Video: Michael Douglas On Antisemitism

I watched this clip this morning.


And I couldn't help but think: What useless angst! Why should someone who is NOT JEWISH suffer due to antisemitism? What's the point?

I mean, for me, antisemitism mostly helps me hold my head higher. The more they hate me, the more it strengthens me, makes me proud of who I am.

But what does it do for someone like Michael Douglas or his son Dylan? They aren't Jewish. Are they trying to invent meaning for themselves in a meaningless world? It's kind of piteous, you ask me (not that you asked me).

Ditto when he talks about how Dylan's request for a bar mitzvah made him and Catherine (Zeta Jones) proud, and "brought a lot of spirituality into our lives."

I would suggest it brought no such thing into their lives. A bar mitzvah is not a coming of age party, it's the point where JEWISH men attain the age of mitzvot: they now have to keep the Torah commandments or suffer the consequences. The reason Jews make such a fuss about it is to show our joy and gratitude for having the Torah, and for being worthy of living a Torah lifestyle, constrained and enhanced by the mitzvot.

Dylan is NOT JEWISH and therefore will never attain the age of mitzvot, will never have to keep the Torah commandments, will never be WORTHY of keeping the mitzvot, and will therefore, never suffer the consequences of not doing so.

So basically, they threw a party for something that didn't happen. An expensive party, I'll grant you, considering they did it up big in Jerusalem, but still, just a party to celebrate a lie.

I know. I'm just nasty. *sigh*

It's too bad when someone has to suffer antisemitism when that person isn't even Jewish. It's just a bummer, with no bright side, whatsoever.

There has to be Balance

It could be me getting older or the fact that I live in a holy place. It may even be about the time of year. But lately things seem wonderfully concentrated, distilled to an essence that makes them easy to take in.

(photo credit: Zzvet for Shutterstock)

Take the elderly woman in shul yesterday. It was the afternoon Yom Kippur service. She struggled with all  her might to stand for Kedusha, an important part of the service where those who are physically able, must stand. As we finished Kedusha, I saw her slowly ease herself back into her seat. Her face was aglow with gratitude for finding the strength to stand for Kedusha at mincha on Yom Kippur, for yet another year.

Wow.

Meant To See

Would I have noticed that a year ago, or one year on? I was glad I got to see that. I believe I was meant to see that.

But of course, there must be balance, which means that the distillation of events is not always a happy occurrence. For instance my son’s hanachat tefillin on Thursday last, the first time he put on phylacteries at the Western Wall. Looking for a free chair on which to place my handbag and other paraphernalia, I came to a stack of plastic chairs topped with a bag. I asked the woman sitting next to them if I might take one. She snapped out a harsh, “NO,” to my polite request.

(photo credit: gh19 for Shutterstock)

Ouch.

I tried to reason with her, “I have a bar mitzvah,” I explained.

Weddings Trump Bar Mitzvahs

“I have a wedding!” said she, as if to say weddings trump bar mitzvahs.

“And clearly you’re using all of those chairs right now,” I said with as much composure as I could gather, chastising her, though I should have said nothing at all.

(photo credit: Shutterstock)

I moved on. I came to a second stack of chairs with a woman next to them. “May I take a chair?”

“No!” she snapped.

Whoa. What was it with this place?

She Found Them

 

At last I spotted an unclaimed chair and put my stuff down. At that moment, my daughter showed up. I told her I couldn’t really see where our men were on the other side of the mechitza and I’d pretty much given up. She went to scout things out and found them.

“Over here,” she said, beckoning.

Oy. Right next to that first woman who wouldn’t let me have a chair—the one with the wedding.  By now there were a few other women with her, and I asked one of them if she could just inch forward a bit. The first woman began screeching at me.

I Was Trembling

 

By now I was trembling. I showed her that my family was directly on the other side of the mechitza, the barrier that separates men from women. I said, “This is my eighth of eight sons and it’s his bar mitzvah and it’s happening right here.”

I said this with as much fortitude as I could. I’m not really one to argue with strangers, especially not in

Through the mechitza.
(photo credit: Varda Meyers Epstein)

public. But this was my baby having his bar mitzvah. I was compelled to plead my case.

She started again telling me about so and so getting called to the Torah for his wedding. I pointed to the opening in the barrier. “Look,” I showed her. “My son and my family are RIGHT HERE.”

