In this week’s portion, Naso, we find the language Aaron was instructed to use when blessing the Israelite nation:

יְבָרֶכְךָ  יְהוָה  וְיִשְׁמְרֶךָ

(Y’-va-re-ch’-cha A-do-nai v’-yish-m’-reh-cha)

May God bless you and guard you;

יָאֵר יְהוָה פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וִיחֻנֶּךָּ

(Ya-eir A-do-nai pa-nav ei-leh-cha vi-chu-neh-kah)

May God make God’s face shine upon you and be gracious unto you;

יִשָּׂא יְהוָה פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וְיָשֵׂם לְךָ שָׁלוֹם.

(Yi-sah A-do-nai pa-nav ei-leh-cha v’-ya-seim l’-cha sha-lom.)

May God lift up God’s face unto you, and give you peace. 

[Numbers 6:24–26]

We find this blessing still being used regularly today.  For example, this is the blessing traditionally offered by parents to their children at the Shabbat dinner table on Friday nights.  It is often recited for a bride right before her wedding, and sometimes under the chupah as well for both bride and groom.  It is part of the standard repetition to the Amidah, and thus for many years has been recited (or at least heard) by observant Jews on a daily basis.

Is the blessing one that is familiar to you? 

If not, what are your initial reactions to it?

If so, does it hold any meaning or power?

Perhaps the power of the blessing comes less from the words themselves, and more from the fact that we know Jews have been offering this blessing to one another for over 2,500 years?  For me, knowing that the words being offered are the same as those my ancient ancestors used and received is quite moving, even if theologically I’m not quite sure that those are the words I’d come up with if tasked with crafting a blessing to offer to my children in the future.

What is the value of offering a blessing today?  Do we believe that blessings really contain any sort of power?

On a metaphysical level, many would argue that a blessing is a form of putting positive energy out into the universe.

On a more practical level, I know that before I proposed to my fiancée, I made sure to ask her parents for their blessing…

If asked to compose the words that you would use to bless your children, what would they be and why?

How do they compare to the blessing we’ve inherited from our ancestors?

This Shabbat, reflect on the power of blessings – both in form and function.  Be in awe of just how far back in history some of our blessings go.  Resolve to explore meaningful ways to incorporate and when necessary, to create, blessings that speak to you today.

Last year, while volunteering on MASA Israel Journey—Israel experiential programs sponsored in part by the Jewish Federation of Metropolitan Chicago—in South Tel Aviv, I met an extraordinary friend named Guy. I volunteered with the African refugee community at the African Refugee Development Center (ARDC), a non-profit that helps refugees reach basic social services in Israel. Guy translated for me while I interviewed refugees for their visa applications and *UNHCR resettlement.

Guy is a young man from Darfur who lost his family in the genocide and fled to Israel. Each day, Guy told me his dream was to move to the United States and study at a college. Guy achieved his dream and in December he flew to the US on a student visa. This did not come easily, however. He worked hard and had the courage to ask for help from his friends around the world.

Guy, a Sudanese refugee, and Tamar, an associate with JUF Missions.

Guy recently started school at the College of Lake County in Grayslake, Illinois, through a program at their Center for International Education. I’m sponsoring Guy in Chicago along with a Maya Paley, director of Community Engagement and Special Programs at the National Council of Jewish Women.

Most people ask me about my motivations in helping Guy since I’m young, removed from what’s happening in Israel, and living in Chicago. To be honest, I never saw it as an option to NOT help him. He may come from a completely different background than me—Sudanese, Christian, poor, and traumatized—but he became a very close friend who needed my support.

Guy arrived in the middle of winter with only warm-weather clothes. So, what was my response? Take action. I immediately contacted friends and family across the country to help me with clothing donations. I helped him get acclimated to Chicago (Guy’s first El ride was a loud and crowded experience) and helped him get situated financially.

My Jewish upbringing has given me the moral foundation for sponsoring Guy. Thanks to my parents, who’ve instilled in me the importance of gemilut chasadim, or acts of loving kindness, I’ve always had a passion for helping others. I grew up in a close-knit Jewish community in Milwaukee. My dad is Israeli so we always had Israeli family and friends stay at our home for long periods of time. I grew up sharing everything with my siblings, and we all leaned on each other for help. Throughout high school and college, I participated in B’nai B’rith Youth Organization (BBYO) and the UW-Madison Hillel respectively, which both focus on Jewish leadership, community service and tikkun olam.

After volunteering in Israel with the African refugee community, I settled in Chicago and found a job in the best place for Jewish communal work and charitable giving—the Jewish United Fund. I also spend my Sunday mornings teaching religious school to senior kindergarteners at Chicago’s Anshe Emet Synagogue.

These experiences and positions have grounded my Jewish identity and me. I believe in tzedakah, doing the right thing, giving back, and helping those who are struggling.

Guy came to my doorstep in January and I have not given up trying to help him. The Jewish community I’ve created for myself throughout the years, filled with family, friends and colleagues, have given me the strength and courage to help Guy. He is an amazing person—forthcoming, inspiring and gentle. He speaks highly of Israel—despite the hardships for the African refugee community—and the safety he found there. Some days I’m overwhelmed by the amount of responsibility in sponsoring Guy, but I remind myself that I’m doing the right thing by helping this remarkable person.

Like some of my family who survived the Holocaust, Guy is a survivor of the Darfur genocide and I’m grateful to have him in my life.

Read Guy's story here.

For more information on Guy’s story, email me at tshertok@gmail.com.

Masa Israel Journey is a joint project of the Government of Israel, the Jewish Agency for Israel and its partners, the Jewish Federations of North America, and Keren Hayesod-UJA.

*UNHCR stands for The Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees.

Tamar Shertok is an associate in the Missions department of the Jewish United Fund/Jewish Federation of Metropolitan Chicago.

Guy survived the Darfur genocide and found refuge in Israel.

What I have been through is not something one can ever forget. I come from a very poor family, but I believe I have a future: I want to help my people and make Darfur a safer and better place for all people from that region of Sudan. It was my dream to study since I was kid, but I have faced many challenges along the way. I survived the genocide in Darfur.

I came to the United States as a student both because I wanted to study and because I needed a safe place to do so. I was born in 1986 in a village called Mara in Darfur with the name Abdelhamid Yousif Ismail Adem. I am the second of four brothers and three sisters. I recently discovered that one of my brothers is alive, but I do not know whether the rest are alive today. After seeing people being killed in the name of religion, I converted from Islam to Christianity. With this change, I decided to change my name to Guy [JOSIF].

My parents were farmers who cultivated fruits like citrus. We owned cows, goats, sheep, horses, and camels. We were self-reliant. There were around 2,000 people in our village; all of us were farmers. Before the genocide happened I used to help my father and mother in the farm when I returned from school. Unfortunately, I had to stop attending school after grade six. My parents could not afford the fees.

In 2003 our lives changed indefinitely. The war broke out in Darfur and my village was looted and burned. We remained with nothing. One afternoon in August, 2003 we were having tea together and my brothers were playing in front of us. Suddenly nine people with Sudanese military uniforms came into our compound and started beating us. Our village was attacked by around 200 members of the Janjaweed. They came on foot, horse, camels, and cars with machine guns and Kalashnikovs, shooting at every human being in sight. They burned all the houses in our village and took the cattle. I got a chance to escape, but never saw my family again.

While running I met some people from the UN Mine Action office and they stopped and asked me where I was going. I told them that my village was burned and that I left my family there. I told them I was not sure if the villagers survived. I was afraid. I stayed with them while they hid me in their car and went to my village. They saw that everyone was killed and they could not find my family. They took me to their main office in Khartoum where I started working with them as a security guard. There was one man who supported me to go to the Evangelical school in the evenings. I studied from class one up to class four. I continued to the Young Men’s Christian Association Centre then to Abraham Higher School in Bahre where I sat for my high school examination and succeeded.

I began studying at Juba University, Khartoum. After one month, the government created a plan to arrest, imprison, and torture the students from Darfur or South Sudan. Some of my good friends were killed. I was arrested for three months and put in prison, tortured, and beaten. They asked me what I was doing working with the UN. I was released and arrested again and again. The man who had helped me from the UN wrote in the newspaper that he had helped a displaced person from Darfur who had no family. In the article he explained that I was arrested a few times and that bad things had happened to me and he requested my release. The security men released me and told me that I had one week to leave Sudan.

I traveled to Egypt by train where I spent one month before finding people to help me get to Israel. In the evening we were taken by a small bus to a Bedouin camp where I stayed for nine days. We were 23 people from Darfur and Eritrea. Thirteen got killed in front of our eyes; only ten survived and arrived in Israel. The Egyptian border patrol shoots at people randomly. People arrive in Israel with bullet wounds, families are separated at the border, and others lose their lives there.

After all this, I was looking for a place where I can be safe to study and do something for future generations. My dream is that with an education I can create change. Education is the key to life, but in Israel it was too hard to go to school. I was accepted to the College of Lake County in Grayslake, Illinois and have been studying there since January, 2013.

Here in the United States, I can get the education I need to help my people back in Darfur.

Read a story by Guy's sponsor here.

First, you are a kid, and you experience the Jewish holidays on that level: costumes and graggers on Purim, The Four Questions and afikomen gifts at the Passover Seder, and dreidels and latkes (and more gifts) at Chanukah.

Then you go to high school, and want nothing to do with anything child-related. Then you go to college, and major in cynicism with a minor in irony… and want may have nothing to do with anything religion-related.

Later, you have a kid and begin to revisit the holidays, trying to re-create the fond memories from your own childhood… or create new, positive ones. But once again, you are relating to the holidays on a child’s level— and then on a grandchild’s level.

The result? At no point have you had— or taken— the opportunity to explore the highlights of the Jewish calendar as an adult. This is a sad, but preventable, situation.

Each of the Jewish holidays has a historical lesson and a deep, metaphysical meaning. They relate to seasons of the Earth and seasons of the soul. They connect the ancient stories of defeat and victory with the struggles we fight today. They are set aside for introspection and celebration, for connecting with family and community, but also reconnecting with ourselves.

I went to a talk before Purim one year. The rabbi spoke movingly about Esther’s struggle against discrimination— as a woman and as a Jew. It really made me wonder what else there might be, hiding behind the paper-plate masks of my childhood view of the holidays.

Now, I love my kids, nieces, and nephews, and I love having the Seder with them every year. But part of me has longed to go to a Seder for grown-ups, which is why I was really glad to attend the Downtown Seder this year at City Winery.

I am writing this now because it is time for Shavuot. One reason this holiday— which celebrates the receiving of the Torah at Mt. Sinai, no less— is under-appreciated is its lack of well-known rituals. There is no shofar to sound, no matzah to break, no menorah to light.

But lesser-known that they may be, Shavuot does have its practices, including eating dairy foods, decorating the synagogue with greenery and staying up all night studying. This practice is called “Tikkun Leil Shavuot.”

And this year, it will once again be held at Anshe Emet Synagogue from late May 14 to early May 15, and all are invited. The evening begins with a panel of rabbis from across the Jewish denominational spectrum, with a time for questions afterward. Then, community scholars host a selection of discussion groups— a new set every hour— until sunrise, with snacks and coffee available to help you stay awake! The event concludes with a walk to Lake Michigan, and morning prayers said by the light of the sun rising over the water. If you have never been to a Tikkun, I urge you to go. If you have, then you will no doubt be back, and I will see you there.

While enjoying the holidays and passing them on are important activities, we also need to drop the dreidels once in a while and study the meaning and lessons of the holidays on an adult level. We must wrest the holidays from the sticky hands of our kids. If we don’t, we risk seeing Judaism itself as merely childish.

And so, fellow grown-ups, let us reclaim the Jewish holidays. The Downtown Seder, Tikkun Leil Shavuot, the Latke-Hamentash Debate, and even Beef and Bourbon in the Sukkah are great, but only the start. So below, let’s start talking about how else we can study, honor, and celebrate our Jewish holidays— like adults.

A couple months ago I wrote about "pushing the fashion envelope" and taking risks with personal style. This post is meant to be a slight addendum to that one.

I agree with all that I said back in February, and I definitely think taking fashion risks is empowering, but since writing that post, I have reflected more on my personal style. I have realized that there's a uniform quality to it, and actually, I’m learning to really embrace it. I’m proud of how I express myself through fashion and what makes me comfortable in the work place and in the rest of my life.

I’ve realized when I was younger, especially in college, I had a lot of mental space to devote to constructing one-of-a-kind outfits in my head and spending significant time in the mornings putting it all together. This was more or less a hobby of mine but, alas, cannot be right now. I have a lot swirling around in my 28-year-old world here in the city and my reality is that I do not have a lot of time I can devote to coming up with the perfect outfit day after day after day. I need easy, chic and simple pieces at the ready to mix and match and throw on, allowing me to easily construct an appealing outfit in a short period of time. I may not wear the most revolutionary, perfectly orchestrated combinations of clothes and accessories every day, but my ensembles are chic and effortless, and multi-purpose—transitioning nicely from day to night.

When I wrote my last post, I was struggling with accepting how my life has evolved and impacted my fashion choices. But since then, I have embraced my current reality and have actually given myself a pat on the back. I’ve learned how to manipulate fashion into something quick, simple, but still very chic, and I’ve set this system on re-peat for day-to-day dressing ease.

Ladies, below I have listed things I’ve learned women need to invest in for effortless, chic style throughout any season. Add to these items a few trendy accessories and you will never have to stress about how you’re going to look if you oversleep and have a half-hour to get out the door for a packed day of work and social commitments.

- Silk blouses in a variety of colors
- Pearl earrings
- The perfect, go-anywhere skinny jeans
- One-to-two pair(s) of neutral and very comfortable ballet flats
- A statement watch
- A classic durable hand bag like a Longchamp Le Pliage tote
- Wide-leg, light weight trousers
- A pair of nude pumps
- A well-cut vest you can wear instead of a jacket during transitional weather, or in the winter as a layer or in the summer with a tank.
- A classic trench coat

Even if the items I have listed above do not fit your personal style, what I have learned and can really apply to anyone’s life and personal style: embrace who you are and figure out how to fit fashion into your life; do not worry about how to fit your life into fashion.

Follow Michelle on Twitter @mrweilstyle

It’s very weird sitting down to write this blog post for Oy!. For one thing, I’m not writing from my office, instead I’m at home sitting on my bed with my dog (who is barking) by my side and writing from my personal laptop. And for another, I’m not your managing blogger anymore. I’m experiencing some writers block, but I know I have to produce something because otherwise I’m one of my bloggers who I’ve spent the last five years yelling at (not really) for not turning their posts in on time!

I've been thinking a lot about what I want to write for Oy! post my career at JUF and Oy!Chicago.

Do I write about my new job?

It's good. I'm starting to feel settled in my new roles. And my lovely seatmates have figured out I talk a lot— mostly to myself— and they still seem to like me.

Or do I write about what it’s been like to return to the corporate world after spending the majority of my 20s at a non-profit?

It’s a change for sure— obviously. There is a big difference between working at a quickly growing company at the forefront of its industry and a century-old non-profit.

I could probably write a whole blog post about how my personal Jewish community has reacted to the news of my leaving JUF.

What I want to write about is how I’m making plans to stay involved in the Jewish community. But how am I? Well, I’m really still trying to figure that out.

One of the deals I made with myself— and my former co-workers— when I left was that I’d stay involved as a lay leader. I guess you could argue this blog post is a start at that, but so far I haven’t really given much thought (or action) to my ongoing involvement. I do want to sit on the other side of the fence and use my knowledge from my professional days to make a difference.

But how?

Do I join a JUF board or committee? YLD seemed like a natural fit, as does the newly formed Birthright Committee spearheaded by one of my favorite JUF people, Elizabeth "JUF" Wyner.

