A Word From the Weiss

        Yes, I’m nice, I’m Jewish, and I’m unquestionably a mom, but not necessarily in that order… No, definitely not in that order… even when it comes to the High Holy Days. So when both the Jewish New Year and the Day of Atonement fell during the week this year, we figured that our kids would never manage to come home to us and we’d do whatever necessary to go to them, even if this meant missing services at our own shul, not getting to greet our friends there afterwards, and abandoning many other time-honored traditions of being home for the Holy Days.
        Complicating matters somewhat was that Rosh Hashanah began on a Sunday night, and my brother had been kind enough to offer us his beach house for that weekend while he was away. Spending two nights there before going to the city made it all but impossible for me to cart along food for our holiday dinner. When our daughter Allegra invited us to eat at her place in NYC on Sunday night, though, I packed up whatever I could to enhance our celebration, including wine, tall white tapers in a pair of brass candleholders, and a nice, braided challah.
        We invited the kids to join us at the beach, of course, but of course they said they were too busy. So my husband and I spent most of that time alone together, strolling on the sand, catching up on our reading, and ogling the heart-meltingly picture-perfect pink sunsets over the sea. And surprisingly we managed to not kill each other or get on each other’s nerves almost constantly (in part due to our fresh New Year’s vows to not kill each other and do a little better about getting on each other’s nerves almost constantly).
        Our only company was a pair of large deer who ventured into my brother’s back yard and proceeded to graze on the shrubbery with abandon, unperturbed by both our presence and our frenetic attempts to capture them on our iPhones at very close range.
        But then Allegra reconsidered our invitation and decided to take a train out to the ferry early Sunday morning, after all, even though we realized this would put a serious damper on her ability to get a holiday dinner onto the table at any reasonable hour.
        We were thrilled to see her and proceeded to spend a lovely, tranquil day together doing all of the above… although we did have a white-knuckle moment or two when we couldn’t find our umbrella and chairs after a long walk on the beach, and soon realized that the clouds were rolling in fast and that we had overshot our belongings by a mile.
        On the ferry ride back, we also began to realize that we had overshot the realm of possibility with respect to our plans to celebrate the holiday with our customary home-cooked meal. I proposed that we consider getting some prepared food to go instead, but then Allegra started having second thoughts about hosting us in her apartment after all, given that her three roommates were all home and one of them even had a guest for the weekend.
        Our son Aidan also shares his apartment, and he didn’t feel comfortable having the four of us dining in his somewhat confined quarters either. Our only viable option, it seemed, was to go out for dinner.
        “We are not going out for dinner on Rosh Hashanah!” Allegra countered decisively. “I want to eat kugel!”
        I wanted to eat kugel, too. “Maybe we can find somewhere that serves it,” I offered hopefully. "Or maybe Whole Foods has some.”
        “I don’t want Whole Foods kugel!" she cried. "I want my own kugel!”
        However gratifying it was to hear how strongly she felt about noodle pudding in particular and keeping up holiday traditions in general, I could think of no alternative. The question was where to go.
        When we phoned Aidan for suggestions, he proposed Katz’s Delicatessen on the Lower East Side or somewhere else that served traditional Jewish fare. But it suddenly occurred to me that any place with even the slightest Jewish connection would probably be closed for Rosh Hashanah.
        I told the kids that I sympathized with their eagerness to observe the holiday as we always did, but that under the circumstances we were going to have to do things a little differently this year. I suggested they come up with another plan together and said that I was willing to go anywhere they chose, be it for lokshen kugel, lasagna, or even sushi. The important thing was not what we ate, but that we got to eat it together.
        Allegra dozed off briefly in the car on the way back to the city, then awakened to tell us that she had dreamt that we were driving to Grandma Bunnie’s house for dinner. This made me feel even worse because my mother, to whom she was extremely close, died over three years ago. But when we arrived at Aidan’s apartment at 7:30, the kids had a brief huddle alongside the car, then announced elatedly that we were going to their favorite Szechuan place nearby. If we couldn’t actually have Rosh Hashanah dinner at Grandma’s house, they said, then Chinese food was the next best thing.
