I Wish You a Jewish Christmas and a Happy New Year

Jewish Christmas. It’s a hashtag on Twitter. @JewishTweets and @JewishConnectiv both asked people about their movie/Chinese food plans. We, of course, had those plans, as we have for years. I can’t even remember when we first did this; certainly I didn’t get it from my parents. In the 1950s-60s Chinese food was still exotic enough that I don’t think I even had some until I was a teen. My mom did buy canned Chung King stuff, though. We also almost never went to the movies when I was little, only drive-ins in the summer.

For many years, when the kids were little, we spent every Christmas vacation in Florida visiting grandparents. There were the weeks when our days completely revolved around the pool and we had such a good time with other young parents and kids similarly visiting their families. Then there were weeks when we bundled up in our winter coats and went to Sea World. Several times the fake waterfall outside my in-laws condo development froze. Even south Florida can get cold in December. But without really knowing that we were on the cutting edge of something that would become A HASHTAG!, we would take the kids to the movies Christmas day because there was nothing else to do, and then we’d eat Chinese food for dinner because no other restaurants were open. The kids loved driving by all the houses with Christmas lights. That was one thing about south Florida: Christmas was obvious in a way it wasn’t necessarily in New York City.

These days my now-adult kids say they never felt deprived around Christmas time. They say the accepted completely that Christmas was a holiday we didn’t celebrate. The year my son was six, his friend Willy confided that he was getting suspicious about Santa Claus because Santa had used the same wrapping paper as his parents. “I think that’s proof,” I overheard my son tell his best friend.

Me, on the other hand, I had horrible Christmas envy. Growing up, the only other Jewish family besides my uncle’s (who lived next to us) in the neighborhood was the rabbi of our synagogue. The Jews in Worcester lived in and around the streets that had once been part of “The Ellis Estate.” We lived on a 1/3 acre that had been part of the “Salisbury Estate.” My parents tended to do things differently. When they finally retired, they went to Sanibel Island and then wondered where all the Jews were.

So there I was on Waconah Road, looking out on Christmas decorations on every house. Friends’ parents invited me to tree-trimming parties, which my parents let me do (though my mom would not let me go to the WASPy “Cotillion” classes when they began). I even went to midnight mass with friends. One of my nicest memories is waking up on a Christmas morning when it had snowed a foot during the night, and all the neighbors, including my father, uncle and brother, were outside to shovel the street so people could get to church. So even though I what I really wanted was a Christmas Tree and a stocking hung up on living room fireplace, what I have carried into my adult life is a good value: help your neighbors, no matter what their religion.

New Years Eve also seemed to pass me by when I was a child. One year we went to a fancy party thrown by my best friend’s parents. Kitty wore a sleeveless green velvet dress with a drop waist that her father had purchased in Paris. I wore a wool skirt. (No wonder I’m always afraid of being dressed incorrectly.) Yeah, my college, post-college New Year’s Eves were filled with drunken revels. But once I was married — the Florida thing. Professors have Christmas vacation. We’d go out to dinner, but we were certainly in bed by midnight. So in the years when friends started their New Years Eve rituals, we were in Florida. A few years back, when there was no longer any reason to hit the tropics, we found we had nothing to do.

Several times Howard and I went outside before midnight and walked to the boat pond gazebo right off Central Park West to see the New York Road Runners Club Midnight Run and fireworks. That was great fun. But then it got crowded; it became a “thing,” like the blowing up of the balloons before the Thanksgiving Parade. Last year we went into Great Barrington to hear the Berkshire Bach Ensemble play Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos. This year we’re going again–with our daughter’s boyfriend’s parents. Then it will be back to their house for dinner (the concert ends about 7:30) for Veuve Clicquot. I expect we’ll be home by midnight. But we will have had a wonderful time.

People make a big deal of the holiday season. Considering how short and dark these days are, it’s a good idea. I loved how Hanukkah came so late this year. It gave the candle lighting more joy–menorahs in the window! (The last night, with all those candles going, we set off the fire alarm. Oh well.)

The holiday customs we inherit, those we make ourselves–it’s interesting, especially considering that baby boomers are the largest population cohort ever. You can leave your comments below. I’d love to know:

  • What holiday traditions have you inherited and still keep up.
  • What holiday traditions you have make up.
  • Whether you think holiday customs are important or have anything to do with who we are.

To everyone out there: Wishing you the best holiday season. See you on the flip side.