Or do I go back to my college roots (I majored in politics and history) and try and get involved in our wonderful Jewish Community Relations Council? Maybe do some Jewish advocacy work?

How about a JUF-supported agency? Jewish Child and Family Services or SHALVA both definitely interest me. That would be something relatively new, but also still within the fold.

Or do I do something really removed from the JUF world? And go volunteer for ADL? Or NECHAMA?    

So many options. So many opportunities. Where do I start?

Clearly I need to spend some more time adjusting to my new reality before I make any decisions. I still feel too much like a Jewish communal professional to really move on as a lay leader. But at least by publically stating my intent here, I’ve taken that first step.

And if anyone has any advice or suggestions, I’d gladly like to hear them.

I know this has been a post of many questions and not much else. But that’s where my brain is at right now. Hopefully, I’ll have more to say next month, but for now, I’m signing off, Oy!sters. 

Around the country, Jewish basketball is growing rapidly with tournaments, the Maccabiah Games and even websites such as Jewish Hoops America and Jewish Coaches. But while high school and even the college ranks continue to grow, the last few years in the NBA that brought us hope for sustained Jewish basketball on a professional level have quickly evaporated.

A few years back, there was a resurgence of Jewish NBA talks. First was the emergence of Omri Casspi, the first Israeli-born athlete to play in the NBA. Right behind him was Lior Eliyahu, who had been drafted earlier and had his rights traded in hope to land on a roster. Graduating from college were NCAA champion Jon Scheyer and Virginia standout Sylven Landesberg, both who were promising second round (potential first round) picks. David Stern stood atop the NBA totem pole as the commissioner; Lawrence Frank was given a second chance as a head coach in Detroit and Larry Brown was with the Bobcats. Plus, we had a bona fide player with staying power in Jordan Farmar. This on top of several NBA players who had gone to Israel to play and many college stars heading to Israel to hone their skills. And who could forget Amare Stoudemire's pursuit of his Jewish heritage and Lebron James' meeting with a rabbi. All of this is in a tight two-and-a-half-year window.

Since then, much of it has crashed. Both Brown and Frank are gone from the NBA coaching scene and Stern will be stepping down very soon (to be replaced, however, by current deputy commissioner Adam Silver). Farmar has landed in Turkey after a tough run with the Nets and Eliyahu never made a roster. The undrafted Landesberg has moved up to Maccabi Tel Aviv, but he has yet to get more than a summer league spot on an NBA roster. Anthony Parker, the player who benefited most by coming to Israel to play, has retired. Scheyer has given up on playing at at the top level and recently joined the Duke coaching staff. And of course, Stoudemire is not Jewish and Lebron never converted.

This leaves us with Casspi, Israel's golden boy, who in his rookie year took the league by storm and looked to be an elite athlete. Now, Casspi, limited in minutes and productivity, has been rumored in trades once again and faces the idea of going back to Israel. While Israel might be the best option for his career, it would certainly hurt Jewish basketball as a whole with no player in the NBA for Jews to rally behind. The only other option is the potential of Davidson's Jake Cohen, who will have to prove himself over the next few months for an NBA team to use a pick on him. Realistically, Casspi's stay in the NBA is important, not something calculated by minutes, but with hope for Jewish ballers everywhere.

The other day, it came up in casual conversation that yes, in my younger days I was a member of a Jewish show choir. As a matter of fact, I was involved in two show choirs during my high school years: one through school, plus the aforementioned crew of lovely singing Jewish boys and girls, all of us aged roughly from 12-18. I was so totally Glee long before Glee ever happened. Oy.

And can I tell you something about my experience as part of a Jewish show choir? I might not have told you this then, but—I loved it. Sure, some performances consisted of singing at synagogues in front of kids around my age, which was pretty intimidating for a high school freshman. But, our group also got the chance to perform at one of my very favorite venues: nursing homes, senior citizen centers, you name it.

Ever since I sang with my fifth grade class ("Catch a Falling Star" is the tune that comes to mind) at a local nursing home, I've loved the opportunity to sing for others and see the smiles appear in the crowd. I'm terribly sentimental (ahem, I'm a sap). I know. It suits me.

I can vividly picture many Saturday mornings driving along 94 with my dad, being dropped off at performances all across the north of Chicago. At the time, I didn't think too much about my involvement in the choir, other than I loved to sing, I enjoyed meeting new people and it was an awesome outlet for my adorably hammy, expressive self.

More than 10 years later (gasp), I can look at my time spent singing songs about nearly every Jewish holiday, tunes about the Jewish people coming together after the Diaspora, celebrating Shabbat and the importance of the Shema and other integral prayers with a heaping helping of appreciation and pride. I've always been animated and had a flair for the dramatic, and I felt right at home with the Shining Lights. I might not have known it then, but those experiences consisted of some of the sweetest and most surprising ways I connected to Judaism in my younger years and helped shaped my thoughts and feelings about my religion today.

There's one connection that comes to mind that I will never forget. After one of our shows in the city, an elderly woman approached me and asked if I was Israeli, to which I replied, "I'm not, but my father is." Dad was hanging back after the show to shuttle me back to the north burbs, so I quickly asked him to chat with this woman.

As it turns out, she and he were born in the same town in Israel. She left Israel many years ago, after her son had been taken from her in an act of war. At that time, I knew about Israel, but the intricacies of the conflict were nothing I yet understood. As my Dad relayed this story to me I felt overwhelmed by a wave of sadness, but also felt an interesting sort of warmth in the connectedness of the moment. This woman had never met me, and I was somehow familiar to her. She had an innate feeling that our paths had somehow crossed, which was in some ways true. Now, that could be very far away from what she had in mind when she asked me offhand if was Israeli, but her friendly forwardness made an impression on me.

Growing up and learning about Judaism at Hebrew school, I always carried a sense of pride that my dad was from Israel. Growing up, I knew that my family had emigrated from Eastern Europe to Israel (and later to Canada). I knew that my grandfather fought in the war for independence. But what did I really know, about what he went through, what anyone went through? The older I got, the more interested in Israel I became.

I went on Birthright and I continued my Israeli education after the fact. My first job after college I worked for an organization in support of the Israeli Defense Force. I learned more than I could have ever imagined about the army, Israel and the spirit of those who fight for what they believe in. As I gathered trivial facts about army bases and brigades, as I spoke with many Israelis about their lives—from their mundane ups and downs to their defining triumphs and tragedies—my perspective broadened and my feelings for Israel strengthened.

I always assumed I joined that unique show choir on a lark, because it was another outlet to sing, dance and do all of those things I loved so dearly when I was younger. Now that I'm older, I realize how special it was to express my creativity in a way that both connected me to my religion and allowed me to share that connection with others. Perhaps it led me to discover more about myself, through my further learning beyond high school and through my first professional experience. Who knows? But after all of these years, I can hum a little tune, and it takes right back to that very certain time and place.

Like most people of the female persuasion—and maybe even some guys too—I had been painting the picture of life with my future beshert for a long time. In fact, I had started painting that picture way back when I was a little girl, when my medium of choice probably would have been Crayola finger paints.

Until recently, I had continued that search to find "the one," wondering if he was looking up at that same big sky looking for me too—but in a much more macho way of course.

"He's out there," my mom would tell me time and again through the years. "I promise you he's looking for you too."

And guess what? She was right.

Last summer, I'd had it up to here. I'd experienced my fill of Jewish singles parties, JDates, and fix ups—enough to write a lengthy book one day about my dating mishaps. No one I met was fitting that picture I had painted as a kid. The process was, to quote an irritating Taylor Swift song, exhausting.

Despite my frustration, I continued on my journey—working at a fulfilling job, deepening ties with a wonderful circle of friends and family, volunteering in the community, and living my best Jewish life. An incredible, happy, and meaningful Jewish life that I never took for granted—man or no man.

Cut to last summer. I'm sitting outside at a restaurant having pancakes with two Jewish girlfriends, one newly married and one single. The single one mentioned yet another party approaching on the packed Jewish calendar—this one a launch party for a new Jewish website. It was happening, four days later, that Thursday night. "You wanna go?" my friend asked me.

"No," I replied, cutting off my well-meaning friend. My curt response took her by surprise because I had been game for singles events in the past.

But I was just tired, tired of the whole thing. Tired of the process that came with getting my hopes up about meeting someone and the disappointment that followed when I'd return home at the end of the night, my expectations unmet. And sometimes, harder yet for me to bear, it was their expectations of me that were unmet. Dating was a dance and I couldn't figure out my footing.

Instead of going to that launch party, I longed to sit home on my couch and catch up on a neglected season of DVR-ed Parenthood episodes.

But, then, my newlywed friend sweetened the deal. She said she'd come to the party too as our joint wing-woman.

"Oh, man," I thought to myself, swallowing a forkful of pancake. "If the married girl can make time for the party, it's kind of lame if I don't go."

So, reluctantly, I did.

Thursday night arrived, and we turned up at the bar. Twenty minutes into our arrival, I caught a glimpse of a cute, tall guy with a warm smile clear across the room. He was many feet away, but I noticed his inclusive, sweet nature, trying to make everyone around him part of the conversation he was having with his friend. "I just have to meet him," I told another friend of mine at the party. In an instant, she dragged me by my arm and led me to him. (That's right, ladies. Don't let "the rules" stop you from approaching guys.)

And that was it. The rest of the people in the room and the blaring music seemed to fade to silent and it felt like it was just this man and me in the room. "It was like there was a spotlight on just the two of you," my friend later told me. 

I remember only bits and pieces of what he and I talked about that night—his upcoming marathon, my recent visit to a lake house in Michigan, the fact that my first name, common in the past, is an atypical name today for women in their 30s—but the content of our chitchat didn't really matter. What counted was the feeling of "home" I got from talking to him, that he was unbelievably kind, that we made each other laugh, that I never wanted that conversation to end. And even that first time we met, we just "got" each other.

I remember telling him some insignificant detail about my life that night, and a few days later, he mentioned it. "How did you remember that?" I asked him, shocked that he would recall such a minor fact. "Because I was listening," he told me. And he really does.

Here we are today, just nine whirlwind months after we met. We're engaged and planning a fall wedding and I couldn't be more excited to share our lives together. And, remember that picture I had painted of my future all those years ago? Well, guess what? He isn't what I pictured either. Nope, he's different than I imagined, but our picture together is way more beautiful than the one I could have ever dreamed up.

The thought of imparting words of wisdom on the subject of dating is kind of funny in light of my roller coaster journey in this realm. But I do have one nugget of advice for all the wonderful single people out there still looking for their beshert: Never give up hope because he or she could be just around the corner looking for you too. Oh, and listen to your friend when she wants to drag you to a party against your will.

Spring has sprung in Chicago. Buckingham Fountain was turned on this week and the city is alive with buds budding and blossoms blossoming. Green City Market opens next week and I am beyond excited!

Each spring, I make my produce plans with promises of meals to come and ingredients to play with. I can’t wait to watch the market go from some very basic radishes, spinach and spuds to eggplants of every color, peppers guaranteed to make your cheeks flush and berries that perfume the air.

We are blessed to live in a city surrounded by farmland and with enough people who purchase from farmer’s markets to keep them happily stocked. Before Passover, I taught some cooking classes in nearby states that are not as fortunate. I was surprised to hear that many communities not far from Chicago do not have such markets.

I am even more surprised when I talk to local Chicagoans and hear that they have never been to the markets. I am not sure why anyone would not support these markets, but here are some really good reasons why you should shop at the Farmer’s Markets.

Farmer’s Markets serve as a way for people to purchase locally grown produce and to connect with others in the community.

Farmer’s markets have the ability to shift the economy and change community dietary habits by providing seasonal produce.

According to Farmers Markets of America, customers drawn to farmer’s markets shop locally for three main reasons: food quality, better prices and a great social atmosphere.

There is no question that the food purchased at the market tastes better and is of better quality and just in case you were wondering what to do with some of that great produce, here is a quick and easy recipe adapted from Julia Child.

This sauce is perfect for asparagus or any vegetable you find at the market. Enjoy!

BLENDER HOLLANDAISE
Adapted from Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volume I (Knopf, 1961)

½ pound unsalted butter
6 egg yolks
4-6 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
½ teaspoon kosher salt
Pinch of freshly ground pepper

1. Melt butter in a medium saucepan over medium-low heat until it begins to foam, 15-20 minutes.

2. Meanwhile, put egg yolks, lemon juice, salt, and pepper into the jar of an electric blender. Cover, and blend on high speed for 2 seconds; then, with the motor still running, gradually add melted butter in a slow, steady stream through hole in blender lid, leaving milky solids behind. Adjust seasonings.

3. Keep the sauce warm (I transfer the sauce to a metal bowl and put the bowl over a pan of WARM, not hot, water.

I began mentally preparing myself for 30 the minute I turned 26. The further I climb into my 20s, the more I find myself looking back.

I recently spent an evening out with old high school friends at the J. Parker, a tiny but trendy bar-restaurant atop the Hotel Lincoln, trading memories and exchanging tidbits about old classmates' whereabouts. Our evening of cocktails and conversation left me feeling somewhere between old and young; invigorated and drained. Perhaps a BuzzFeed.com article I found recently best describes our state of being, Life In Your Early Twenties Vs. Your Late Twenties.

My friends and I lamented that at times we feel we've squandered our 20s: we haven't traveled enough; we haven't let go enough; we've been too career-driven, etc. During that time in our lives when we have supposedly had the most flexibility to pick up and move to different cities or change our life courses in a fleeting moment, we haven't necessarily grabbed ahold of those opportunities.

Time seemed to move like molasses when I was in high school and college. Each year had an epic quality and defining expectations. After graduating from college, the years progressively lost that sense of definition. Perhaps it's different for those who move immediately on to graduate school or get married young. But, for others who lunge forward into the single working world, life takes on a completely different pace. The 20s can be frightening, exciting, ridiculous and altogether exasperating.

When my friends and I discovered Sex and the City during our undergraduate years, we were convinced we'd found the holy grail of womanhood. No television show or movie from our generation had ever deeply examined the female experience from a female perspective so honestly and cleverly. Sex and the City re-awakened a socially acceptable dialogue about sexual experience, feelings in the work place, relationships and more. Sex and the City had a national, and perhaps even global, resonance with women (and some men). I could sit and watch the show as comfortably with my girlfriends as I could with my mother, and all would find it equally enjoyable.

Sex and the City was to women what Seinfeld was to the general populous—a catalogue of human experience to which one could refer at any moment. To this day, I still reference various episodes of the show when recounting dating experiences. While each of the four characters represented a definitive female point of view, the composite of these women encompassed much of the female experience. Together, these four women were every woman; together they represented the hopes, fears, insecurities, and dreams of every woman.

Sex and the City examined the lives of women in their 30s. For women in their 20s, this show was relatable, but also a glimpse into a distant future 10 to 15 years away. That glimpse into our future, 30-something selves was unattainably stylish, witty, and heart-breaking. The show acknowledged and spoke to an ever-growing population of single women in their 30s trying to navigate their way. How those women got there, however, was unclear.

We 20-something women had yet to find a show that examined surviving our present—until HBO's Girls. If you are old enough to have seen Sex and the City in its entirety (and then the edited version in syndication), and still find Girls relevant to your life today, you are probably hovering precariously in your late 20s, as I am. I don't quite feel like I fit into Carrie Bradshaw's world, yet I've grown past some of the early-20s angst of Girls' character Hannah Horvath-while still clinging joylessly to some of her growing pains. Many friends my age similarly feel a kinship to the relatively new HBO series, as Girls only recently finished airing its second season. We have yet to see the complete evolution of the characters' and their respective journeys.

Various articles have drawn parallels between the two shows, and it's not surprising that they should. Both shows are based on female writer protagonists accompanied by three loyal friends with strong personalities. Both groups of women struggle in search of their identities, their careers and loving mates.

