Though no one will ever accuse me of correct religious observance, since becoming a Jewish mother I’ve always maintained that Saturdays are meant for rest (and the occasional mani-pedi.)

Shabbat at the Yenta house starts with candles on Friday night and usually ends with Havdalah, but sometimes we forget or we’re out and we just sing “Eliahu Hanavi” loudly (especially fun for El Yenta Man on date nights.)

There are a lot of rules about what you are and are not supposed to do during the time in between, but we just do our best to enjoy our environment and each other. I personally avoid laundry, dishes and the computer. If EYM feels that driving to Home Depot and planting some flowers sounds like a good time, he’s welcome to have at it. But our loose-and-fast rule is if it feels like work, it can happen on Sunday.

During the year or so before Yenta Boy’s bar mitzvah (come to think of it, he’s a man now, so perhaps we’ll change his name here to Smaller Yenta Man, SYM for short) we spent some time on Saturdays at synagogue as well. We’d get up late, make my famous challah French toast, don some nice duds and go sit together in a beautiful old building, reciting the prayers of our people (of course, at our synagogue the prayers sometimes sound very different that everywhere else, but that’s a topic for a different blog post.)

Even though the kids grumbled about it on the way, they chanted the V’ahavta loudly and Little Yenta Girl always trotted up to the bima to help with the Torah undressing. My philosophy around Judaism is to do things out of joy rather than obligation, but I daresay that the Yenta family came to look forward to synagogue on Saturdays. And not just because they serve lunch afterwards.

So why stop, you ask? The Saturday following SYM’s big BM began LYG’s first soccer game, and the times have conflicted ever since.

But if you were really committed, you’d find another activity for your kid, you say. Maybe. But LYG is a talented player, which means she’s moved up to the superspecial youth development league that treats her and the rest of the nine-year-olds like they’re training to take on Real Madrid. Two practices a week, multiple games a weekend, travel to glamorous places like Augusta and Macon.

Our reluctant involvement in Fascist Soccer (I was calling it “Nazi soccer” but I decided that was disrespectful to Holocaust survivors) is driven only by the clear evidence that LYG is thriving from the physicality and teamwork, not to mention developing a lethal left foot (a Jewish mother never pooh-poohed a scholarship to anything.)

But Fascist Soccer is cramping my Shabbos Style. Now instead of sitting in an air-conditioned sanctuary wearing my good earrings and a nice dress, I’m slathered with sunscreen in an unshaded green field, swatting the most ferocious and evil swarms of biting gnats known to humankind. It feels like work.

Though I do so love to watch my girl and her Princess Warrior teammates run and play and whoop it up, I end up screaming things like “Offsides!” and “When is this stupid ref gonna get some Lasik?!”

So I’m trying to reconcile my Sabbath Soccer Dilemma. Do I bring a thermos of Bloody Marys to the field to make the games more enjoyable? Do we split the family, with one parent doing soccer duty while the other takes SYM to synagogue, like we did last Saturday? (Shhh, don’t tell EYM they served lemon chicken, his favorite lunch.) Do I construct my own chuppah on the sidelines, giving a spiritual flair to sun protection?

The season only has a few more weeks, so I suppose like most things, it will resolve itself, and we’ll get back to synagogue more often.

But by then I might be used to bringing a lawn chair and cocktails everywhere on Saturdays.

Well lookee here!

I did this interview AGES ago with motherhood site MommyPage and just found it on the interwebs while Googling myself for porn links (actually, I was just checking my site stats.)

Here I am talking about the joys of being a suburban Jewish chicken farmer and how matzoh ball soup is an aphrodiasic:

“Yo Yenta!” on Hannukah and Spending Time With Family

I forgot about that Manischewitz shirt. Think I’ll have to break it out next Shabbat.

Here’s hoping everyone had a lovely Pesach!

The angel of leavened carbs passed over the Yenta family Tuesday evening in its very traditional forms of pizza and beer, as I believe that the ancient Israelites would be deeply honored with the collective choice of pepperoni and banana peppers.

