This week begins the celebration of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year of 5776. My husband explained that the Jewish calendar differs from the Gregorian version. Apparently a pope created the latter calendar, naturally naming it after himself, whereas God chose with the former, just as he did the people who live by it!
I have often spoken of my husband, The Brit, who was born in Hackney, in London’s East End, from whence the Cockneys come, as I can attest every time he opens his mouth. He has been in this country since 1964 and became an American citizen, yet he still sounds like Michael Caine, which is not a bad thing. It would be an even better thing if he looked more like Michael Caine!
Hackney was long the nucleus of the Jewish population in London, which settled there in the mid-1700s. Merchants plied their trades there, and the area became known for its exceptional tailors and jewelers. One of these, Benjamin Mendes da Costa from Portugal, was a member of the Jewish Board of Deputies in 1760. My husband is a direct descendant of this man, and I call him my Britisher-Yiddisher!
I, on the other hand, am an Italian-American, raised Catholic, and therefore a Gentile. In the Yiddish language I’d be described as a shiksa, meaning a non-Jewish woman, particularly one who is in a relationship with, or married to, a Jewish man. It has often been considered a derogatory reference, but the moniker now is frequently intended with humor, especially by those of us honored to hold the title.
I attained a few titles when I married my husband, who is a true mensch (person of honor and integrity). Once we began raising his grandson, The Briteen, I took on the role of a bubbe or grandma. I have also become something of a yenta (busybody), mingling and mixing with teachers, other parents, and members of our synagogue—taxiing children, organizing school or temple events, baking for bake sales, face-painting for festivals, and advising other mothers on how to create a $50 costume on a $10 budget. I am an Italian, Gentile yenta who’s very good at getting things done—a Genti-eventa-yenta!
I relish the title. I love bringing joy and warmth, and nothing does that like good food—even if it’s as simple as a bowl of soup or fresh-baked snickerdoodles. And, boy, do I make a mean chicken and matzoh ball soup! My beef brisket is the bomb (The Briteen’s description) and my latkes are crispy and delicious. I also bake superb hamantaschen cookies and won the Purim-palooza bake-off three years in a row! OK, now I’m kvelling (bragging), but I have kvelling rights.
I sign up to bring challah bread for various temple and children’s events—bought, not baked, (I’m good, but not that good!). I make sure my young mensch gets to Hebrew school on time and attends religious services regularly with his Granddad after I’ve made sure they are properly dressed, groomed, and shiny.
I dip apples in honey to assure a sweet new year for my family, polish the menorah, make sure Briteen does his Torah homework, and provide materials so he can help his Hebrew class build a shelter for the eight-day autumn feast of Sukkot.
This week I drove us to the Tashlich ceremony by the ocean, and we symbolically had our sins washed away by throwing bits of bread on the water. I wondered if any kind of bread would do, or if it needed to reflect the sins being cast off.
Would you throw stoned wheat for having abused drugs? Or stollen for being a thief? Would grand theft auto mean tossing caraway? Would an arsonist throw toast? Does a wimpy person cast off milk toast?
I suppose grumpy people could throw sourdough bread, and greedy people might cast away enriched bread or raw dough. Gamblers could toss away fortune cookies, and litterers would throw dumplings, of course.
Those committing sins of hubris or pride should toss puff pastry. Immodest sinners might need to cast off tarts, while those causing injury to others must cast off tortes. Committing promiscuity would mean casting away hot buns, but promiscuous behavior with a Gentile warrants casting away hot cross buns!
What kind of bread will I use? Having committed the sin of employing excessive irony in my column I must cast away rye bread. Plus, for the constant use and abuse of bad puns, I must also cast cornbread into the waters of absolution.
Next week brings the celebration of Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. The Jewish people spend a full 24 hours fasting and praying for forgiveness. I grew up doing this kind of penance for 40 days during Lent, which ended on Easter Sunday, when I spent many childhood hours in Mass listening to bumbdling Latin, a mumbling sermon, and my grumbling stomach. This was followed by searches for a basket of jelly beans and bright-colored, hard-boiled eggs, which we spent the next week eating in our school lunches. Bleh!
When I explained Lent to my husband he marveled, “Even in guilt you pay retail!”
After fasting, praying, and holding a loving remembrance of the dead, The Brit’s people share joy and jelly doughnuts. They gather, laugh, cry, embrace, eat, dance, and celebrate life.
Having wed a Jewish man and by raising a Jewish child, I have come to a greater understanding of Jewish spirituality and culture. I see the Jewish community at our synagogue not as an outsider looking in, or even as an invited guest, but as a welcomed member of the family who are the Tribe of Israel. Therefore I wish you all a good year (shanah tovah) and peace. Shalom!
Ariel Waterman begs your pardon for all bad puns and participles—past, present, and indicative. Find more Jewish humor at oldjewstellingjokes.com and send jelly doughnuts via her editor Shelly Cone at
scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Sep 17-24, 2015.