She stopped arguing then. How could she continue to argue with me? Clearly I had a right to be in that spot at that moment. But she stared at me disapprovingly the entire time. I could imagine what she was thinking, “Those orthodox people think they own the place,” or something like that. Perhaps she was thinking disdainful things about my appearance. That’s what I was imagining, anyway.

Don’t Do Well

 

I don’t do well with stuff like that. I was shaking. I really had to struggle to stay composed.
It’s not like this group of women was even praying. They sat around gossiping loudly. They were foreigners and cared little for the decorum of this holy place.

(photo credit: Natan Epstein)

In a way, this whole hurtful business kind of added something to my moment by making me fragile and emotional, softening my heart so that it was more able to take in the import of this special occasion: my baby, the last of my 12 children, having his bar mitzvah. I shook but I also smiled. My heart was full.

When it came time to throw candies at Asher, my daughter Liba offered the bag of candy to the group of women next to us, the ones with the wedding and overprotective keeper of chairs and they happily accepted. I was proud of Liba. I never would have done that in her stead. She was right to do that.

Baseless Hatred

 

It was two days before Yom Kippur, a time when God-fearing people are on their best behavior. The 

View from between the mechitza slats
(photo credit: Varda Meyers Epstein)

Temple was said to be destroyed because of “baseless hatred” and here I had been exposed to exactly that at the final remnant of the Temple, the western retaining wall of that edifice.

There was no reason for this woman to snap at me as she had, and that was what upset me so. Both she and the other woman who said, “No!” when asked for a chair could have handled things differently. Both of them could have said, “I’m sorry, but I’m expecting a large group and I’m saving these chairs for them.”

They could have made an effort to point out chairs I might take from a different location, been helpful and kind.

(photo credit: Natan Epstein)

When stuff like this happens, during the Aseret Y’mei Teshuva (ten days of repentance), at the Wall, I have to wonder, “Where are we as a people? Have we grown from when the Temple was last destroyed?”

I don’t much like the obvious answer.

But like I said, there’s always a balance. This time, balance came in the form of an email I received Erev Yom Kippur. I was in between chicken soup-making tasks and found this message in my inbox from my manager at Kars for Kids, “Working together day in day out, it’s almost impossible not to inadvertently say something hurtful, or fail to treat someone with the respect they deserve.

As such I’m proposing, according to the Yeshiva custom that everyone say out loud that they forgive everyone B’lev Shalem (wholeheartedly).”

A Clean Slate

 

I was overcome. What a beautiful suggestion. It made it so easy, so possible, for all to start the year with a clean slate.

I did as my manager had suggested and said the phrase aloud, thinking of all my co-workers.

Then I thought of that woman at the Wall, the keeper of the chairs. Without hesitating I said with as much feeling as I could muster, “I forgive you b’lev shalem.”

(photo credit: Natan Epstein)

Gmar Chatima Tova—May you be inscribed in the Book of Life.

Work Worth Doing

t Yitzchak's Bar Mitzvah Kiddush, our guests oohed and ahhed over my baked goods. For one thing, I had every other baker in the world licked for sheer quantity. Together with my sons Moshe and Yitzchak (the Bar Mitzvah boy), I spent the Friday afternoon before the Kiddush putting together a total of 25 well-packed trays of goodies.

I had baked double recipes of all my favorite bar cookie recipes starting two months before the bar mitzvah. I carefully double-wrapped each item for freezer storage as my mother had taught me: one layer of plastic wrap followed by a layer of aluminum foil. I marked the name of the item on the top of each package with a magic marker and over the course of time, filled my free-standing freezer to the brim.

Dov came home in the middle of our tray-making and stopped Moshe from throwing away a piece of aluminum foil wrapping. "Wait!" he cried. "Take all the foil and make a ball. It'll make a great photo."

Unfortunately, quite a bit of foil had already bit the dirt by then, but we still ended up with a sizable-enough foil ball for a Kodak moment.

The best compliment I received at the Bar Mitzvah Kiddush was from some guy whose name I didn't catch (we are new to our congregation). He said, "My wife never touches home-baked goods at Kiddushes [sic] since we moved to Israel. I told her she had to taste your cakes. But she was like, 'Oh God, do I HAVE to?' and I told her, 'Look, would I mislead you??? You have to taste something. NOW."

The man who told me the story continued, "She took a cake. Her eyes got HUGE. She said, 'OMG. You were right! This is fabulous.'

I have to tell you: you are the best baker in the entire State of Israel!"

