The Sensory Christmas

No Chinese food, no movie. But I was at Google Tel Aviv!

For the first time in my life, I wasn't in the United States for Christmas.

Yes, I know, I'm Jewish, who cares, it's Christmas. But when you spend your entire life in a Midwestern classic Christmas setting, there are aspects that surround the holiday that are so normative -- they're like breathing. The lights, the sounds, the smells, the tastes. They're all simply a part of my life. My genetics are bound to crave the smell of fireplaces, the site of lined and beaded lights, the taste of warm apple cider and holiday cookies.

I'll be Jewish for the rest of my life, but there will always be certain pangs of sadness at this time of year. And I don't feel guilty about it because the way I grew up, Christmas was about trees and presents and food and visiting Silver Dollar City* (where, for years, my aunt and grandmother worked) and dipping candles and eating s'mores. It was about driving around as a family looking at the city bedecked in holiday lights. It was presents, snow, and the knowledge that this is what everyone everywhere just does.

But?

I was in Tel Aviv last night at the Google Tel Aviv Campus for an event (which was awesome), and on my way back I hopped the Jerusalem light rail for a few stops and got off at Mahane Yehuda (that's the shuk, the giant outdoor market). At that hour, the shuk was quiet and filled with cars and trucks dropping off or picking up late-night deliveries. A few shops were still open and closing, and a few people were using the walkway as a quick bypass to get from Agrippas to Yafo.

About halfway through the shuk, I experienced something beautiful. I closed my eyes, breathed in, and the corners of my mouth curled up in a smile. I was transported to Silver Dollar City, the smell of cookies and s'mores, constantly kindled fires, fresh wax from candle dipping, and the crisp, cold air. For probably 10 seconds, I got my piece of childhood, my piece of December in the United States, in the Ozarks.

More and more, I understand the role HaShem plays in our everyday lives. The things we don't realize but experience in fleeting moments of absolute awareness with all of our senses. Those are the moments when HaShem reaches down to provide us a comfort that we might not even know we need. It was a gift. A 10-second gift.

I think it will get me through until next year. In fact, I know it will.

To read some past posts on my Christmas-time experience ... check out these posts from 2009 and 2007 (which is a particularly emotional post).

*This place has changed so much since the days I went there and purchased American Girl cards, watched glass being blown, got tin-type photos made, and enjoyed the simplicity of a rickety train ride (where, of course, robbers would take over the train, Old West style). Now it's all water rides and fancy things. I haven't been there since 1996, and I'm guessing I'll never go back. Some things are better left to memory, aren't they?

It's Time to Take a Stand

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, bully meant lover. A sweetheart. A fine chap. How do we know? It derived from Middle Dutch boele, meaning lover, and its first use in the 16th century. As an adjective, it once meant excellent in the 17th century. Bully for you! Bully indeed. And then?

1 to treat abusively
2 to affect by means of force or coercion

What happened?

When I was a kid and eczema began to plague my legs and arms horribly, I became the focus of bullying. I had weird legs, weird sores, weird skin. People didn't want to touch me. I was different. 

When I entered middle school in Joplin, MO, I was taller and larger than just about everyone I knew. I had my first period before everyone else. In home room, my purse was stolen and thrown around the room; I had pads. Every girl goes through it, but I went through it before everybody. I felt out of place, large, big. I spent the second semester of 6th grade throwing away my lunch and drinking only juice boxes. The difference in my 5th and 6th grade bodies is stark. I was different. 

When I was in middle school in Lincoln, NE and at the Belmont swimming pool, a classmate sang the Butterball Turkey theme song to me as I swam. He called, "Beached whale!" And to this day, I don't like to swim, I don't like to be in the water or near it, and I went nearly 10 years without owning a swimsuit. I was larger than other girls my age. I was different.

When I was in seventh and eighth grade, a boy decided that my body was meant to be objectified. He emotionally assaulted me with his inappropriate thoughts, harassed me in class, and his friend prodded him on. We went to the administration, and nothing happened. Nothing ever happened. I had a figure, and I was different. 

For some reason, when I got to high school, I blended in. I was in choir, honors classes, volleyball. I covered my bases in order to survive. But my older brother had bullies -- jocks who thought they were funny -- and those bullies became my bullies. I was associated with different. 

