Observations and Observances

Been up to my neck in Judaism of late. That happens to a lot of Jews at this time of year but sort of caught me by surprise.

First, on the 13th, we hosted my mom and Irv for Rosh Hashanah dinner. I took the day off work, which I haven't been doing on the High Holidays for several years, and hung out with the kids. Cathleen had cooked up a beef brisket the night before and had asked me to put it in the fridge before going to bed. I, of course, was distracted by a rare Mets victory that eve and neglected to put said brisket in said fridge. This led to a classic Rick-and-Cathleen tete-a-tete the next morning, not so much as about my gaffe, but about Cathleen's insistence that we still eat the beef that had now been sitting out at room temperature for more than 10 hours. My smarmy line about "basic 20th century food care" and a threatened boycott of dinner by all people blood-related to me won out, and I spent the morning cooking up our second brisket (which, Cathleen noted, undoubtedly did not taste as good as the first would have). It was still pretty good. I also grilled up some goat cheese-stuffed figs (from a recipe I read in the Times the day before) and it was good, but unsatisfying, mostly because I don't know how to pick out ripe figs. The Entin Bells joined us for apples and honey, wine and challah, and the figs. Max discovered an inner distaste for the motzi, and then was a bit hyper through dinner, all explained away by his sleeping in past 8 am the next morning.

A few days later I finished reading Michael Chabon's "The Yiddish Policeman's Union." In this book, Chabon brilliantly reconceives the world without Israel having become the Jewish homeland after WWII. Instead, the Jews have settled Sitka, Alaska, under a 60-year grant from the U.S., and the book follows a complex and troubled Sitka police detective named Meyer Landsman as he tries to unravel a murder mystery, just months shy of Sitka's reversion back to the state of Alaska. Brilliant stuff. One of my favorite lines: “...but the craving of a Jew for pork, in particular when it has been deep-fried, is a force greater than night or distance or a cold blast off the Gulf of Alaska.” Cathleen has long lauded Chabon's writing, and it seems that I probably now should read "The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay," for which Chabon won the Pulitzer. But that would require me to read three pieces of fiction in one year (my having already read Potter #7), and that would be somewhat unprecedented.

In any event, this past weekend was Yom Kippur. Cathleen and I had both been struggling through a tough week and so we decided that we just needed to go to the movies on Friday night while all observant Jews were attending Kol Nidre services. We went to the Cobble Hill Cinema and saw 3:10 to Yuma. We don't get to the theater much (first time all year by ourselves?), and we totally struck gold.

The next morning I slept in until a little past 8 (thanks again, Cath), and when I arose, Max let me know that he did not approve of my fasting ("You must eat, daddy! I don't want you to not eat!"). Fasting is never the type of thing that you should have to answer to an angry four-year-old about. I generally do not have a hard time fasting (and I am pretty sure I have fasted every year since I was 12, even during college when I was sorting out my atheism and trying to figure out what traditions and rituals were relevant and meaningful to me), but I really, really wanted/needed a cup of coffee at that point. I managed to move on, though I couldn't bring myself to serve the kids lunch later, and had to call Cathleen up from the basement where she was working so that she could do it.

After Eliza's nap we packed into the car and headed to Yorktown. We had intended to first visit the Rose Hills Cemetery to visit my dad's (and grandparents') grave, but a late start and traffic precluded us from doing so. We drove straight to the Sixth Grade School in Yorktown (an arts center in a converted school, that Temple Beth Am uses for high holiday services each year), arriving at a little past 3:30. Mom had advised me that Yiskor was to begin at around 4:30, so we hung out on the neighboring track, walked the dogs, and then I left Cathleen and the kids in a playground at 4:00 and went inside to get me some religion.

I dread going to services. I have pretty much loathed religious services since I was a young child. For a brief period around my bar mitzvah and for maybe a couple of years after that, they were meaningful to me, but I pretty much can't stand them (the lack of drama? the endless tautology? the cloud of hypocrisy?). Or so I thought as I was walking into the school/synagogue. I found mom and Irv and sat down. Mom pointed out that the Gussaks (boyhood friends from down the road) were seated two rows in front of us, and I soon enough caught Howard's eye. I spent a lot of time watching the cantor, Jamie Tortorello-Allen. Jamie was a year behind me in college (tho she a BMC grad, actually), was good friends with some of my best friends in the Class of '92, and married Max Allen, one of those close friends, and here she is, the cantor of my old synagogue. This was my second time seeing Jamie cant (cantorize? cantoricate?), and it was no less surreal. Maybe I'm still not in touch with the fact that when in your late 30s, it is not surprising if you've actually accomplished something, but I look at a college friend doing something responsible and I kinda giggle. So, looking around, there were these familiar elements to the service, and then there were these other weird things going on that made it seem oddly unfamiliar (was mom really davening during the avot?). But not only was I still able to read Hebrew, I could sing along with the vast majority of the prayers without having to even look at the prayerbook. And that experience was a little comforting to me, kind of like reconnecting with an old friend.

Mind you, I have no need to see that friend regularly.

The break fast was at mom's best friend Sylvia Epstein's (Jewish? Perhaps). Huge crowd, mostly of mom's generation. Cathleen and I spent much time getting to know Rachel and Sean, the former of whom is somehow related to Sylvia; they are in their 20s and living in Cobble Hill (right across from the movie theater!) and seemed exceptionally cool. I can envision us hanging out with them in non-multi-smoked fish settings in the future, maybe. Eliza was the star of the party, charming every single person with her smile and zest.

We drove to Warwick today to Masker Orchards where we picked a bushel of Empires, Macintosh and Jonagolds. Max loves apple picking not for the food gatherer aspect, but because he loves grazing for two straight hours. I can totally respect that.