this weekend, check out Aish’s suggestions for easy, no-sew costumes.)

Wear Your Grief On Your…Wrist?

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kaddish bandsI guess we have cancer survivor Lance Armstrong and his yellow “Live Strong” campaign to thank for the ubiquity of colored rubber bracelets. You can order any color with any slogan you want on these inexpensive accessories, and I predict they’ll soon squeeze out magnetic car ribbons as the preferred American method of advertising one’s favorite cause.

Given their versatility, it certainly makes sense that someone would create Kaddish Bands, a black silcone bracelet stamped with the words of the Mourner’s Kaddish. The black bendels serve a blessed purpose by reminding those in grief of their obligation to recite Kaddish, and they’re a lot more subtle than a shredded pocket or a cloth armband. Some people have begun passing them out at funerals instead of the traditional prayer cards, though I can’t imagine my own bubbie being thrilled at this when it’s her time. “What? No rhinestones? Feh.”

While I find rubber bracelets chillingly tacky — and I abhor them even more when they’re stacked up on the arm like some homage to S&M — I appreciate the sentiment, especially since the company pledges 10% of its business to emergency services in Israel. Just as long as no one’s wearing them on the same wrist with their “I Love Yu-Gi-Oh” jobbie.

Saguaro Menorah Miracle

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saguaromenorahFrom the state that boasts a “Mother Mary on a tortilla sighting” at least once a year comes this article from Arizona about an eight-armed cactus growing in a Jewish front yard.

Can it be interpreted as an act of God that this prickly plant found a Jewish home and not a one where it would be forced to spend the winter season as an octopus wearing a Santa hat?

Owner Mel Kline calls the 135 year-old saguaro a symbol of peace, and dubs the “natural living Chanukah menorah” as “a lasting symbol of freedom in today’s world.”

I hope he still feels that way when crowds of meshuggenehs seeking a sign from above begin camping on the front lawn to be blessed by glow of this burning bush — Oh, wait. Jews don’t camp.

Miracle or no, it’s still magnificent!

(Hat tip: The Supreme Grand Yenta of Scottsdale, my mom.)

Oy Vey! The Rabbi’s Gay!

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gayblackjewishklansmenBy now most of you know that the Conservative movement issued a series of edicts on the subject of Jewish gayness last week, caused many of us to jump for joy because it’s just one more step towards the righteous and fabulously decorated world that will come with global Jewish gay domination.

Jewish Gay media mafioso jokes aside, this trend towards tolerance and acceptance could be what saves Judaism from suffication by unaffiliation — from here it looks like Conservatism is growing up with its surrounding culture rather than supressing and denying it.

But in typical Talmud-ese, the answer is never as clean cut as a bris. While paving the way for the ordination of gay rabbis and sanctioning same sex marriages, the three teshuvah (“responses”) actually contradict each other: One policy upholds the ban on gay rabbis, another allows them as well as blessing ceremonies for gay couples but maintains the prohibition on sodomy, and a third continues the traditional opinion that gayfolk do not belong near a Torah.

In last week’s j., one rabbi says the committee’s ruling “cuts the baby in half” (a reference to the famous King Solomon story) because for those who wholly approve of gay rabbis and marriage, it doesn’t actually grant permission for such, and those who don’t find the ruling progressive might “worry it will mean the end of K’lal Yisroel [the Jewish people] since it goes completely against the grain of 2,000 years of rabbinical decisions.”

So basically, you can be a gay rabbi and ordain gay couples under a chuppah, but no one’s allowed to have hot gay sex. Somehow, though, this adds up to progress.

Let the Sunday School discussions begin! Rabbi Daniel Brenner of the RebBlog has written a sweet story that’s perfect for your first “why does the rabbi wear chaps?” chat with the children: Oy Vey! The Rabbi is Gay!: A Children’s Tale for All the Conservative Synagogue Educators Who Might Need a Little Extra Help Next Week.

Here in Savannah, rumor has it that the Conservative synagogue, Agudath Achim, is shopping around for a new spiritual leader. I asked a liberal-minded congregant what the chances were that they’d hire a gay one.

He snorted. “How about the first woman rabbi in Savannah?”

One step at a time, dude…