Why is This Night...?

It's an unconventional Seder. 

The wine (Malbec, not Manischewitz) flows freely well before we are instructed to bless and drink the first cup. Our Humanist Jewish Haggadah mixes modern plagues, like terrorism, with the frogs and locusts. For as long as I can remember, I have stood, salivating in reluctant solidarity, with my friend who has conscientiously objected to her mother's delicious matzoh ball soup (too filling, an appetite spoiler before the delectable lemon chicken and asparagus with hollandaise sauce, the sinfully unleavened home baked cakes). We hurtle though the story of Moses as we sneak bites of matzoh and butter under the table.

For seventeen years, the door in suburban Chicago has been open to me and my New York relatives, not to mention countless others. We are diverse in our religious beliefs, but that only matters when, say, a Gentile newcomer tries to be polite and choke down her first bite of gefilte fish. She was shocked when I told her that's how it was for me with my first honey baked ham. It could have gotten ugly, but we let it go. 

We are diverse in our political beliefs, too, and this year, everyone was wise enough not to even bring it up. Closing the gap between gefilte fish and ham was difficult enough. 

It was our first Seder in seventeen years without my friend's father, who passed away in January. We have lost (and gained) others through the years, but he was our leader. The hander out of crisp ten dollar bills to all kids, young and old, no matter who found the Afikoman. An observant Jew with a sense of humor, tolerating our irreverence but keeping us in line. His absence was profound. It has been that kind of a year, but somehow, we move forward, with empty places at our tables and gaping holes in our hearts.

Thanks to iPads and iPhones, some absentees were able to join us for a while -- to read a passage, join in a song, even help with the Afikoman hunt. As usual, we opened the door for Elijah, knowing he would be a no-show but -- at least for those of us of a certain gender and age -- grateful for the gust of cold air. 

When we leave, stuffed and wondering how we will make it through our various second rounds the next evening, we all silently pray -- to whomever -- that we will see each other again next year. We hope that maybe some of the ones who were just here in spirit or digitally will be here in body, breaking matzoh with us under the table, sneaking wine before blessings, protesting or not protesting matzoh balls. 

Joining us in our reverent irreverence, at our unconventional Seder, where the door is always open. 

Leaps of Faith: Memories of a Brooklyn School Yard

The neighbor kids were out playing jump rope with their babysitter. They dared me to try.

As if. As if there's anything difficult about playing jump rope, the kind that requires three people, one holding each end and chanting while the third has all the fun. I flashed back to the concrete school

yard in Brooklyn, the white girls skipping with rhythmic ease on one end, the black girls navigating double dutch ropes with a remarkable combination of grace and speed on the other. It never occurred to us to cross the divide and learn the game. We knew our limits.

On my end of the school yard, I jumped with carefree abandon, rarely getting tripped up by the rope. I would never have been caught dead standing next to the rope to start while the end holders swayed it gently and counted -- one, two, three -- before lifting it in a full arc as I waited, knees bent, for the rope to approach the pavement on my other side. I preferred the running start -- one, two, three -- timing my entry perfectly as the rope completed the first half of its fourth revolution. Not double dutch, but certainly pushing the envelope, for a white girl.

I handed my packages to one of the neighbor girls, and I stood at a distance from the rope, scoffing at the notion that I should start slow, standing next to the rope. They looked skeptical, but I held my ground, rocking back and forth, toe to heel, as the rope rose and fell in a perfect arc. I was suddenly terrified. I tried to channel the young me in the Brooklyn school yard, confident as long as there was only one rope turning, never even considering the dangers. Like the rope smacking me in the head; the rope getting tangled in my feet; me, landing in a face plant. The rope reached its apex, I surged forward, for about an inch, and hit the brakes.

Plan B. I swallowed my pride, agreed to a standing start. One -- I bent my knees; Two -- I got ready to spring; Three -- I straightened my legs, and achieved absolutely no lift off. Not a centimeter, Nothing. I no longer knew my limits. It's not that I didn't want to cross the divide, from now to then; I just couldn't.

It was even worse than the hula hoop debacle, years ago, when my own kids were little, and I thought I would wow them with my hula hooping prowess. My skills were pretty advanced, and the bar was, after all, pretty low -- they had never looked across a concrete school yard at a game of double dutch.

With a barely perceptible pivot of my hips, I used to be able to keep it going indefinitely -- walk while I hula'ed, even add a second hoop around my waist while a spun a couple of extras on each arm. Like the girls with the jump rope, my kids had looked skeptical, but I grabbed the hoop with confidence and held it against the small of my back. Alas, my imperceptible hip pivot was no match for the softening of my mid-section, and I found myself thrusting in a grotesque Elvis imitation just to keep the hoop up for almost three seconds. A first glimpse into the extent of my limits. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now, all these years later.