For those who don’t celebrate, you may have heard the sighs of relief as your Jewish friends are freed from the bondage of gastric torture known as matzah. For eight days we abstained from anything fluffy, including bread, popcorn and, if you are sleeping on the sofa at your bubbie’s house, a decent pillow. (According to the very kvetchy Yenta Boy, anyway.)

While us meshuggneh Jews tend to make up plenty of exceptions (like that pepperoni) as we go along, we follow the rules as best we can. The rabbis dictate that before the seder, we gather up all of the bread, crackers, yeast packets, granola bars and other crummy items from the pantry and throw them out.

Well, no one likes to waste good food, so those rabbis figured out how to get around that rule by “selling” the offending items in order to rid the house of all the chametz. After the holiday, you can buy it back and get back down to the business of a nice corned beef sandwich. I usually pack up everything in plastic bags and “sell” our chametz to our very confused Southern Baptist neighbors. Last year they fed it all to the neighborhood squirrels.

There are a lot complicated issues around this that give me a headache. This morning I learned that even though it is after Passover, bread bought from Target, Trader Joe’s and a bunch of other stores isn’t recognized by kosher authorities until after Lag B’Omer  because those stores didn’t sell their chametz. So even though Lag B’Omer is basically ignored by Reform Judaism, apparently the box of raisin crackers I snarfed last night with Trader Joe’s cambozola is a treyf as that pepperoni pizza.

It’s all just too much. Especially since our chametz never made it off our front porch.

Just when I finally got Macklemore’s “Thrift Shop” out of my head, Jewish singing troupe Six13 puts THIS on the seder plate:

AWESOME. Now I’ll spend the next eight days and nights murmuring  “Changin’ my pots and pans…gotta have Manischewitz for my prophet…I got haggadehs, lookin’ for the chametz…we’ll be munchin’ matzah…”

#Eleventh plague. What what?

Attention all members of the Afikomen Search & Retrieval Unit 613! Your uniforms from Jewnion Label are ready!

But you know who’s not ready? This yenta.

Yes, I should’ve been chametz-hunting this weekend like a good Jewish mama, but we all know how that usually goes for me.

Instead I accompanied Yenta Boy to Athens for the Georgia State Science and Engineering Fair, where he and his buddy Luke won third honors for their time perception project, a riff on Einstein’s theory of relativity shaped like Dr. Who’s TARDIS. More on that on this week’s Civil Society Column, posting tomorrow.

So I guess I’ll be spending the afternoon clearing the house of treyf cereal and hot dog buns while I finish off all the stray beers hanging around the bottom shelf of the fridge. Should put me in fine form for the seder, which I am so please NOT to be hosting that I may perform my special Dance of the Ten Plagues for everyone’s enjoyment. Whoever finds the afikomen will also get a sloppy kiss from Auntie Yenta, likely ensuring that we will have to host our own seder again next year.

Chag Sameach, y’all. I gots cleaning to do. And a “Locusts” segment to choreograph.

Those angel-voiced yeshiva boys are back with an a cappella medley of Passover-themed lyrics set to the soundtrack of El Yenta Man’s favorite movie ever Les Misérables.

Think of it as a song of no-so-angry men, reminding us the the true meaning of Passover is that the Jews were miserable before anyone else:

The locusts are coming, the locusts are coming!

Swarms of insects “the size of small birds” have descended on Israel, reports the New York Times, causing crops to fail and my stomach to retch. Giant freakin’ grasshoppers. Everywhere.

Since it’s so close to Passover, you’d have to try verrrrrry hard NOT to make references Pharoah’s Plague No. 8, when God sent enough voraciously hungry fliers to “cover the face of the ground so that it cannot be seen” and “devour what little you have left after the hail, including every tree that is growing in your fields.” According to the Book of Exodus, anyway.

But this is the age of the industrial chemical machine, and Israeli Ministry of Agriculture can do what Pharoah could not: Spray the sh*t out of those creepy tings with poison pesticides.

Which is kind of a shame, ’cause some people think they’re good to eat. Israeli chef Moshe Basson says, “they taste something between sunflower seeds and baby shrimps.” A problematic comparison as a person who keeps kosher does not know what “shrimps” taste, no matter how young and tender they are, but locusts are kosher, and people are snacking.

If they head this way, I’ll try out this recipe for Locust Bisque on El Yenta Man.

