We all enjoy the fabulously-mulleted Sexy Sax Man, who blows his horn on streetcorners whether people like it or not.
But Jew you know about Sexy Shofar Man?
Rosh Hashanah is coming and I wish Sexy Shofar would come to Savannah. The look on the tourists’ faces on River Street would be priceless.
This new moon brought more than the end of Ramadan and a little PMS: It marks the beginning of Elul, the last month of the Hebrew year before we repent and do it all over again.
Some Eluls I get really hairshirt-y about it and list an alphabet of sins I’ve committed over the past year, but I think I’ve exceeded 26 letters this time around the sun so let’s just say I’m a deeply flawed, unconscious human doing her best to keep her heart big, her mind open and the size of her tush under control.
I’m definitely guilty of being a Bad Jew this year, only attending synagogue a handful of times since Young Yenta Man became a bar mitzvah and totally blowing off Havdalah while the kids were at camp. Frankly, while El Yenta Man and I remembering how to speak to each other without shushing a small interrupting person, I’d forgotten about Elul altogether.
Fortunately, I got a Yentagram yesterday from my favorite silver fox, also known in Jewish circles as Mr. Craig Taubman. Modern Judaism’s spiritual rock star continues his legacy community and compassion with Jewels of Elul IX, a collection of short essays by interesting people meant to help us think and pray and prepare for the New Year (5774, yo!) Sign up for a daily email for the month and be inspired.
This year’s theme is The Art of Welcoming, a fitting line of thought for Taubman, who is finally realizing his dream of a multi-faith cultural arts and spiritual center in Los Angeles. The Pico Union sits on the site of LA’s first Sinai Temple and will be a place where “Jews, Christians and Muslims can meet and pray in a safe and encouraging space.” Doesn’t get more welcoming than that.
Craig N’ Co are also embarking on a little tour of the South – nowhere near Savannah, unfortunately, but an opportunity for the Jews of Asheville, NC and Memphis, TN to sing a rousing “Hinei MaTov” with this bringer of joy and light.
Funnily enough, I just came across this 2011 post by Allison Gaudet Yarrow on the Forward’s Sisterhood blog about the Jewel of Elul I contributed way back in 2006. In it, my man Craig actually credits this yenta with bringing him to tears with my story about my mother-in-law and not letting her dance alone. Not that I’m proud of making a grown man cry, but I so cherish being a part of the Jewels of Elul family.
I have a week of catching up to do, but now that I’m signed up I won’t forget about Elul again. I like having a lead-up to the High Holidays and their deep pockets of soulful reflection, our chance to apologize for our idiocies and promise to make things better in the world this next year. Elul gives us a head start.
Lord knows I need the extra time.
Listen, we all have our weird childhood stories.
The ones that we tell on the third or fourth date to gauge whether this relationship could get more serious, the tales of familial dysfunction that reveal our own inescapable flaws, those embarrassing yet vital moments in the formation of the imperfect, weird people we are now.
I personally could regale you for hours about my long lost Uncle Uriah, a sensitive, nature-loving soul that I never met but felt a great kinship with over our love of large trees and rescuing stray animals. I took great solace that there was at least one blood relative who could really understand me, and I wrote in my journal about the travels I would take one day to visit Uncle Uriah in the treehouse where he lived in the jungles Uruguay. That is until my dad confessed he had totally made up Uncle Uriah and that Jews did not live in treehouses in Uruguay. It took awhile to get over.
But I must say after reading storyteller Slash Coleman’s rollicking memoir The Bohemian Love Diaries, no meshuggeh childhood story beats the opening scene where the 7 year-old author watches his artist father, decked out in a Nazi soldier hat and a deerskin loincloth, chase a case of Schlitz through a meat market.
Full of such wackiness, soul-searching and some unorthodox questioning about Jewish identity, The Bohemian Love Diaries follows Slash’s evolution from a kid raised on the fringe of society to a successful — and searingly honest — mainstay in the NYC storytelling movement. His one-man show, The Neon Man and Me, received national acclaim and he’s a regular contributor to Psychologytoday.com.