        In fact, when my mother had grown too old and too ill to cook for our extended family, she had begun ordering in food from her favorite Chinese restaurant instead.
        The kids led the way as we marched the half-dozen blocks or so to a vibrant, bustling eatery called Grand Sichuan International, on West 24th Street, where nearly every table was taken – never mind that it was essentially New Year’s Eve for the Jews. No one noticed the plastic bag I had tucked under my arm until we were seated, and I proceeded to empty it, jubilantly placing my braided challah in the middle of the table.
        “What are you doing?” Allegra shrieked in horror. “You can’t bring that in here!”
        This was not the reaction I had anticipated after her conniptions about the kugel. “Sure you can,” I replied. “I’m sure they don’t care.” I wanted to say a motzi, I explained, and I wasn’t about to chant the blessing over the bread beside a dish of fried noodles.
        My kids weren’t about to go along with what to them was fekakta behavior, though. “Put that away!” Aidan ordered decisively, sounding so assertive that I promptly did.
        “Well, can we at least order wonton soup,” I asked, “and pretend that we’re eating matzah balls?” But even here I encountered some resistance. A specialty of the house was something called soup dumplings, and the kids were eager to order these instead. They doubted that their dad and I would have the slightest idea how to eat them, though.
        I assured them that we were up to this big challenge. The greater hardship was narrowing down our entrée choices from the innumerable options on the vast menu. My mouth had begun to water at the sight of a platter of sautéed string beans passing by, but it turned out that these were seasoned with minced pork. Allegra, meanwhile, lobbied for Four Precious Jewels, including jumbo shrimps, scallops, fish fillet and beef with assorted vegetables. Aidan objected, however, saying that, this being Rosh Hashanah, we couldn’t in good conscience order both shrimp and pork.
        There were a few offerings with such enticing names that we found them hard to resist, even if they didn’t actually sound all that appetizing, such as Grasp at Good Luck (which was described as shredded chicken with carrots, snow peas, soft tofu, bean sprouts and cellophane noodles) and something seriously called (and believe me, I couldn’t have made this up if I tried) The Blueberry Trees Bent Their Green Branches (which consisted of sautéed squid, green celery, and spicy pepper with black beans).
        But then there was the dish that sounded both so poetic and delectable that it won our unanimous approval and managed to kill two birds with one stone, almost literally: We Would Be Too Love-Birds Flying Wing to Wing on High (which was comprised of sautéed spicy baby chicken pieces with fresh ginger).
        Aidan once again led the way by placing our final order, and before long those dumplings arrived, and I must say they were a revelation. If you squinted, you conceivably could have mistaken them for matzah balls, I suppose, but they looked more like miniature volcanoes with some sort of fiery-orange substance sealing up the peaks.
        The kids had been right to begin with – it actually took some skill to get these little mothers in our mouths. But I watched my offspring and then tried to mimic their expert technique, raising the doughy mounds to my lips, then gently gnawing a hole at the top so that you could quickly suck up the scalding hot soup that lay within before it dripped.
        OK, there may have been some minced pork involved, too. But the result was kind of like eating matzah ball soup inside out. And the taste was indisputably delicious!
        Everything that followed was similarly sumptuous, especially that love-bird thing. But as I had declared earlier, it wouldn’t have mattered all that much what we ate, even if it tasted like raw sewage. Well, maybe not quite that far. But you know what I mean.
        I mean that I was infinitely happier sharing inside-out soup with my kinder at a Chinese restaurant in Chelsea than I would have been eating homemade noodle kugel and a nice kosher chicken with Nice Jewish Dad all alone at home, or anywhere else for that matter. And Nice Jewish Dad was much, much happier, too.
