Still Relevant
Reading through the Facebook statuses that talk about turkey comas, overindulgence, and leftovers, I find last year’s Thanksgiving post still stands.
“Happy Thanksgiving.” That is the traditional greeting for this holiday. I have noticed, however, that more and more people have switched to a less formal greeting. “Happy Turkey Day.” And Frume Sarah doesn’t approve.
Sure, it would be easy to dismiss this as further proof that Frume Sarah is just some old fogey and is resistant to change. But when it comes to Frume Sarah, nothing is EVER that straight-forward.
“Happy Turkey Day” focuses on the food. It completely removes the essential meaning of this day; to give thanks. Certainly the original celebrants of this festival were much more in tune with the religious intent of devoting a festival to giving thanks to God. Going back to the 1620’s, the early settlers of this country recognized their good fortune as being a direct result of God’s intervention. Whether completing a successful harvest or surviving a harsh winter, they showed their gratitude with a festival of thanksgiving.
Though observed with some regularity through the years, our modern Thanksgiving did not become a Federal holiday until 1863, by proclamation of President Abraham Lincoln. I imagine, though, that President Lincoln did not imagine football games, Black Friday, and national gluttony.
And that brings me to my problem with “Turkey Day.” I do not understand the need to eat to the point of discomfort. Like an other proper Jewish housewife, I DO know that the mere possibility of a houseful of guests and not enough food is enough to send any woman into a dither. But there is a tremendous difference between enough food and an amount that could easily feed an entire village.
There are so many hungry people in our country. And it makes me crazy to know the amount of excess food will be served. And how many people will joke about being in a turkey coma. And how 39.8 million people in this great nation go to bed hungry, including 14 million children. As a mother, I cannot imagine the pain of sending a child to bed without dinner…not knowing if there will be any way to make the following day end any differently.
In addition to enjoying plentiful food, family, football, and friends, please consider relieving some of the burden of those who live in hunger.
Feeding America (formerly Second Harvest)
Mazon: The Jewish Response to Hunger
your community food bank
Chag HaHodaah Sameach — Happy Feast of Thanksgiving!
Childish Clarity
Photo: iStockphoto.com
Just as I was popping a Deviled Egg into my mouth, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was PC’s sister. Who wanted me to know that she had given permission for Poppyseed to eat a piece of bread that was in a bowl next to the green olives. She had explained to Poppyseed that it would be OK even though Poppyseed is highly allergic to green olives, and wanted me to know.
Except…
Poppyseed isn’t allergic to green olives. In fact, to the best of my knowledge, Poppyseed isn’t allergic to anything.
I pulled Miss Poppyseed into the den to talk about truth and consequences.
“But Mama, whenever I am around green olives my nose gets all stuffy. I can’t even stand looking at them,” she explained.
“Poppyseed, that is not the same thing as an allergy. Do you break out in hives? Does your throat close up? Are you in imminent danger of going into anaphylactic shock?”
“I could be. So it’s better to be safe than sorry,” she reasoned.
Hard to be too angry with her when I think back to the two little girls who politely, but firmly, explained to their Swedish host family that they couldn’t eat any fish because fish aren’t kosher.
“They” Strike Again
It is true what “they” say about making assumptions…
Over the past few years, PC would periodically mention the name of his Japanese agent, Ted. As in, “Ted, my Japanese agent, is available tonight and we’re going to grab some sushi.” And I assumed that Ted was in town from Japan, had a dinner appointment slot open, and PC was taking him to dinner.
Before you even say it, of course I know that Ted is not a Japanese name. I also know that a lot of people from other countries will use a name that is easier on American ears. Take the Hebrew name עוֹדֵד (Oded). A perfectly good name. Appears, albeit in passing, in II Chronicles 15:1 so its got Biblical yichus. Means “to restore” so the meaning is positive. But it just sounds awful in English. Go on…say it:
Oh-dead
Believe me when I tell you that it sounds better in Hebrew context.
Now all the guys (now that is another interesting Israeli name ** גַּיְא ** Guy — pronounced just how it looks) I know in America with the name Oded go by “Eddie” or “Ted” or even “Dave.”
Growing up in Southern California, which has a sizable Asian population, I had many schoolmates whose immigrant parents selected “American” names for their American-born children over more ethnic sounding names. Such as “Marcia,” “Karen,” and even “Dave.” So I naturally assumed that PC’s Japanese agent, Ted, had a Japanese name, but opted for a more American-sounding name when dealing with Americans.
