What Feast of the Tabernacles?

We have arrived once again to the week-long holiday of Succot when we celebrate 40 years of wandering in the desert. As I’ve mentioned before in this space, I find it the most perplexing of Jewish holidays. I don’t know about you, but if I had been lost in the desert for all that time with no way to shower and nothing to eat but the same old manna every day, I would want to forget the experience as quickly as possible, not commemorate it.

But commemorate it we do. The main task involves building a tabernacle. When you get an instruction like this you know you’re in trouble. “Tabernacle” is a huge, substantial word for something so flimsy. Besides, some of us are, shall we say, mechanically-challenged and consideration ought to be given. Not only could I not build a tabernacle to save my life, I was the only kid in my kindergarten to flunk Tinker Toys.

Once you have the tabernacle you’re supposed to decorate it with the four species: palm, willow, myrtle and a citron. These aren’t the kinds of things you find laying around so you either have to shlep to a market to buy them at hefty prices or else raid a neighbor’s garden or national park, all of which is pretty unsavory.

Like I said, this holiday is nothing but trouble. The neighbors and Park Service wardens can rest peacefully and the emergency services can stand down: I will not build the tabernacle. In fact, I think I’ll just ignore the whole thing until it goes away. Wishing everyone a happy holiday, just please wake me when it’s over.

Pining for a Tree

This Saturday Israel will celebrate Tu Bishvat, the Jewish Arbor Day, signaling the beginning of spring. It’s one of the nicer holidays, symbolized by blooming almond trees. Its main activities involve eating dried fruit and planting trees. Nice.

In the spirit of the day I’ve been negotiating with the gardener to replace a dead tree near the curb with a laburnum. The laburnum is a beautiful tree with spectacular clusters of yellow flowers. While yellow is not one of my colors I’m willing to overlook this because of its sheer gorgeousness. I’m even willing to pay for it even though strictly speaking the area in question is not part of my garden.

The problem – and there always is one – is the resistance of the garden guy. For some reason I cannot seem to convince him of the beauty of my vision. We’re even having trouble agreeing on the facts. When I first raised this issue a year ago, he tried to convince me that the tree isn’t dead it’s just dormant. The conversation continued in the spirit of Monty Python’s parrot sketch (if it’s been a while since you’ve laughed at the comedy classic, it’s on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oj8RIEQH7zA) and I was only waiting for him to tell me it’s pining for the fjords. A year later the tree just keeps getting more and more dormant.

Now we cannot seem to agree on exactly which tree we’re talking about. I’m saying the tree is at the end of a line of trees and so can be replaced with a different type. The garden guy says it’s in the middle and must be the same type to preserve the unity. Thus we arrive to the crux of the matter: the tree species. This is important because the trees that are there, and I have no clue what kind they are, are definitely unlovely. They’re spindly with little foliage – the ugly stepsisters of the tree kingdom. In fact, now that I think of it, they could easily be mistaken for dead. Maybe I should re-check my facts. Tell me, where do you find a tree’s pulse?

Hanukkah Guilt

Now that Hanukkah is finally over – ok, it’s been over for quite a few days – it is time to confront the elephant in the room. Hanukkah guilt. And no, I’m not talking about the jelly donuts.

Eight days is a long holiday. 2000 years ago life had a more leisurely pace, unless of course you were busy running for your life from the Roman Legion. But most of the time things were kind of slow. You’d get up in the morning, milk the goat, tend the wheat field maybe, bake a bit of bread, but that was pretty much it. Lighting candles every night was no big deal because you had to do it anyway if you wanted to see anything.

But in the 21st century life is more hectic. With all the things that each day contains it’s hard to remember to light the candles every night, the candles that come thoughtfully packaged 44 to a box, the exact number you will need. This is especially true if you don’t have children around to tug at you and nag. So after Hanukkah is over, you’re stuck with the box that still has anywhere from 4 to 15 left in it.

What are you supposed to do with them? They’re too small to use in regular candle holders and too big to use on birthday cakes. And they’re multi-colored so they don’t fit in with any kind of décor. So the box hangs around in a kitchen drawer, reminding you of the simple ritual that should not have been too much to ask and still you forgot. Guilt. When I moved out of my old house I found a total of seven boxes stashed in various drawers. Guilt x7.

I can’t help but think that there are other people that this happens to. I can’t be the only one.

A-tone Deaf, Not Quite

Once again we are about to slide into Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. It’s a lovely, peaceful day, all local television and radio stations are off the air and everything just stops for about 30 hours. Its main feature is a 25-hour fast which is why it’s the most dreaded day of the year.