Sex and the City had a classic, cinematic element of escapism, with Carrie—a newspaper columnist—impeccably dressed down to her multiple pairs of pricey Jimmy Choo shoes. The show painted a glamorous love story about female friendships and living in New York City, upheld even when the characters' own love stories were more trying.

Conversely, Girls opens its first season with Hannah—also a writer—begging her parents for money in order to survive in New York. She and her early-20-something friends are getting by, sometimes with the help of their parents, and other times accepting odd jobs, including clerical work, babysitting gigs, ushering at a restaurant and working at a coffee shop. Girls character Shoshanna Shapiro—the younger and Jewish equivalent of Sex and the City's WASP Charlotte York—lives a seemingly cushy, yet neurotic, life as a college student, funded by her parents. However, the rest of the characters find themselves floundering financially in a very expensive New York City—often at odds with their ability to survive within it.

Sex and the City's Carrie is impossibly composed; Hannah is impossibly disheveled. Carrie's wardrobe inspired a nation; Hannah's incessant nudity makes a nation squirm before its television. Both shows undoubtedly push the boundaries of sexual expression on television. Sex and the City's escapist Hollywood veneer and Girls' often jagged and awkward approach both resonate with modern women.

That said, both shows, which claim to be about the women, steadily focus on the men. Sex and the City's premise is an ongoing quest for Carrie and her friends to find true love. Similarly, seemingly career-driven Hannah and her friends find themselves derailed by the happenings in their love lives—and often clinging to dysfunctional romantic relationships in the face of other difficulties. The reality of these 20s and 30s years, however, is an ongoing tug of war between self and the search for one's mate. In an age when most women are not simply going to college to obtain their "MRS" degree, the journey to finding both professional and romantic fulfillment is both complex and bumpy.

Both shows adopt a female perspective to explore family relations, female sex fantasies, STDs, pregnancy scares, dysfunctional dating, abuse, band-aid marriages, and more. So much is learned about these "girls" and women through how they choose and mis-choose their men. The confusion and pressures we "girls" experience as we try to catapult ourselves into womanhood, at times seduces us into settling, suffering disappointment, and then finding ourselves forced to press the re-set button.

I appreciate that Girls sets a less glamorous and more realistic tone for what girls can expect in their "adult" 30s. At the same time, it also abandons a core loyalty shared by Carrie and her female soul mates. While female friendships are not always as idyllic as those shared by Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha, the cold and selfish abandon carelessly dealt between Hannah, Marnie, Jessa, and Shoshanna sends the message that friendships are expendable. No television show can fully prepare us for how quickly the gap between the 20s and 30s closes. Thankfully, real life girlfriends are there to catch us when we falter.

And, when in doubt, there's always MTV's Teen Mom, which provides invaluable validation for our life choices.

Once upon a time in the 1990s, Blink 182 eloquently shared with the world that "nobody likes you when you're 23." I am turning 23 in approximately 10 days. Let's hope they were wrong. 

The only slightly appealing thing about this milestone (or lack thereof) is that 23 was Michael Jordan's number, so at least that's something I can fixate on for at least five to ten minutes and hope will bring some sort of luck…

Jokes aside (just for this sentence though because I would never agree to that long term), I most definitely have many goals that I want to accomplish in the next few years, and what better time to reflect on this than the lovely month that I was born in.

23 THINGS I WANT TO DO IN THE NEXT 2-3 YEARS

1. Go Back To Israel At Least Twice: It physically (and emotionally) pains me that it has almost been two years since I was last in one of the most magnificent places on earth and I am seriously yearning to go back to the homeland. Whether it is through staffing a trip, a short-term (or maybe even longer-term program) or on my own, it is truly important to me to return as soon as possible.

2. Run A 5K: Although I am just an inch short of six feet tall, my athletic abilities are limited to none. As an uncoordinated asthmatic, the idea of running a 5K seems like a bit of a joke. However, there are so many new, fun options such as the color run, which is motivation enough to try. However, this means that I should probably learn how to run without looking like Phoebe Buffay. It isn't that  far-fetched, right?

3. Go On A (Few) Road Trip(s) With Best Friends: I absolutely love road trips. I have no problem being in the car for countless hours, especially if it is with quality people. The trip in the works right now is from NYC to Cape Cod with my best friends from my semester abroad. Not only am I excited to see the cape, but also the journey will hopefully be as good (if not better) than the destination.

4. Go to Patagonia: Have you ever Googled Patagonia? If you have, and still have no desire to go, I a) don't understand you as a human being and b) do not believe you. In other words, Patagonia easily looks like one of the top 10 most gorgeous destinations I have ever laid my eyes upon and I must go. Plus, my Spanish that was once mildly decent is getting horrible, so a trip to South America will hopefully help this problem.

5. Stop Biting My Nails: Biting my nails is my worst habit and a really gross one in general. I have gotten better because you can't use fun nail polish colors without nice nails, but I need to end this habit once in for all.

6. Stay Off Facebook For at Least a Week: Facebook can be great, in terms of sharing pictures and staying in touch with old friends, but more so, Facebook is awful. From people's statuses about mundane details that I couldn't imagine anyone else caring about to wall posts that could easily be communicated through text, email, or G-d forbid conversation, Facebook is kind of the worst. Nonetheless, I am addicted to it and a week without Facebook seems both nearly impossible and much needed.

7. Go to the Grand Canyon: Ever since the Graham Canyon episode of the Rugrats premiered in the early '90s, this has been a dream of mine. If you are smiling to yourself right now, you are someone I would like to be friends with because Tommy Pickles is a boss.

8. Go to Greece: Watch Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. I won't even say anything to those of you who wouldn't want to go after watching it because it is impossible.

9. Attend a Music Festival: I have a love-hate relationship with this idea. I love music. The majority of my college admittance essays were about my dream to write for Rolling Stone and the idea of listening to many great bands in the sun over the course of two or three days sounds incredible. However, the crowds, certainty that I will cross paths with some crazy folks, and monetary commitment makes this a toss-up.

10. Yearly Mother-Daughter Trip: Last year, I went to Vegas with my mom, two of her two best friends, and their daughters. This was a really fun trip for all of us and inspired me to want to do this more often. We are currently in the process of planning our next adventure, hopefully to Nashville, Tennessee.

11.  Read At Least One New Book Each Month: I do not read enough. I'm embarrassed to even say what the last three books I read were (except for the fact that I am currently reading The Prime Ministers  by Yehuda Avner, which is not only a serious piece of non-fiction, but a book I'd recommend). The good news is that with a lovely little invention called the Nook, reading is so much easier.

12.  Actually Make The Recipes I Have Pinned: I am addicted to Pinterest. It is seriously the best thing ever (besides Twitter and Buzzfeed). With that being said, the amount of recipes I have "pinned" is closely reaching 200 and I think the amount of recipes that I have made has not surpassed two. You do the math-I have a lot of cooking and baking to do!

13. Get Over My Fear Of The Dentist: I seriously hate the dentist more than anything. I have anxiety even writing this. I need to get over it. Now.

14. Finish Decorating My Bedroom: I moved into my apartment in December. Ask me if I have bought my sham pillows, put actual pictures in my already hung-up picture frames, and fixed the disaster that is my closet? Of course not. Watching the entire series of Boy Meets World, reorganizing my kitchen, creating new cocktails, and watching Pitch Perfect  once a week is obviously  the most productive way to spend my time. Hopefully this one will only take two or three more months, rather than years.

15. Take Ulpan:  I want to be fluent in Hebrew. As of now, even with four semesters of Hebrew under my belt, I doubt I could carry on a conversation that lasted more than a minute or two.

16. Fall in Love: This is cliché and I am completely aware of it. Additionally, this is probably the goal I have the least control over. I guess I can start by actually paying for a JDate account and adding more to my profile than my height, one picture, and that I don't want to meet anyone who smokes cigarettes. Progress.

17. Go Camping:  Maybe it's because there is something amazing about sleeping under the stars or maybe I just am having trouble thinking of legitimate goals? Either way, a camping trip definitely makes the list.

18. Find an Organization I Really Love and Volunteer There at Least Once a Month: This spring, I participated in Leads, which is a program through JUF's YLD. We had a seminar about volunteering and it made me realize that even while working for a nonprofit, my hands-on volunteering time could stand to be increased.

19. Go One Straight Month Without Exceeding My Mint.com Budget: For the sake of my bank account, this one is a must.

20. Organize My iTunes Library: Right now, my iTunes is chaos. Whenever I download new music, I just add to this chaos. Because of this, I always end up listening to Pandora. This leads me to use up my free Pandora hours each month, which leads me back to my iTunes that is still a mess. Maybe I should just use Spotify?

21.  Publish an Article in a Major Publication: I love writing. I miss writing. I want to write more and I want people to read what I write.

22.  Try One New Restaurant a Month: Chicago has a great food scene. Not embracing it just seems plain wrong.

23.  Create My Retirement Fund: Out of all the things I procrastinate doing, this is probably the worst of them all….

I love an anniversary. I am a sucker for any chance to stop and review where I am and the path that got me here. Lucky for me my first “Jewish Birthday” is this week, so I don’t have to work very hard to find an anniversary to think about. What that means is I’m spending a lot of time this week thinking about my journey to Judaism.

I was originally attracted to Judaism because a lot of my very best friends are Jewish. When I was coming out, my Jewish friends were the most supportive people in my life. They took me in and became my family. They gave me love and acceptance in a way that I had not known. Then I met and fell in love with my Jewish husband and that basically set the whole thing in stone. We were living a Jewish life, so why not make it official?

Of course it’s far more complicated than that. I could go on forever about my love of the Jewish tradition and its rituals, but who has time for that? Converting is serious business. You aren’t born with a backlog of history to guide your new identity; you have to create that link. You have to build it from the ground up.

One of the ways that I found helped me build a connection is food. Don’t laugh—think about it. Every holiday that you’ve celebrated recently has some pretty serious food rules. Matzo. Brisket. Applesauce. We are a people glued together by our dinner plates. Who doesn’t love to eat? Not anyone I want to know.

What we eat informs who we are. It connects us and gives meaning to those endless holidays. We come to expect those weird matzo concoctions. We crave our not-so-cute latkes. Those foods have power and meaning. They are what we’ll remember. They are part of what holds us together.

One of the foods that I have a special fondness for is my husband’s grandmother’s coffee cake. It’s not the superstar of the dessert table at the holidays. It’s not the most gorgeous or fancy thing you’ll find, but it’s—at least in my mind—a cornerstone of our family.

Grandma Lillian died a few years ago, but she lives on every year on the dessert table through her coffee cake. I think of Grandma Lillian a lot. I think of how she is, in some small way, responsible for my little Jewish family. I wish she were here to celebrate my Jewish Birthday this week. I guess her coffee cake will have to do.

GRANDMA LILLIAN’S COFFEE CAKE

INGREDIENTS

½ lb. butter
1 pt. sour cream
4 eggs
4 cups flour
2 teaspoon baking powder
2 teaspoon baking soda
2 cups sugar
2 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup chopped walnuts
Extra cinnamon and sugar for coating middle layer and top of cake

DIRECTIONS

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Cream the softened butter and sugar with a mixer (or by hand if you’re old school), then add in the eggs one at a time along with the vanilla. In a separate bowl mix the baking powder, baking soda and flour. Once all of this is ready you’ll start to add the dry ingredients and sour cream alternating between the two until everything is mixed together. Once everything is combined, pour half of the batter into a greased 9x13 pan. Top this layer with cinnamon and sugar mixture. There’s no hard and fast rule here; you just want to basically cover this layer lightly. If cinnamon is your favorite thing go crazy…if not…a light sprinkling should do it. This is also where you’ll add half of the walnuts. Once you’ve finished this middle layer spread the remaining half of the batter over the first layer. Top with cinnamon and sugar and walnuts just like you did with the middle layer until well covered.

Bake 45 minutes at 350 degrees.

The other day I was visiting some friends and per usual, their six-year-old son wanted to play floor hockey with me in their basement. I came prepared this time—I was wearing two layers, brought a stick for me (he’s a lefty) and the fun began. I was running around for about 15 minutes before game one ended. I inched him out by one point. I sat down and let his dad take over for a game. While sitting down, I realized, next time I need to wear dri-fit or some other wicking shirt because I was a sweaty mess. I took it a little easy when we played the next match because I wanted to stop sweating before dinner. As we left, my wife asked me, “Does Ryan think you are there to visit him, or his parents?”

The next day my oblique muscles (the muscles on the side of the abdominals), were sore. I’m not use to whipping a puck around. Do you think I had a workout?

My answer is yes! Getting on a bike or a treadmill are not the only ways burn calories. You know that you need to exercise, so why not go out and have some fun!

It would be great if we could all get to the gym five days a week, sugary treats tasted awful, and vegetables tasted like ice cream but it’s not reality for everyone. Instead of planning an intense fitness schedule that’s unrealistic, start off small. Figure out how you can schedule activities that are fun and get your heart rate up. Here are a few examples:

• Hip Hop/WERQ/or other dance class
• Dancing with the Stars or other DVD
• Paddle tennis is the new rage, find a convenient location 
• Boxing is a great workout and requires no equipment to shadow box
• Jump rope
• Clean your house or car
• Walk with a friend at lunch, before work, after dinner…
• Floor hockey with a friend

Those are all relatively inexpensive ways to exercise. If my suggestions do not appeal, figure out what you like doing and get moving! Send me a line and let me know how you have fun while working out. 

When my mother-in-law announced that she would be whisking our four kids off to Disney for five days, leaving my husband and me alone in the house, I was ecstatic! What would we do first with our newfound freedom? The possibilities were endless! And then there were all the practical things we needed to take care of that never seemed to get done: the squeaky bathroom door, the piles of papers in the basement that needed shredding, the stubborn rust on the shower head, the various blackened parts of the house that needed new light bulbs, the dogs that had taken the word “funk” to a whole new level... In short, we had lots to do without being distracted, dragged off or whined at by any or all of our adorable offspring. No excuses.

Day one I found myself repeatedly checking the time. Was it time to pick up my daughter? Wasn’t the bus about to arrive? What was I going to make for dinner that wouldn’t bring forth wails of protest from the majority? Wait. I was kid-less. I was free! I was, well, kinda aimless. I worked out. I watched episodes of Six Feet Under in daylight. I mowed down on copious amounts of nuts, chocolate chips and dried fruit. My husband and I went out to a lovely dinner with friends and came home to an empty house. I fought the impulse to make a beeline to the checkbook to pay our sitter. It was very quiet. It was very clean. It was very, very weird.

The cleanliness on Friday was almost unbearable. This was the day the house was cleaned professionally. With not a glass nor a crumb nor a smelly sock in sight, I went with a sense of unease to the gym. I took a crack at organizing my bedroom dresser. I made uninterrupted phone calls. I answered long standing emails. I completed tasks without the pressure of needing to be anywhere or do anything for anyone but myself. Things were organized and calm and quiet. And I felt a surprising fog of loneliness begin to envelop me. I felt like how I imagine my dogs feel when we leave the house: ears perked for the sounds of someone returning home the second the door closed behind us.

Our daily phone calls with the kids were rushed because they were always in the middle of something incredibly fun and wanted to call but didn’t really want to take time to talk. “Mom! I went on the Rocket seven times! It was great! Bye!” “Dad! Can I get a pirate flintlock? It doesn’t even look like a real gun! Pleeeeese? Bye!” “Mom! Dad! Harry Potter was amazing! The castle is so cool! They had dementors! Bye!” We didn’t know what they ate, or what story they had read to them at night. We didn’t get to see our daughter’s face when she saw her first Disney character in person – Sponge Bob – and she freaked out. The kids felt very, very far away from us.