In college, my Jewish neshama burned bright and woke me up. I felt relieved, excited, eager. People who I'd considered friends began bullying me about being interested in Judaism online, making anti-Semitic jokes, and everyone egged everyone on. I consistently shrugged it off, until I couldn't, and then I removed myself from the situation. Years later, some apologized. Being Jewish meant it was okay to bully me. After all, I was different.

After college, when I lived in Chicago, Jews bullied me. "You'll never be Jewish, because you don't have Jewish blood," they said. I was "too Jewish" in their eyes. I was proud to be something that they deemed that I wasn't. I was scared to go out, I was scared to leave my apartments. And it all happened online. But the threats were vivid, scary, and I crumbled under them. I was different. 

And then, as my blog became more well read, I experienced the bane of the internet: anonymous, hate-filled bullying. That is, at first a lot of it was anonymous. As time has progressed, the bullying has come from those I once considered friends who probably don't consider themselves bullies. "To treat abusively" covers many bases, not just physical. Emotional abuse is perhaps the worst of it all, and the emotional abuse that I've received for being me continues to amaze me. Why am I a target of bullying by other Jews? Because I AM DIFFERENT. 

The funny thing about the Jewish community, I've realized, is that we're the perfect community to combat bullying and yet we are horrible, horrible bullies. Jewish ethics and values tell us that man was made in the image of G-d and should be treated accordingly. How poorly we follow through. How badly we treat one another on behalf of differences. I wonder if some of the things people have said to me they would be willing to say to HaShem. Our values teach us that we are responsible for repairing a very broken world. Hatred, abuse, and bullying exist at every stage of life, and while we should be fighting these abuses, we're allowing others in our community to participate in further breaking into pieces this world we live in. 

All of this comes because I saw the movie "Bully" tonight, and it left me outraged. Sick to my stomach. An 11-year-old boy should not have to carry the casket of his best friend (also 11) to a hole in the ground because that friend killed himself because he was being bullied. Eleven. Years. Old. I cried. I cried, and I cried for the parents that lost or were losing a child from something they could not control and something that school administrators refused to change out of stubbornness or ignorance. It made me sick. 

They call it "Bullycide." Every year, 6.3 percent of high school students attempt suicide. With that, I am a statistic. I did a quick search of recent bully-based teen suicide. In the past month ...

• Grace McComas, 15, killed herself on Easter in Howard County, MD. She was cyberbullied. 
• Kenneth Weishuhn, 14, killed himself on Easter in Paullina, IA. He was bullied for being gay.
• Ted "Teddy" Molina, 16, killed himself in on April 2 in Corpus Christi, Texas. He was part Latino and part Asian and was bullied for being "mixed."
• Rafael Morelos, 14, killed himself in late March in Cashmere, Washington. He was bullied for being openly gay.

I'm sure there are more. Many more. 

And then there are cases like Austin Rodriguez of Wellsville, OH, who attempted suicide in late March -- entering a coma. He was bullied for being gay. Imagine how many other suicide attempts there are everyday because of the despair of bullying? 

We think that words are simply words, but words are the worst daggers of all. We have a responsibility to stand for one another, to give a voice to the voiceless, and to make sure that children reach adulthood and can experience life. What am I going to do? I'm going to create a resource at work as a means of education for parents and teens in what to do if they are being bullied online and how to make it stop. 

And I advise those who wish to come to this blog and bully me, that I will no longer stand for hate, judgment, or abuse. This blog is a bully-free zone. If you can't handle that, then you need to reevaluate what the Torah, the Talmud, and our sages have to say about repairing the world and treating those who inhabit this world. 

A Mushroom for a Memory

Last night, as I prepared Kale and Mushroom Soft Tacos, I took a sampling of the mushrooms from the saute pan. Plain, warm mushrooms enticed me to close my eyes and consider the flavor. And in an instant, I was transported back to childhood and the flavor of Fried Mushrooms from the Schwann's man that my mother would deep fry in our open kitchen. My dad was always a big fan of fried mushrooms, fried gizzards (we'd buy them on almost every trip to Dillon's), fried anything. We were a family of fry lovers. But Fried Mushrooms are something I haven't had in probably 10-15 years, and the sensation of a juicy, warm mushroom was enough to remind me of such a simple piece of food.