Unafraid to change improve his identity to suit his true self (the story of how he became “Slash” from “Jeffrey” is in the book) or to reveal the tender, painful scars left by his parents and lovers, Slash is an anti-hero for those of us who already know that growing up is complicated. Readers will chuckle as well as flinch a little at his self-deprecating travails; it also made this yenta just want to find this funny guy a nice Jewish girl.
Slash was kind enough to answer some questions for Yo, Yenta!:
Your journey to self-actualization has been a bumpy one. Do you think your book seems to say that after all, love is, finally, a relationship with the self?
Definitely. Though I think it needs an addendum: Love in all its forms — be it for family, for surfing, for French fries, for fashion, for art, for our dog, cat or goldfish, for our boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/
So, therapy vs. religion? In the absence of one, must we fill the void with the other?
Although I didn’t detail it in the book, Raleigh (my ex-wife) and I were sort of therapy and religion addicts. At our wedding we had a chuppa, a priestess, a reading by an OSHO devotee, a fire burner, and a Hindu God invocation. We were dressed in costumes that made us look like a cross between Greek Gods and velvet super heroes. Our need to include so many different things from so many different religions typified our relationship, it was a whole lot of good stuff that created a watered down version of good stuff that rendered each piece completely flavorless and useless.
That experience helped me see that there is a certain and necessary power of unyielding ritual in religion.
Raleigh and I tried the same thing with therapy, starting with one therapist the first year we met and bouncing to a new one each year. We tried every kind of whacked out west coast couples counseling that existed. When all was said and done, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t keep our relationship together in the end. Religion and therapy failed us. This is why “tiger’s blood” and Ashton Kutcher movies are so important.
How has storytelling healed you? How does it heal others?
My father taught me that breathing and creating are the same thing. Upon waking, he’d drink a cup of coffee and then head into his art studio. I’d often head down later, after a bowl of cereal, but he wouldn’t eat until dinner time. It’s a schedule he maintains to this day. Having a safe space to create helped me learn a lot about escape. I’ve spent nearly all of professional artistic career — as a fiction writer, visual artist, jazz pianist, and performance artist — using art to escape my circumstances.
No matter how bad my life was I could always disappear into an artistically created world — a world away from my father’s alcoholism and violence, a world away from the awkward anxiety and idiosyncratic behavior of a family full of Holocaust survivors, a world away from a place where I mostly felt like an outsider and freak who wanted nothing more than to feel close and connected to the people around me. Though none of these mediums gave me the results I sought, I never gave up my need to find a way to bridge this distance.
It wasn’t until I embraced performance storytelling and began to tell personal, true, stories that something began to change in myself and my work. Listeners no longer escaped through my art. They began to come closer and ask questions and connect with me by sharing their own personal, true stories.
Psychologists and neuroscientists explain this teller/listener relationship using simple biology — great stories trigger large doses of our bodies pleasure chemicals — oxytocin, dopamine and serotonin, the same chemicals released during a massage or falling in love. I liken the experience to the Na’vi tail from the movie Avatar. By literally plugging their tails (an overelaborate hair braid containing a highly evolved nervous system) into another creature’s nervous system, the Na’vi share an inexplicable bond in the same way the teller and the listener share a bond.
When we become immersed in a story, our brains essentially can’t tell the difference between the line where the story begins and our real-world experience ends. Very few things in life create such a similar bond. Healing is inevitable.
Your mother — a Holocaust survivor — kept anything smacking of Judaism out of your childhood out of (well-founded) fear. How does Judaism manifest in your life now?
My first completely Jewish solo show was called “Slash Coleman has Big Matzo Balls.” I performed it nationally in theaters from 2007-2008.