Wow.

I still get all aglow when I think of him saying that to me. After all, aside from honoring my son with what I know how to do well, this is the kind of praise that keeps my spirits high long after such events.Whenever I have a bad day, I pull one of these praise memories out of my head and top up my tank of self-esteem. It works for me.

Guests and friends at the Kiddush kept telling me, "You should do this for a living," and the discussion turned to practical means of how I might accomplish this feat of baking professionally.

It IS something I've done before. I even made a wedding cake, once upon a time, though the wedding didn't last much longer than the cake. Good thing I don't believe in karma.

With the Bar Mitzvah accomplished (except for buying thank-you notes for Yitzchak *making mental note to self*), things have settled down with me back into my usual daily routine.

But last week a dear friend called, asking if I would make two cakes for his daughter's Bat Mitzvah! One for her Shabbat Kiddush and a larger one for her party. I said I would.

Thus began my torment. What type of cake should I make? What color icing should I choose? There were a gazillion decisions to make.

When I make decorated party cakes, I tend to opt for either my yellow cake recipe or my chocolate mayonnaise cake for dyed-in-the-wool chocolate lovers. These are both cakes that are sturdy enough to hold up well for decorating.

The wheels in my head were turning. My chocolate mayonnaise cake is the easiest cake in my repertoire.

I spoke aloud to Dov. "Easy does it, right? I should just make my chocolate mayonnaise cake."

"Righto," said he.

But just because the question has been asked and answered, doesn't mean I'm done with my decision-making process. Just ask Dov. He will roll his eyes at you.

While Dov is rolling his eyes at ME, knowing I will NOT take his advice, I thought about how our friends really like chocolate. Once I brought an applesauce cake for dessert when they had us over for Shabbes lunch and they wouldn't touch it: "Why waste the calories when it's not chocolate?" they asked.

Besides being chocolate, my mayonnaise cake recipes uses almost no bowls and utensils. BIG PLUS. BIG TIME.

I don't have a dishwasher. I AM the dishwasher. There are numerous recipes I will never try simply because they use up too many pots and pans. I kid you not. Lots of dishes to wash are not a good thing in my book.

But something nagged at me. The chocolate mayonnaise cake was easy all right, but it wasn't the most flavorsome cake. Good fillings and frostings must be employed to make up for the paucity of cake flavor.

Here's the part where the good angel and the bad angels come and whisper in my ears.

"How can you make them such a boring, flavorless cake? You think you can maintain your rep as best baker in the State of Israel with THAT recipe?" asks the bad angel rhetorically, who wants me to be all obsessive in the kitchen, fuss my brains out, and make a million dishes to wash.

"Varda, your chocolate mayonnaise cake is MORE than acceptable and you are the only one who finds it even remotely tasteless. Why do you make things hard on yourself. It will only make you nervous and tense and you'll end up taking it out on your family," says the good angel who worries about the state of my mental health and wallet.

In this case, as is so often the case, evil did triumph over good, I am (NOT) sorry to say.

I knew that the only truly acceptable cake for this particular occasion was my marble cake which has subtle nuances of cinnamon, cloves, and vanilla along with a rich, moist, and tender crumb. I had no CHOICE, I cried to myself inside my head where no one could hear me. I  MUST make marble cake. And not only MUST I make marble cake, I must make 8 recipes of marble cake to make enough tiers for the two cakes.

If you are getting the idea that I am certifiable, you are not far off. I, who hate washing dishes, set out to make 8 recipes of a cake requiring no less than TEN mixing bowls alone. Not to mention 3 measuring cups 2 measuring spoons, 2 spatulas, and 3 sets of beaters. I am crazy. Truly.

But I have to say that I am taking great pleasure in making these cakes with extreme exactitude, a recipe at a time. I love leveling cups of cake flour and crouching down to eyeball the liquid in my measuring cup at eye level. I love the lovely figure-eights I make while folding the egg whites and the smell of the spices. I love checking the cakes for doneness and feeling certain about the signs of same as yielded by my beautifully-swirled cakes.

I continue to wrestle with my own idiocy over choosing the more difficult path. I tell myself: "Any work worth doing is worth doing well."

In spite of all the dishes.

The Party's Over

he bar mitzvah of my son Yitzchak is now past tense. I woke up the morning after the party and the last thing I wanted to do was get out of bed. I was in a state of utter exhaustion and burnout.