Several years into their working relationship, after PC mentioned that he’d be having dinner with Ted, I happened to ask “oh, is Ted in town again? That’s nice.”
“In town?” repeated PC.
“Yes, in town. Wasn’t he just here?”
“Of course he was just here. He lives here,” said a flabbergasted PC.
“When did he move here?” I asked.
“He’s from here!”
It was at this point that PC dissolved into a heap of uncontrollable laughter.
“But…but…you said that he’s your Japanese agent.” I countered.
Which only made him laugh harder.
“He is,” sputtered PC, “He is our agent who deals with clients in Japan.”
“But Ted is Japanese, right?” I asked, hopefully.
“Nope.”
Not even close.
In Gratitude
Photo: Fotolia
In under forty-eight hours, my family will sit down and enjoy a bountiful meal. Surrounded by extended family and friends, the table will be overflowing with delicious foods — many of which will have come from the garden just beyond the screened door.
When I think back just a year, I still had a grandmother. I still had an uncle. I was still recovering from a debilitating illness.
Though it has been a year of great sadness, I cannot help but think about the good that surrounds me every day. And be very grateful.
- My job — First of all, I have one. And at a time when unemployment is at a record high, I know how fortunate I am to be employed. I work at a place that I love. And with a staff who is imaginative and kind and supportive and loving. I do not exaggerate when I say that I will never have such a unique and outstanding group of colleagues.
- PC’s job — Ditto on the first part. Not only does he have a job, but PC is loving his job. And that makes me so happy.
- My Family — we hosted the Malach HaMavet often this year. So to him I say, “we wouldn’t want to monopolize your time…so you should feel free to visit someone else.” On the plus side, we have spent a lot of time together this year and that has been wonderful.
- Our Children — when I think of the many, many women who yearn to have a child and are unable, I am especially grateful for mine. To be sure, there are times that parenting Beernut is demanding, challenging, and exhausting. But those times are balanced by the moments of exhilaration that shine forth from his soul.
- My Health — during my grandmother’s, z”l, brief illness in January, I realized that I no longer needed physical therapy. I had finally grown stronger after a year of intense rehab. A realization that came more from necessity as I was unable to fit my physical therapy appointments around her acute illness. As she grew weaker, I realized that I had grown stronger. Physically, at any rate.
- Our Friends — for without their love and companionship, life would be a much bleaker place.
This is, of course, an incomplete list. The point is that my life, which is by no means extraordinary, is incredibly rich. And I could not possibly show gratitude for everything.
Which should not stop me from trying.
An Open Letter to My China
Dear “Orchard Hill,”
I know it has been far too long. In fact, our chance meeting fifteen years ago held so much promise. Visions of drawn-out Shabbat dinners with friends, scrumptious brunches, and festive soirées filled my head as I ran the scanner over your UPC tag at the now-defunct Bullock’s, OBM. But you know what “they” say about good intentions…
Without a complaint, you have remained in the sideboard. Waiting. Biding your time. Never mind that you have been there since we first opened you. Never mind that our set is incomplete. Or that it has been discontinued. Hopefully, you stay faithful to our shared dream.
Not much longer, my dear “Orchard Hill,” not much longer. With the move East, I will finally have the time and energy to make Shabbos at home for my little family. Not to mention a bigger kitchen.
Thanks for your patience,
Frume Sarah
Pleasure of Giving
Brown-paper packages tied up with string,
these are a few of my favourite things.
I love packages. I love to send them. I love to receive them. I even love to receive them when the contents are not for me.
I love buying gifts for my loved ones. I spend hours pouring over catalogues and websites. I walk miles through our local plaza and malls. Careful consideration goes into the process and each gift is selected with love. Few things thrill me more than finding something that will be truly appreciated by the recipient.
It is this pleasure to which I cling as we approach a holiday that has become inflated and grown into something other than what it was meant to be celebrating.
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Haveil Havalim #292 is live over at To Kiss a Mezuzah. It is her first time hosting so head on over and tell her what a great job she did!
Latte Boy
[This was published on motzei Shabbat]
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“I’m so hungry.”
It came from somewhere deep within the mini-van.
“I’m so hun–gry.”
How could this kid be hungry? Just forty minutes prior, my stocky three-year-old had packed away three slices of French toast, a container of kiwi-strawberry yogurt, and a sippy-cup of milk.