During the show, I played 15 different characters. I gave birth to a matzo ball, had sex with a Jewish Fairy Godmother, did a standup routine dressed as Jesus, and talked to a sock puppet named the Super Cock. It was Sarah Silverman meets Mel Brooks and as you can probably tell from the description it was totally over the top.
I managed to offend just about everyone. Many Jews said I didn’t have a right to tell the story because it didn’t belong to me. Christians threatened me. The reviewers ignored the content and used it as a launching pad to cut into who they thought I was as a person, saying I was a weirdo. Members of my synagogue dismissed my work saying, “He’s one of those (meaning a 2G – a second generation Holocaust survivor). Let him do what he wants.” My mom, who had spent a lifetime hiding her connection to anything Jewish, was suddenly being outed by her son in the most public of ways.
Through it, I learned a lot about my role as both an artist and a Jew.
Ultimately, that show was the first draft of “The Bohemian Love Dairies.” Without it, I wouldn’t have found the real story I wanted to tell. Without it, I would’ve never learned that I could tell that story without costumes and schtick. Sometimes, it takes peeling back many layers to get to the truth.
And so, this is how Judaism manifests in my life. On my sidewalk stage it happens regularly. Nearly every time I’m introduced to someone a conversation about my name ensues and a story about my grandfather and my Jewish past arise. Although I attend synagogue, I prefer to celebrate the holidays with my sometimes barefoot/sometimes naked Jewish friends and their gluten-free matzo balls — my most satisfying Jewish experiences take place far away from anything called Jewish.
What qualities are you looking for in a lady in case I meet someone nice (Dude, the name says “Yenta” — what did you expect?)
Hey, I’m all about the yenta, sister. Bring it on!
First and foremost I’m looking for someone who understands that I’m way more than my public persona, be it in my books, my blog posts or my performances. A lot of people who read my work and see me perform don’t understand that the guy called “Slash Coleman” is a public artistic creation. For every story I include, there are hundreds that I leave out. For every story I spin one way, I could have just as easily spun it in a different direction. My writing as well as the stories I perform are personal and true, but they’re created with literary craft elements in mind — I’m not.
So, female readers, if the list below resonates with you, feel free to contact my newly-appointed Yenta:
…you’re confident, kind, and you shine in your own very distinct way, maybe it’s through your kick-ass clothing ensemble or maybe you’re the creative one amongst all your normal friends, you’re definitely the one who sees the world a little bit differently.
…you’re a dreamer who wants to make a difference in the world, maybe you’ve found your mission (maybe you’re actively seeking it), you’re definitely playful, socially aware and exhibit kindness and generosity on a regular basis.
…. you’ve got a great reverence for ritual — be it personal or spiritual and have a belief in something other than yourself.
…. you think a relationship will enhance and expand your already rich life rather than fill an emptiness. And like me, when we’re sitting across from one another for the very first time you’d rather toast to our contentment in life than to our list of accomplishments.
Savannah’s Jewish community lost a good one last week.
Dr. Amos Timna, born in Israel and adored in Savannah for his constant commitment to social and community causes, died last Friday after he fell trimming a tree. He was 64.
He was a mensch and by the accounts of his patients, a kind and gentle gynecologist. And though you’d never guess it from his easy smile and penchant for fine food (he could often be spotted at Troy, a Greek restaurant on the southside,) he was also apparently quite a bad-tush.
It was mentioned at the shivah last Sunday that Dr. Timna (“Pssssh, call me Amos!” he would say with a wave of his hand) served in the Israeli super-secret elite special forces unit Sayeret Matkal, kind of like the Navy Seals of the IDF. He helped rescue over 100 hostages back in 1976 as part of Operation Entebbe and participated in many other highly dangerous missions for Israel.
He rarely spoke of it, though his former comrade and friend Benjamin Netanyahu called Amos’ wife last week to offer condolences. Amos and Bibi served under a young gun commander named Ehud Barak – hard to imagine a tougher group of bada$$ muthas in the 1970s.