The logic for the fast is that it frees you to concentrate on spiritual matters, reflect on a yearful of misdeeds and consider atoning for them. Right. Except there’s a flaw in the argument: deny human beings food and water for more than, oh, I don’t know, 7 or 8 hours, 12 tops, and all they will be able to think about is food and water. It’s how we’re wired. Our animal needs have to be met first and then when we’re comfortable we can contemplate loftier subjects.

Rabbis are smart people. Very smart, and educated. So how they came up with this, I can’t imagine. And then, how did they convince an entire people to go along with it? Today if somebody got up and said, “Hey, let’s all fast for a day and pray about our sins,” a solid “Get lost” is probably the politest thing he would hear as he was pelted with apple cores. But somehow, long ago our forefathers thought it was a good idea, and now we’re stuck with it.

I won’t be fasting, I guess that’s pretty much clear. Most people on the kibbutz don’t.
I will enjoy the quiet day without the roar of traffic in the background. And just maybe I will reflect on matters of the spirit. But when I do, I will be well fed and hydrated, and comfortable.

Rosh Hashana Redux

The high holy days have come again. Rosh Hashana, a two-day festival of honey and apples, is well underway and rain has arrived on cue. Everything about it is entirely predictable which, after all, is how people like their holidays.

Rosh Hashana and Passover, not Hanukkah, are the gift-giving holidays in Israel. You get small gifts from your workplace and from the kibbutz. This year the kibbutz gave us a package containing a cookbook of recipes from kibbutz members – I’ll look at that later – a jar of honey, some chocolate, a calendar featuring pictures of factory departments – jeez, these people have got to get lives, this is Socialist Realism run amok – and a choice of potted plants.

I chose a pretty myrtle plant which had been trimmed into a topiary ball. Since I have absolutely zero experience with myrtle I’m just hoping I can keep it alive, unlike last Passover’s begonia. I thought I understood begonias. I kept it in the kitchen window and it thrived through April, May, and June. Then in July it started to contract. This is never good. Leaves started to wither, branches rot and fall over. By the end of August there was nothing to do but pull the sheet up over its head. I don’t understand what happened.

So, in the triumph of hope over experience, I have installed the myrtle in the begonia’s vacated place. What worries me is the carpet of little fallen leaves – all the myrtles on offer had this – at the base. Is it supposed to do this? It doesn’t seem very economical, botanically speaking. Still, it’s showing some signs of actual growth, so I’m hopeful. But then, I’m always hopeful.

Rosh Hashana

Wishing everyone a happy, healthy and prosperous New Year. Shana tova!

Cheesy

We have just celebrated Shavuot, the cheese holiday. I find this Holy Day to be something of an enigma. My step-daughter says it’s beautiful, just think of the whole of Israel walking to Jerusalem to pay their tithes to the Temple, celebrating receiving the Torah. All well and good, but what’s the connection with cheese?

Were the tithes paid in cheese, two wheels of cheddar and a ball of mozzarella per family? Did they eat cheese on the way?
“We’re walking to the Temple please
Will you pass the mac and cheese?”
I don’t know how this was excluded from the Psalms. Maybe cheese was all they had left after they paid what they owed.

The connection between cheese and religion is not an obvious one but apparently it exists. I heard on the news recently that someone found a Cheeto shaped like Jesus Christ. Someone dubbed it “Cheesus”. Be that as it may, on Shavuot we are commanded to eat cheese and I happily comply. My only reservation is the blandness of the local product. Producers considerately grace the market with a few different varieties at this time, but none of them are sharp or tangy.

This strikes me as odd. Israelis won’t eat anything unless it’s heavily seasoned. They say olives are tasteless unless they’re loaded with garlic and lemon. And yet the whole nation prefers low-taste cheese. Like I said, this holiday is an enigma.

The Bread of Affliction

As of this writing, we are well into the king of the Jewish marathon holidays. After the Seder, the gefilte fish and the Had Gadya, the week of Pesach is all about not eating bread. Some people find this difficult. Some even keep a secret stash of buns in the freezer.

I can be sympathetic to this. I also love bread. Have you ever noticed that bread is the one thing you can eat three times a day – breakfast, lunch and dinner – every day and not get sick of it? Still, I have no problem with Pesach because I just adore matzot. Not plain, of course, because that way it tastes like a piece of bread that someone stomped on with a dirty boot. But with the right topping it is really quite tasty.