Saturday I decided enough was enough. I wasn’t going to wallow in the quiet. I was going to embrace it. (Plus there was still that “honey do” list.) With only three days left without kids, we got to work. We drove to a Cubs game in Milwaukee and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves (even though the Cubs lost, well, like only the Cubs can, the familiarity was comforting.) We took a long walk and enjoyed uninterrupted conversation the entire time. We washed the dogs. We skipped the shredder and opted for a bonfire instead. We never had to redirect anyone’s proximity from the raging flames, and no one threw rocks or suggested peeing as a form of extinguishing the fire. I cherished sitting on the toilet with reckless abandon, never once fearing I’d sat on something wet and unpleasant.

I’d say at some point I achieved a level of unexpected bliss in the calm. But at the same time, it was work. I realized that even though there are days that are difficult for me with my kids, so many days without them was even worse. I realized that for me, my kids make my home. The noise, the mess, the spirit of our home, it’s defined by the life our children bring to it. When I saw them at the airport hunched over their video games with the intensity of med students in the library right before their boards, my heart fluttered. All of the sudden I was mobbed by bodies and various appendages while souvenirs were shoved in my face for a good close look-see. It was in the bombardment of all the chaos, confusion and noise that I funnily felt at my most centered and most at peace. It’s good to miss and be missed. And while my kids flew to the Happiest Place on Earth, the Happiest Place on Earth came back to me when they returned. 

Several months ago, after a three-and-a-half-year hiatus, I decided that I was officially returning to a career in life coaching. It helped that two individuals had already reached out to me and asked if I would coach them. I had the start of a business and the desire to pursue it. Now, I just had to put in the time into planning, networking and marketing to actually make something of my new venture, 100 Reasons to Win.

In the midst of all this planning, networking and marketing, I found myself catching up with an old friend and he mentioned an Anthony Robbins quote that made me stop and think.

"…Most people overestimate what they can do in a year and underestimate what they can do in a decade."

He was sharing how impressed he was with all that I had accomplished in the last 10 years and making me blush in front of all the good folks in the coffee shop that I was working from that afternoon. Having been one of the first people to suggest that I meet with a life coach, he was intimately aware of the profound impact that working with coaches had made on my life.

Ten years ago in April 2003, I was 130 pounds heavier, desperate for love, working the wrong job and financially unstable. One year later, I had tried hard to take a few steps forward, but in actuality had taken several steps back. Now, 10 years later, I am grateful for the monumental and positive changes in all four of those areas. I weigh less today than when I graduated high school; I eat and live healthier, having completed over a dozen distance races, including a marathon; I am married and very much in love with my beautiful wife; I healed and improved relationships with many friends and family members over the years; what I accumulated in debt by 2003, I not only paid off, but have managed to save the equivalent amount for retirement. I worked with coaches to win at the game of health, relationships and career.

Then and now

What do the next 10 years hold for me? A past coach, Rita Hyland, would ask me, "How good can I stand it?" Meaning, if things are this amazing now, could I stand it, if they got even better? That is an important part of life coaching, supporting individuals, so they get everything they always wanted only to challenge them to ask for even more.

In her book A Return to Love, Marianne Williamson sums it all up beautifully:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

As your new managing blogger for Oy!Chicago, I thought I owed you a little bit about myself. But rather than glaze your eyes over reading my lengthy list of previous part-time jobs (mine glaze over listing them), I figured I would take a slightly more intOy!resting approach.

“Oy!” – a centuries-old Yiddish lamentation, a culturally identifiable way to voice your frustration, a staple of Jewish parody songs and probably what a sigh would literally say if it could talk as well as quickly expel air. “Oy” has become so engrained in the cultural definition of Judaism that – like bagels and nagging mothers – it has moved beyond stereotype and into the category of stereotypes deemed so universally true that they cannot be refuted.

I’ve used “oy!” plenty in my life, so in the spirit of warming up to you all, I thought I’d break the ice with a list of the five reasons the chosen utterance of the chosen people has left my lips.

1. Bodily pain

I have to admit there are days I feel like a 26-year-old in a 62-year-old’s body, though I’m sure many 62 year olds are in better shape than I am. In my 20s alone I’ve had bouts with heartburn, pulled neck muscles, sciatica (which is impossible to say aloud without sounding like a kvetching 80-year-old snowbird from Long Island) and an overuse injury with my knee the doctor couldn’t diagnose, among others. Getting up, sitting down, moving in a funny direction – it all amounts to a whole lot of “oy.”

At the same time, I recognize that we all have our physical shtick, and for all intents and purposes, I’m healthy and very fortunate to be so. “Oy” in this instance is not so much a complaint with my medical lot in life, but the audible byproduct of the old-fashioned grin and bear it, a verbal way to push forward and focus on the positive.

2. To impress my Yiddish-speaking grandparents

I’ve always been rather fascinated by Yiddish. It’s a perfect language. It pounds down the harsh sound of German into something as good for comedy as it is for insults, and every word sounds exactly like what it means. More importantly, it’s what my grandparents speak. I think most of my generation at one point or another has become fascinated by whatever foreign language our grandparents spoke. Mine speak Yiddish, but not outwardly or in situations when communication is vital, but most often in emotion-filled moments (good, bad or hilarious) when English simply won’t do.

Listening to my grandfather go on rants and sing ditties entirely in Yiddish, and watch as my grandmother understands him and immediately shakes her head at his folly, has turned Yiddish into this secret language of an exclusive club, one that I quickly recognized was seeing its membership rapidly declining. I have tried to memorize as much Yiddish as possible, and in the presence of my elders, it slips out more than usual. Around them, “oy vey” becomes “oy vey iz mir” (the Yiddish “Woe is I”). I would give more examples, but I don’t think I’d be allowed to write for Oy! ever again, and I’ve barely gotten started.

3. To sympathize with others’ misfortune

Last week when it was pouring rain, my roommate told me he sat in an hour and a half of traffic on his way back into the city from work. Pretty needless to say at this point, “oy” was my immediate reaction.

We usually use “oy” in the subjective, as it relates to how we feel when we are personally dismayed, but in this case it served as a much more sympathetic way of saying what I would have said if I’d been exposed to considerably less Yiddish: “that sucks, dude.”

4. Singing Jewish music

You know that part-time job list I mentioned earlier? Well I need to go there for a second. I am also a songleader. I was inspired at Jewish summer camp, trained at Jewish summer camp, worked at Jewish summer camp and then took my skills out into the world as a professional when my degree in journalism failed to fill up my time and my pockets.

“Oy!” has become connected to Jewish music through the tradition of Yiddish music, which played a large role in bringing music into the synagogue. It’s not in most of the music being sung at camps, but a fair share of songs have Yiddish or Hasidic origins and shouting “oy!” seems to be prevalent in a good portion of those songs. Here, its connotation is positive, a way to express excitement or drive the energy of a song. As someone who also writes music, however, I imagine it was probably just intended to fill dead space.

5. Thinking of ways to make Oy!Chicago better

I haven’t written for Oy! until now, but I’ve spent the past few weeks thinking a lot about how to make it better for all us “Jews in the Loop.” I suspect it will eventually get to the point that whenever I say “oy” due to reasons one through four, I’m bound to think of what post needs to go up at that given moment. I fear I will wire myself to associate back pain with blogging now. I can deal with that, so long as it’s not vice-versa.

In all seriousness, I do want to explore the ways to make your time reading Oy! rewarding. I want to find ways for us to talk to each other and learn from our shared experiences and celebrate what it is to emerge as a Jewish adult in today’s world. To speak bluntly, we’re Oyin’ this together. 

I recently indulged in a guilty pleasure of mine and read an article entitled “How to Date a Jewish Sorority Girl.” I’m sure many of you saw the article floating around Twitter. As a recent college graduate, East Coast native and Jewish sorority girl, I naturally could not refrain. (There are probably more appropriate ways to introduce myself, but they are probably not as fitting.) The article was frighteningly accurate giving advice along the lines of “when in doubt Camp Ramah” and “you studied abroad in Florence? I was in Rome!” It gave all the essential tools and shortcuts to the heart of every Jewish sorority girl.

But how do you date that girl once she has left the sorority, left college? In fact, now that we’re in the real world, how do you date at all?

Some of you might have met your sweetie in college and remained together despite booze and an abundance of the opposite sex, or if you’re really hardcore you’re still with your significant other from high school. God bless you. 

For everyone else, do we all fall to (dun dun dun) social media sites for help? (Not another Grouper, anything but that!) Don’t get me wrong it’s not impossible to meet people the good old-fashioned way. You might have met her at a mutual friend’s birthday party, or you could have first innocently kissed him at the opening of Barleycorn. But sites such as Grouper, Tinder, Coffee Meets Bagel, etc. are all just steadily becoming the norm for a generation of young people.

And then there’s the mother of them all – JDATE. If you’re really serious about meeting someone, getting married, and being an adult, JDate is your one-way ticket to the Jewish American dream. Sure, you might think “no not the J just yet; I’m too young for that, maybe next year,” but then that deadline gets pushed back because every year you re-evaluate your definition of young.

What is young really? What is too young or old to be single, dating, married, dating multiple people? If you have a typical Jewish mother like I do, then you know that too young to be married is not in their vocabulary, even if it’s in yours.

In this modern era, technology and social media have infiltrated every level of our lives, including our love lives. Embrace it or hate it, it is a fact. In 10 or 20 years from now when kids ask their parents how they met, what will the answer be?

Tikkun Olam, repairing the world. I once saw an image of Tikkun Olam that depicted the world broken into many different pieces. The image showed people putting the pieces back together as if the world was a giant puzzle. Traveling to Long Island with JUF to rebuild homes, I got the opportunity to pick up the pieces.

As Jews we are taught the importance of Tikkun Olam, and we often hear this word spoken in our synagogues and Jewish groups, but rarely do we get the opportunity to act out the physical meaning of this Jewish value. Often times when we volunteer we are helping people in a soup kitchen, a community center, or even sending money and therefore we are removed from the personal lives of the people we are helping. In this experience with Hurricane Sandy victims, we walked right into their lives, their homes and literally picked up the walls. Through this experience I felt like I was actually contributing to Tikkun Olam in a way I had never felt before.

I truly believe that as Jewish people it is our obligation to help others without questioning, race, religion, or need. So many times in Jewish history we looked for others to help us, now it is our turn to help others.

Eight Chicago young adults took off work to travel to Long Island, New York to work with a Jewish relief organization called NECHAMA to help rebuild homes that were devastated by Hurricane Sandy. We were motivated by the same thing: we were sick of feeling helpless when watching the news coverage and wanted to get our hands dirty. The whole group was so thankful for the opportunity to do something for the Sandy Victims.

The relief organization NECHAMA was started by Jewish people who wanted to help with disaster relief but found few organizations that did not require a religious proclamation in order to join their relief efforts. Today, NECHAMA will accept volunteers from any religion and help disaster victims based on greatest need – not their religious affiliation.

Our group spent two days working in the homes of Sandy victims. These families live on the water in Garden City, Long Island. Half of our group put up sheetrock, while the other half sanded, painted, and mudded. While overlooking the calm water, the homeowner spoke of living in the house for 25 years and never having hurricane damage until Hurricane Irene, only 14 months before Sandy. He spoke of how he spent $90,000 rebuilding his home after Irene, and that once Sandy hit he didn't have enough money left to repair the damages a second time.

This is where NECHAMA came in. This sweet retired man was so thankful to have us there. He mentioned how special it was to him that so many different people had worked on his house, including many rabbis and priests. We were all struck by how positive he was. He had been living in this mess since the hurricane hit, but his life went on. He went about his normal activities and then he came home to help us paint, and he did it with a huge smile.

This experience was the literal translation of Tikkun Olam, picking up the pieces, but it was also a more abstract translation. By stepping outside my comfort zone, and seeing how humans can deal with disaster, I began to see the repairs I need to make in myself and in my world. As people and especially as Jews, we should all look inside ourselves for improvements, whether that is respecting our parents, limiting our gossip, or being better friends. If we are all whole as individuals we become better at rebuilding the world.

* This trip was coordinated by the Tikkun Olam Volunteer (TOV) Network and made possible by the Jewish United Fund/Jewish Federation of Metropolitan Chicago. Learn more about how to get involved with the Young Leadership Division (YLD). For more photos of the mission, visit the YLD Facebook page.  

In this week's double portion, we find the steps the High Priest took each Yom Kippur to atone for the nation, we find a slew of sexual morality laws (incest is not okay – sorry Lannisters), we get some general guidance as to how we're meant to be holy in our actions as a result of God being holy, and we learn that hanging out with ghosts is a no-no.

I'm particularly fascinated by this concern about hanging out with ghosts. The portion actually mentions the prohibition a few times, further emphasizing its import. Just how prevalent was hanging out with ghosts in those days? I'd love some more information. Were they concerned about people entering intimate relationships with ghosts? Perhaps they were more concerned about being slimed by ghosts? Or maybe they were ahead of their time and were buying into the Jewish cultural mythology around possessing spirits, or Dybbuks. 

The textual answer provided in the portion as to why we should not hang out with ghosts and other spirits (if you do, you'll be rewarded with the death penalty) is that other nations consort with ghosts and spirits, and we're meant to be holy (hence, unlike those other nations). Not an entirely satisfying answer. Notice that the Torah doesn't say that ghosts and spirits don't exist; rather, there seems to be a tacit acknowledgment that they do – but we're instructed not to engage with them.

Spirits and ghosts have been on my mind quite a bit this week, as I just returned from my first ever visit to Poland. While there, I had the chance to celebrate contemporary European Jewish life by running a Moishe House "How to do Shabbat" learning retreat for 30 European Jewish young adults in their 20s. I also had the chance before and after the retreat to visit some of the wartime monuments in Warsaw, as well as the Treblinka extermination campsite (which is a now a massive memorial as well), where over 800,000 Jews were murdered during the Holocaust.

Needless to say I'm still processing my experience, and in particular, the confusion and awkwardness of celebrating Jewish life in a place where the darkness of the past can still tangibly be felt. Walking around downtown Warsaw, one can still see (and feel) the lingering effects of the war. My grandmother is originally from Poland, spent time in concentration camps there, and was very much against my going to visit given the ghosts and spirits that still plague her dreams 70 years later.

From this lens, I can begin to understand why there would be a blanket prohibition in our tradition against consorting with ghosts and spirits. Allowing oneself to be taken into that world risks being entirely consumed by it, eliminating the ability to find warmth, love and joy, which I would argue are spiritual prerequisites for a number of other justice-centric instructions we receive this week, such as leaving behind the corners of our fields for the poor.

We had 30 people from seven countries singing songs of Shabbat, celebrating our shared Jewish heritage and striving to learn more about it this past weekend in Poland. What need do we have of external ghosts and spirits when our own spirits can be elevated so powerfully?

Roger Ebert’s passing hit me hard – harder than I would have imagined. The effect was so profound I simply expressed that now all the greatest reviews for movies have been officially written. I always respected Ebert as a writer rivaled by very few and as a voice of honesty. I didn’t always agree with him, but his reviews were always intelligent, well-spoken and often times downright hilarious. Seriously, even if you didn’t agree with his opinions of certain movies, you had to admit he wrote a hell of a review.

But for me, Ebert’s passing has a bittersweet lining. While I know that we will never get a new review from him, I know that as long as I haven’t seen every movie that he has written about, it will be as if he’s always here. That, among many other aspects, is one of the beauties of writing.

I love to write. I loved writing this sentence. It was a boring sentence but it was my sentence and I wrote it so I love it. And that one too. This could go on for a while… I’ll move on. I write in large part because it involves creating, something I can’t get enough of. If you were to follow me on Facebook and Twitter, you would see I often use them as creative, albeit stupid and silly, outlets to be funny, humorous and groan-inducing. For example, I recently posted, “I've started placing Bunsen Burners and graduated cylinders on the table during a date to assure there'll be chemistry between us.”