I only knew him as the handsome gent who organized the amazing Israel at 60 event and always asked about my mother-in-law’s health. We bantered at the JEA drinking fountain just a couple of weeks ago when Attorney General Sam Olens came to speak (no, he was NOT one of the alterkockers who still haven’t forgiven Jane Fonda.)
In such times of unexpected tragedy, we Jews say Baruch dayan ha’emet – Blessed is the True Judge.
May the Almighty comfort all who mourn for this wonderful man.
AG Sam Olens (l.) accepting some Savannah Jewish swag from JEA director Adam Solender.
Ooooh, nothing like pissing off the alterkockers before 10am.
Yesterday, Georgia Attorney General Sam Olens came to speak at the Jewish Educational Alliance, and before I could even start asking him annoying questions, I got into it with two extremely conservative members of the community about Edward Snowden, the NSA and President Obama.
“Snowden’s a traitor!” groused one gent. “Should be extradited back here and strung up by his toes!”
“That sorry excuse for a president, it’s all his fault,” nodded the other. “Using the NSA to spy on innocent Americans. Outrageous.”
I turned around. “Excuse me, but wasn’t it President Bush who passed the Patriot Act that allows the NSA to collect information? And if you’re so upset about the government spying on you, why wouldn’t you consider Snowden a hero?”
They both looked at me, shook their heads and said “Feh! What do you know? You liberals…”
Usually I avoid these kinds of confrontations conversations at all costs but I just adore these guys, and I think the debate is good prep for arguing with my children. But before I could find out what my Republican friend had to say about liberals, JEA director Adam Solender took the podium. He was followed by a new member whose name I didn’t catch but who works for the FBI, a fitting warm-up for the number one lawyer in the state.
AG Olens forewent the podium, pacing and talking at our level. He was considering the audience when he introduced himself as the first Jewish candidate to win any elected position in Georgia, but promised, “I didn’t campaign on those grounds.”
Affable and clearly passionate about his job, Olens is an unapologetic conservative, which you’d need to be to win anything at the state level around here. I liked him anyway, even after he told us he’d recently helped broker the settlement between South Carolina environmental groups and his biggest client, the Georgia Port Authority, over the legality of Savannah Harbor Expansion Project, or as I prefer to call it, The Dread River Dredging. (I’ve written just a leetle bit about it here, here and here.)
He’s touting the party line, and I can forgive him for that, since he’s made tremendous headway in other social issues near and dear: He’s been instrumental in keeping Georgia’s open records laws full of sunshine and has helped write a bill that will ensure that those ubiquitous strip mall pain clinics are medically supervised instead of just Oxycontin-pushing “pill mills.”
My favorite piece of Olens legislation is by far HB 200, a sex-trafficking bill that goes after not only the pimps that kidnap and prostitute young girls, but also the sick pigs who create the demand.
“Georgia has one of the highest sex-trafficking rates in the country,” he told us. “We’re trying to attack the problem from different angles.”
HB 200 also includes a partnership with the FBI to help educate hotel workers and requires law enforcement training so that young women caught in this modern slave trade can be recognized. Anywhere that hosts large sporting events or conventions is magnet for sex trafficking, and Olens described how the bill enabled a huge “Georgia’s Not Buying It” awareness campaign during this year’s Final Four championships in Atlanta.
“If it scared one person away, then it’s helping,” he said.
AG Olens also touched on immigration reform (“There’s total dysfunction in Washington at the moment,” he said frankly) and the Ogeechee Riverkeeper’s lawsuit against the EPA for allowing King America Finishing to keep dumping toxic effluent (“Uh, let’s move on,” he grinned sheepishly.)
He talked about his partnership with Facebook CEO Cheryl Samberg that aims to help parents keep their kids safe online, and his total disgust with Obamacare (“Employers are going to choose to pay the penalty than keep paying for their employee’s rising insurance premiums.”)
Of course this yenta asked what he had to say about the NSA, and he gave a measured response that lambasted people who are trying to make this a political foothold instead of looking out for America’s safety.