        He was also much happier at the prospect of attending services with Allegra the next day than he would have been doing our usual routine at temple back at home. (Aidan, unfortunately, was unable to join us.) At our request, our temple had arranged for us to attend Central Synagogue on East 55th Street, one of the oldest and most prominent Reform congregations in the city, as well as one of the most progressive. Being dues-paying members in good standing, we were entitled to free reciprocal tickets. (Tickets for non-members cost $150 per holiday or $250 for both holidays.)
        Then again, as with the Chinese restaurant, we now found ourselves once again observing one of the most time-worn, significant rituals of our lives on unfamiliar ground.
        Given that unfamiliarity, my husband and I made it a strict point to show up quite early for the service (something, as our rabbi well knows, that is definitely new for us). Allegra texted that she was running late, however. But then to my delight she showed up in a lovely black and cream dress promptly at 12:30, just as worship began.
        As non-members of Central, we were not entitled to attend services in the hoity-toity venue it had booked for holiday services this year, Lincoln Center’s Avery Fisher Hall. But we were perfectly content with the afternoon community service held in the modern and attractive chapel in its Community House, which was at least three-quarters full.
        It was, I must confess, exhilarating to discover that this was a particularly youthful, sophisticated, and attractive-looking congregation, because (as ashamed as I am to admit this) my husband and I spent most of the moments leading up to the service visually shopping for potential mates for our progeny, and a wide range of eligible and age-appropriate young Jewish candidates from both genders were there in abundance.
        It was also a relief to discover that as a Reform congregation, like ours back home, it mostly featured music that was totally familiar, so that we were able to sing right along on everything from major prayers like the Shema to songs like “Mi Shebeirach,” the prayer for the sick, performed to the modern melodies of the late Debbie Friedman.
        But what I most enjoyed was that it was presided over by a triumvirate of women – Rabbi Beth Kalisch; a gifted soprano named Amy who was, I believe, lead soloist from the adult choir; and a young rabbinical intern who pitch-hit by leading many prayers.
        You might wonder what I mean when I say that this synagogue was “progressive.” We wondered, too. One example was provided by Rabbi Kalisch, a very pleasant and impressive young woman who did her undergrad work at Yale, yet as Adjunct Rabbi for Associate Families (those awaiting full membership) is evidently only in Central’s third string of clergy, after the senior rabbi and two assistants, who are all uniformly male.
        With many of the worshippers present being unaffiliated, and having only joined the congregation’s staff only this summer herself, she was unable to call upon anyone present by name to perform an aliyah (special blessing over the Torah). So rather than reserving this honor for the chosen few who had made the most generous donations in either money or time over the past year (as my temple does), she took a creative tack.
        Before each segment of the Torah reading, she invited people to voluntarily come up to the bima en masse if they fell into various categories that related to that day’s portion – if, for example, they had received an unexpected gift during the past year; if they were about to make a major change in their lives; or if there had been something notable in the past year that had given them reason to laugh (as Sarah had when she’d discovered that, at the advanced age of 90-something, she was going to have a child).
        I found this egalitarian and rather inclusive approach very refreshing. So even as a stranger in a strange shul, I was prepared to participate in any one of these groups, provided that Allegra would as well. But she staunchly declined, looking daggers at me.
        Kalisch’s sermon, meanwhile, also seemed contemporary and apropos, relating in large part to her having purchased a natural-light-emitting alarm clock that promised to transform her into a morning person – something that, like me, she decidedly is not – only to realize that we humans are hard-wired to repeat much of our long-term habitual behavior, and unless we are extremely determined and mindful of our actions, all those New Year’s resolutions we make toward self-improvement are probably destined to fail.
        My husband enjoyed all the proceedings so much that on the way out he procured tickets for us to return the following week for Yom Kippur. Never before had I known him to be so enthusiastic about attending temple, so I didn’t put up a fight. Besides, there was clearly no need to twist my nice Jewish arm to get me to spend yet another High Holy Day with our kids.