With the ever-constant pressure to get the older kids to school before the second bell, turning the car around was simply out-of-the-question. Much to Peach’s consternation. A hastily-offered trip to Starbucks, however, was just the thing as Peach eagerly agreed to grab some “oytmeal” from Starbucks after the first drop-off.
Man, does that boy love his “oytmeal.” Sweet brown sugar, tart dried fruit, crunchy nuts. He says that it makes him “feel cozy all the way inside.”
What set this particular outing apart from other Starbucks pilgrimages was that, in lieu of his usual chocolate milk chaser, Peach insisted on ordering coffee.
Coffee? “When did you start drinking coffee?”
“You let me taste coffee. Once. I like it.”
Oh. My bad.
And as we enjoyed our morning indulgence seated in overstuffed, leather chairs, a passerby eyed me with suspicion.
“Is that…coffee?”
Come on, lady. It’s not as if I’m encouraging my kid to mainline.
Before I had a chance to respond, my child turned up his sweet face and innocently replied,
It’s a latte.
Pleasant Surprises
Many thanks to my dear friend, SuperMom, who found this picture from 2008.
Photo: SuperMom
Doesn’t GGmaBear, z”l, look beautiful?
It is What it Is
Photo: iStockphoto
Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November…
Thirty days.
Four weeks and two days.
שְׁלוֹשִׁים Sh’loshim
The name for the first month following the burial of a loved one.
שְׁלוֹשִׁים Sh’loshim
It means ‘thirty.’
I have often remarked that when it comes to names, we Jews aren’t from the creative folks. Our terms lean towards the practical rather than the poetic.
מְזוּזָה Mezuzah. You know, that small box we put up on the doorpost? It literally means ‘doorpost.’
See what I mean?
שְׁלוֹשִׁים Sh’loshim concludes the initial thrity-day mourning period after the burial of a loved one. Though not as intense as the first week, this period too has its restrictions as it eases the mourner back into life. Unless the mourner is the son or daughter of the deceased.
For them, they leave the other mourners behind as they continue the rest of the journey towards the first anniversary of the death. Depending upon one’s family history, the one year anniversary is known as either yahrtzeit,יאָרצײַט, which means “Time (of) Year”(Ashkenazic) or as nakhala, נחלה, which means “heritage” or “inheritance” (Sephardic).
They are not alone, as other family members are there to offer support. And yet, it is they who bear the continued grief as they find their way in the world without their parent.
What poetic name, then, could be affixed to what concludes mourning for some, but not for all?
Sometimes the practical makes more of a statement.
Sorely Disappointed
Photo: Ian Britton
Ever since the famous “Yes, one can sprain one’s ankle by simply getting out of a chair” incident during one long ago summer of my childhood, the S.O.P. has been: Need to Know. As in, only the person driving needs to know where we will be going at any given time. No point in telling the natives in case plans change. Less fallout.
I adopted the same rule once it became clear that Beernut didn’t do very well with change.
Sometimes, however, plans are shared with the kids. Such as this morning’s Fall Festival in Peach’s classroom. In my defense, I would have opted not to mention anything to him about it as the nature of my work means that unforeseen issues arise and change my plans quite frequently. However, the teachers made a very big deal about the Festival and Peach insisted on knowing if I was planning to attend.
I was. I was planning to attend. I had made arrangements to be there. And then…
Just after breakfast, Beernut, who was in the midst of one of his “episodes,” ran to the bathroom where his breakfast made a reappearance.
And in an instant, plans changed. Beernut was going to be home for the day and Mommy was not going to be available for the Fall Festival.
Poor Peach. Just erupted in heaving sobs. And though no mother enjoys hearing her child cry, I couldn’t help but think to myself that disappointments are a part of life. And while I can try to lessen their frequency in the lives of my children, I would be doing them a great disservice if they grew up without learning how to handle them.
So to my little Peach — Mommy is sorry that she missed out on what was to be a fun morning. We will, God-willing, have many more fun opportunities. And in the meantime, I look forward to hearing all about the Festival.
Frume Sarah is Shabbos-observant -- in a Reform way, that is. Please note that from Friday afternoons until one hour after sundown on Saturday evenings, Frume Sarah will be unavailable, in observance of the Jewish Sabbath.
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Thank you for your understanding...and gut Shabbos!!! 
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