Our senses are strange like that.

The recipe was simple enough, although I screwed a few things up in the process and will probably add a few things next time. Overall? A fresh, tasty dinner!

Ingredients
1 bunch fresh cilantro, stemmed
1/4 cup olive oil
1 jalapeño, seeded and deveined
(Recipe called for unsalted pumpkin seeds, but I didn't have 'em)
1 Tbls lime juice

8 oz cremini mushrooms, sliced
2 cups cooked, chopped kale (I just blanched mine in boiling water for a few minutes)
8 corn tortillas
Sriracha

Okay, so the first thing you're going to do is place the cilantro, olive oil, jalapeno, seeds if you have them, and lime or lemon juice (again, the recipe didn't call for this, but it really needed some acidity) in a blender or food processor and puree. This was really difficult for me because the stuff kept getting stuck to the side, but if it's not completely smooth, it still makes an excellent topper.

Put about 1 Tbls of olive oil in a saute pan and add the mushrooms, cooking until tender. Set those aside, and throw the cooked kale into the pan to take in the mushroom juices, and heat until just warm. The idea is that the kale you're using is "leftover" but, well, I never have leftover kale. So just go with it.

Warm the tortillas and place equal amounts of kale, the mushrooms, and the green salsa-y stuff on each tortilla. I also topped with gobs of Sriracha because, well, I like things spicy.

Note: Make sure that the kale and the mushrooms aren't too liquidy. This caused my tortillas to break when I attempted to eat them like real tacos. Nobody likes a soggy tortilla!

The Month of May -- Through the Years

The month of May, over the past five years, has held some interesting posts and thoughts. The only year that was lacking? 2007. Probably because I'd just started a new job and was insanely busy. Here are some posts, from May 2006 until May 2010. And, well, you know where we are today.

05.01.2006
You have what my mother would have called a Yiddishe kupf – a Jewish head. You see the subtleties, the nuances in things. You see the humor that’s enveloped in tragedy, and the tears hidden inside the laughter. ~ My Jewish-American Fiction professor
I loved this professor, and I think he knew something about me that I was still figuring out.

05.03.2006
There are moments when I wish I had converted via a more observant route. Then again, I think in time I will convert more conservative. Why? Becuase I want to be immersed.
I wrote this mere weeks after completing my Reform conversion. It's really interesting to me that I was so perceptive of what my neshama needed and wanted so soon after my first dip. 

05.29.2008
The more I think back to my conversion, the more I have to consider the validity of the beth din. I dipped in the mikvah (twice), but the validity of that even relies on those there in the beth din. The more I consider it, the more I feel more confident about pursuing an Orthodox conversion. I won't get into it here, but that's just how it goes.
It was around this time that the politics of conversion really made sense to me. The "twice" is because of a funny story surrounding my conversion and a mistake that was made that required a double dip (not my Reform and Orthodox conversions, after all, it was only 2008). I also think that this is moment that I realized that Orthodoxy was the future.

05.22.2008
My philosophy has always been -- and mostly still is, though I have moments of weakness where I'm beaten to pulp emotionally over the topic by others -- that I'm a Jew. That much is black and white. I either am or am not, and I most certainly am. A black woman convert once said that she tells people that she was born Jewish, just not in a Jewish womb, and I think it's pretty accurate. Some are blessed being born into it from breath number one, and some of us have to get there. It's like realizing you have a nose when you're a baby. It's an amazing feeling, too.

But I'm a Jew. I'll jump through thirty hoops and dip in the mikvah a dozen times if you want.

What do I care? There will always be people who think you're not enough. Or that you're too much (as it seems to be the case with me sometimes). And the balance is necessary. These negative Nancy and positive Petes keep you in check, they keep you fighting, they keep you passionate and alive. They remind you that it is not effortless to be a Jew -- convert or not. Someone will always want you to cover more or butcher the cow yourself, and someone else will tell you to loosen up and let your hair down and eat that non-kosher candy bar. It's becuase it isn't black and white.