Oh, and here’s a picture from our Hanukkah party. And I’ll give you my latke recipe. This year I made the best latkes ever. Then again, it’s not a recipe I practice a lot. So

8 baking potatoes

2 large onions

1/2 cup flour

4 eggs

salt, pepper

I use one large potato for every person, and adjust the recipe accordingly. Peel and grate the potatoes. I do this in the food processor, although I know latkes taste better when grated by hand. Mix everything together in a large bowl (not metal) so that it’s one big mess. Drain off the extra liquid. There will be more and more of that as the mixture sits. Also, grated potatoes left out in the air turn kind of orange. That doesn’t matter. I use a cast iron skillet with about 4 tbls of oil for each batch. I take out enough grated potato so it’s the size of a small hamburg and press it pretty flat. Each batch has about six pancakes. The flame is medium high because they need to cook through but be really crisp. If necessary turn over more than once. Keep adding oil. Remember: Hanukkah is all about the oil. I then drain them on paper towel that’s on a  baking sheet in the warmer drawer. This way everyone can eat at the same time. Serve the latkes with applesauce and/or sour cream. As I make them only once a year, the latkes are the feature of the dinner, and the sides include whitefish salad, marinated vegetables, etc. Most people use them as a side dish with some other “traditional” main dish, like roast brisket.

Always remember you can tweet me @wordwhacker

 

Yup, it’s Thanksgiving, and I’m Giving Thanks

We became Thanksgiving nomads shortly after my brother died. For a year or two my sister-in-law continued to gather everyone for the holiday. Then there was a while when we’d go to my parents in Massachusetts and I’d take care of everything there. That stopped when my parents decided to begin their annual snowbird flight to Sanibel before the end of November. So somehow we joined the gang at our friends Marjorie and Doug’s–their parents, in-laws, cousins, cousins’ kids and any strays without a Thanksgiving to attend, because that’s the way Marjorie and Doug are. Generous. Everyone makes something: Marjorie’s cousins Susan and Larry make this scrumptious sweet potato dish that has evolved over the years–the recipe calls for condensed milk. I think they now use skim. Yummy anyway. I make cranberry sauce (in the pot in the photo above) and a scrumptious pumpkin chocolate chip cake. Ask me and I’ll give you the recipe.

The Thanksgiving Parade was baked into the tradition during the early years, when the kids were young. We live right off the parade route, and Howard and Doug would set off early to secure a spot on the sidewalk curb. A couple of hours later I’d join them with the well-layered children, blankets, a large thermos of hot chocolate, and a bag of homemade blond brownies. (One year it snowed and we managed to find seats in the grandstand. Luckily during the parade years it never poured.) Then we’d go home, change our clothes, and walk down the block to Marjorie and Doug’s. I can mark some of the years with images of Ariel’s winter dress-up coats: year after year of navy blue or green wool with velvet collars and cuffs. The dads would then take the kids to Riverside park for some football (the girls in their maryjanes and white tights, yes, crazy but true) while everyone else prepared the feast.

From the beginning Marjorie instituted a pre-meal ritual where we’d go around the table and everyone would say what he or she was grateful for. The kids hated this. Whether there were six or ten young ones or teens, they’d all say, one after another, in a sing-song voice, “I’m grateful for family and friends.” For a couple of years they were banned from doing this. Now when Michael, 28, says he’s grateful for his sister, Dana, 32, we all go, “awwww.”

I have always dreaded this saying-what-you’re-grateful thing too. For several years I was caring for my mentally and physically deteriorating mother. Yes, I always knew I’m so lucky to have what I have, but that fact of my life kind of soured the picture when I had to put things into words. Likewise, this year I really haven’t been looking forward to it: the kids remain unemployed. The economy is bad. I worry about what will happen when the republicans take over in January 2013.

Then a couple of days ago Howard showed me an article in the New York Times about being grateful. Actually, everyone was linking to it on Twitter and Facebook (http://nyti.ms/ruQIQN). According to the research John Tierney gathered, being grateful for things and expressing our gratitude makes us feel better. Tierney writes that as Robert A. Emmons, of the University of California, Davis, advises in his book Thanks, “If you want to sleep more soundly, count blessings, not sheep.” So here’s me doing some gratitude counting. I go from the sublime to the seemingly trivial. But nothing here is small in my life. And, of course, the list is incomplete. The more I think about it, the more I have to be thankful for.