But the creative freedom I receive from those sites has given me unprecedented happiness, and the retweets, favorites and likes I get in response are the social media equivalent of free crack, but that’s beside the point. The simple act of creating something that I intend to make people smile and/or laugh, gives me a sense of fulfillment that’s not as readily available and instantly gratifying in other places. Sounds a bit arrogant now that I wrote that, but what are you gonna do? Read on I suppose!

Creating, and more specifically, writing, has an appeal beyond compare. The way I see it, I sadly cannot create human life. I can’t have babies. Oh sure, I can contribute, but my role is minimal and for me, at best momentary. Womp, womp. Having said that, I have a creative hole in my life that needs to be filled, a hole filled with something that’ll outlast me. And with that, you have my love and passion for writing.

Writing is material and substance that I created that can and should last way beyond my existence. Look at all my previous Oy!Chicago posts and you will see a great multitude of material that personifies and exemplifies me as a person, as who I am. I take great comfort in knowing that my writing will be there, no matter where I happen to be and even far after the time I become an ex-person. The fact that Oy!Chicago has allowed me to write all my silly musings and views of the world is wonderful. Even then, there’s quite a bit of material that has never been viewed by eyes other than my own. Maybe, yes maybe, someday others will see it, but for now, it’s for these Jewish eyes only. This way, I will always have work that has yet to be read. Just like Roger Ebert, it ensures I will always be here, no matter what.

What inspires me to write is the most wonderful aspect of all. I find with unparalleled consistency, inspiration in everything and anything and yet, always the same thing. I know where my best writing comes from. I know my true inspiration and it brings out immaculate feelings and words. It’s when I write from the heart, from the truth, from love, from the need and urge to express myself while thinking about who and what I truly care for that my best material comes forward. It’s why I’m writing to you about writing. Kinda honestly love it from the heart. Not sure if you could tell.

I unequivocally find love to be quite a strong motivation to write. Whether it is about people, places, things, ideas or any other kind of noun, love makes me write because I write about what I love and I love that I write and I love that I write what I love abou…..I think you got it. Doing something I love as constantly as this makes life and every day worth it. It makes me happy, it makes me proud. It makes me into exactly who I am. I often times write humorous and silly blogs to entertain others, but this one was very much for me. I do this on occasion because I love sharing the most honest side of me. Thank you for reading. Now go do something you love. Life’s too short not to.

It's raining, it's pouring, and my little guy is in the back seat snoring. We were out running errands before nap time, and of course, less than a mile away from our house, his eyes, already droopy, collapsed shut.

Parents out there know the conundrum I'm facing: waking him now will spoil his regular nap for the day, but staying in the car means...I'm stuck in the car. Oy! indeed, Chicago.

If parenthood has taught me anything, it has taught me the importance of being flexible. I am a planner by nature, and normally I feel most comfortable when I have a sense of control over the situations I face.

Before Colin was born, I already knew I had what it takes to be a good (if not cliche) Jewish mom. I was a natural worrier, and to combat this tendency, I read (and continue to read) about a zillion pregnancy and parenting resources.

Still, when he was born, the worry would crop up: is he eating enough? Is he dressed warm enough? Am I doing everything right? I wanted to make sure I was in a constant state of preparedness (is that even a word?) so I could be sure all of his needs were met.

And yet, all the education in the world, all the books and blogs cannot teach you everything, and nothing can prepare you for the havoc a baby can wreak on your life.

As Colin gets older, and I get better at dealing with the challenges that come with parenthood, I think back on the stress that came with my earliest days of parenthood. The days when, utterly sleep deprived, I would face a stumbling point and think, "how will I make it through the day?!"

Today I had a lot of things on my to-do list for my two-hour window while Colin naps (at home in his crib – clearly not happening today). I needed to start laundry and packing for our trip to visit my in-laws, to straighten up around the house, to catch up on writing several blog posts, to let the puppy out in the front yard...the list goes on and on.

Instead, I'm in the car (aka baby jail) drafting blog posts on my iPhone, catching up on email and trying to enjoy some unplanned R and R in the car. Of course, all of the aforementioned tasks will get done at some point, but for now, I'm just doing my best with what I have.

Call it what you will – being flexible, rolling with the punches, making lemonade. Sometimes life doesn't go quite as planned, and as I have learned in the past 11 months, that is okay.

Here is everything you need to know about Milt's: It's a kosher barbecue joint. It's nice enough to host a swanky event. It's dedicated to community service. And it's set up for both dialogues and monologues.

Well, maybe there is still more to know. Like that Milt was the uncle of the founder, Jeff Aeder. Uncle Milt, it seems, was a raconteur and a rascal—prone to ask questions and challenge the status quo. When he grew up, Aeder went into real estate. He opened Milt's just last December, but he built it—in the spirit of his uncle-to do more than serve up meals. He wanted it to, in his words, "stir the pot."

Because Milt's also serves the community. Each month, all proceeds go to a different local charity. And Milt's also has set up the Jeffrey F. Kahan Memorial Fund, a Donor Advised Fund, at the Jewish Federation of Metropolitan Chicago, in memory of a man Aeder says was "well-informed and opinionated, thoughtful and passionate, a friend who enriched our world. Although he lived with Multiple Sclerosis, Jeff Kahan lived a fuller life than most. He had a strong love of Israel and sense of Jewish identity. Jeff passed away in the summer of 2012 with far too much life yet to live." The fund will support Milt's community programming.

And while the fall-off-the bone ribs and melt-in-your-mouth brisket feed your body, Milt's also feeds your brain. It's not just the brain-ticklers on the wall, like "Is there another word for 'synonym?'" that do this. It's the range of speakers and scholars Milt has coming to teach, like Dennis Ross, the Middle East expert, who stopped by in March.

Which explains the "perplexed" part of the restaurant's name. It's taken from the title of one of the masterworks of Jewish philosophy, The Guide for the Perplexed, by Maimonides (a.k.a. The Rambam). According to Aeder, "Maimonides emphasizes giving credence to all perspectives. He drew from Jewish, Islamic, and ancient Greek philosophers to explain the Torah."

Accordingly, Milt's is kosher (under cRc supervision), and the only such place in Lakeview. They have a huge smoker and grill in the kitchen, which pours forth fried okra, beef "bacon," chili, soup, chicken, ribs, salmon, burgers, and traditional BBQ sides (except for mac and cheese!). There are plentiful veggie options, and a kids' menu, too.

And while critics from The Reader to Urban Spoon have given Milt's the thumbs-up, so has the local rabbinate. "Jeff Aeder, a member of multiple synagogues including our own, has done something truly exemplary," said Rabbi Michael Siegel, spiritual leader of Anshe Emet Synagogue, a neighbor of Milt's. "He has created a restaurant to serve and build the Jewish community and surrounding institutions. It is not every restaurant about which you can say that you are doing a mitzvah by eating there. There is no doubt that Maimonides would applaud the impact that Milt's will have on strengthening our Jewish community. In all of our conversations, I have never failed to be impressed with his enthusiasm, concern, and passion for inclusivity. Milt's has created a communal table."

Since my last post about kicking off the 10 meal project, I’ll admit there hasn’t been much time for cooking anything too exciting. First, Passover came around and since then we’ve been so busy that Mike hasn’t had a chance to pull out another one of those coupons…yet.

Typically, Passover foods just do not inspire me to get creative in the kitchen. But I do love the holiday—I love getting together with family and I love keeping Passover even if the food doesn’t always love me back. I also love those Passover chocolate bars with the cows on them—you know what I’m talking about, right? Those are the best.

Aside from the usual challenge of living on matzo pizza and matzo brei with salami for eight days, this year we also decided to host our families on the first night for Seder.

To be fair, I should say that we didn’t make all the food ourselves—it was more like a potluck and the major dishes, like the brisket for instance, were taken care of. But we did make a number of side dishes and dessert.

I became determined to make homemade toffee-chocolate covered matzo. I found this recipe on Martha Stewart that called for sea salt, which always sounds good to me. The only problem was that it also called for butter, which wouldn’t work with our meat meal, so I decided to substitute with margarine. The margarine made the toffee a little, well, off. But the whole thing looked pretty and both of my grandmas said they thought it was delicious, so I guess that’s a victory, right?

My real success of the night was my vegetable quinoa dish. I had never made quinoa before, and hadn’t really tried because Mike has never really liked it. But it was easy to make, beautiful to look at and quite a tasty alternative to the usual Passover side dishes. We sautéed zucchini, peppers, carrots and onions and mixed in with the quinoa with some garlic and seasoning—easy, right? I also made quinoa again later in the week as a dairy meal, mixing in some marinara and cheese, which was also delicious and a great break from matzo. The really nice thing about quinoa is that a little goes a long way, so if you make it once it can last for a few days.

We also made some roasted asparagus with garlic and olive oil in our toaster oven and some other components of the Seder plate—Mike makes a great charoset.

For Mike, being able to host our families for holidays in our home is a dream come true. He’s an excellent host and doesn’t get stressed out and bogged down by the details like I do. If not for him, I’m not sure I would have the guts to take on something like a Seder, but looking back, it was really rewarding. All told, we make a great team when hosting and what could be a tough job is actually a pleasure for us.

Now that the holiday is over, I’m hoping to spend some more time playing in the kitchen. I’m not sure what I want to take on next, but I’m open to suggestions and recipes. And while I’m still not sure I like to cook, per se, I’m definitely getting more comfortable in the kitchen. More to come next month from this wannabe cook! 

After five years at the Jewish United Fund, I’m moving on to the next professional chapter in my life. Tuesday, April 16 will be my last day as a JUF professional and your Managing Blogger. It is with a heavy heart and bittersweet emotions that I write these words.

When I started at JUF, I was a young 20-something barely out of college with some professional experience in the PR world and a desire to use my new knowledge to make a difference. In college, I never would have dreamed of working in the Jewish non-profit sector. I didn’t go to day school, I’m not particularly religious, and my long-term boyfriend isn’t even Jewish, but after a life changing trip on Birthright, the opportunity fell into my lap and the rest is as they say, history. Now on the cusp of 30, I feel like I’ve grown tenfold both professionally and personally from this experience.

Working as a Jewish communal professional— for one of the best non-profits out there, might I add— I’ve had the opportunity to see firsthand all of the amazing work this organization and the non-profit world does. No other organization day in and day out could do the work that JUF does to help people in need throughout Chicago, in Israel and around the world. I’ve written the second half of that sentence maybe a zillion times over the past few years, but every time I write it (or read it), I remember how much impact we truly make. It’s astounding.

But the work we do as part of this organization isn’t actually what motivated me to show up every morning. It was the people. I’ve had the pleasure of working with some of the best people out there. They are more than colleagues and friends, but family. I’ve treasured my time working with them and I will miss many of them dearly. They are so smart and so dedicated to giving back and to Jewish continuity— why do you think Oy!Chicago exsists? They’ve taught me to be more than a better professional, but a better person and I’ll be forever grateful for them.

The title of this piece is a bit deceiving, while I won’t be working for Oy!Chicago and JUF any longer, you can bet I’ll still be around. My relationship with JUF will continue on the volunteer side and of course, I’ll still be writing for Oy! as a contributing blogger— they can’t get rid of me that easily.

So until my next blog post, peace out, Oy!sters!

Read Part 1

We landed in Addis Ababa Ethiopia around 1:30 in the morning. The airport was mostly empty save for the faces we had shared recycled air with since our transfer in Turkey. We paid our passport fee to unsmiling men and women, (who very well may have been used to the middle of the night shift but still weren’t happy about it), and gathered our 12 pieces of luggage from baggage claim. We stepped into the darkness of the middle of the nighttime sky and I had this weird feeling of being home somehow even though our home was hundreds of miles away.

Our first day started early. Our bodies and minds trying to figure out where we were, what time it was, while trying to remember not to wet our toothbrushes with the sink water. Were we hungry? Tired? Having to go to the bathroom? The interesting thing about kids is that when posed with an overwhelmed system, they just seem to simplify things. They look outside, there’s daylight, and they get up. No clock check – no count of hours slept versus hours ahead. They spy a pool and they run to play in it without the fear of looking fat in a bathing suit or proper water temperature. They don’t overthink. They just honor the moment. So that’s what we did at our first glimpse of morning time in Ethiopia. And we let that set the tone for the rest of our journey together. Let us not think so much. Let us just do and be.

There were so many notable moments in our journey back to our daughter’s birth family in Ethiopia. This would be my 3rd visit to the country, my husband’s 2nd and our biological children’s first. It would be the first time for all of us that Fray’s two families would see and embrace one another as a whole. Two years ago I had brought Fray back to Ethiopia to see her biological family, but never ever had I had the opportunity to stand looking at all of us together. There we all were – Fray’s two families on a playground, laughing at something so universally hilarious, it cut the need for two translators to explain what we were so desperately attempting to communicate though words. And there I was, lamenting on the private journeys each of our families had taken in order for this moment in time to be. This moment in time of togetherness was a miracle for all of us.

Sometimes the feeling that something has truly been a miracle slowly fades. You totally believe in fairies and unicorns and the power of wishes coming true just because you squeeze your eyes shut in just the right way with sweaty, shaking fingers tightly crossed. Time and space and the monotony of daily routine can silently and without notice erode the precious inches forward that our better selves have made. I know that. It’s happened to me before. But this moment, this miracle moment, it had too many witnesses to fade. It is in each of us – each of us having a unique view from our own set of eyes – the memories of the laughter and the sober understanding that gift of adoption is not a simple one to give.

On the day of another end to March Madness, The Great Rabbino wanted to do something special. So we caught up with former Michigan basketball player Ron Garber. Ron is a great guy and plays in my Sunday night basketball game in St. Paul. Besides throwing down two massive dunks last night, he had several blocked shots including one on my buddy Dan which was for all intents and purposes a volleyball spike. We caught up with the former Blue to hear his story and take on tonight's big finals match-up.

1) Tell The Great Rabbino a little bit about yourself?
I was born and raised in Golden Valley, MN and am a dual American/Israeli citizen. I was a late-grower and was cut from my high school basketball team (Hopkins, a powerhouse basketball school in Minnesota) as a senior, spent two years working out like mad and then accomplished my dream of walking on to the Michigan basketball team my junior and senior years.

2) What was your experience playing at Michigan like?
It was amazing and changed the trajectory of my life. More than anything else, it made me such a better basketball player. I used to play in a Minneapolis-area summer league that all of the local D-3 guys played in, and the summer before I walked on, I was one of the better bigs in the league, but fit in. I came back next summer after a year of playing against Michigan-level competition and really dominated the league. It was awesome.

It also gave me the opportunity to meet kids with totally different backgrounds than my own and kind of expand my horizons. I became really tight with the guys I played with, and those relationships continue to mean a lot to me. 

3) Who was the best player you ever played with and against? What were those experiences like?
Best player I played with - Bernard Robinson, Jr. He was tenacious, strong and a total competitor. Long arms and crazy quick feet. Zig-zag drills against him were a nightmare.

Best player I played against - Bobby Jackson. In the summers we used to play pick-up games with him, and it was usually my group of friends against his. We couldn't take them because whenever we would get to 9 or whatever, he would just turn it on and take over, and he was unstoppable. I played with and against a lot of good players between my college team and the Howard Pulley pro-am league in St. Paul, but no one could flip that switch like he could.

4) Did you continue playing ball after your Michigan days?
I played professionally in Israel for a year after graduating and then came back to the US and played - and continue to play - in leagues, pick-up ball, whatever. I play less than I used to now that I'm getting a little older and am more into biking, yoga, etc. but I still play in a bunch of pick-up games and the Minneapolis lawyers league. An old teammate at Michigan just moved to the Twin Cities so I'm sure I'll play even more now.