The alterkockers harumphed behind me.
That’s cool, I’m used to being the weirdo in the room. I enjoyed the chance to talk with AG Olens in such an accessible atmosphere – programming director Jenn Rich is doing a kicktush job of bringing interesting folks to the JEA, and I can’t wait to see who the alterkockers and I get to hear next.
I can always use the sparring practice.
We Jewish mothers have always suffered this maligned stereotype: That we’re neurotic, we’re overprotective, we’re kvetchers … Nevermind, I’ll just sit shivah in the corner until you apologize.
Hence all the jokes. (Here’s my current favorite: Non-Jewish mother: My child is tired and thirsty, he needs some juice! Jewish mother: My child is tired and thirsty, he must have diabetes!)
EYM teaching YG important life skills
But yesterday, as I was watching my dear famisht El Yenta Man tear apart the house for his wallet (it was on the table behind the couch all along) and had doozying flashbacks of my own daddy hollering that he couldn’t find his expensive sunglasses that were right there on his head, I wondered, where are the jokes about Jewish fathers? How come THEY don’t get made fun of? What, they’re chopped liver?
I found this JTA list from last year laying out the Nine Types of Jewish Dads on TV, but nowhere on it does it include the well-meaning and lovable papa who cannot simultaneously keep his wallet, keys, phone and glasses on his person at the same time, no matter what kind of fancy man purse you bought him last Father’s Day. Maybe because losing at least one personal belonging a day isn’t a Jewish dad thing, it’s just A DUDE thing.
So I guess I’ll follow the lead of today’s Forward, where author Larry Smith has collected Six Word Memoirs about famous Jewish fathers.
To my dear dad and beloved husband, both loving and loyal Jewish fathers no matter how often they yell “What did you do with my f@#$$ keys?!”, here is my six-word ode:
Lost wallet again? Try a stapler.
Happy Father’s Day to all the daddies out there, especially the ones in my life!
Savannah is still reeling from the sudden loss of its greatest musical ambassador, Ben Tucker.
The man with the mighty jazz hands was killed Tuesday as he was playing his other favorite thing, golf: He was driving his golf cart across an abandoned race track on Hutchison Island when a Texas man illegally racing his car struck Ben at 90 mph. He was 82 and scheduled to play a gig that night, “a working musician to the end.”
Though our sadness is great, I can’t help but think it might not be such a bad way to go: Instantly with (please God!) no suffering, only a life full of accomplishments and stories and love behind you and an evening of good times and good music ahead.
Most everyone around here who loves music has a story about Ben Tucker, and this yenta is no exception. Much of it is going into a longer piece I’m working for the next issue of Connect, but I must say here that he played a significant role in my transformation to the Jewish mother I am: He was the band leader at El Yenta Man’s and my wedding.
There he played with my other favorite jazz musician in the world, my late grandfather, George Blumenthal. The memory of the two of them jamming onstage to “Tangerine” (one of my faves) stands out, as does the terrifying flashback of being carried around the room on a chair by a bunch of drunk people as Ben and the band kicked out an epic rendition of “Hava Nagila.”
This photo of the two of them does no one any justice, but I couldn’t remove it from my wedding album without shredding it, so it’s a photo of a photo. No digital photography back in 1997.
I’d also love to show you the video, except it’s on VHS. I have no means to even play it, let alone record it on my phone, download it to my computer, upload it to Youtube and embed it into WordPress. The world has changed tremendously since El Yenta Man and I were starry-eyed newlyweds, and certainly since my grandfather and Ben were every-night-a-new-gig musicians. But I think they would both agree that “Tangerine” will always be a great song.
Instead I give you WorldLive’s tribute to Ben, including an awesome interview in which he casually mentions that Nelson Mandela is a fan:
http://youtu.be/3YtXptf6A-I
May the memory of Ben Tucker be a blessing. And may we always remember to hold close those dear to us and enjoy the music.