  1. I am thankful for my family. I have a wonderful, smart husband who loves us all. My kids may be unemployed, and this does stress us all, but I know we’ll look back on this as just an episode in our lives. They’ll get jobs. That dog in the photo above: That’s Landry, my daughter’s “rescue” dog. Off of Craig’s List. Yes, I had a fit. But he is the best, sweetest pup. How lucky he was that they found him. How lucky I am to have him at my feet as a write.
  2. I am thankful for my friends. The people I know astound me (a natural cynic) with their generosity of heart and spirit. They make my world.
  3. I am thankful for my parents. My father’s been dead over a decade, my mother for nearly five years, but every day I benefit from the blessing of being their child: my intelligence, my talent, my values, what I am deep inside–I owe that to them.
  4. I am thankful for social media. Yes, this may seem a little trivial, but social media has opened for me a whole new life, a new platform. Through Twitter I have made astonishing connections and met people who devote their lives to promoting social good, people I admire.
  5. I am thankful for my piano. Yes, I am. Music enriches my life; my piano Mason & Hamlin concert grand, dating from 1904,  is special.
  6. I am grateful for WQXR and WMHT radio. When I think about how these stations improve the quality of my life . . . .
  7. I am thankful to the American Ballet Theatre. The beauty of movement and music coupled–I love ballet the most of all the arts.
  8. I am thankful to live in New York City. Truly this is the best place in the world. I feel so privileged to be a half block from Central Park, resplendent in all seasons. Lincoln Center is a walk away–and there is where I go the hear the New York Philharmonic, an organization that also brings me such joy.
  9. I am thankful to the authors of the wonderful books I have read this year. The list is long, but thanks guys.
  10. I am thankful for my country house. This gift from my dad keeps on giving every time I drive up the driveway and see the red brick chimney reach into the sky, the blue house surrounded by fields and trees. Even you deer out there that eat my plants, I guess I’m kind of grateful to you as well. You are part of the whole nature thing.

What are you grateful for? From the important to the silly, you probably have a list like mine. I’d love for you to leave comments below, but finding me on Twitter at @wordwhacker or on FB at either Facebook.com/Linda.Bernstein or Facebook.com/LindaBernsteinPhD. I’m even on Google Plus. Circle me.

Andy Rooney Didn’t Say That

I really don’t get why people do this. Someone’s Facebook status warns that Facebook is going to start charging, asks us to give money to a charity, or alerts us to the disappearance of a child. In the old days people would ask their friends to cut and paste the information to their Facebook status. Today we just have to hit the “share.” There, that status is our status! When you do that, you have put your name on something without checking it out, without knowing where it came from. Is that charity real or false? Do you really want your name associated with . . . a fake charity? Outdated information? Downright lies?

That’s just what happened this morning on Barbara Hannah Grufferman’s Facebook page. Now, I think Barbara is the cat’s pajamas. Not only does she write compellingly about being over 50; she just ran the New York City Marathon. She is also totally beautiful, always upbeat, and introspective–a perfect model for baby boomer women. (Those of you on Twitter can follow her at @BGrufferman. Her tweets are clever and informative.) So naturally she’d be interested in an essay by Andy Rooney about women over 40–one came her way, and she posted it. And people shared it–even after a couple of commenters pointed out that Andy Rooney did not write this. Indeed, Rooney called this piece “a saccharine collection of comments” when it was brought to his attention in 2003. Today, when I saw it on Barbara’s status, I recognized the essay from years ago, and I remembered that Snopes.com, the people who verify or debunk Internet rumors, had found the author years ago, one Frank Kaiser, who tends more toward the sentimental than to Rooney-esque acerbic wit.

So you’d think that after the first person posted the link to Snopes people would stop sharing. Nope. The comments still glowed; people still shared. Even after I reiterated the Snopes findings and added a link to Benjamin Franklin’s encomium on the merits of older women (http://bit.ly/vmkUfp; I got two likes for that–it’s a riot, and the guy was no prude), people are still sharing this little piece about older women that Andy Rooney didn’t write.

Sure, I was trained to be a scholar, that is, research stuff. My urge to dig into information and find sources has also been an asset for my forays into journalism. It also means that some of my friends probably think I’m a bit of a pain in the rear. Really, so what that a status is all about Poem in Your Pocket Day, even if Poem in Your Pocket Day was six months ago? It’s just Facebook.

Still, there’s something wrong here. The first thing that gets me: People don’t bother to check their sources. It’s non-thinking like that that enables schemers to rob people of their money. (Yeah, if his investors had really checked out Bernie Madoff, they wouldn’t have handed over those bags of moolah. Notice who didn’t invest with him: hedge funds, other investors–people who read the fine print.) Sure, no one is going to think badly about the people who “shared” Barbara’s status. Andy Rooney may not have liked the piece, but others do, evidently. Still, do you want to be the one passing on false information?

