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!

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:

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.

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…?

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.

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.

I’m reposting my favorite poem, my “Mother” work, if you will. When I wrote it, I could not imagine how fast the next decade would speed by nor the challenges and wonders in store. Though the little calamari fingers described below have grown into full-sized man hands, I am ever perplexed and bouyed by motherhood’s lessons. I maintain that one of the most important ones is to mother oneself, to nurture our own bodies and souls as lovingly as we do our children’s.

For those of you close by, I’ll be performing this along with some very talented Savannah people next Saturday, May 18 as part of the Blank Page Poetry Event at Indigo Sky Gallery. Hope to see you there!

One True Poem From A Housewife

This morning all I ask
Is for a wee bit of wisdom before these tasks:
The laundry, the dishes, my children’s needs and wishes
The packing, the stacking, the order the house is lacking
The cooking, the cleaning and I guess I should think about weaning…
But today I can’t find meaning in any of it.

Even though I know
This is the work the world cannot do without
I want to shout “There has been some mistake! I was not supposed to have this ordinary life!”
See, when I became a wife
I had this notion I could still go far, learn how to play guitar, be a rock star
But now that I am a mother, with only seconds sprinkled throughout the day for other, grander dreams
It seems those aspirations vaguely float around my head
Whisper who I meant to be as I make the beds, poach the eggs
Search for the self I still hope to become but find mismatched socks instead.

I stand in an old, old house that slopes in the kitchen
And I reckon the heart of any home is in that dip in front of the sink
It’s enough to drive me to drink to think of some other woman who stood here before
Growing old on this here slanted floor
And I fear there’ll be nothing left of me in fifteen years

But I banish that thought right from my brain
Because I’m not going to go insane
Not just because I have too much to do
But because it just doesn’t have to be true
Not if I revel in this choice
Use my voice
I’m going to do these fucking dishes for all womankind!
And find the courage to rescue my dreams from the trees
As well as shoulder God’s greatest responsibility:
Beating the heart of a family.

So what I have today is this:
A Cheerio-scented morning kiss
Constant companionship while I piss
Tiny fingers like calamari wrapped around my wrist
The list is longer than what I could possibly miss from some fantasy of my future
I can still suture together a poem or two
Cobble the truth with words and glue
Poetry saves me every day
What saves you?

So as I stand at the sink on this slanted floor
Thinking of the woman who stood here before
And finally comes the wisdom that I’ve been asking for:

What is Now
Is what is True
No matter how mundane, how boring, how depressing, how plain
So you see, I will not go insane
No, that will not be me
I will find a way to stay free

But right now I’ve got to take my place
With grace
In the face
Of ordinary.

Every year I post a little something about how your mama doesn’t want another tsotchke for her dashboard mantel or a bouquet of wilty tulips for Mother’s Day — all she cares about is that you turned out not to be a shmo.

So, listen, make her proud already: Donate $25 to JWI’s Mother’s Day Flower Project and she’ll totally forget about that time she found you smoking weed with your uncle when you were supposed to be cleaning out your bubbie’s garage.

The funds go towards flowers and gift baskets full of feminine necessities for 200 domestic violence shelters around the country, helping out over 45,000 women and children not lucky enough to have someone like you to care about them every day.

Yes, it says May 3 to guarantee delivery by Saturday, but click it up today and you’re golden. Better yet, save a tree and send an e-card.

Either way, you’re still a mensch.

Making the rounds this week on Reddit is this fabulous little teapot with all kinds of yiddishkeit tucked inside.

Look what happens when you take off the top:

A dreidel!

Then, a tiny but complete megillah, totally impossible read when you’re drunk on Purim but who cares?!

And what’s this, a precious pair of Shabbat candlesticks?

And, no, it cannot be, a MENORAH? It’s like M.C. Escher dropped acid with a rabbi!

There’s also an etrog holder, a place to light the ner tamid (eternal flame) and little kiddush cup – a portable synagogue for the displaced Jew.

It’s like having the entire holiday wheel in your pocket, so convenient when you’re being chased by Crusaders and anti-Semitic villagers wielding torches! One commenter called it “a Jewish version of a Swiss army knife,” but I like to think of it as the Pogrom Runner’s Leatherman Tool.

The owner of this amazing tea service says that it was a gift from his or her grandmother, and some have speculated that it was once owned by Sephardic conversos trying to escape the evil eye of the Spanish Inquisition.

However, Rabbi Fink of the Pacific Jewish Center writes that “there is no way this teapot dates back to the Inquisition.” He makes the point that in spite of what we learned in Sunday School, dreidels have only been around for a few hundred years, and “there is no tradition of dreidle among Sephardic Jews.”

That doesn’t diminish its value to art and history and plain old coolness. Perhaps ModernTribe.com will commission some fabulous contemporary design to display on our mantles and drop in our purses if — Heaven forbid — circumstances bring the necessity of fleeing in the future? Because, as every Jewish mother thinks in the back of her neurotic brain, you never know…

First of all, what the hosanna is a culinary salon? Can I get my toes done there while noshing? Sounds awfully lofty to be taking on the Southern Shabbos meal.

I’m not denying the fabulosity of beet puree and benne seeds (really, the only truly Southern ingredient, as there is no such f*cking thing as “rice grits”. Grits are made of corn. Period.) I have no problem AT ALL with leeks, morels or heirloom tomatoes, even in my cereal. I am all about adventures of the palate. I would eat a locust if someone else cooked it. I get all up in Leoci’s Rasperry Jalapeno Jam with some duck prosciutto and have a freakin’ gastronomic party any chance I get.

But messin’ with the Shabbos meal? I dunno. I dig the innovation behind Chef Sarah Simmons’ deconstructed brisket, but also it just made me nervous. Shouldn’t be something sacred about the Shabbat meal, something as unvarying and solid as the tradition itself? What’s next, shrimp couscous? A roasted pig wearing a yarmulke?

It’s not about the kosher. ‘Cause y’all know trayf happens plenty around here. But we Jewish Southerners (oh dear, Lawd. Did Ah just call mahself a suthenah?!) don’t like to mess with a good thing.

Shabbos at the Yenta home almost always consists of roast chicken, quinoa and kale from the garden. Sometimes we get meshuggah and have salmon. It is the way it has always been. It is the way it should always be.

Unless someone opens a culinary salon and serves up that tasty-sounding latke-chocolate mousse dessert.

Besides, the immediate responses were just too good, especially Allison Kaplan Sommer’s “In Spite of Everything, I Still Believe Justin Bieber is Truly Good At Heart.”

Let’s face it, Justin has lived in fame bubble most of his life and likely only has the emotional capacity to relate to the horrors of the Holocaust through his own overblown persona. He didn’t mean to do bad. C’mon, he says the “Sh’Ma” before every show.

Still, the boy needs a good schooling, and perhaps Jen Dodd is the one to give it to him. A theoretical physicist and science outreach director by day, Ms. Dodd does a pretty good Dutch accent:

What do you think? Too much?

(Yarmulke tip: Heebmagazine.com)