Completely obsessed with this week’ article in the Forward about Louisa May Alcott’s Portuguese Jewish history. (I read Little Women at least ten times as a child, and I always knew Jo and I had to be from the same DNA somehow!)
Eve LaPlante traveled to Portugal recently to research a biography about the Little Women author and her mother, Abigail, to whom she is distantly related.
Though “Alcott never wrote about her Jewish heritage, nor did she visit her ancestral homeland of Portugal,” LaPlante found the threads of their Jewish heritage amongst the bloody history of mass conversion in the 15th and16th century, when Jews were either forced to become Christians or be expelled.
Unbelievably, many Jewish features remain in Lisbon and beyond, even though the vibrant Jewish community that once lived here has been dispersed for centuries. Read more here.
There is good reason for my fascination with “Renaissance” Portugal’s and Spain’s expelled Jews: Many of them ended up in England, and a boatload of those refugees were sent over to America in 1733. Those 42 men and women docked in Savannah, GA just three months after General Oglethorpe had declared it a colony for England, and they founded Congregation Mickve Israel — the third oldest synagogue in the America and the one the Yenta family attends (not as often as we should. But that is a different blog post.)
The feeling of persecution is a familiar one for us who grew up with Polish and Austrian and German and Hungarian relatives who told us in their yiddishe accents about the heartbreaking and hair-curling anti-Semitism of Eastern Europe. The stories of Spain and Portugal are further removed — I don’t think I was even aware that Ladino, also known as Judeo-Spanish, a whole other Hebraic-derived dialect with songs and folktales, even existed until I found it on the interwebs.
While we are, well, not exactly comfortable but aware of the horrors of the Holocaust, the atrocities of the Inquisition are even creepier for their exotic evils. It’s amazing what the ancestors did to keep the traditions alive, practicing crypto-Judaism behind closed doors and pretending to eat pork to fool the neighbors. If someone suspected a converso as not being faithful enough to the church, all they had to do is sound the call and that person would be burned at the stake. In public. Like it was a party. Sick.
I just finished reading The Inquisitor’s Wife by Jeanne Kalogrides, a novel set in 1481 Seville, Spain just as Queen Isobel has issued her doctrine of death to the Jews. Marisol Garcia, a young women from a wealthy family, is married off to a lawyer with connections to the Church — ostensibly to protect her, though escaping one’s roots is awfully tricky.
While the story itself is a little slow and chastely romantic for my tastes, I was interested enough to keep reading all the way through — the scene where Queen Isobel sheds her fake-pious mask to host a party full of nude boys was definitely a highlight. Based on the true events of Seville, the book contains fascinating details of life at this point in history — what a crappy time to be a woman AND a Jew.
Of course, my FAVORITE book about the Sepharic conversos is The Blind Eye, written by my mother, Marcia Fine. Set in 15th century Portugal as well as modern times, it makes the connection all the way to Cuba and Miami — tracing the threads of this hidden history all the way home.
The Blind Eye was a finalist in the International Book Awards, and Mom travels to NYC this week to present it to the Jewish Book Council — it all goes well, she’ll be speaking at a JCC near you soon!
In the meantime, I think I’ll go brush up on my Spanish. Perhaps El Yenta Man and I might do some Sephardic sleuthing of our own while the kids are at camp…?
Oy, dahlinks, I am so farmisht.
I’ve been so super busy over at the day job that it may seem like I’m neglecting my dear mishpoche over here. But I promise I’ve been fighting for the forces of good and tikkun olam best I can, farblongent schmo that I am.
Let us “ketchup,” organically, of course: This week’s (Civil) Society Column encourages everyone to stand up for food by attending a March Against Monsanto tomorrow – there is one near you! Why should you go? Here are 5 Very Good Reasons.