So this is all I have to say -- right now anyway -- on this whole conversion debacle in Israel and Europe and everywhere else that converts are feeling the burn. I feel for them, we're kindred spirits wandering back to the mount together, catching up with the rest of the tribe camped there. I understand the frustration and the hurt, and I understand the want for it all to just go away and for the slippery slope to flatten out and become coarse as sand paper. But for now, we'll forge forth.

There is always someone standing in our path, and that never changes. It is the reaction to the situation that truly matters. And me? Well, you'll see how I turn out.
This truly sums up my philosophy -- then and now -- on conversion and converting and converts. No matter how "judgmental" people think I am, and no matter the thoughts I have or the way I question myself and others, I will always feel this way. It's our reaction to such sentiments and feelings more than any other factor that counts the most. 

05.28.2009
[A narrative -- my memory -- of standing at Sinai.] This isn't creative fiction or narrative. It isn't me being thoughtful or pensive or hopeful as to what maybe it would have been like to be at Sinai. I've had these memories, the vivid imagery that I cannot even put into words appropriately here. The colors, the smells, the sound of the wind and the voices. It's the truth I have to accept, my neshama stood there with a child, it seems, awaiting the Torah.
I honestly think people thought I was nuts when I wrote this. Click and read the full story, but it's for real. Honest and for real.

05.25.2010
Ever since I was a kid, I felt overwhelmed. Like, the world is so big. That there's so much going on. That it's all just too much to handle as one person. Do you guys ever feel like that? Like the pressure of the world is on your shoulders? Like you're meant to do something really big, important, and amazing, but that sometimes you feel it's just too much. I spent a large part of my life trying to fix some personal relationships, family, friends. My outpourings -- more often than not -- are met with failure or brick walls. It all piles up sometimes, and it starts to feel like it's beyond too much. Infinitely too much.
And this is where I am today, still. The past year has been a whirlwind, but that feeling of being overwhelmed by people and blessings? Well, it's sticking with me. That professor knew something about me that I didn't, and perhaps it's those nuances that I see, those intricacies, that keep everything feel so big and so ... amazing and scary all at the same time. I often feel like HaShem has a plan for me that I can not even begin to understand, but I know that I just have to go with it. And I think, honestly, that this blog is a big part of it. 

Chag Thanksgiving Sameach!

Happy Thanksgiving from ... Israel! Okay, not the most Americana place to spend the celebration of our most traditional and long-standing American holiday (which, I'll admit, has dubious beginnings), but this is the second year in a row that I've been in Israel for the holiday. I do think, however, that being in another country celebrating with other ex-pats probably gives you more of a sense of holiday spirit than when you're in America with the holiday saturating your lives. 

FACTOIDs: The first known use of "Thanksgiving Day" was in 1674. Today, we celebrate Thanksgiving Day as we believe it was celebrated in 1621 as a harvest feast shared by the English colonists (Pilgrims) of Plymouth, RI, and the Wampanoag Indians. 

I was never a big Thanksgiving celebrator. I don't like big meals. They always said to me "you're going to eat too much, run away." The holidays where we like to think it's okay to gorge are the holidays that I avoid gorging. And now, being Jewish, I get the big holiday meal once a week on Shabbat! Even then, I'm usually too busy to gorge, so it just doesn't happen (and now that I can't eat challah, a lot has changed).

My mom usually made the traditional goods: stuffing, a big ole' turkey that we'd eat on for a week, green bean casserole, and a host of other goodies. Things we never did? Sweet potatoes with marshmallows or cranberry sauce. In fact, I didn't know those were a thing until well after I'd graduated college. Green bean casserole has always been -- and will always be -- the food that sweeps me back to the holidays, no matter the time of year I eat it. Being gluten-free means that I haven't made the casserole in eons, however, because I'd have to make my own french fried onions and find a parve, gluten-free cream of mushroom soup. But the smell, the taste, the consistency ... in my world, Thanksgiving isn't Thanksgiving without the stuff. Thus, I can confidently say I haven't felt like I've had an actual Thanksgiving in years.  Stuffing is something I've always loathed. It just grossed me out. Lucky for me, I can't eat it now anyway!