And that kind of leads to my second gripe: Wrong attribution. In school we learn about plagiarism and are told not to do it. People’s words belong to them. This piece is really popular, and Frank Kaiser should be getting the credit. (Except that having Rooney’s name on it gives it an extra oomph and it’s bound to get more clicks.)

Everyone on social media does this–passes on information without checking it out. But when people start the blame game, it’s often older uses of social media who are cited. We are careless, people say. I maintain that baby boomers are really smart and really smart users of social media.

So if you like Frank Kaiser’s essay, give him credit in your share. Go to Google. Or, here, I’ll give it to you: http://bit.ly/uG0ipJ. Be the first one on your Facebook to get it right.

Think I need to lighten up? Or is this one of your pet peeves too? Let me know in the comment box. You can always find me there or on Twitter. I’m @wordwhacker.

(There is, by the way, a very real missing child, who is getting social media and news attention as of this writing. On November 5, 2011 a girl from Wayland, MA ran away from home and was last seen in New York City Port Authority tapes. People are looking in Brooklyn for her. Here’s an early report, http://bit.ly/sg4gvH, and another from yesterday’s Huffington Post http://huff.to/rJ91rF.)

A Jewish Mother’s Advice to Occupy Wall Street

First of all, all of you in Zuccotti Park or Chicago or wherever–what you’re doing is kind of amazing. As a veteran of the anti-Vietnam War movement, I look at your protests and think how much the world has changed. I also wish we baby boomers could have provided you with a better world. We certainly tried. But we let the fat cats get away with too much. We let the Republicans get a way with a massive cheat in 2000 and 2004, and when Obama came in 2008, things were a little far gone for a good and quick fix. But a lot of what’s going on with the economy and the job picture, we couldn’t have predicted that. I don’t buy into conspiracy theories. Yes, there are a lot of bad guys. Some good guys let us down. (I’m talking to you Bill Clinton.) So now you, our kids, are using your energy to say, “stop, no more.” At least that’s what I think you’ve been saying. You guys aren’t exactly clear. It’s that “human mic” thing, which I’ll talk about later. Also, you’re not all kids as some studies have shown. (http://nyti.ms/vE8NwV) People my age have been down there every day, sleeping over, showing support. And thus my first bit of advice.

  • Call Your Mother. She Worries. I’m not kidding. And you can substitute any family or friends for “mother” there. Even if people in your life don’t agree with what you are doing, they do want to know you are safe. So far in New York City, Occupy Wall Street people have been pretty safe. But you never know. The protestors in Oakland weren’t expecting a former marine to suffer a brain injury.

 

  • Think of How What You’re Doing Looks to Others. The chant “The Whole World’s Watching” worked really well at the Democratic convention in Chicago in 1968 when Mayor Daley’s police went after the protestors with billy clubs. Indeed, it was the Democratic Convention, and the whole world was watching.  #OWS has a different kind of coverage–live-streaming, tweets–along with the mainstream media which has been very much on the story despite some complaints. This was The New York Times reporter Sarah Maslin Nir’s tweet about her annoyance with this after Nate Silver’s story on the press coverage on October 7, 2011:A lot of what you’re doing in Zuccotti Park looks a little dumb unless you’re there and caught up with it, like the drumming circle.

 

  • So Don’t Make Drumming a Priority. Yeah, it’s cool and spiritual, but it looks really silly. And you are bothering people who live and work in the neighborhood. Take a minute to think how important it is to our economy and the eventual easing of unemployment to allow people to get a good night’s sleep and go to their jobs. The more jobs we lose now, the worse it will be. Meeting with the community board and getting porto potties, that was a good thing that showed strength of character.

 

  • Not So Much What Happened at the DOE Meeting. Since few OWS people went to the small meetings after the large one was broken up, those there looked more interested in disruption than construction. Believe me. I am a long time veteran of dealing with the DOE. I had two kids who went all the way through in public school, and things have gotten worse. But doing “human mic” checks instead of listening and designating a speaker from your group–you–we–lost an opportunity to put stuff out to the DOE.

 

  • One Thing About the Human Mic. Remember the game telephone. That’s what can happen. So be careful.

 

  • Don’t Antagonize the Police. @OccupyWallStNYC made a good point yesterday in the tweet:Document, don’t fight, unless you’re ready to be arrested and maybe beat up a little. Tear gas is painful (I’ve been tear-gassed).

