Well, technically I haven't yet...the DVR'd account of the wedding of Prince William to Kate Middleton is still sitting on the machine. I chose to record the BBC America version, rather than the major American networks. I figured I'd catch enough of their feed through the internet. And well, it is a British wedding, with British royals, and British people...so I figured a British perspective might be more interesting.
And yes, I teared up when I saw the snippet of them at the altar, reciting their vows. The new Duchess of Cambridge, ever so beautiful in her last few moments as just Kate; and the dashing Prince, heir to the throne, respelendent in his military finery. So young, so in love, so patient...and so seemingly well adjusted.
I don't call it a fairy tale wedding - I think it's far from it. And I'm tired of the reports of how Common Kate was just that, and now grew up to marry a Prince and become the Queen of England some day. But she's not reeeeeally common. She may not be royal by blood, but it ain't just any broad that attends St. Andrews. Now, if Wills fell for a dove that he met in some bar in one of his college jaunts that was uneducated but spunky...that might fall into the fairy tale category.
But I think it's just a lovely story for a troubling time. A symbol of hope that love can happen, and outlast the ridiculous media assault that added to the demise of Wills' parents marriage and inevitably, and tragically, his mother's death. A success admist a cacophany of failures in the world; a moment in time when we all weren't concerned with oil, or caves, or weaponry, or despots.
If nothing else, the entire wedding from plan to execution was pulled off in a miraculous amount of time - enough to make you believe that no florist or caterer should ever tell you you have to wait two years to get them. But then again, I guess it's easier to clear calendars when you have the entire monarchy behind you.
So many of us witnessed the marriage of Charles and Diana, and then the consequent births of William and Harry...almost they have become like distant family. To see him grow up to be a respectful and respectable man, one who seems to love life and, like his mother, do what he can with what he has to improve the lives of others, and then make the very prepared and mature step to marriage was moving, to say the least.
I sincerly hope the best for them. And for all of us.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
A Seder Of My Own
I finally did it. I got to cross off an item on the bucket list. Not as dangerous as say, skydiving (on my actual list), or as adventurous as summiting Everest (not on my list), or even as bold as publishing a book (yes, on the list too). It was to hold a Passover seder, in my home, with friends and family invited. Simple in concept, way more complex in execution than anticipated, but a gracious challenge I relished for days (as all the preparation literally took that long), an exhausting effort (I crashed for most of the following morning), and a personal inspiration that I hope to replicate year after year.
I recall years of family seders, held at my great-Aunt Harriet's, up in Blauvelt, NY - which at first I didn't understand, but knew them to be fun because all of the family was together. My aunt always opened her table to friends (Mamma Mia was always a hit - though I never learned her real name), and the family grew with each passing year. Wonderful stories were shared of all of our lives, impromptu performances were held in the living room, the annual "debate" over whose matzoh balls were better, and the traditions and rituals shared by those who conduct a Passover seder all of the world became ingrained our memories.
Not having been to Hebrew school myself, this was always my biggest exposure to Jewish custom - and I would venture to say the most impactful (as opposed to the twice yearly sitting at the synagogue, the accompaniments to friend's synagogues or Hebrew school classes, or the weddings and bar/bat mitzvahs that I would attend through my lifetime). The only Hebrew I ever learned was through this night (and I still find it funny that it's the prayer blessing the wine that stuck), and I was grateful for the phonetic accompaniments in the Haggadah, that eventually I didn't need to use.
I learned all about the Exodus from Egypt, I eagerly anticipated the dipping of my finger into the wine for the plagues, and I watched my father and his first cousins, and his father and brother (the great-uncle I've spoken of), and their father helm the table leading us rousing song and through the passages of the book. I searched for the afikomen (even though we always knew Uncle Lowell always put it in the piano bench), I welcomed Elijah at the door and shrieked when cousin Michael showed himself there instead. I collected my silver dollar with all the other "kids" secretly knowing my parents would toss me theirs too at the end of the night. I ate and ate until I couldn't move anymore, and I loved to listen to the many generations together, speaking as one when reciting the various blessings.
Funny that I always refer to it as my Aunt's home, as she was barely visible during the seder, handling all of the fixings in the kitchen, her dog Ginny (no idea if that's how it was spelled, but that was what I heard) always at her heels as she would reel in and out of the kitchen with the next course. My great-Uncle, Lowell, was as kind a man as they come, and the two of them built and created a home that I always felt held a sort of magic that I couldn't quite pin down, but nevertheless thoroughly enjoyed. But I do always refer to it as her home. Perhaps it was because so much of her artwork and handicraft was all over the house, maybe it was all the smells from the fabulous food that she created, maybe it was her strong personality combined with her distinctive look; her practical haircut, her colorful clothes, her sandals...women where I grew up didn't look like her. They were always trying to be skinnier, fancier, more well-dressed and well-made up than the next one, teetering about in uncomfortable clothing ordering food from restaurants, hiring cleaning ladies and purchasing art from somewhere in Manhattan...trying so hard to be fabulous and interesting...and never quite getting there.