Oh! And pumpkin pie! Color me a sucker for pumpkin pie. A little whipped cream? Okay, it used to be a lot of whipped cream, but it's been a while since I had a pumpkin pie (crust = not GF).

Are you catching a trend here? The traditional American eats are not friendly to those who can't eat gluten, from the stuffing to the casseroles to the desserts. This is good for me because many of the traditional eats I was never big on anyway. Maybe I was meant to move to Israel and not celebrate the American holiday?

Nah.

In fact, I mentioned that it feels more American to celebrate with ex-pats in the Holy Land, and it's true. You get to get together with other American Jews, in Israel, to give thanks to a country that (in truth) did so much for the Jewish community over the years. (I have mixed feelings about exactly what America did for Jews, but that's for another post. By this I mean the encouragement of acculturation and assimilation, as well as the loss of memory.) It's just funny to be surrounded by falafel and schwarma and yet be downing classic Americana food.

So here's to Thanksgiving, American style, no matter where you are celebrating. May you eat plenty of turkey, veggies, and even a little bit of dessert. And may all of you who spent your childhood in public school recall the paper bags that sacrificed their lives so that you could "look" like an Indian with your gnarly leaf-colored paper-bag vest!

Chag sameach!

Friends Forever: The Long Road of Memory

Driving down a Nebraska road, circa July 2006.

Six years ago, in the summer of 2004, in an effort to occupy ourselves and keep each other on friendly terms while out of school, I took a roadtrip into the country of Nebraska (okay, so it's mostly country) with my good friends of the time Andrew, John, and Anthony. There was a mix CD involved (think: Bob Dylan), and it was that summer that I roamed around freely with my friends, exploring the city and exploring the state. Those summers, when I was in college for my undergraduate degree, were some of the best years of my life. I'm not that far from them (2002-2006), but I look back on them nostalgically because I had a sort of careless fancy that makes me smile when something reminds me of those days. Pictures of country roads, memories of figure-8 races out at the county fair, and watching some country boys watch some very uncomfortable indie flicks that made them cringe and leave. There was cheap beer, coffee, long drives, silent moments, and complete happiness.

My first two years of college were surrounded by men, as I found myself most comfortable around my male counterparts. Andrew, Anthony, John, Caleb, Jordan, Ryan, Greg. These were the guys who, when I think of college (the early years), I think of. To be honest, I'm only still speaking semi-regularly to two of them (one made it to my wedding and another who couldn't, but I still love him). I check in on the others on Facebook, several of them married and others enjoying bachelorhood for all its worth.

I took a drive today from our place in the Poconos to Hawley, PA, a mere 20 minute or so schlep, in order to track down a little coffee shop called Cocoon Coffee House. I didn't think there'd be an actual "coffee shop" out in the middle of nowhere like this, but amid antique stores and general stores, here I am, at a coffee shop with some darn good iced coffee (purchased, kindly, by a local who felt bad that I'd waited so long for my coffee). The drive was on long, quiet winding roads overgrown with trees and old houses with quirky mailboxes. I often wonder what kind of people live in villages or towns like this, where you have to drive a half-hour for groceries and hours further for a Target (I'm hooked, what can I say).

Those, of course, are the moments I think back to the people who lived in middle-of-nowhere Nebraska, where figure-8 races were the highlight of the year, cheap beer was like champagne, and mentalities are slow, easy, and mostly kind.

Sometimes, as Morgan Freeman quipped in "Shawshank Redemption," I just miss my friends. The people who helped me find myself and who took me on the adventure of a lifetime, even if it was just eating Thanksgiving dinner at the table of a family in small-ville, Nebraska, or walking around an Omaha art gallery, or watching movies over cheap beer. Making mixed drinks in a dorm room, watching "A Clockwork Orange" with a complete stranger who would become a best friend, and watching late-night MTV just for the music videos. Those were moments that many people in my Orthodox Jewish shoes never got to experience, let alone understand. I'm privileged to have come from where I came from.

I just wish those people, those boys who turned into men before my eyes, were still active participants in my life and I in their's. When we're back together -- at least with the two I speak two off and on somewhat regularly -- it's like old times. Like I'm still me and they're still them. And in reality, I think we are. I might have changed my clothes and my religion and my hair style (as in, well, it's under a hat now), but I'm still me. I still enjoy cheap beer and Woody Allen and the simple things in life. My friends, my men, I think they're also the same.