        As much as we had enjoyed our Sichuan dining experience, minus the challah and complete with pork, Allegra asserted that we would be returning to more familiar ground. She was going to host us all for a holiday dinner at her place this time, no matter what. And no matter what – there would be kugel!
        Since she was working earlier that day, I insisted on bringing much of the meal. This time it was easier for me to cart food along, since we were coming straight from home. She planned on roasting a chicken herself, but I supplied the homemade chicken soup with egg noodles, the vegetables, and a salad, as well as an apple tart I’d baked.
        And although I brought along the requisite liter of Manischewitz Concord Grape, I managed to supplement it with the ultimate Yom Kippur vintage for those seeking something a little less sweet. In small print, the label identified this as “Summer in Napa.” But this novel pinot noir was more prominently emblazoned with the acronym: SIN.
        Once again, in pursuit of family solidarity, we were obliged to bend the rules a bit. As we all know, you’re supposed to begin fasting for Yom Kippur at sundown the night before, so we usually eat an early dinner, then rush off to Kol Nidrei services at temple.
        Aidan, however, is in his last year of graduate school now, and his class meets only once a week, on Tuesdays, from morning until 8 p.m. So in the interests of having him join us and not miss school, we’d have to forego services and not eat dinner until 9.
        Since he wouldn’t be available until then, Allegra decided to keep an appointment she’d made for earlier that evening, not realizing that it was Erev YK. My husband and I arrived just before she left, and while she was out I kept an eye on the chicken in the oven, set the table, and began warming up everything else. Then things got chaotic.
        Aidan phoned to say he had decided to leave class early for the holiday, after all. He showed up at 7:30, frazzled, exhausted, and in a strange mood. Then Allegra returned, also in a bit of a snit because now we were rushing to get everything on the table a.s.a.p.
        Yes, a moment of tranquility descended over the apartment as we lit the candles and got, at last, to chant a resounding motzi over my golden, round, raisin-studded challah. My chicken soup (although it had been in the freezer since Passover) was declared by all, as always, to be the best ever.
         But Allegra’s roast chicken, prepared according to her own personal recipe, was so tender and scrumptious that it actually was the best ever. (Her secret? She poured a liberal dose of apple cider into the roasting pan, then added one cut-up apple, one sliced onion, fresh rosemary and parsley, cinnamon, nutmeg, sea salt and a dusting of paprika.)
        And her kugel, topped with a crunchy layer of Cinnamon Pecan Special K cereal, wasn’t just incredible, but, as Grandma Bunnie would have said, “out of this world.”
        Aidan remained in a funk, however, grumbling about a complicated test he had taken the weekend before to get into a professional union of film and TV stagehands. He was convinced that he had failed it and dreaded having to take it again next year.
        Meanwhile, moments after we finished eating the assorted roommates began to arrive, and as gracious as they were about our presence, it was clear that we were intruding.
        I didn’t want to leave them one trace of mess, yet Allegra’s New York-style kitchen is too small to allow for anything beyond single-person-occupancy. So while everyone else sat around chatting and watching TV, I sequestered myself at the sink, cleaning up the entire meal single-handedly… only to have Aidan eventually storm in and request that “we get this show on the road.” He wanted dessert to be served already so that we could leave.
        I couldn’t blame him. It was already past 10, and he needed to be up for work by 6 a.m. Yet it reminded me of one holiday tradition that I well remember, starting from childhood, but that I have never liked: Mom does all the work. Everyone else overeats and then sits around relaxing and socializing, too tired to help.
        But I did manage to quickly hand-wash the last of the wine glasses and indeed get that show on the road. Then we dropped him off at home and checked into our hotel in time to be well-rested for our return trip to Central Synagogue the next day.
        Once again, the service was presided over by that same lovely matriarchal trio.