Chopped liver, chicken, tuna or egg salad all do well as does a thin smear of butter. Of course the traditional spread is schmaltz which is something I have never tried. In fact, I find just the idea of it – rendered chicken fat – a little off-putting. But my very favorite topping is … drum roll, please … spaghetti sauce.

I love spaghetti sauce and have been know to eat it out of the jar on a spoon. Pasta for me is just an excuse to eat more sauce. Imagine my delight some years ago when I dared to put some on a piece of matza and found the result to be entirely palatable. At one time I might have been more circumspect in recommending this. But here in the Middle East they put a variety of sauces and spreads in little bowls in front of you and call them salads.

Sylvester Who?

Now that we’ve survived Hanukkah and the grease-fest of jelly donuts and potato latkes we might expect an enjoyable, uncomplicated New Year’s Eve. I mean, at this time who couldn’t use a drink? But no. In Israel it’s officially forbidden and unofficially celebrated and herein lies the rub.

New Year’s Eve is called Sylvester in Israel as it supposedly is somewhere in central or eastern Europe. This story is spread by word of mouth: the reason it’s forbidden is that it’s named after a Christian saint who may or may not have also been Pope and therefore the rabbis will not allow the celebration. My solution is simple…rename it! Call it New Year’s like everywhere else and problem solved.

Before I came to Israel I had only heard of two Sylvesters, Stallone and the cartoon-cat nemesis of Tweetie Pie. Beyond the name issue, the real problem is that the holiday is unofficial. That means you still have to work on New Year’s Day which for people like me means there’ll be no ringing-in the New Year at midnight. Of course, most people just take the day off. Whole departments are gone from the kibbutz enterprises leaving only a smattering of kibbutzniks here and there working like the drudges we are.

It’s unfair. More than that, Israel needs and deserves one holiday that we can celebrate with the rest of the world. The Jewish New Year is heavy with the consciousness of sin and prayers to the Almighty to be allowed to live for one more year. But the secular New Year is just fun, a party to lavish good wishes on friends and family, and celebrating it should constitute no threat to the Jewish soul or the rabbis. One secular holiday should not be too much to ask.

Wishing everyone a happy and prosperous 2009!

All Candles and No Tinsel

Hanukkah is almost over, the seventh candle will be lit tonight. It’s a very different holiday in Israel than in the US. In Israel it’s a minor one, meaning no days off work. There are a few parties – on the kibbutz one for the children and another one for everybody else. There are jelly donuts, chocolate truffles, potato latkes and, let us not forget, the ritual lighting of the candles. But that’s pretty much it, and it’s pretty drab.

In the US Hanukkah is the Jewish Christmas and actually piggy-backs (you should pardon the expression) on the Christian holiday. Houses are decorated with lights inside and out. There are sparkly decorations everywhere. And parties, let’s not forget the parties with all the fare listed above plus eggnog and fruitcake, my personal favorites. Carolers roam the neighborhoods singing for Jews and Christians alike and while they don’t usually know the dreidel song, “Jingle Bells” is ecumenical enough.

In general Israeli holidays could use some zhuzhing up. I miss the glitzy winter blow-out and the warm, fuzzy euphoria that went with it. As joyful as it was, it also had a jubilant denouement: New Year’s Eve. But that’s another story.

Succot, Oddly

This is the oddest holiday in the Jewish calendar. I thought this as I sat in a succa looking at the stars through the palm fronds. Succot, of course, has just ended. I had a nice time, sitting in some friends' succa with a few other people from the kibbutz, eating, drinking and talking about nothing special.

Still, the holiday is odd. It's another of those marathon holidays, the kind that test your endurance until the timer runs out. Christians don't have these, unless you count Lent which is a Catholic invention. We're supposed to build these huts out of nothing substantial, decorate them with species of the plant kingdom, and sleep or at least eat in them for a week. I have a problem with this from the get-go.

I'm not a builder. As a kid, Lincoln Logs were a mystery to me. As an adult, Ikea fills me with fear and trembling and is pretty much out of the question. So no hut will be built. But if I had a hut I wouldn't want to decorate it with fruits and greenery that have to be perfect to be acceptable. This is simply insulting and if I were a vegetable I would howl in protest. Wildly imperfect human beings demanding plant perfection – it's laughable. Perfection is not for this world, certainly not for anything that lives.

By now all the huts have been taken down and thrown on the compost pile. Succot is over and there are no more holidays until the next marathon one in December. Hanukkah at least features jelly donuts.