Because people don't really change, we just grow up, grow apart, and remember, nostalgically, those long drives down Nebraska highways.

Note: I could devote about 30 blog posts or more to my female friends. It took me a little while to make good female friends in college, and I think the firsts were probably Beth and Melanie, followed by Heather and Ananda. I miss them all oodles, and I get to see Heather fairly regularly. She's my fashionista, design diva BFF. College was a funny time for me and friends. I lost a lot of my high school friends as I made more college-side friends. Luckily, two of my closest friends from high school -- Christina and Maryl -- are still good friends to this day. In the photo below you'll see Heather on the left side of the photo (with her hubby), then me and my man, followed by Andrew (mentioned above), and Maryl (with her hubby). Seriously though -- all of my close female friends have basically been 10 feet taller than me. What gives!? So, see, friends can be continuity. Maryl was my oldest friend there; we got our friendship rolling circa 1998. Twelve long years later, I was so happy she could come to my wedding!

If it looks like my dress looks weird, it's because the bussel broke and Tuvia is holding it up in the back :)

Faux Cursing? Not in This House!

Scene: Starbucks on Easter

Chaviva is busy grading exams, watching the after-church traffic flow in and out steadily. A couple and their daughter plop down at the table next to her. She continues to grade, interspersing exam marks with questions from the wife about what I'm doing (Judaic studies). A moment of silence, grading.

Woman: Oh my, I don't know if I should say that.
pause
Man: I don't even think she heard you.
Me: What? Huh? I didn't hear you say anything.
Woman: Oh, I said (in whisper) oy vey! Is that a curse?
Me: Um, no. It's like saying "Oh geez" or something. It's fine.
Woman: Oh, wow, thank you. I was worried.

That was a weird encounter. Weird only because I'm always experiencing weird encounters at Starbucks. Then, as they left, the man wished me a "good day" and the woman issued me a "happy rest of the semester."

The funny thing is that growing up, despite my parents not being at all particularly religious, my parents wouldn't even let us say things like "oh geez" because the assumption was that it was a shortened form of "Oh Jesus." This went the same for other words that resembled curse words, like "fudge" and "crud." My father was very strict about the faux swearing in that he wasn't having any of it. Of course, as kids we pushed our limits by creating new and creative ways of saying the f-word, s-word, and the h-word. My father's least favorite one of all, actually, was heck for hell. You could have computer or TV cut short for saying heck.

Memories! Just more morsels from the childhood of Chaviva E. At your service!

Things You Might Not Know About Me! Part I

I don't know what spawned this, but I'm trying to catalog things about myself that people might not know about me. I like to maintain a human atmosphere here so you all know that I'm a real person living a normal life. I like to douse my tomatoes in salt, eat cold apple crisp, organize my clothes in my closet by color, and I prefer black pens over any other color (except red when I'm editing). So here are some other, perhaps more deeply meaningful, things you might not know about me. 

That's me, yes. On the right. With my Momma Brady haircut, circa my senior year of highschool 2001-2002. On the left is one of my oldest friends, Christina, and the guy in the middle? I forgot his name. He went to Norris High School, which is there in the background, and actually was mostly destroyed during Tornadoes in 2007. We're all supporting LNE quiz bowl team shirts, since we were at a quiz bowl tournament! I was a geek. I still am. I was the "random knowledge" guru. 

In high school, I gave one of three graduation speeches while standing before my class of 525 students in Lincoln, Nebraska. My school was gigantic, but luckily only 20 some students tried out for the graduation speech spots. If I remember correctly, the dual validictorians got speeches, and the other went to a lucky winner. I tried my temporary speech out in a classroom one day after school and was lucky enough to get chosen. I wish I could remember where my speech is, as I know it's on a computer somewhere in the Edwards family home. It might also be in one of my high school boxes with all the random homework and papers I'd kept. I should find it. It was written in poem form and touched on everyone in the class, from jocks to choir nerds to academic decathalon nerds to the drama geeks. Why? Because during high school I was privileged to run in all of those crowds. You see, I played volleyball my freshman year and was the team manager my sophomore year. I was in choir every year of high school, and I managed the Math Club as secretary for two or three years. I served on Academic Decathalon and Quiz Bowl for three years, and I also found my way into the Model UN and about a half-dozen other clubs. Contrary to a lot of people, I loved high school. So standing up, before all of my friends and people I'd never even seen in school before, I told about my experiences. As a surprise ending, I closed with something my father always says to me -- and he had no idea it was in the speech, which left him speechless. The quote: "Life is not a problem to solve, but a reality to experience."