Still, my bucket list continues to grow. Some of the items are attainable, some as elusive as double dutch in the concrete school yard, or hula hooping in my thirties, or jumping rope in my fifties. The older I get, the more comfortable I get with what I cannot do, but the more determined I get to continue to cross divides and push envelopes and test my limits, unless there's a very real possibility of a face plant.

The Family Von Trump

♬There's a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall

And the bells in the steeple too

And up in the nursery an absurd little bird

Is popping out to say "cuckoo"

(Cuckoo; cuckoo)♪♫

Tweet, tweet?

The moment was so fuzzy it made Donald's hair look flat. 

Adoring children from two former marriages plus the current wife (mother of the absent fifth child, Barron; the Baroness, perhaps?). Lesser known daughter Tiffany -- her lips permanently pursed in a sultry "O," her name conjuring up the unlikely combination of old wealth and stripper. Ivanka,

designer of spiked heels (and, oops, kicking them off on primary day, voting with her bare feet to not vote for daddy, all gushing aside). 

There was no sign of the working girl/slutty nun, the common little floozy who does all the dirty work. As in take a letter I mean take a tweet, Maria. Was everyone else so moved by the gooey blended family love fest to not hear the part about the Donald dictating his misogynistic tweets to one of the "office gals?" Keep the Kool-Aid coming. 

As I watched the morning CNN recap (through half spread fingers, as I tend to do these days), hoping that maybe clearer heads would prevail after a few hours of sleep, I was no less horrified than I had been by the immediate post mortem the night before. He made great kids, therefore he will make America great again. Seriously? I'll be the first to admit my kids are great in spite of their parents.

I was particularly moved by the appearance of the regular Joe Shmo who was tickled to be on TV -- again. At the Town Hall meeting, he had asked a question, which was somewhat pointless since he had prefaced it with his profession of undying Trump love and devotion. For Act II of his fifteen minutes of fame, he gave a shout out to his kids, praised Donald for his impending trek across the Verrazano to visit the oft forgotten borough of Staten Island, and, finally getting down to policy, said (and I paraphrase here, but you get the gist): "all everybody wants is to have more spending money." 

Speak for yourself buddy. All I want is, um, well, come to think of it, a bit of extra cash would be nice. Have I been too quick to judge? I glanced over at my dresser, at the package that has sat unopened since it arrived two months ago. I had flipped on CNN in the wee hours, some time between late night and early morning punditry, and oh my God I'm as shallow and dumb as the next guy. The infomercial sucked me in, and I sucked back, gulped down my own pitcher of Kool-Aid. I ordered a three month supply of some miracle potion that would make my neck look younger, which in turn would make me look younger, which in turn would change my life for the better forever. Hmm. Maybe even put more cash in my pockets. 

Shoot me now. Next thing you know, I'll watch Ted and Heidi tonight and I'll want to invite them to dinner. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. 

Hold the Knishes

A round of cheese curds on Bernie today.

The Kool-Aid's been flowing freely on both sides this election season, but the orange stuff has been the flavor of the month for so long that nobody's paid much attention to the rest of the slop. I admit it, I'm a little thirsty for some Trump tweets this morning. The Trojan Horse reference was a bit too high brow for my taste, though I take comfort knowing that Don assumes it was a condom reference. 

As a born and bred Brooklynite, I get Bernie, at least to the extent that he could be anybody's uncle at your average Brooklyn holiday table. We Brooklynites are all like Bernie, in the sense that we hold fast to our abrasive accents no matter how many years we spend living elsewhere, and when we talk we don't really pull any punches. But there are two things people should know about Brooklynites. First, even though we can sound illiterate -- especially when we get excited -- we're pretty smart. Second, we are not representative of the rest of New York State, so what Brooklyn thinks probably does not matter all that much when we're talking about picking the next leader of the free world. 

In fact, what Brooklyn thinks does not matter at all in most parts of the country. While everyone is cracking open the Manischewitz a couple of weeks early, the really scary Kool-aid is being poured in places far, far away. Like Mississippi. Quote of the day: "People of faith have rights, too." A real life governor said this, with a straight (and definitely not gay) face. I suppose he makes a good point. People of faith should have rights. I have a feeling the Mississippi gov defines "people" differently from the way I do. Kind of like the Nazis did. Or fans of slavery. 

Bernie seems nice. The governor of Mississippi does not. He seems downright scary, as do some of the folks who might actually run for President on the Republican side of the aisle. Maybe that's just the Brooklyn in me, wondering why the most important talking point in an election is an assurance that you truly believe a woman is not the person who should decide what to do with her own body. This, in a world where there are a lot of people drinking very dark Kool-Aid and committed to the idea of mass murder and destruction of all that is good in the world. 

This morning, though, everyone is finally paying attention to Bernie after he proved that he is definitely not chopped liver, er, bratwurst. And I say good for Bernie, whose Jewish mother can finally rest in peace knowing that, even though her son never became a doctor, he's making a credible run for POTUS -- surely the next best thing. Mazel tov Bernie, enjoy the moment, before reality sets in. Hold the cheese curds; pass the gefilte fish.