When Harriet and Lowell finally decided to leave the New York area and follow two of their children to Texas (which astounded us all - parents following their children? Unheard of back in the day!) it was never quite the same. No one who was left was willing to take on the responsibility and task (likely seen as a chore, rather than a gift) of the seder, and it was moved to the country club our family belonged to. Lots of Jews, lots of golf, lots of jewelry, and lots of hairspray. Lots of food, and lots of seder particpants, but it was all so sterile and institutional compared with the family tradition, which was never made clearer than during the first rendition of Dayenu and my family barreled through with their usual verve ending with a rousing HEY!, while the rest of the participants droned into line three. With each passing year, the family and table count grew smaller.
After leaving for college, apparently my grandmother hosted a seder (which must have been something else, because in all of my years up until then the only thing I thought she could make was reservations), but I wasn't able to come home, or maybe I just didn't choose to as life takes funny turns. My parents were separating, and it's all kind of a weird blur in those years.
Then nothing.
In the spring of every year, I would recall the fond memories of seders past. I had moved across the country and was involved with a very un-religious group of people...spiritual yes, but not consigning to any particular modern faith and so never thought to seek out another family's seder to sit in on. We all did Thanksgiving in a big way, and solstice celebrations, Halloween was a big one, and New Year's...well, I can't recall a lot about them in particular, but do remember the recoveries on New Year's Day. There was no Passover, no Easter, no holidays at all involving religious observance to speak of and it was all fine with me. Nothing would touch or top the memories of my youthful seders with my extended family in New York.
When I moved to Florida, I landed squarely in a font of Christianity - not the Florida I remember, which was laden with happiness and tears of what seemed like every Jewish retiree from Massachusetts to Delaware and who brought their culture with them kicking and screaming to sit among the palm trees and take in the god-awful humidity. No, I was on the other side of the state, where churches abound like Starbuck's coffee shops, and quite often the first question from a stranger, was not "So what do you do for a living,", but "What church do you go to?". Boca...this was not. A knish was unheard of. People mistook my quest for a nosh as a need to regurgitate.
And now I was in the family way. A husband and two young children, and my entire social network either 3,000 or 1,500 miles away depending on which coast you chose. Whereas many folks immediately seek to find a church or synagogue, which will provide them with a instant community, (whether that was their intention or not), we simply weren't of that ilk. My husband was and is what he calls a recovering Catholic, and at best, I considered myself a Convenient Jew - you know, the kind that can call upon the heritage when needed - like for a day off of work or school, and be able to back it up with some actual information and knowledge.
The thought of a Passover seder was farthest from my mind. It wasn't until a few years into living here, that my grandparents, residing on the coast of the Chosen People in Florida, invited us to their seder - at "the club", a common component of retirment communities. I'm not sure why it took so long, maybe they were waiting for a high sign, the right time, I don't know...but nevertheless it happened. We ferried the kids over the three hours, we sat in the room with 700 people, and ate the bland unseasoned chicken and chopped liver designed for the senior colon that left my husband seriously jonesing for some fast food afterwards...on both nights. But for me, suddenly there was a glimmer. Family was together, food was on the table, and stories and traditions of old were being shared. What was to come next?
The next year, we returned again, my son now able to read (he was a young reader), particpated in the seder, in front of the 700 people, yamacha sliding off his head, holding the microphone that was as big as his arm, reading for the first time in his life the four questions, as if he'd been reading them from birth. I glowed. I felt a transformation come over me as I watched him through the eyes of generations of Jewish mothers, beaming with pride, basking in his confidence, and lovingly accepting the numerous compliments of those we knew and the countless strangers who offered them as well.
Don't get me wrong - I wasn't running back to temple to sign up for Hebrew lessons to finally make my Bat Mitzvah (I wrote that off a long time ago - not because I think its not achievable, I just don't think it's necessary for me personally), and I didn't go seeking a congregation to become a part of. But I did reconnect. I reconnected with a culture almost 6,000 years old, that runs through my veins as surely as my eye color, my hair color, and my propensity for the more zaftig of physiques. And I promised myself then and there that I would restart that seder tradition. That I would open my home to family and friends, and create an evening that would be remembered fondly, and that my children would eagerly anticipate each year. That I would figure out how to instill a sense of tradition, by hook or by crook, into my family in a way that makes sense to us, and keeps us connected to each other, to the generations, and to the world.