5) How close do you follow the college game today? Thoughts on this year's Michigan team?
I follow the NBA much more closely than I follow the college game, just because the overall talent level has really dropped off since it became the norm to leave after one year. I like watching the best players, and the best players are in the League. I still love the Tournament though.

This year's Michigan team is incredible, especially now that Mitch McGary has found his confidence and rhythm. They are so athletic and so deep, and now have that threat inside as well. I love watching Glenn Robinson play - he's so athletic and manages to affect games even though they really don't run any offense for him - and Trey Burke is obviously amazing.

6) What was your Jewish life like growing up? And today?
Because of the Israeli influence in my family, growing up, my Jewish identity was always more about Israel than about spirituality or religion. I always went to Jewish summer camp though (Teko in the Twin Cities and then OSRUI in Wisconsin) and would visit family in Israel every year or two. I was also pretty active in my synagogue youth group. The best basketball game of my career was the championship game of my 'Jew-ball league' my senior year of high school, and it's the only game in my life that I remember my stat line from. 35 (on 9-11 shooting, 15-18 from the line) points, 18 rebounds, according to my dad's box score. We had lost in the championship my junior and sophomore year and winning was a big deal to us.

Today my Judaism is still about Israel, and I am very active in organizations focused on the peace process. I've been a counselor at Seeds of Peace the past two summers and am the chair of the Minnesota chapter of J Street, two organizations that are both focused on making peace, albeit in different ways (J Street is focused on the politics, Seeds of Peace is focused on the people).

7) What’s your favorite ice cream stop in Minnesota?
My favorite ice cream stop is my kitchen! I make some mean ice cream - passionfruit-habanero, apples and honey and maple-pecan (made with maple syrup tapped from trees on the Seeds of Peace camp) are probably my signature flavors. Look for my ice cream truck/shop (gonna be called either FrozenChozen's -- my nickname at Michigan -- or Matok, which means 'sweet' in Hebrew) in the next 10-15 years!

8) What are you up to these days?
Today I'm a corporate/M&A lawyer at Fredrikson & Byron in Minneapolis. I also hopelessly follow the Minnesota Timberwolves (next year is our year; I said that last year too).

9) Anything else you'd like to share?
Michigan 81 - Louisville 74.

Thank you to Ron for his time. I am sure tonight will be crazy for Blue fans everywhere. And yes, Trey Burke is unreal. Wonder if he is Jewish? Doubtful.
And Let Us Say...Amen.

My mom jokes that her temple growing up was basically a church. My dad was raised in a Kosher home (which I am sure he snuck his fair share of cheeseburgers into) and attended a Traditional synagogue. This matrimonial union led to my early Hebrew school days and Bat Mitzvah taking place at a Conservative synagogue. At this congregation, the thought that I had even tasted bacon was enough to appall at least 80 percent of my Hebrew school classroom and almost all of the administration.

At this point in my life, I really couldn’t have cared less. My go-to order at any Italian restaurant was linguini di mare: noodles with clams, mussels, calamari, and more. I was never fazed by sausage pizza and cheeseburgers and even though I never really wanted to admit to eating what was inside a steamed potsticker, I most definitely ate my fair share of pork.

Keeping Kosher was never anything that crossed my mind. That is, until I went to Israel for the first time. After spending two months studying abroad in high school on Alexander Muss High School in Israel or as I like to call it “the best decision anyone could ever make” (I know shameless plug, but really, I could write a book on why Muss is life changing), the thought of changing my diet for religious purposes crossed my mind. I remember a few people starting to keep Kosher upon our return to America, presumably to maintain their connection to Judaism and Israel. However, I still didn’t really understand why people kept Kosher and if I didn’t understand it, how was I supposed to do it? That seemed silly. The closest I got to connecting food to my religion was handing out tastes of the best Israeli pop rock chocolate at school and eating an unhealthy amount of hummus while I sobbed about missing Israel. Sounds about right. In all seriousness though, I really had to put thought into any lifestyle changes I was making and at this time, I was far from 100% committed. People say “go big or go home” and that’s kind of how I felt about any religious transformations.

After returning from Muss in April, I started college in August of the same year at George Washington University, which really was close to as Jewish as it gets with the exception of going to Brandeis or Yeshiva. Within my first month or so, I was a new member to a Jewish sorority, involved in Hillel, and enrolled in a class that ended with a free trip to Israel rather than a final. Count me in!

So in December of 2008, I was off to Israel for the second time within that year. I went on a program through Meor Israel, a Jewish learning community. For three weeks, we resided in a hotel in Jerusalem, studying at either Yeshiva or Seminary in the morning and participating in recreational activities in the afternoon, such driving jeeps(which was actually really fun) or paintballing (which is now one of the last things I’d ever volunteer to be a part of again). The trip was not only incredible because of the juxtaposition of these two worlds, but the learning opportunities were unmatchable.

It might sound nerdy, but I really do love learning. I didn’t know that much about Orthodox Judaism, even after studying in Israel for two months. I loved learning about the traditional views on essential themes such as love, marriage, self-actualization, prayer, gender roles, etc. Although I clearly didn’t agree with all of the information they shared, it was extremely intriguing to me and some of the lessons truly resonated with me. Plus, I had the chance to enjoy some of my first Shabbatons in Jerusalem and even attend a religious wedding. Moments like these truly made the trip, but there was one instance that was more life changing than I realized at the time.

I remember sitting in the back corner of a room for one particular presenter, who told a story of a religious Jew who was killed protecting Israel. Somehow, we learned that this individual’s one wish translated into asking everyone to pledge and commit to taking a step, however big or small, in their lives to further connect to their Judaism. Some ideas that I believe were communicated were lighting candles every Shabbat, saying the Shma every night, keeping kosher, etc. The speaker asked us to raise our hand if we can make this pledge and I was one of the only people to not raise my hand. If you’re reading this you might ask, “why didn’t you just say you’d do it?” and “that must have been uncomfortable.” It was highly uncomfortable, but I was flustered and didn’t feel as though I could really say that I was going to change anything about my lifestyle. At that point, I wasn’t sure I could “go big,” which changed when I got home, back to school.

One of my first nights back, I went out to dinner with a group of my sorority sisters to celebrate and kick off our second semester of college. They ordered a platter of chicken wings and I was the only one at the table who didn’t taste one. One of them asked, “Are you like Kosher now or something?” I confessed that I had been flirting with the idea, but I wasn’t really sure. I told them about the speaker and how ever since I didn’t raise my hand during the presentation, I had been thinking about what I could do, if anything, to remind myself of my Jewish heritage every day and honor this fallen solider. I told them that I was going to try to keep Kosher and if after a few weeks it was ruining my life or something, I would re-evaluate. Although that was a pretty absurdly dumb comment, it’s been about four years and three months since that conversation and I’ve been going strong.

My roommates at school during my freshman year had both begun keeping Kosher within the past few years of us moving in together, so I just started keeping it the way they did. That meant, more than just not mixing meat and milk and avoiding shellfish, pig, etc. I started only eating vegetarian out, cooking only Kosher meat, and waiting 3ish hours between meat and milk. I’ll admit that sometimes when there is fro-yo in the picture and it’s been 2 hours and 15 minutes, my willpower is not as strong as it should be, and there have been a few sporadic instances where I accidently took a tiny bite of something that wasn’t Kosher due to language barriers (No-pork and fish are not the same thing, Valencia!), but for the most part, I have kept my end of the bargain.

You might be wondering why this tangent of a story and journey is relevant, but the truth is that taking a step in your life to remind yourself of your connection to Judaism is a great idea. Keeping Kosher was a big decision, but I never regret that I made this choice. Taking any sort of step, however big or small, to remind yourself of your Jewish heritage is beneficial, in my opinion. It doesn’t matter if you finally going out and buy that mezuzah for your door (which, yes, I still need to do), decide to light candles every Friday, or even join a Jewish intramural league. Whatever your connection is, I would advise to try to strengthen it in whatever way you see fit.

Photo credit: Pasteur 

On a busy North Broadway street in Chicago’s Edgewater neighborhood is the much-loved restaurant, Pasteur. The new location, now one year old, prides itself on highlighting the specialty dishes of each region of Vietnam, while infusing French cuisine into each and every bite.

With its white façade and wicker chairs on a patio-tile floor, modern Paris look, French Classical music, and white tablecloths make it seem that you aren’t dining at a Vietnamese-themed restaurant at all. The establishment has modern light fixtures, front patio with windows that open up when it’s warm, a large back patio with in-wall fireplaces and a private raised first floor room that seats 50 guests. The new place has all the trimmings to be a hot spot on Chicago’s north side.

Photo credit: Pasteur 

Pasteur has been around since 1985 but in 2007, a fire in its former space in Uptown left owners Kim and Dan Nguyen looking for a new beginning. They focused the current menu back to the core of Vietnamese cuisine, utilizing traditional techniques and unexpected twists. Pasteur is back and sexier than ever.

The service itself was hands down the best I’ve ever experienced. It was a slow night and I’m not sure what it’s like on weekends, but everyone that was working was our server. Not only did the bus boy take our food and drop off water, but also stopped by multiple times to see how our food was and to recommend items for dessert. Everyone that was working, especially the owner Kim, was very warm and gave us plenty of recommendations on items that were popular. A lot of places that I tend to review will come down to how good the service is. With the service at Pasteur, I am happy to say that you won’t leave disappointed; it’s worth the trip to Edgewater.

Photo credit: Pasteur

We started with the W.T.P. Bloody Scary Mary with house made Pho beef broth garnished with Thai basil and Chile blue cheese stuffed olives and Vietnamese beef jerky ($11) as well as the PCP: Thai chili and pineapple infused vodka, Grand Marnier, sour mix and pineapple juice with a pomegranate liqueur float ($11). The Bloody Mary wasn’t spicy but the beef broth, amazing. My wife ordered the PCP, which she loved. From experience, she is very picky about martinis and this one was “just amazing”. The Mixologist created a custom menu, which you can find at the bottom of this article.

Our appetizers were the Tofu Summer Rolls: fresh rice paper roll filled with fresh mango, avocado, cucumber and green plantain. Served with a tamarind dipping sauce ($7), Saigon Crêpes: a coconut milk and rice flour crêpe filled with chicken, shrimp and straw mushrooms. Served with lettuce for wrapping and fresh herbs ($9), and Vegetable Egg Rolls in an egg-based wrap with cellophane noodles, jicama, woodear mushrooms and taro served with sweet and sour sauce ($7). You will see a trend as dinner went on that prices were fairly inexpensive compared to what you might find at an upscale fusion restaurant downtown. The crepes, while massive and shareable were good, but they didn’t stack up to the rest of the meal.

For our main course, we ordered the Rice Noodles with Vegetables, sautéed with an assortment of vegetables ($15), Grilled Beef Short Ribs marinated bone-in charcoal grilled and served with a side of endive, mango and avocado ($18), and the signature Red Snapper: Chef Dan’s classic whole fried red snapper, center boned filleted and topped with a spicy pepper, garlic and onion sauce with the head and all ($35). Each dish was wonderful in it’s own way, but the Short Ribs were truly to-die-for and highly recommended. The Red Snapper is two full pounds so it’s worth sharing. Speaking of sharing, many of the entrées had smaller portions, which were more than enough for one person. Yes, everything comes on a big plate here.

Of course, there’s always room for dessert and Pasteur had the good stuff. We ordered the recommended dish, Banana and Raisin Bread Pudding topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and drizzle with hot caramel sauce ($8). This dessert was exquisite, period. They have their own recipe at Pasteur where they remove some of the usual ingredients and substitute them with Coconut – you need to be here to believe how good this dish actually is.

3.5 out of 4 Stars! I highly recommend this restaurant as a neighborhood gem, great for foodies, and good for groups! Come into Pasteur for a true French-Vietnamese experience.

Reservations are recommended using OpenTable.com or by calling the restaurant directly at 773.728.4800. The restaurant does have carryout and delivery services using Grubhub.com or by calling the restaurant. You can see the menu HERE.

I'm packing up, getting ready to move on out after more than a decade of living in the same building.

You've been there. You're standing in your home—a dot in a sea of cardboard boxes, bubble wrap, packing peanuts, and duct tape—enveloped in a tornado of possessions strewn across every piece of furniture and floor space as far as the eye can see. You've got to decide what to take with you, what to give to tzedakah, and what to give to the garbage man—and you've got like a day to do it. Sound familiar? 

So I thought I'd write through the packing stress and tell you about my Jewish-inspired items I'm taking with me, items that have helped shape my Jewish home, experience, and identity for more than a decade.

The mezuzah.

When I bought my mezuzah to kasher my new apartment as a 20-something Jewish woman, I chose a feminine, funky design for the ritual object, to show visitors before they even made it through the door that they were approaching Cindy's home. I figured when I got married some day, I might have to compromise with my future husband on a more toned-down, less girly mezuzah. And since I'm now engaged and soon will be starting a home with my husband, that day is almost here. The mezuzah's coming with me, but perhaps it will adjoin a lower profile entrance way, for the sake of my husband-to-be, rather than the front door this time around.

The fiddler.  

A whimsical painting of a fiddler, perhaps the not-so-distant cousin of Tevye, adorns my wall. I remember buying the painting when visiting an art fair with my family a few summers back. The fiddler reminds me of my late Grandpa Harry, born in a shtetl near Minsk, Belarus at the turn of the 20th century. As a young man, he immigrated with his family to America, ultimately settling in Wisconsin, where he would become one of the state's first Jewish farmers.

The dress.

I bought this black sequin dress a decade ago. Ladies, you know the one I'm talking about. That dress you fell in love with at the store—and it was on sale too! I've attended so many simchas in that dress that it's practically paid for itself by now. Every time I look at it, I'm reminded of all the horas I've been lucky enough to dance in while wearing that dress. I can almost hear the klezmer now.

The kugel recipe.

My mom passed down to me my family's recipe for lokshen kugel (noodle pudding) when I first moved into my own place. I cherish the recipe in all of its sweet deliciousness. But, more than its taste, cooking kugel transports me back to the sweet nostalgia of growing up—the High Holidays, Thanksgiving, Chanukah, and the weekly Shabbat dinners with my family. My mom would make the dish, my sister and I employed as pint-sized sous-chefs in her kitchen.

The earrings.

I bought these small, sparkling, colorful gems, created by famous jewelry designer Michal Negrin, as a souvenir from Israel when I traveled several years ago with more than 60 other young Jewish Chicagoans on the Young Leadership Division Summer Trip to Israel. The earrings, to me, are synonymous with our transformative journey "home."

The tray.

The ceramic tray, decorated with the Vincent Van Gogh's "Café Terrace" scene, has seen its share of Jewish holidays. Every Yom Kippur, for instance, I prevail over my hunger pains and prep the tray with brownies, toffee bars, and merengue cookies, inspired by my mom's holiday recipes, and get ready for the influx of Jewish friends that would come to my apartment annually to break the fast with me.

The pictures.

Of all my material possessions, photographs top my list of items I can't do without. After all, pictures tell our story best. Pictures of my family and friends pepper my walls with joy, light, and love. Like the picture of my grandparents, my parents, my sister, her husband, and me standing under the chuppah at my sister's wedding; or the one of my then-4-year-old nephew and me playing in the snow; or the one of my three girlfriends and me making goofy, mojito-induced faces in the photo booth at a Jewish party.

These objects aren't just material possessions to me. They're the building blocks of my Jewish life. They're with me to help me remember my Jewish narrative, a narrative that I hope resonates with many of you. I'm moving out, but I'm ready to create a new Jewish home at my next address.