Also, during that same graduation, I had the leading off solo for Concert Choir. We were singing R. Kelly's "The World's Greatest," and after years of just singing in the choir, I finally stood out senior year with my belting voice. You see, I can't sing good quietly, but if you give me enough room and volume, and I could rock your world. I guess I just have that kind of a voice -- sing loud, sing proud. So I landed the opening verses: "I am a mountain, I am a tall tree, ohhhh, I am a swift wind, sweepin' the country." Now, that's just a few small verses, but the soul I got to punch into them empowered me. I guess, if anything, R. Kelly's craziness aside, those verses sort of expressed who I wanted to be and who I saw myself as. But singing those words, jamming with friends, and having people -- years later remind me of that solo -- makes me feel good.

I've started about seven different versions of a book on my life. They're all really cheesy and ridiculous. I watch friend-bloggers nab book deals about their life, about their conversion stories, and I feel like my story is just lame. I feel like it's weak. I didn't grow up in an abusive household, I'm not a minority, I'm not the product of some kind of oppressive family that forced Christianity or Islam or something else down my throat. Then again, I also had no inspiration from people or experiences to choose Judaism. Someday I'll write my story. Someday. I just want to inspire others.

I love to drink pickle juice. Yes, you heard me right. My mom used to pack me a Tupperware with pickles for lunch when I was a kid and she'd always pour in a bunch of extra juice and I'd drink it while making my tiny classmates gag. We're talking first grade here, folks. I still do this, however. I think I make Tuvia gag!

I Stood at Sinai.

Several years ago -- I do not recall when or how or where or even why -- I began remembering.

There I was, surrounded by thousands of people, all dressed similarly in fabrics of tan and brown with shades of subtle and quiet color, clothed as one would be in the midst of the desert to shield the body from the sun, to shield the face from a windy mess. Around me, there was a dark sky, loud thundering, wind blowing from every direction, flipping my hair into my eyes, around my face. I reached up with dark, tanned skin, to pull the long dark hair away from my face. And there, on my hip, in cloth wrapped around me in a swing, was a child, no more than a few months old. People around me spoke in low voices, calm but fearful, curious and questioning. But I, standing in silence, stared at the clouds swirling, the wind whipping, the light and darkness molding around the mountain. The wind continued to blow, the baby began to cry, and the cloth around my feet whipped around me, my hair again in my eyes. We were awaiting words from G-d, from Moses. I stood at Sinai, and this is what I saw.

This isn't creative fiction or narrative. It isn't me being thoughtful or pensive or hopeful as to what maybe it would have been like to be at Sinai. I've had these memories, the vivid imagery that I cannot even put into words appropriately here. The colors, the smells, the sound of the wind and the voices. It's the truth I have to accept, my neshama stood there with a child, it seems, awaiting the Torah.

Believe me if you want, if you will. Or take my words as creative fiction, my mind molding a history it could only wish for. Either way, every time I go to shul, every time I daven, this image plays out in my mind. I don't know where it came from, I don't know how it got there, but it was placed in my memory for a reason I imagine.

Oh! Nuts!

A kind fellow over at Oh!Nuts contacted me not too long ago to see if I was interested in some of the goods over at the Oh!Nuts internet super amazing nutshop, and of course I was eager and said yes. I'm a sucker for those delicious sugar-coated almonds that you can find fresh at fairs and in holiday scenescapes in quaint localities. I also happ'd upon some yummy looking Chanukah treats.

So a mere few days later in the mail came some Cinnamon Almonds, Sweet and Salty Cashews, and some sweet Chanukah gelt. Talk about Chanukah come early! I even fashioned this very artsy photo for the viewing audience to get a good look at the merchandise. And the great thing about the cashews? I've never experienced the sweet and salty mix like this before, and I'll tell you it's a pleasant surprise to the tastebuds.