This year was actually NOT my first hosted seder. Technically, it was last year. I consider it my dress rehearsal. I invited no one (except my grandmother, who I actually knew wouldn't likely make the trip over - not that she wouldn't want to, but she's not much of a traveller these days), as I had no idea if I could pull it off. I wanted to be sure we didn't need to order Chinese take out for sustenance because of a massive kitchen failure. I'm not really a cook, and I'm certainly not a traditional dinner on the table at 6 kind of mom. For years my kids favorite meal that Mommy makes was Outback. And the idea of cooking multiple courses and conducting a ceremony, making sure all the i's were dotted and the t's were crossed - was completely foreign to me. It had always just been done for me. Even back in the days in Blauvelt I was still too young to get into the kitchen - and the one time I did go in - I admit was at once fascinated and terrified - all those women prancing about, stirring, and chopping, and preparing, and rolling, steam rising, and the smells converging...I vowed never to do so again, unless asked to and given a task.
But I pulled it off, much to my own surprise. I think my son was a bit disappointed to read the questions only in front of us - people he sees every day, but we all enjoyed it, I think my daughter most of all - she loves her some traditional Passover foods. I made all different types of food that we never had at my Aunt's, or the country club, or at my grandmother's community club...just to further separate it maybe, and make it more of my own. And at the conclusion of that meal I promised myself it would officially grow every year.
Which brings us to now. Three solid days of preparation, one full day of cooking, and consequently one full day of cleaning for what amounts to a two to three hour meal was worth every single moment. It certainly appeared from the oneset as though I knew what I was doing. The table was set beautifully (and thank you Target, for carrying an affordable seder set available at the last minute), and the food all ready on time and together. As the night wore on, my apprentice-level skills became more evident by the moment. Yes, I overcooked the brisket (glad I added a roast chicken). But I was on a curve, and all of the other pieces turned out okay and considering I was preparing for three times the people, all in all, a culinary fait accompli. We used a new Haggadah that maybe I should have read through in its entirety beforehand (just to get a sense of the rhythm - there were no surprises contained therein), and I should never have planned on actually sitting, but since my husband lost his voice, and as it is has only a few seders under his belt (and all of them the ones from my grandparent's club) with no sense of what happens next I felt I needed to guide things along. Five young children up and down up and down through the meal, participating at different levels (funny to see my son the oldest child at a gathering), all eager to be given tasks and give good college tries to the foods put before them (overall success was found with the matzoh ball soup), and who all had to get up for school the next morning, certainly added a liveliness to the pacing of evening. My friends lending their calmer hands to so many tasks, including the breakdown and clean up and their patience and laughter throughout the ordeal, my mother and stepdad pitching in all day in so many ways...
It was beautiful. Chaotic at times, yes, but we hit all the points: the stories, the songs (okay, we need to brush up on the songs), the food, the ceremony, the friends, the family. My desire to do it again? And again? And again? More than intact. I even put everything away in one place, inlcuding the recipies so as to have a one-stop-shop for years to come. My son now calls it the Passover Pantry- which could not make me happier. And we'll see where this takes us. Will it be as big as my Aunt's? Well, we might need a bigger house for that, but I could reconfigure some things I suppose. Will it be as memorable? I'm sure. Will it be our connection to a culture and world beyond our front door. Absolutely.
Next year, Jerusalem? Likely not. But next year, Definitely.
I recall years of family seders, held at my great-Aunt Harriet's, up in Blauvelt, NY - which at first I didn't understand, but knew them to be fun because all of the family was together. My aunt always opened her table to friends (Mamma Mia was always a hit - though I never learned her real name), and the family grew with each passing year. Wonderful stories were shared of all of our lives, impromptu performances were held in the living room, the annual "debate" over whose matzoh balls were better, and the traditions and rituals shared by those who conduct a Passover seder all of the world became ingrained our memories.
Not having been to Hebrew school myself, this was always my biggest exposure to Jewish custom - and I would venture to say the most impactful (as opposed to the twice yearly sitting at the synagogue, the accompaniments to friend's synagogues or Hebrew school classes, or the weddings and bar/bat mitzvahs that I would attend through my lifetime). The only Hebrew I ever learned was through this night (and I still find it funny that it's the prayer blessing the wine that stuck), and I was grateful for the phonetic accompaniments in the Haggadah, that eventually I didn't need to use.
