Passover approaches like a returning visitor bringing melting snow and sunshiny Sunday afternoons to clean your car in the driveway. Every year it marches forward steadily, predictably. The smells of Passover coming: frying onions, potato starch cakes, hard-boiled eggs.
Part 1: My Grandmothers
Eat, eat mammele. Ess upp. Groise oigen. Your eyes are bigger than your stomach. Kugel and cholent and challah and sugar cookies. Pizza and fries. Studying for high school finals with a can of Coke and a bag of mesquite potato chips in my room above the garage. Every time. Effortless and guileless.
I was flying home from a speaking gig in Atlanta and was waiting at my gate in the airport terminal. My kosher Chinese takeout had made a narrow escape from TSA clutches, and now I had just started to chow down when I saw her: a fellow hair-coverer.
I turned 43 yesterday, which is something I’m very grateful for. My father died when he was 30 and I am painfully aware that each year is a blessing. Each year brings new wisdoms and awareness that I’d never trade for a slightly more youthful self.
At the age of 22 I became a Rebbetzin by proxy: I was the Rabbi’s wife.
We had been living in Israel and with my husband finishing his rabbinical training, moved to Buffalo Grove, Ill., to take our first pulpit.
Tisha B’av Lamentation
dedicated to our troubled youth
For the sadness and pain
For the broken relationships and shattered dreams
For expectations reputations justifications