On the left, I give you the Cashews, and on the right, the Almonds. 

I'll admit, the almonds and cashews took me back to a sweeter time (bada ching!) in my life when my family used to hit up craft shows in the agricultural building on the State Fair campus back in Nebraska. They also reminded me a bit of ages-old treks to Silver Dollar City down in the Ozarks. For me, something as simple as some candied nuts made me remember home. And I'm not trying to sell a product at this very moment, I'm conveying a message -- the message of food as memory.

But because I am writing about something I managed to get probably because of my blog readership and ability to extend the hand of awesomeness, I will say one little thing to appeal to my Kosher-loving audience: These gems, and as far as I can tell everything on the site, are Kosher certified. And to make things more awesome? They have actual retail stores in Monsey, Boro Park, Flatbush and Cedarhurst. Unfortunately, I haven't been to any of those enclaves, but I can imagine their store is probably hard to go into without buying SOMETHING. And if you're not down with candied nuts or chocolate, then you must at least pick up some dried fruits or examine their baskets to send to someone ELSE for some kind of upcoming holiday (oh, say, Chanukah?).

I mean, if you can't partake in the goodies, you might as well ship them off to someone else, right?

Anyhow, enjoy the foods that make you remember, and for the love of Moses, treat yourself to something nice already, okay? I mean, eat something, already! You look so thin!

A Note, Part Deux

A note for the children who someday will call me "mother" and the grandchildren who will call me "bubbe," I can only hope. Part II

At Stapleton Elementary School in Joplin, Mo., where I went for K-5, there was something special about the cafeteria. Not only did the cafeteria serve as the multi-purpose room, stage for presentations and awards and as a, well, cafeteria, but there was something that editing a menu for elementary schools for the Extras section at my current job that sparked a memory. In the cafeteria, sometimes we'd have to sit boy-girl-boy-girl and sometimes we'd have to sit with our class. Other times, we'd sit all girls on one side and all boys on the other side. The rules changed daily, it seemed. I remember going to the large, box-like silver milk container to get chocolate milk from the red crates -- usually I went for the still-partially-frozen cartons. I'd proceed up to the lunch counter and they'd give us our helpings of this and that. Only after everyone was seated would they announce that there was enough for seconds -- but on a first-come, first-served basis. The most popular items seemed to be the miniature Mexipizzas. But what was so special about the cafeteria?

The traffic light. A real, genuine traffic light -- red, yellow, green.

Sometime in my later years at Stapleton, the principal installed a stoplight at the front of the cafeteria/gymnasium. During lunchtime, the lights would change, depending on the volume of the chattering children. When someone would start mixing their mashed potatoes with their pineapple tidbits, a table would roar with laughter from boys and squeals from girls with bows in their hair. The moment noise grew louder than a hush, the light would move from green to yellow, a sign that it was a little too loud and to quiet/settle down.

If things got really out of hand -- let's say someone decided to initiate a minor food fight or one of the boys was picking on one of the girls -- laughter would boom and girls would squeal louder. This usually meant that the cafeteria monitor would switch the stoplight to red, which meant (in plain terms) "shut the hell up." At the red light, a single whisper was asking to be sent to the principal's office or to have recess stripped away. After a few minutes of complete silence -- with the exception of clattering pots and pans from the lunch ladies and silverware scraping plastic trays -- the light would return to yellow and slowly work its way back to green. Usually by that time, though, it was time for recess.

Recess, of course, is a whole different story that includes the honeysuckles, the big tree at the far end of the playground, the four-square courts, the metal railroad cars/monkey bars and the big metal slide where a kid went down head-first (and cracked open his skull, of course, on the gravel and rocks below). I'll tell those stories eventually.

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My Judaica blog also seems to be wanting to float into a log of sorts. Lately I seem to be having small chance memories of things I haven't thought about in ages. Autumn and wintertime do that, though. It's the scents of this time of year where you cloes your eyes and are transported to a completely different time and place where your feet were much smaller, hands quite tiny and your eyes were much wider. So that's where I'll head. Wherever the moment takes me.