Growing up Jewish, you know about the Holocaust.

You pray for the Six Million at synagogue. Your parents or your youth group leader (or my in my case, both) take you the museums their piles of eyeglasses and locks of hair and barbed wire installations.

Maybe you even have a relative who was there, who tells you stories about stealing bread in the Ghetto. Maybe you know someone who escaped but whose eyes turn misty at the family left behind.

Eventually, you reach a kind of Holocaust saturation point. Your mind is full of the facts and the maps and Hitler’s clinical, systemic evil. Your heart can’t take another sad story about a sadistic SS guard or a mother forced to give up her child or whole towns shot and buried in shallow graves.

So you develop a certain gallows humor about it, trying not to think about what will happen when the last of the survivors is gone and the whole rotten horrible thing is all in the past, just another museum to see on your trip to DC or Philadelphia or Buenos Aires or Jerusalem. While you’d kick those a**holes who deny it ever happened in the balls if you had the chance, you sometimes secretly wish that as a Jewish person, you didn’t have to know so much about it.

And just when you think you can’t carry anymore about the Shoah, that you’ve wrapped your mind around the Hideous Thing that happened to our great grandparents and our grandparent as far as it can go, you find out it is was even worse than you could possible imagine:

Researchers at the U.S. Holocaust Museum have finally counted up all the ghettos, the rape brothels, the death camps, the work camps, the slave houses and all the rest of the sites where Jews and other non-Aryans were tortured, starved, maimed and killed: Forty two thousand five hundred sites of sadism and inhumanity.

The numbers are giving me a terrible headache. Lead researchers Geoffrey Megargee and Martin Dean figured they would catalog 7,000 when they began documenting sites in Germany and Poland and beyond the Pale.

42,500. That’s twice as many high schools in the United States. In an area the size of Montana. Which means there was really no way all those German and Polish neighbors couldn’t have known what was happening.

The Six Million, and the total murder number of 10 million men, women and children killed in the Holocaust will have to amended: Drs. Megargee and Dean now estimate it was more like 15 million to 20 million.What was previously figured at two thirds of the entire global Jewish population at the time adds up to even more dead unknown relatives.

It also means more museum exhibits to ponder, to grieve over, to show my own children.

Depressing for a Monday, sure. But on the bright side: Those a**hole deniers don’t have a chance.

Whaaaat do you mean it’s time to begin thinking about cleaning for Passover?! I feel like I just cleaned the menorahs! Can’t we have a holiday that doesn’t require massive amounts of housework? Why does Judaism have to be so OCD?!

*sigh* I may never get to all the chametz, but at least my iPhone can be kosher for Pesach with this marvelous matzah case.

Available from Sealed with A Case on Etsy.com.

Look, Susan Silverman already had me at “Hello, I survived the same screwed up childhood as my sister Sarah and instead of growing up and talking about shaved tuchus puckers, I became a rabbi.”

But Rabbi Susan has earned even more of this Yenta’s mad respect for her delightful act of civil disobedience at Jerusalem’s Western Wall last week. To protest the gender segregation at one of the world’s holiest places, she and her oldest daughter, Hallel, along with eight other women, donned tallit (prayer shawls) and sang prayers to heaven. That’s against the law in Israel — for women. Mother and daughter were arrested and escorted away, banned from even setting foot at the wall for 15 days. Something tells me they’ll be back.

Rabbi Susan is also deeply involved with American Jewish World Service and has adopted two orphans, evidence of how she puts her rachmones where her mouth is. But I really admire her willingness to stand up to the Orthodoxy and its monopoly on what being Jewish really means.

An excerpt from a recent blog post (highlights are mine:)

Some Jews will prioritize care for the orphan and the stranger, and ignore Jewish ritual practice. Some will keep kosher and the Sabbath to varying degrees and in various ways, while seeking justice in society. Some will take the smallest, most extreme and skewed rules and make them into the whole of Judaism. And everything betwixt and between. It is an endless variety, as it should be.

That is the democratic power of Judaism that somehow and eventually manages to allow the highest ideals to gain momentum.

Here’s to the high ideal of egalitarian prayer — including happy acceptance of women’s voices at the Wall — rising to the top.