In this week’s portion, Tzav, we find the specific instructions delivered to Aaron and his sons as to how to perform the ritual sacrifices. In particular, we learn about a few different types of offerings: burnt, meal, anointment, sin, guilt, and well-being. We learn that priesthood would only be passed on to Aaron’s male descendants, and we learn that we’re not permitted to eat certain animal fats (who knew the Bible was so ahead of its time as it relates to eating healthily!), and that eating blood is not permitted. And at the end of the portion, Moses anoints Aaron and his sons (and their vestments), and they begin their duties as the Israelites’ designated priests.

I can’t help but be fascinated with the concept of anointing vestments. The notion that certain clothing can be spiritually uplifted via a ritual process is quite intriguing to me, as I sit here writing this Dvar Torah while wearing jeans and a t-shirt. I try to think back to my lucky sports socks or the baseball hat I wore every day for almost 3 years, and I have a hard time remembering what it was that made those objects so special and out-of-the-ordinary. I don’t recall there being any sort of formal “you are now special because I’ve sprinkled special water on you” moments…

And yet, our tradition certainly creates space for making otherwise mundane garments holy. Think, for example, of the difference between a rectangular piece of fabric, and of the same piece of fabric now containing fringes on the four corners (making it a tallit).

Even more so, think of the garments we use to clothe our Torah scrolls, such as a belt and cover. While in and of themselves ordinary, by virtue of covering our sacred objects, these garments take on an elevated status of holiness in our minds.

Should the clothing we wear be any different?

If we each contain a Divine spark, and given our traditional belief that to save a single human being’s life is to save the world, should we treat ourselves and our adornments any differently than we would those that cover our Torah scrolls? In a world where many are unclothed, what would it be like to view ourselves as holy vessels, and to elevate what we consider routine and mundane, such as our clothing, to a higher status?

In the traditional morning blessings, we praise the Divine for clothing the naked (“malbish arumim”). But the reality is there are still many who don’t have the clothes they need, and that those of us who do often are not appreciative enough of them.

This Shabbat, take stock of your wardrobe. Examine your relationship with clothing. Donate some of your lightly used items to help clothe others. Recognize that simply by virtue of you wearing them, your garments can, if you allow them to, take on an elevated, and even holy status.

Okay. I lied. There are no other stories. Yes, I must be the wicked child. Despite my age of 25 (going on 26!), I am still a child. Passover still tends to be one of my favorite Jewish holidays of the year. Believe me, when I’m in my local Jewel Osco, and yes I shop there because it’s JEW-el Osco, I never PASS OVER the chance to check out the kosher section. See what I did there? Seriously, do you? Because if you do can you please let me know what I did there because I have no idea what I did there.

When it comes to the Passover Seder, the search for the Afikoman is a long standing tradition that can be traced back well before I was even born. Crazy, I know. But the search for the Afikoman is one element of my life that sadly does not exist anymore. Oh, the search for the Afikoman. If there’s one thing I wish still existed in my adult life, it would be that incredibly fast metabolism I had as a child. But if it was two things, yes two things, it would be the absolute lack of responsibility. But if it was THREE things, yes three things, then it would have to be that I could still participate in the search for the Afikoman come Seder time. I miss it so much I often buy loaves of bread and purposefully put them in locations around my apartment that I’ll forget just to have that wonderful excitement at a later time when I accidentally find them.

How funny would that be if I was joking? There’s a lot of moldy bread in my apartment that I can’t find.

The thrill of the hunt for the Afikoman was like no other. This wasn’t like finding Waldo, Jimmy Hoffa or your pants. There was a prize to be had! But sometimes the parents and/or aunts and uncles were quite cruel and would be far too clever in their hiding spots. There were the acceptable places like under the couch cushion or in between the books on the book shelves. Then there was the tough places like under the table cloth or inside the closet. But then there was one place I drew the line.

The Afikoman can NOT be hidden in the box of matzo. That is cruel and unusual punishment. That’s on par with telling me I’m going to Disney World and then taking me to the doctor’s office to get a booster shot. It hurts literally, figuratively, emotionally and redundantly. The scars I have from those Seders still exist today. But that’s only because I was rough housing too much and fell on a broken Seder plate when I was 9. But let’s not go there.

I must say, the night of finding the Afikoman did sometimes lead to incredible experiences. Imagine the night I found the Afikoman AND lost a tooth. Man, I was rolling in it. It being money for those that needed clarification. I would often get my dollars exchanged for rolls of pennies so rolling it in wouldn’t be as strange. Rolling in dollar bills looks rather foolish. Actually rolling in any amount of money looks rather foolish. But rolling in hay on the other hand…..moving on.

I do, however, need someone to explain to me how the Afikoman is considered dessert. I understand it roughly translates to “that which comes after” but still, why couldn’t those amazing fruit slices or ring jells translate to that as well? Perhaps I’m mistaken, but the call of dessert does not often represent unleavened bread in my mind. Although when I see it smothered in chocolate my attention does tend to be captured. Although in all fairness, anything smothered in chocolate does tend to catch my attention. I’m looking at you Elite chocolate bar that I dip in chocolate and then pour chocolate sprinkles over.

I don’t do that. Much. 

Sean Altman looms large in the worlds of a cappella and novelty song. First, he's very accomplished and innovative and influential, and even has awards and stuff. Also, he's very tall. Altman is one of the performers at the City Winery's Downtown Seder, March 20 at 6 p.m. (the full list is here).

Your album is called Taller than Jesus. How much taller are we talking?
I've done a lot of scientific research on this topic, mostly from measuring my grandparents and their altercocker friends. These are tiny, tiny people and they we only born last century. The average guy at the time of Christ was 4'9" to 5'5". At an impressive 6'3" I'm not only way taller than Jesus but I probably would have been a side-show freak back in Nazareth, or at least a successful olive picker.

How many albums have you been on, altogether? Do you even keep track anymore?
I don't keep track except in moments of dread and insecurity when I obsessively count my albums and how many (OK, how pitifully few) women I've bedded. I've appeared on about 30 albums.

What brought you into the world of children's media?
In 1990, my vocal group Rockapella was featured in a PBS Great Performances documentary called Spike Lee & Co. — Do It A Cappella which aired internationally and got the group its first record deal (a single of "Zombie Jamboree" on Elektra). The producers of a kids' TV series in development called Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego? saw our performance and thought our singing and manic antics would suit the show. We starred on that daily series for five years and all 295 episodes, and I co-wrote the infamously catchy theme song. Voila— instant kids' TV fame!

How has your approach to kids' music changed, now that you are a dad?
I don't play any "kids'" music for my 4-year-old daughter, just a wholesome diet of the Beatles, Julie Andrews and my originals (she'll inherit the copyrights so she needs to know what gems she's sitting on).

Did you predict the current zombie craze with? Any moves to bring the song back now?
Zombies never go out of style for very long; their tragic story is too compelling. I grew up on the '50s novelty calypso song "Zombie Jamboree," which was made famous in the '60s by The Kingston Trio, Harry Belafonte and others. I arranged the song for my college a capella group and my arrangement is a bona fide staple of collegiate a capella (a dubious honor). During my 11 years with Rockapella we recorded my arrangement three times for three different record companies. My current group The GrooveBarbers recently recorded what I consider the definitive version, at least until I record a new treatment. I half suspect my own rotting zombie corpse will figure out a way for me to record yet another version of "Zombie Jamboree" from the grave: you know… the AMAZING posthumous rendition that's gonna finally get the Altman name up in lights, albeit L.E.D.s, as incandescent bulbs will have long been extinct.

Talk about being big in Japan… in both senses.
During Rockapella's kids TV heyday in the USA we had a parallel career as an adult act (not as naughty as it sounds) in Japan. We toured there eight times in four years and released eight albums, including two dozen of my originals. That record deal made me into a songwriter. "You mean if I write a song it'll go on an actual CD?!" (CDs were new and very fancy in the early '90s).

What is Musicians On Call?
Twice a month for the last dozen years I've performed bedside serenades for patients at local hospitals as a volunteer with a national organization called Musicians On Call. I specialize in Sam Cooke, Buddy Holly and other vintage chestnuts. It's typically the most rewarding three hours of my day.

What is it with Jews and a cappella groups? Why so many?
I hear that University of Maryland has more Jewish a capella groups than regular groups! One obvious reason for the proliferation of Jewish acapella is that instruments aren't permitted on the Sabbath so there are lucrative work opportunities for vocal groups at Orthodox weddings and bar mitzvahs (I should know, I sing in a few of these groups as a freelance ringer).

Yes, you are Jewmongous, but what's harder: being Jewish or being humongous?
I absolutely love being Jewish and I'm fiercely proud of my Jewishness. That being said, I've never believed in God— not even at my bar mitzvah (sorry, Rabbi Gottlieb)— and I don't plan to start believing now. All I know how to do well is sing and write songs, so JEWMONGOUS is my way of connecting to my people. My goyishe friends don't get it: "How can you consider yourself Jewish and not believe in God?" I tell them that this is the beauty of being Jewish: it's a bloodline not a belief line! I get all the benefits of being Jewish— the brains, the jokes, the musical talent, the Nobel prizes, the food (OK, the food isn't a benefit) without having to set foot in a synagogue and pray.

What's so funny about being Jewish?
Religion is funny. OK, religion is preposterous and maddening and absurd— all of them, the Jews, the Christians, the Muslims, the Buddhists, and especially the meshugge Christian Scientists— but it's a fact of life that most of the planet believes in some form of handsome, bearded, puppeteer in the sky, so I've come to accept it and to do my darnedest to wring some pleasure from the comic side of it.

OK: Rockapella vs. Straight No Chaser in a cage match. Winner?
Rockapella, which has existed without me for a quarter century, still sings and writes circles around every other group. That being said, Straight No Chaser are younger and more plentiful by a factor of two so they'd probably win in a brawl.

Will there be a follow-up to Taller than Jesus?
Yes; I have yet to release such delectable titles as "Blame The Jews," (by Pope Anstisemiticus) "Phantom Foreskin," "Hooked On Hora," "Jesus Christ's Bar Mitzvah," "The Least Jewy Jew In Jewville," and several more. Expect a new album this December in time for my annual holiday tour.

It was an ordinary Thursday afternoon. My little, vibrant 18 month old girl was feeling a bit out of sorts. Mingling between sort-of-cranky to probably-had-a-fever though our cheap thermometer didn't seem to get a great reading, plus, how do you get kids to sit still for that long with something sticking under their arm?

I needed a nap, burning with acute frustration just below the surface that my little queasy girl needed more attention than I could give. I slogged through trying to still give some good TLC.

As I filled up her bath, she flitted around, giggling, playing hide and seek. Her body, I noticed, fluctuated between hot and cold. I hadn't been giving her enough to drink that day. I toyed with the idea of running out before her bedtime to get her some more juice.

The bath was ready. Rescuing my little one from one of her silly running around games, I plunked her in. Usually, she would play with some of the bigger toys I placed in the bathtub— the old seat she used to sit in when she was too young to stand, or the classic stackable rings. Sometimes the measuring cups would be her fascination of the day. Today, she seemed uninterested, just looking down into the water.

I sprinkled her with some water drops.

"Tanya...." I cajoled. "Want something to play with?"
She stood there, still, staring at the water wordlessly.
"Tanya..." I put some more drops on her.
Nothing. Silence. No movements. Just staring down at the water.
I stopped, worried.
"Tanya?" I breathed.
No response.
I picked her up, and stood her on the bathroom floor, covering her with a towel. "Tanya?''
She just stood there, looking down, not responding. Her eyes, her expression, everything, blank. Gone.

Oh.

My.

God.

I rushed with her in my arms towards the bedroom, everything moving slowly, feeling like a dream.

"Elad!!" I felt I wasn't yelling loud enough. I felt I was too confused to understand how to act, react, overreact, underreact. "Elad," I yelled through the door, "Tanya's acting really weird...."

I pushed through the door and the next moment his face was in hers, scared out of his mind.
I knew that he could see her face full on better than I did, and I knew from his reaction, that it was bad, that it was really, really strange.

He was yelling, he was calling 911. "TANYA!!!" He was screaming in her face."Tanya!!!"

She wasn't responding. She just looked, blankly, ahead. The little girl who was always laughing, always giggling, always reciting her favorite word "no." on repeat...

We thought it was the end.

"C'mon Tanya," I shook her hard, "C'mon Tanya. Snap out of it, Tanya, come on."

"GOD!!!" I cried out. "God, bring this girl back to life!"

Every single thought in the world that had ever worried me humbled in comparison to this little girl. I knew that, resolutely, that I would give up everything, anything, to focus all of my energy on her, to do it all again, to make things right. Who cared about anything else?

My husband was out the door, searching for help, calling the emergency numbers. "My daughter, she's not responding. Is she breathing?" I heard him ask.

"C'mon Tanya," I jostled her up and down, chanting to the blank face and body in panic. “Come on Tanya. Come back to life. "

And then, in a momentous movement, she threw up. All over me. I took this as a type of sign, as progress.

As I stared, she started moving a little, coming back to life. She was responding again. Soon, she was back, fully. A miracle.

The storm had passed.

After the almost inconceivable happens, you understand how close life and death are, experiencing the profound reality check of what is really important and what you would give anything to go back and have again.

And then, suddenly, sometimes, if you're lucky, you're given that choice.

My life, it may never be the same, at this point so close to the terror of the moment, it's hard to know. My mind goes back to those crazy moments, in which I thought a precious life was lost. I would prefer to go back to that other moment, that moment in which I gained the most precious gift of my life back.

What I would give to keep that focus throughout my life, that awareness of life, of the gifts that rain down on me continuously. Of that which is my focus and my real concerns, not the dribble that can cloud our glasses in life's daily grind.

As it turns out, the medical reports unanimously declared, Tanya had had a febrile seizure, a seizure caused by a fever and extreme shifts in temperature. This is fairly common in young babies, and causes no damage other than scaring parents out of their wits. The docs weren't too concerned, though they didn't have to endure what I endured, they didn't feel like they had almost lost everything only to luckily gain it all back.

My, what a miracle life is. My, what a gift it is. Cherish it.

With all of your heart, and soul, and might. With all of your money, and words, and thoughts. Embrace it with every ounce of strength you have within.

What a life we are privileged to lead. At any moment....

But nevermind that. Embrace and cherish the now. And laugh with it. A big, silly, belly laugh. In gratitude that we have what we love right in front of us. Love that, now. With all of your heart, and soul, and might.

We have everything we need right in front of us. Know that right now, we are rich.

Happy Passover.

May we all feel and be fully redeemed in every dimension of our existence. 

About a year ago, one of my brother’s friends who had recently become an educator shared a rather intriguing post on a social media website comparing the average teacher’s pay to that of a babysitter. The post went viral, of course, and caused quite a disturbance among myself and my graduate school cohorts. Here we were, being trained and prepped to enter the world of education, armed with passion and cutting-edge instructional strategies to ‘wow’ our audience – the students – because they are the reason why we go into teaching.

Let’s back up for a second and read the essay as I saw it, which reportedly was written years ago at a New Hampshire newspaper:

“Teachers’ hefty salaries are driving up taxes, and they only work 9 or 10 months a year! It’s time we put thing in perspective and pay them for what they do – babysit!

We can get that for minimum wage. That’s right. Let’s give them $3.00 an hour and only the hours they worked; not any of that silly planning time, or any time they spend before or after school. That …would be $19.50 a day (7:45 to…………… 3:00 PM with 45 min. off for lunch and plan – that equals 6 1/2 hours).

Each parent should pay $19.50 a day for these teachers to baby-sit their children. Now how many students do they teach in a day…maybe 30? So that’s $19.50 x 30 = $585.00 a day. However, remember they only work 180 days a year!!! I am not going to pay them for any vacations.