        Once again, my daughter texted that she was going to be very late (although this time she actually was), and once again until she arrived my husband and I spent most of our time there shopping with our eyes for possible future sons- and daughters-in-law.
        Also, once again Rabbi Kalisch recruited people for aliyot the newfangled way, by inviting up everyone who had experienced holiness in some way in their place of work or who aspired to make Shabbat a more pivotal part of their lives.
        But my favorite part this time was when I wanted to go up after she called upon everyone who was among the senior generation of their family, and Allegra didn’t just look daggers at me, but physically restrained me, whispering, “No! You’re not old… in any capacity!”
        Not old? According to the Jewish calendar, we’ve just begun the year 5773. And although I'm only 100th of that number, that doesn’t exactly make me feel young.
        However, I’ll gladly allow that I remain young enough – or at least youthfully open-minded enough -- to be willing to reconsider and even uproot some time-honored holiday traditions. And I have to admit that after experimenting with some different approaches this year, there is something to be said for the new.
        Yes, I missed the kugel and the comforts of home on Rosh Hashanah, and I still kind of prefer my matzah balls with the soup on the outside instead… minus the pork. Plus, of course I missed seeing our friends and other familiar faces at temple.
        I also wish that things hadn’t been quite so rushed and hectic, which is almost unavoidable when Jewish holidays fall mid-week. (Plus, after our break fast back home on Yom Kippur, we got a call from a very upbeat Aidan, who had just learned that he had passed that union test after all. I wish we had known that 24 hours earlier, so he not only would have been cheerier, but we could have celebrated with him in person.)
        But there was something relaxing about letting others do all the cooking, serving, and cleaning at the restaurant, plus the unquestionable pleasure of trying something new.
        Who knows what the coming 12 months will bring? After 5773 years, traditions that have lasted this long in the Jewish community are so time-worn and deep-rooted that it’s hard to start reinventing them now. Besides, we Jews -- like all humans, as Rabbi Kalisch observed -- are definitely creatures of habit.
        But sometimes you just have to be willing to improvise. Or change.
        I hope I can change, or keep at least some of the many resolutions I've made to be a much better person this year.
        I also hope to remain youthful enough to stay open-minded (as well as way too young in my daughter’s eyes to be counted among the elderly just yet).
        But there's one tradition I am not willing to bend. Wherever my kids are next year, that’s where you’ll find me. Because first and foremost, I’m a mom. And whatever we do and wherever we do it, the crucial thing is that we do it together.

A Word From the Weiss

              This being Sunday already, many of you may have logged in two or three times by now, wondering,"Has she posted yet this week?" "When the heck is she going to post this week?" Or, since I haven't -- and this being Sunday already -- as my mother would say, "IS SHE OK?" 
        The answers to those questions are  no, now, and a definitive YES!!! The problem, if you can even call it that, is that Nice Jewish Dad has been on vacation all week, and so, therefore, have Latke and I. On vacation by association! In fact, while you were there wondering what was wrong, I have been here, there, and pretty much everywhere, trying to cram a full summer's worth of delayed gratification into a single fun-filled week.
        In the past seven days or so alone, I have been to New York City for Fashion's Night Out; Brimfield, MA; Martha's Vineyard; back to New York City for opening night of Jazz at Lincoln Center; and then to Fire Island, where I am right now... and I still intend to return to NYC to celebrate Rosh Hashanah with my kids and hopefully attend shul before the day is through!
         With all that happening, who could possibly find the time to sit down and write... especially while basking on the beach... with a Nice Jewish Dog, no less? But with all that happening, I also now have much to tell -- and much about which to kvell.
        It's not just the start of another Jewish year, you see -- No. 5773 -- but also a brand new year for NiceJewishMom.com. This week marks exactly two years since I launched this site and began posting weekly. So please tune in again within the next few days for the latest Word From the Weiss. In the meanwhile, happy two-year to me!
        Happy New Year to you!
        And happy New Year to Jews!!!!