Hold the Onions

I bageled someone in the airport yesterday.

It's not as invasive as it sounds.  It's our (the Jewish People's) way of finding out if a stranger is a Member of the Tribe (MOT*), or just someone from Manhattan.

I could have come right out and said, "So, are you rushing home for Kol Nidre?" 
But that would be too obvious. 

So, I waited til the conversation naturally came around to the perfect moment.

We are sitting in the fairly comfortable Sea-Tac (now I understand... Seattle-Tacoma! Ah-hah!) waiting area for our flight.  Facing the big window and watching the planes.  I'm on my laptop.  She's on her phone.  She's speaking so loudly that I can't help but hear every word of her conversation, which is not unpleasant, but just a bit distracting. Lots of food mentions.  So far these are my three clues, not to stereotype my own people or anything.  But, actually no mention of Rosh HaShannah, the Jewish New Year I assume she has just celebrated with them all, or Yom Kippur, the mighty day of awe I figure we are both trying to get back for.  More clues are needed.

She's off the phone. Brand new iPad is out.  She is complaining loudly to it.  Hmm. So she's richer than me, and probably older than me, but this is also not a dead give-away.   She's muttering about how to get "the Internet hooked up" around here.  I'm pretty sure I can help... do I dive in?  No need, her phone rings again.

Why am I compelled to connect with this woman in the airport who might be Jewish?  Is is because I have been travelling already half a day and have hours more, and just want to chat with someone?  Is it because I feel the need to find another MOT (member of the tribe, remember?) in middle of an area where we are so few? Or maybe, during these "Days of Awe" as we call them, when we are supposed to take time to reflect, I have been so busy I have not stopped to BE.  And seeing this woman made me feel that it was time to come home to my people.  (Which I literally was on my way to do...)

And then my chance came.

She hangs up the phone, and this time I had been so deep in my thoughts, and updating my Facebook page, that I actually had not been eavesdropping on her conversation.

"Excuse me...?"  It's her! 
"Yes?"  She has an upset look.
"Do you know what kind of plane we will be on?  My daughter just told me it's a small one.  I'm nervous."
"I do actually.  I looked it up.  It's a 737.  It's two rows of 3 seats.  A lot bigger than the plane I took here from Portland."  
"Is it safe?"
She's serious.  Wow.  Isn't every plane pretty safe except when it's not?  
"Yes!  Of course... and look, it doesn't even look like it'll be that crowded... When I flew out here, every seat was filled and I had a middle seat.  I'll tell you, I had such shpilkes**"

That was it.  I had my chance.  I bageled her.  She not only forgot she was nervous, she took the bait, or shall  I say, the lox, and we had a great conversation about Judaism.  She shared some of her story with me, and I shared mine.  And she WAS in fact, rushing home for Yom Kippur, as I was.  There we were, the only two Jews in all of Sea-Tac, finding each other at gate N-9, waiting for a plane.

Later on the plane, I heard two people from the exact same tiny  town in Minnesota make a similar connection.  I wonder what they call it?  Beef Jerkeying each other?  

I wanted to say good-bye to her when I saw her at the baggage claim, but, of course, she was on her phone.  So I gave her a little wave and went on my way.  

I didn't make up the term "Bageling," and I don't remember who did, but I love it. If you have a similar story, I'd love to hear it.  And now back to preparing for the awe-filled days of awe.

Yep, I traveled on Air Alaska. For the record, just as sub-par as the rest of them.

*Thanks to Marjorie S. for this nifty new abbreviation!
**Shpilkes:  When you cannot possibly sit still one more second.  

The Festival of Freedom... but Whose?

I just watched my older son and daughter drive down the street from the bathroom window.  In our house the bathroom window overlooks the driveway and rather than have them see me standing in the driveway staring at them, I snuck here.  From this vantage point, I can open a spot between the white horizontal blinds and watch the car make its way down our street.

 My kids, enjoying a little together time before they say good-bye

For nearly a week, the house was full again.  More than full at times, with all three kids, my in-laws, and various  friends, a boyfriend, and a couple of sleep-overs of friends. My husband took off time from work.   We ran the dishwasher, the washing machine, and drier more times in a week than we usually do in a month, and went through more Poland Spring 5 Gallon jugs than the state of Maine probably exports in one week.