Dov and I had really struggled to give this kid a kiddush and party to remember, but it was pretty much a do-it-yourself event. Or rather two events: the kiddush after services on Shabbes and the party Tuesday night. There were also the two big meals I made for our family for Shabbes, so make it three or four big DIY events.

I have good neighbors and friends and they pitched in. But I guess I did more than I'd realized. After I straightened up the house and did a couple of loads of laundry yesterday, I went back to bed and slept and slept and slept. I arose at 3:50 for one reason only: I had to daven mincha. Maybe two reasons, actually--I was afraid that if I didn't get up then, I'd be up all night, completely off schedule, and miserable.

I had choir last night and it was a pleasure to get back to doing something just for ME. I reveled in having the pressure off of me for a change. Then I went home and chilled with Dov for a bit. Finally, I went to sleep and wonder of wonders, slept through the night.

I guess I knocked myself out more than I'd known with this whole bar mitzvah thing, but I can look back at the event with a sense of joy and accomplishment. Dov and I strained to give Yitzchak a kiddush and party to remember and in that regard I believe we acquitted ourselves well. You can see in the following video (Credits: My son Natan Epstein, the videographer) that a great time was had by all.



Dov gave a little speech at the party in which he recounted incidents about Yitzchak that really illustrate the way he has always been wise beyond his years, a bit of a nudnik, but in lots of ways, an adult in a kid's body. I thought I'd share some of these stories, which are family stories but in this context, feel appropriate for sharing with the world.

I was always careful to say the Shema prayers with my children before they went to sleep at night. One Friday night, during synagogue Shabbes services, after the Shema prayer was said, Yitzchak just naturally segued into HaMalach HaGoel Oti, the next part of the bedtime prayers.



His little voice was so pure and sweet that no one wanted to stop him and so no one did, even though this was technically an interruption of the evening service. Yitzchak's rang out in the synagogue and everyone listened rapt.

It was a moment of great parental pride and joy for Dov. I wish I had been there.

At the time Yitzchak was born, we lived on an isolated, mountaintop settlement where there were few signs of civilization. We had no place to buy groceries or other supplies on the Yishuv. So when we moved to Efrat, the kids enjoyed the new atmosphere of consumerism they encountered.

One day, a neighbor started off to the grocery store. Yitzchak decided to follow along. He was three.

He crossed a busy street behind the neighbor and no one noticed. When they arrived at the supermarket and wheeled a cart into the store, Yitzchak did the same.

They piled groceries into their cart and Yitzchak piled groceries into his cart. Instead of the fruit, chicken, and canned goods of our neighbor, Yitzchak piled his cart with chocolate, potato chips, pop, and ice cream. When he deemed his cart sufficiently full, he wheeled himself over to the cash register and unloaded his stuff for the cashier to total.

That is when we got the phone call to come get him.

When Yitzchak was nine, the Sukkos festival (Festival of Booths) was fast approaching when Dov fell ill and was unable to build our Sukkah hut. A neighbor who was an important rabbi came over with his sons to do us the kindness of building us a Sukkah. The rabbi came out to my veranda, looked around and pointed to a certain spot, saying, "I think this is a perfect location."

But earlier, I had looked around on my own to see where the Sukkah should be built. I had pointed to the same spot and Yitzchak had pointed upward. "You can't build it here, because there is an overhang from the veranda of the apartment above us."

I pointed out the same problem to the rabbi. The rabbi admitted that Yitzchak was right! A nine year-old had spotted a problem the rabbi and I had missed!

This year, Yitzchak and Asher went out the first night of Sukkot for a custom we call "Sukkah-hopping." Kids go see neighborhood sukkah booths and neighbors put out treats for them. At one sukkah, a neighbor showed off a beautiful Esrog (citron) to my boys. It was large and particularly fine. Alas, as Yitzchak pointed out, the Esrog was not Kosher for sacramental use on Sukkos. The little lecture the neighbor gave my boys turned out to be educational all right--not for my boys--but rather for the neighbor who learned a thing or two from Yitzchak about what makes a citron Kosher or non-Kosher for use on Sukkos!

At Yitzchak's party, Malka put up a large poster board on which she'd made a collage of photos I'd gathered the day before. She left room for Yitzchak's friends to scribble their congratulations to the Bar Mitzvah boy. The photos we used in the collage depict Yitzchak at various stages in his life. I've scanned the photos and posted them here (not necessarily in order) so you can get the full flavor of this remarkable young man.