 

  • But Count Your Blessings. This is not Tahir. You are not fighting in Syria. Thank your lucky stars for that. In Egypt protestors get horribly tortured (as the US has tortured and still may those they suspect of being terrorists). They die. We do live in democracy with a free press (even Fox is a free press, sort of). You can say a lot of things in the USA that people can’t say elsewhere without being in fear of their lives. Which reminds me:

 

  • Occupy a Voting Booth. Democracy is really slow, and that can be frustrating. But voting generally has an impact. (Look what has happened since people voted all those right wingers and Tea Party supporters into office last year.)

 

  • Back to the Police. Every since 9/11 Americans have had lots of nice things to say about police. They are generally brave people. But people willing to put their lives on the line often have a toughness that with a slight shove moves over to bullying. Most of the police don’t see themselves as part of the 99%. They see themselves as guys who can legally walk around with clubs and guns–and use them. Did you notice the turnout in the Bronx of off-duty police supporting the police indicted of ticket-fixing schemes? If a guy has a night stick, try not to come into contact with it.

 

  • And Don’t Be Naive. This from an article in today’s Times (http://nyti.ms/vE8NwV):  Sonny Singh, 31, a Sikh musician from Brooklyn who joined Occupy Wall Street early on, recounted the scene in Zuccotti Park the day the general assembly drafted its “Declaration of the Occupation of New York City” — the closest thing to a political manifesto the protesters have put out thus far.Mr. Singh said that he and a few other “brown” people at the assembly were appalled by what was going to become the first paragraph of the declaration: “As one people, formerly divided by the color of our skin,” the document began, “we acknowledge the reality: that there is only one race, the human race.”

    “That was obviously not written by a person of color,” Mr. Singh said, calling the statement naïve. “Race is a reality in the lives of people of color, you can’t put out a statement like that without alienating them.”

You don’t want to sound stupid.

  • And If It Gets Too Cold . . . Go Home. Yes, the protestors who are staying there all the time are admirable in their determination. But New York City gets cold in the winter. Soldiers manage to stay camped out in tents during frigid weather, but not everyone is supposed to be a soldier. At this point the Occupy Wall Street movement has changed the way Americans think about protest. It’s not clear that anything can be changed by these protests–except our way of thinking about things. So if you have to leave, you haven’t lost. In many ways you’re winning every day.

I’d love to hear from everyone what they think, those in favor of the demonstrations, those against. Use the comment box as a forum. And in the meanwhile, stay safe.

Food Our Mothers Cooked

Somewhere around the beginning of last week, my friends–in person, by email, on Facebook, on Twitter–began talking about the upcoming High Holidays. Big Jewish holidays, we clean and we cook. (In fact, my house is never cleaner than the day before Rosh Hashanah and the day before Pesach.) In the earlier snippets I detected (and contributed to) an undercurrent of “overwhelmed-ness.” For my friends who are observant, this is the kind of year where Rosh Hashanah blends into Shabbat–which means lots and lots of food preparation, enough to last for three days. But even me, who considers herself an observant Jew, although an Orthodox Jew would argue that point, I was worrying about how I was going to manage to cook the brisket and make the matzoh balls, about whether I should just buy chicken stock and rugelach and not try to fit those items into my cooking schedule. Then there’s the added problem of the tricky food allergies and fussy palates running rampant in my family. (I mean, I have NEVER liked meat, though I am not a vegetarian; my husband is a carnivore; my son and his girlfriend are vegetarians and will eat only sustainably raised fish.)

So there I was pulling recipes out of my recipe box, though I don’t really need written instructions for any of this stuff. Some of them are in my mother’s beautiful script; others are on stained 3×5 cards or scraps of paper. I line them up on the counter, arrange them, rearrange them. Doesn’t matter. I know what I’m going to cook. It’s basically the same every year, basically what my mother or grandmother served on holidays. (And come to think of it, my grandmother’s Thanksgiving spread was about the same, substitute turkey for chicken.)

Then Ellen, a college roommate, who now lives in Jersusalem, and who has two older sisters, posted this on Facebook:Sweet memories, she said, familiar scents. But also, my friends around my age, those of us in the bulls eye of the Baby Boomer generation–most of us, our moms are dead. As are our dads, aunts, and uncles. We are the repository of all the Jewish recipes. And that’s an awesome responsibility (awesome here meaning “daunting,” not “totally cool”). Of course there are some fantastic Jewish cookbooks out there, like Jewish Holiday Cookbook by Joan Nathan. But, still, they’re not my mother’s recipes. When I’m cooking something, and I have a question, I can’t ask my mother. I have asked my 92-year-old Uncle Max about some of his mother’s recipes–and I do get answers. In fact, he even gives me measurements. However, when I try, they don’t work. I’m now on year three of attempting half-sour pickles in a crock; this year they grew mold in three days.