And the matza!  Like fur when my dogs are shedding, there are crumbs absolutely everywhere, even in places where I know that matza was not eaten.  (My bed?  The bathroom? Well, lets just say, it better NOT have been eaten in those places!) 


This was the joyful week of Passover... long anticipated and over so quickly.   We also call it the Holiday of Our Freedom, although that seems like a bit of an ironic joke if you are looking at it from my perspective.  Yes, of course we celebrate the freedom from slavery and we tell our children the story of the Exodus from Egyptian bondage.  But looking back at this past week, it only just now feels that I have even enough free time to finally reflect.


We are certainly bound to eat only very specific foods.  No bread, of course, but in our house it does not end there.  We, and when I say we, what I mean is, I clean the pantry, the snack drawers, and the refrigerator and remove every food item which contains any bit of "hametz," the generic term for food which contains flour, corn, soy, yeast, wheat, or anything which could act as a leavening agent.  I take this opportunity, as many people do, to thoroughly clean, wipe down, spray and re-line the shelves of the pantry.  This is both time consuming and cathartic.  I donate a few bags to the Center for Food Action, I throw away half finished boxes and bags, and I line up items on the counter for the kids to finish, much to their delight.  

I don't know why we do this, but we buy chocolate and other candy during Passover that we would never  EVER buy during the rest of the year.

Then there is the the cleaning of the rest of the house.  Depending on how early a start I have gotten, the de-cluttering will go one of two ways... true de-cluttering or shoving everything into boxes and bags and putting it all in the office.  I had to go with the latter this year, as my in-laws arrived on Thursday, and the first Seder was on Friday.  Today I will begin going through all those boxes and bags and looking for all that important stuff I buried a week and a half ago.  I carved a pathway to the computer so I that I could do my work and my son and I could manage to keep up with Facebook during this week. 

Next we have the cooking.  If you celebrate Passover, you know that the cooking does not stop after the first two nights... Oh no.  Because we are so fussy about what we eat, we pretty much eat at home all week.  So we are cooking (and in this case, it is "we") a LOT.  And though we cut out things like corn, rice, and pasta, we get very creative with other carbs like potatoes and quinoa.  This year, as it happens many times, Passover week was school and work vacation... so everyone was home and the kitchen was the hub of activity. 

Our Seder Table... almost ready.

Nana helps with the eggs.  

Can you say SCHMALTZ?  I know it's not healthy.  I know it's wrong.  But for one week a year, I cook with chicken fat.  I didn't read it in a cookbook, and my mom never told me to do this, but what can I say?  It's in my DNA.  And while I'm at it, I start speaking with a fake accent as if I'm from the old country, I cook and eat Matza brei, which I don't even like.  Gefilte fish and hard-boiled eggs make their way to every breakfast table.  Whipped butter appears, because it's so delicious on matza.  Some traditions I learned from my parents, some we started ourselves.  And I know my children will pass them along just as surely as I know they will tell their children that "we were slaves in Egypt."    I know that the taste of my matza-ball soup on their tongues tastes like Judaism as much as the sound of the chanting of the Shema sounds like Judaism.

Last night, I stood at the ironing board, ironing out number 2 of 4 antique tablecloths that were my grandmother's.  (I hope to beat my previous record and have all the tablecloths and napkins ironed and put away before Rosh HaShannah.)  I came across a new wine stain, and wondered if Grandma, known in her later years as GG (for Great Grandma) would be happy or furious to see that now-dulled to a rusty-red-colored mark.  Would she be glad to know that I use these so many times each year for all the Jewish holidays?  Or would she scold me (as she so often did) for not taking better care of her heirlooms  i.e. leave them folded up in the drawer and use a new tablecloth from Bloomingdales?  


So when will the feeling of freedom come?  When the mountains (literally) of laundry are done?  When the ironing is finished?  When the kitchen finally gets clean?  When I find the box that contains the two paychecks that I mistakenly put in a pile in the office somewhere?  


Or, wait a second.  


Am I feeling it now, in the luxury to ignore all those tasks, plus hours and hours of work (you know, the kind that pays the bills) that has been put on hold because I have had the freedom to give myself over completely to my family and my holiday.


Z'man Heirutainu... The Time of Our Freedom...is now.

This is actually the pile of laundry I'm ignoring while writing this blog posting.

Not exactly essential, but really helps with the feeling of freedom.
Let's call it the suggested Pesach aperitif.