Then, I’m gonna quote myself:
Monsanto, the creepiest and most insidious corporate Godzilla in the history of humankind, can package up its tumor-causing corn with some asbestos flakes, slap a cute cartoon character on it and call it cereal. And when the last of the underfunded independent research facilities finally proves it causes cancer, Monsanto’s CEOs will cackle maniacally as they enjoy cocktails and cigars in their hermetically-sealed underground biodome.
The injustice that this corporation commits every day towards our nation’s farmers, our health and our future. Our freedom depends on our food! Hope to see y’all out there, if only for the organic delicious popsicles at the Forsyth Farmers Market.
On the micro injustice level, I’ve also been busy pointing out the folly of the developers who built a monstrous rooming house in my historic neighborhood and how the city plans to do not a frickin’ thing about it. Every day I wake up to the Nightmare on 61st Street and feel so helpless, though I remind myself that a giant ugly building in front of my windows doesn’t come close to the horror experienced by those who lost their homes and lives to the Oklahoma tornado this week. Bless them with courage and those around them with kindness.
Also preoccupying my time: The dog has recently been diagnosed with diabetes. This means two shots a day of expensive pug insulin and expensive special food that without, she will slip into a diabetic coma and die. So I buy the cheap tea while she ogles me with her goggly pug eyes and pray that the goldfish don’t develop gout.
On the good news front, El Yenta Man was voted Best Personal Trainer by the readers of Connect Savannah! Look at him, so handsome. (I missed a fourth win as Best Blogger by a narrow margin; guess I shoulda reminded y’all to vote, oops! But like I sez, I AM FARBLONGENT)
Oh! AND I had the honor of performing at Indigo Sky Gallery’s Blank Page Poetry event last weekend, too – I know I already shared “One True Poem from a Housewife” with you, but for those who cannot get enough of me (thanks, Mom!) here’s the video:
Life does not appear to be slowing down at all with the school year winding down and the imminent arrival of my parents next week (Happy 71st Birthday, DAD!)
And holy wow, it’s Friday again! May all be blessed on this long weekend and/or Shabbos that’s coupled with a Super Full Moon Eclipse in Sagittarius – those in the know say these are powerful times to create our highest good. Maybe those who aren’t down with the program will levitate off the planet.
Standing on the precipice of this mental moment, I am hugely grateful that my kids are happy and healthy, my mother-in-law continues to drift in the fog of dementia but appears content, I have a job doing what I’m supposed to do and my air-conditioning works.
Plus, I have bar of organic fair trade chocolate stashed in the pantry.
So this evening begins the holiday of Shavuot, which commemorates the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai and also the First Fruits of the Harvest.
That totally make sense because guess who’s got strawberries? I love this holiday and its gifts, as long as we can keep those gifts away from the damn squirrels. God bless bird netting.
Shavuot is traditionally observed with an all-night study session meant to make up for the fact that the morning God delivered the Torah on Mount Sinai, our lazy ancestors overslept. So now we go the insomniac route to show we’re actually ready to receive the wisdom. It also includes a reading of the Book of Ruth, a story that defies the nasty stereotypes of sparky relationships between mother-in-laws and daughter-in-laws. (Here’s another one, a recent Civil Society Column.)
For reasons not completely understood but heartily embraced, Shavuot is also celebrated by eating a lot of cheese. Farmer’s cheese, gouda, goat, blue, ricotta, cottage, Limburger, parmesan, asiago, the drippy white deliciousness served with chips at Mexican restaurants, you name it. Unfortunately, El Yenta Man is viciously lactose intolerant, so me and the kids may be partying on our own with a wheel of brie and a stack of cheddar cubes.
And we can’t forget cheesecake, a ubiquitous Shavuot staple, as well as blintzes, which are the same EXACT thing as crêpes except your bubbie didn’t know Nutella from a noodge and filled the thin pancakes with — what else? — cheese.
Here is the fabulous Joan Nathan making her Ultimate Blintzes for Tablet:
How good are THOSE gonna taste at 4am? Not that I’m so pious that I’ll be joining in the learning tonight, but I’ll may be up anyway guarding the strawberries.