Truth be told, I’m actually a much better cook than my mom was. I’m sure I’m a better cook than my grandmother–my father’s mother who hosted most of the holidays. People talk about the smells we associate with our childhood. Her house smelled like roast chicken all year, every day. When I was really little, every Friday my Uncle Max would take my cousins and me and my sister to the shocket on Water Street, Worcester, MA’s Lower East Side, as it were. He’d pick out a chicken (my mother was modern: she ordered hers from the kosher butcher, who delivered everything wrapped in butcher paper, to the side door), and the ritual slaughterer took it into a booth. So we never saw the actual throat slitting. Nor am I sure at this point if the shocket plucked the chicken or if my grandmother did that. Uncle Max would also buy the red-veined “unborn” eggs, which I found kind of gross then and I believe they’re illegal to sell these days. My grandmother made lots of chicken soup. Lots.

Not being a lover of meat–in fact I did everything to avoid eating it–I can’t remember the taste of my grandmother’s brisket, or my mother’s. My husband says that mine was the best he ever ate, and I basically use my mom’s recipe, which involves covering a first-cut, fat side up, with lots of cut up veggies, thickened spiced-up canned tomatoes (or chili sauce), adding liquid for the last 2 hours (I now use micro-brewed beer; go figure), and just slow baking in a 325℉ oven for five or more hours total. The roasting pan I have is much more beautiful than anything my mom or grandmother used. (I bought it at Williams Sonoma.) I also use it to roast chicken, which can be a bit problematic when I’m serving both at the same dinner. I toss a coin. My husband said that today after a second brisket dinner that it was the best brisket he had ever had. Yay me!

One of my favorite things to make–because I know my aunt made it as well as my mother so the recipe had come down in my father’s family, or been picked up when they came to America (because I don’t think they had corn flakes in the shetl) is for noodle (luchen) kugle. Here goes:

1 lb of broad noodles       1/4 lb butter                  1 lb cottage cheese                                             4 eggs                                  1 cup sour cream          3/4 cup milk                                                  1/4 cup milk                       1/4 cup sugar                1/3 tsp cinnamon

topping: 1/3 cup crushed con flakes, 2 tbs sugar, 1/4 tsp. cinnamon

Cook noodles. Add butter and cottage cheese; slightly beat the eggs and add them; add remaining ingredients. Pour the mixture either into two 8×8 pans or into an 8×13. Sprinkle on the topping. Bake in the oven at 350℉ for 55 minutes. Hint: I always make about twice the amount of topping and add more sugar and cinnamon. Another hint: For all of us of Ashkenazai descent who are finding themselves lactose intolerant these days, I use Lactaid cottage cheese, sour cream and milk and switch out margarine for the butter, and it’s still delicious. And it looks great.

There’s actually a huge emotional significance to all this, to being the ones who make the holiday meals, almost all of us without our mothers at our sides. It means we’re old. Yup. I’m about the same age my grandmother was when I was little. Yes, in pictures she looks a lot older than I do now, but that’s because I have face creams, good makeup, and a great hair stylist. I know how to dress. I have great shoes. It also means that we’re the ones who are supposed to know stuff, and when we don’t, well, there’s Wikipedia, but that’s not much help when it comes to family memories. Some of us have daughters at our side helping out. Some of us sons. The kids, they come and eat. They love the food. But holiday traditions change, and so, I suppose, will the recipes.

Finally, these are the brass candlesticks that my mother’s grandmother brought with her from Shklov. They’re over 150 years old, I’m sure. One of the sticks also doesn’t fit so well into the bottom. The story is that all the girls in the family had a set, and every Friday before Shabbat they would take them apart to polish. On the Friday before they were to leave, they were in a hurry, and the pairs weren’t matched up correctly. So someplace I have a distant cousin with the lopsided mis-match to one of mine. Great story. I believe it’s true.

So, some things to think about. There’s the comment box below. Or Facebook. Or Twitter (@wordwhacker). Let me know what you’re thinking.

  • What are the smells you remember best? Are there certain odors or scents you associate with holiday food?
  • Do you have special recipes that have been handed down? If so, have you altered them at all?
  • And food. What other food did your mother cook?

By the way: I answer nearly every comment that is left on this blog.