I learned all about the Exodus from Egypt, I eagerly anticipated the dipping of my finger into the wine for the plagues, and I watched my father and his first cousins, and his father and brother (the great-uncle I've spoken of), and their father helm the table leading us rousing song and through the passages of the book. I searched for the afikomen (even though we always knew Uncle Lowell always put it in the piano bench), I welcomed Elijah at the door and shrieked when cousin Michael showed himself there instead. I collected my silver dollar with all the other "kids" secretly knowing my parents would toss me theirs too at the end of the night. I ate and ate until I couldn't move anymore, and I loved to listen to the many generations together, speaking as one when reciting the various blessings.
Funny that I always refer to it as my Aunt's home, as she was barely visible during the seder, handling all of the fixings in the kitchen, her dog Ginny (no idea if that's how it was spelled, but that was what I heard) always at her heels as she would reel in and out of the kitchen with the next course. My great-Uncle, Lowell, was as kind a man as they come, and the two of them built and created a home that I always felt held a sort of magic that I couldn't quite pin down, but nevertheless thoroughly enjoyed. But I do always refer to it as her home. Perhaps it was because so much of her artwork and handicraft was all over the house, maybe it was all the smells from the fabulous food that she created, maybe it was her strong personality combined with her distinctive look; her practical haircut, her colorful clothes, her sandals...women where I grew up didn't look like her. They were always trying to be skinnier, fancier, more well-dressed and well-made up than the next one, teetering about in uncomfortable clothing ordering food from restaurants, hiring cleaning ladies and purchasing art from somewhere in Manhattan...trying so hard to be fabulous and interesting...and never quite getting there.
When Harriet and Lowell finally decided to leave the New York area and follow two of their children to Texas (which astounded us all - parents following their children? Unheard of back in the day!) it was never quite the same. No one who was left was willing to take on the responsibility and task (likely seen as a chore, rather than a gift) of the seder, and it was moved to the country club our family belonged to. Lots of Jews, lots of golf, lots of jewelry, and lots of hairspray. Lots of food, and lots of seder particpants, but it was all so sterile and institutional compared with the family tradition, which was never made clearer than during the first rendition of Dayenu and my family barreled through with their usual verve ending with a rousing HEY!, while the rest of the participants droned into line three. With each passing year, the family and table count grew smaller.
After leaving for college, apparently my grandmother hosted a seder (which must have been something else, because in all of my years up until then the only thing I thought she could make was reservations), but I wasn't able to come home, or maybe I just didn't choose to as life takes funny turns. My parents were separating, and it's all kind of a weird blur in those years.
Then nothing.
In the spring of every year, I would recall the fond memories of seders past. I had moved across the country and was involved with a very un-religious group of people...spiritual yes, but not consigning to any particular modern faith and so never thought to seek out another family's seder to sit in on. We all did Thanksgiving in a big way, and solstice celebrations, Halloween was a big one, and New Year's...well, I can't recall a lot about them in particular, but do remember the recoveries on New Year's Day. There was no Passover, no Easter, no holidays at all involving religious observance to speak of and it was all fine with me. Nothing would touch or top the memories of my youthful seders with my extended family in New York.
When I moved to Florida, I landed squarely in a font of Christianity - not the Florida I remember, which was laden with happiness and tears of what seemed like every Jewish retiree from Massachusetts to Delaware and who brought their culture with them kicking and screaming to sit among the palm trees and take in the god-awful humidity. No, I was on the other side of the state, where churches abound like Starbuck's coffee shops, and quite often the first question from a stranger, was not "So what do you do for a living,", but "What church do you go to?". Boca...this was not. A knish was unheard of. People mistook my quest for a nosh as a need to regurgitate.
And now I was in the family way. A husband and two young children, and my entire social network either 3,000 or 1,500 miles away depending on which coast you chose. Whereas many folks immediately seek to find a church or synagogue, which will provide them with a instant community, (whether that was their intention or not), we simply weren't of that ilk. My husband was and is what he calls a recovering Catholic, and at best, I considered myself a Convenient Jew - you know, the kind that can call upon the heritage when needed - like for a day off of work or school, and be able to back it up with some actual information and knowledge.
The thought of a Passover seder was farthest from my mind. It wasn't until a few years into living here, that my grandparents, residing on the coast of the Chosen People in Florida, invited us to their seder - at "the club", a common component of retirment communities. I'm not sure why it took so long, maybe they were waiting for a high sign, the right time, I don't know...but nevertheless it happened. We ferried the kids over the three hours, we sat in the room with 700 people, and ate the bland unseasoned chicken and chopped liver designed for the senior colon that left my husband seriously jonesing for some fast food afterwards...on both nights. But for me, suddenly there was a glimmer. Family was together, food was on the table, and stories and traditions of old were being shared. What was to come next?
The next year, we returned again, my son now able to read (he was a young reader), particpated in the seder, in front of the 700 people, yamacha sliding off his head, holding the microphone that was as big as his arm, reading for the first time in his life the four questions, as if he'd been reading them from birth. I glowed. I felt a transformation come over me as I watched him through the eyes of generations of Jewish mothers, beaming with pride, basking in his confidence, and lovingly accepting the numerous compliments of those we knew and the countless strangers who offered them as well.
Don't get me wrong - I wasn't running back to temple to sign up for Hebrew lessons to finally make my Bat Mitzvah (I wrote that off a long time ago - not because I think its not achievable, I just don't think it's necessary for me personally), and I didn't go seeking a congregation to become a part of. But I did reconnect. I reconnected with a culture almost 6,000 years old, that runs through my veins as surely as my eye color, my hair color, and my propensity for the more zaftig of physiques. And I promised myself then and there that I would restart that seder tradition. That I would open my home to family and friends, and create an evening that would be remembered fondly, and that my children would eagerly anticipate each year. That I would figure out how to instill a sense of tradition, by hook or by crook, into my family in a way that makes sense to us, and keeps us connected to each other, to the generations, and to the world.
This year was actually NOT my first hosted seder. Technically, it was last year. I consider it my dress rehearsal. I invited no one (except my grandmother, who I actually knew wouldn't likely make the trip over - not that she wouldn't want to, but she's not much of a traveller these days), as I had no idea if I could pull it off. I wanted to be sure we didn't need to order Chinese take out for sustenance because of a massive kitchen failure. I'm not really a cook, and I'm certainly not a traditional dinner on the table at 6 kind of mom. For years my kids favorite meal that Mommy makes was Outback. And the idea of cooking multiple courses and conducting a ceremony, making sure all the i's were dotted and the t's were crossed - was completely foreign to me. It had always just been done for me. Even back in the days in Blauvelt I was still too young to get into the kitchen - and the one time I did go in - I admit was at once fascinated and terrified - all those women prancing about, stirring, and chopping, and preparing, and rolling, steam rising, and the smells converging...I vowed never to do so again, unless asked to and given a task.
But I pulled it off, much to my own surprise. I think my son was a bit disappointed to read the questions only in front of us - people he sees every day, but we all enjoyed it, I think my daughter most of all - she loves her some traditional Passover foods. I made all different types of food that we never had at my Aunt's, or the country club, or at my grandmother's community club...just to further separate it maybe, and make it more of my own. And at the conclusion of that meal I promised myself it would officially grow every year.
Which brings us to now. Three solid days of preparation, one full day of cooking, and consequently one full day of cleaning for what amounts to a two to three hour meal was worth every single moment. It certainly appeared from the oneset as though I knew what I was doing. The table was set beautifully (and thank you Target, for carrying an affordable seder set available at the last minute), and the food all ready on time and together. As the night wore on, my apprentice-level skills became more evident by the moment. Yes, I overcooked the brisket (glad I added a roast chicken). But I was on a curve, and all of the other pieces turned out okay and considering I was preparing for three times the people, all in all, a culinary fait accompli. We used a new Haggadah that maybe I should have read through in its entirety beforehand (just to get a sense of the rhythm - there were no surprises contained therein), and I should never have planned on actually sitting, but since my husband lost his voice, and as it is has only a few seders under his belt (and all of them the ones from my grandparent's club) with no sense of what happens next I felt I needed to guide things along. Five young children up and down up and down through the meal, participating at different levels (funny to see my son the oldest child at a gathering), all eager to be given tasks and give good college tries to the foods put before them (overall success was found with the matzoh ball soup), and who all had to get up for school the next morning, certainly added a liveliness to the pacing of evening. My friends lending their calmer hands to so many tasks, including the breakdown and clean up and their patience and laughter throughout the ordeal, my mother and stepdad pitching in all day in so many ways...
It was beautiful. Chaotic at times, yes, but we hit all the points: the stories, the songs (okay, we need to brush up on the songs), the food, the ceremony, the friends, the family. My desire to do it again? And again? And again? More than intact. I even put everything away in one place, inlcuding the recipies so as to have a one-stop-shop for years to come. My son now calls it the Passover Pantry- which could not make me happier. And we'll see where this takes us. Will it be as big as my Aunt's? Well, we might need a bigger house for that, but I could reconfigure some things I suppose. Will it be as memorable? I'm sure. Will it be our connection to a culture and world beyond our front door. Absolutely.
Next year, Jerusalem? Likely not. But next year, Definitely.
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