LET’S SEE…. That’s $585 X 180 = $105,300 per year. (Hold on! My calculator needs new batteries). What about those special education teachers and the ones with Master’s degrees? Well, we could pay them minimum wage ($7.75), and just to be fair, round it off to $8.00 an hour. That would be $8 X 6 1/2 hours X 30 children X 180 days = $280,800 per year.

Wait a minute – there’s something wrong here! There sure is! The average teacher’s salary (nation wide) is $50,000. $50,000/180 days = $277.77/per day/30 students = $9.25/6.5 hours = $1.42 per hour per student – a very inexpensive baby-sitter and they even EDUCATE your kids!) WHAT A DEAL!!!! Heaven forbid we take into account highly qualified teachers or NCLB…

Make a teacher smile; re-post this to show appreciation.”

This seemed a little crazy to me, but then again, so are lots of things. The truth is that we all want the best education for our children and future generations, yet we don’t have a system developed to increase the quality of that education. What’s worse, more people are graduating from college and graduate school than ever before, and the job market is not exactly lucrative either. Everyone is fighting for a job, even those of us that have jobs that want something different or better.

Now, I used to be a babysitter myself – and a darn good one, too – and back in those days, babysitting was not exactly a regular gig, but it was money in my pocket. I got to build experience in responsibility, financial management and supervision of younger individuals and learn to establish relationships with adults. I loved being able to be a kid and have tons of fun while making some (undeclared) cash on the side. Plus, I was always funny and always right. And perhaps, from time to time, we might play an educational game or review homework problems together. But, I would not have considered myself a teacher.

So I sit here scratching my head thinking, how is it possible that teachers get paid less than babysitters?

I think the lesson I learned from reading this post is that we all want the best and we are all contributors toward the future generation’s learning experience.

In any event, I think we can all agree that teachers deserve our recognition and support for spending about one third of their days with our children. Remember, they’re teaching our future sons and daughters about math, science, social studies and everything in between. So, next time you hear about a teacher’s misfortune or difficulties, just remember that we as a society have entrusted them with our future. We have given the gatekeepers all of the keys towards a brighter future, it only makes sense that we give them the credit and support they deserve and need. Plus, I think we can all think of a teacher or mentor we had in our youth that changed our lives for the better. And if we can’t, then perhaps we should make sure our children have one for their future’s sake.

Let’s hear it for our teachers!

L’Chaim!

For my husband’s 30th birthday last month, I decided to get him 30 gifts. This is a cute idea in theory, but in practice can become rather pricey. So I decided that a large portion of his gift would be something he wants more than anything else in the world—home-cooked meals prepared by me.

Do you remember a few years back when I set out to prepare a traditional Shabbat dinner? I surprised myself by not failing miserably and created a pretty tasty meal, if I may say so myself. I still did not enjoy touching or preparing a whole, raw chicken, but with some help, I did it. I vowed then that Mike, my then-boyfriend, now-husband, and I would set aside time one Shabbat a month to prepare meals together, spending quality time and improving my seriously lacking kitchen skills.

Well, you know how it goes. Life happened. We got engaged, got sucked into wedding planning, moved, got busier at work, got a puppy, and let’s face it, got lazy. My husband, I should add, is excellent in the kitchen and enjoys preparing meat-filled, manly meals that I get to enjoy. He gets so much joy out of seeing me eat the food he makes, but deep down, I know he wishes I would return the favor once in a while.

And here’s the thing—I want to love cooking. I really do. I want to want to spend time in the kitchen, instead of putting something together as quickly as I can and using the least amount of pots and dishes possible. I even had some success making kugel for Rosh Hashanah this year (with Mike’s help) and I love spending quality time with my grandma learning to make some of her famous recipes. But I just haven’t had the drive or the confidence to get in there and do it myself.

So when I handed him 10 coupons each offering one meal prepared by me, I decided it was go time. Time to just get in there and do this—alone.

He redeemed his first coupon this Sunday night. We had eaten a lot of heavy, meaty meals over the course of the weekend (and also I’m not a huge fan of preparing meat), so I told Mike to find a recipe for a vegetable-filled pasta dish. Start off easy. He found a recipe online for Mediterranean pasta with vegetables.

It wasn’t gourmet by any means, and it took me three times as long as it should have, but nothing came out of a can and I did it—all by myself. And I had fun. I even took a little creative license with the recipe.

And what was really nice about it was that I got all the ingredients at Trader Joe’s and paired with a bottle of Two Buck Chuck, it was much more economical than ordering in Thai food or pizza, our usual Sunday night fare.

I don’t know when he’ll redeem that next coupon, but in the meantime I’m looking for side dishes to prepare when we host our families for Passover in a couple weeks. I’m thinking I’ll tackle sweet potato casserole myself.

I’m also hoping that by the end of this 10 meal project I’ve created for myself, that I’ll feel more comfortable and confident in the kitchen. And fingers crossed, maybe I’ll even graduate from a wannabe cook who hates cooking to an okay cook who thinks cooking is kind of fun—I’ll keep you posted. Until next time, this wannabe cook is signing off!

Burying my niece and nephew in the sand

There’s something about celebrating Passover each year that makes me very happy. It’s definitely not because I get to eat matzo for eight days and little else. But the story of Passover, of all the Jewish holidays, really speaks to me— maybe it’s because it’s going to finally get warm again…soon.

Growing up, my parents and my aunt and uncle on my dad’s side alternated Passover hosting duties. With a large extended family, Passover was the once-a-year opportunity to be all together. My grandfather— as the head of the household— led the prayers. Our Seders were long and serious, but the food was frequent and plentiful and I was treated at a young age as an adult, instead of a kid.

Both of my grandmothers died before I was born, but on Passover I’ve always felt a special connection to them knowing we were eating their cherished recipes. (Though I never could learn to love my Grandma Clara’s egg water or my great aunt’s matzo-meal bagels).

As the youngest by many, many, many years on my dad’s side of the family, I was ALWAYS tasked with reciting the four questions— at 25 I was finally able to hand over the reins.

Today, Passover in my family looks very different. I have several young-ish nieces and nephews and they “share” reading the four questions. No longer does the Seder seem so long and serious. While I must admit I feel some nostalgia for the past and for my childhood, our family has created wonderful new traditions. We’ve “acted” out Seders using finger puppets, we’ve added a cup for Miriam and an orange to the Seder plate, and we’ve moved our celebrations to a much different venue, San Diego, where my parents and aunt and uncle spend a good portion of the winter.

This year, spring break coincides with Passover, which means most of my family can make the trek. We will ALL be under one roof, for a whole week, with only matzo to eat! Yes, sharing a bed with my 10-year-old niece (who wakes up at 6:30 every day) may not seem like much of a vacation. But nothing compares to spending quality time with my niece (and nephews) in the kitchen, passing down our family recipes to this fourth generation. And I’m not going to complain about being able to visit the beach for a post-Seder walk to burn off all the chocolate covered matzo.

Here’s to this year in San Diego. Happy Passover, everyone!

Over the last few years the NFL draft has brought us some great stories— starting with Taylor Mays and Gabe Carimi. Last year, Mitchell Schwartz got all the press, while Alex Hoffman-Ellis and Alex Gottlieb drew some attention, as well. This year, we have Sam Schwartzstein out of Standford. Below is a little bit about the determined Offensive Lineman.

Can you tell people a little bit about yourself?
I'm an interior lineman prospect for the 2013 NFL draft and played at Stanford for the past five years. I'm from Texas originally where I went to school at Carroll High School in Southlake.

What was your experience at Stanford like? 
It was great, had a lot of amazing experiences of going through a rebuilding process of a team going from the bottom of the Pac10 to the top of the PAC 12.

Which Harbaugh did you root for in the Super Bowl?
I was mostly an objective observer, but parts of me wanted coach to win. He is a main reason why I chose Stanford and I thank him immensely for that.

What are your future career plans?
Hopefully, a long NFL career, but after that I want to work in a startup and create a new product or service.

Will you be attending the combine or tryouts? Are you excited for the opportunity?
I will not be attending the combine, but I will be participating in Stanford's pro-day on March 21st. I'm extremely excited for the opportunity and that's all I want, an opportunity to prove myself.

Where do you see yourself lining up in the NFL? 
At one of the three inside positions. I played center the past two years, but was a recruited guard. I have experience at all three spots.

Over the last few years Jewish NFL Offensive Linemen have been drafted high (Gabe Carimi; Mitchell Schwartz). Have you spoken to either of them about their experience? Who is guiding you on your journey? 
I haven't spoken to them, but it is awesome to see their success. I spoke to Mitchell after we played Cal two years ago and it's one of those things where it's cool to catch and meet guys from a similar heritage. The guys who have helped guide me were David DeCastro and Jonathon Martin. They are exceptional players who understand the work it takes to be a true professional.

What was your Jewish upbringing like? Do you have a favorite holiday? 
I come from a split Jewish and Christian house where we practiced both holidays. My dad was Jewish and we often would look for the Jewish athletes out there. It was a prideful thing where a lot of people wouldn't give me the respect in sports because of the last name but it was a driving force to make me work harder to prove the doubters wrong. Favorite holiday would be Passover because my dad makes the best brisket.

Good luck to Sam. We will be watching out for you.

And Let Us Say...Amen.
- Jeremy Fine

As a woman of a certain age (mid-twenties), there's been an oh-so-pressing debate taking place in Hollywood recently that I just can't seem to let go of: Taylor Swift versus Tiny Fey and Amy Poehler. Not to mention the pop culture pitting of Anne Hathaway versus Jennifer Lawrence.

Sure, it's light, fluffy, US Weekly stuff. Taylor Swift, the over-coiffed 23-year old millionaire, accusing the affable Tina Fey and Amy Poehler of belonging in a special place in hell for making a lighthearted joke at her expense, in a very public Vanity Fair magazine article. Long story short, at the Golden Globes, Amy and Tina made a lighthearted joke about Swift, serial dater extraordinaire, about staying away from Michael J. Fox's young son.

Sure. Fine. If you can't take a joke Tay, you can't take a joke. But as someone who is just a touch older than Ms. Swift, I wonder, why is it that young women in Hollywood, those who work so diligently to be in the limelight, why must they fit into one mold or another? In other words, she makes millions singing about lost love and all of the studly companions she's takes on her arm, but anyone throws her some (lighthearted, funny)  shade and suddenly the accused are not helping the feminist cause. The persona she adapts in order to make her money is all well and good, but in the face of criticism, she insists she is something else.

Also take, for example, the oft-made comparison between Oscar season belles of the ball, Jennifer Lawrence and Anne Hathaway. In more succinct terms, it's the case of the cool kid versus the prissy princess. I'm going to be painfully honest for a second...I'm a bit more Anne Hathaway than Jennifer Lawrence. I'm cutesy, I'm a former theatre kid, I wouldn't classify myself as the coolest cucumber on the block (a la J-Law). But still, when I read this article about Anne Hathaway being "The Happy Girl", it gave me a great deal of pause.

"The Happy Girl"...according to the above article by Sasha Weiss featured in The New Yorker, is an idea that manifests itself a little something like this: "There's generally only a small window of time when girls have that mien of utter at-homeness in the world-it gets snuffed out in many of them by age twelve or thirteen, when their glance turns inward, scrutinizing. Anne has somehow managed to retain that bright look, and many people would like to wipe it off her face."

Interesting, huh? Also, where have all the happy girls gone? And is this an overreaching or justified defense? So many questions, so little time. Firstly, I think the comparison between Jennifer Lawrence and Anne Hathaway is unfair in suggesting that women can either be one thing or the other. In this isolated instance, either one is annoying, or one is awesome or so it seems to me, a casual observer of media articles and reports.

Yet another question I had for Weiss and others in defense of "The Happy Girl"...is anyone who doesn't fit into this mold, you know, sad? Outward attitudes like "The Happy Girl" could be potentially little more than facades. However, if it's truthfully this possession of interior well-being, an essential welling up of happiness, feeling comfortable enough to be outwardly effervescent, that's quite a virtue. I want to be a happy girl, don't you? But that's the point; it's up to you, if you are indeed a happy girl.

It's easy to say if something isn't this, it must be that. If Anne Hathaway is cloying, her competition, who possesses a different personality, demeanor and is nearly a decade younger, must be our best friend. That's all well and good (to be fair, J-Law does seem pretty darn cool), but, as a 20-something still working to figure it all out, what sort of personality type is it acceptable to be? At the core, I think that's what I find most troubling about this pop culture craziness: it's not enough to be shown images of razor thin models; that trapping of fame and fortune is often, often discussed. Now, we must contend with being either "happy" or cool, and the potential ramifications. Sure, these sassy singers and actresses live out their lives in the limelight, and who knows what really goes on behind the scenes. But in a world where every public event generates a thousand articles by a wide variety of publications with different agendas, I can't help but wonder...in this day and age, can't the dynamic, animated, talented twentyish (or thirtyish) something be as multi-faceted as she (or he...c'mon now!) wants to be? 

Growing up, my friend and I—the youngest representatives from each of our families and tasked with singing Ma Nishtana ("The Four Questions") every Passover—would spend a good portion of the pre-Seder festivities each year practicing the song together. We loved the holiday and took our role in the seder seriously, striving to get the questions just right—and we would have just died of embarrassment if we messed up. In subsequent years, I have (eagerly) passed the torch of singing the song on to my young nephews. Then, my eldest nephew—who's "7 going on 70"—provides commentary on the questions and their answers in a style befitting Rashi or Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah, a famous young scholar from the haggadah.

As a child and as an adult, my role in the Seder has evolved, but my love for Pesach remains. And I'm certainly not alone. In my informal poll of Jewish friends and family, I have discovered that most members of the tribe I know name Pesach as their all-time favorite Jewish holiday. In fact, it's the most widely celebrated holiday on the Jewish calendar. Chances are—no matter where you fall on the observance spectrum—come the evening of March 25, you'll find your way to a Seder, whether you live in Chicago, Jerusalem, or any other locale in the world. In that spirit, I give you my top 10 reasons to love the popular holiday.

1) On Pesach…we tell the story. We read the same story year after year from the Haggadah, and we learn something new every time we tell it.

2) On Pesach…we put life in perspective and appreciate all the good things we have. Just as we were once slaves, we remember that many people around the world still are not free.

3) On Pesach…we are commanded to drink four cups of wine. It wouldn't be right not to.

4) On Pesach…we stay home. Home is the focal point of the holiday. For most Jewish holidays, we observe the holiday in synagogue, but this time we recline and gather for Seder night in the comfort of Jewish homes all over the world.

5) On Pesach…we recognize that spring's on its way—maybe. In Chicago, it might feel like winter still—especially since Pesach arrives so early this year--but we know warmer temperatures, melting snow, and chirping blue jays are all just around the corner.

6) On Pesach…we rock good tunes. Who doesn't love the song about the four sons, a rousing rendition of Dayenu, or the one about that little goat?

7) On Pesach…no two Seders are exactly alike. They're kind of like snowflakes that way. In the course of my life, I've gotten to attend many different Seders, longer Seders that end in the wee hours of the night.; a Sephardic Seder where—in addition to matzoh and horseradish, we ate figs and dates; Maxwell House Seders, social justice Seders, chocolate Seders, and Seders where an orange occupies a prominent place on the Seder plate. They're all different, all special.

8) On Pesach…we let all who are hungry come and eat. This is a holiday where we open our homes to family, friends, and wandering Jews without a place to go.

9) On Pesach…matzoh brei flows like the Nile River. I love eating matzoh brei for eight days straight. And then, on the ninth day, when cornflakes and toast have returned to the menu, I've had my fill and I can't fry another morsel of brei.

10) On Pesach…we rejoice in our freedom. Once we were slaves, but now we are free…L'shanah haba'ah b'yerushalayim! (Next year in Jerusalem!)

As American grocery stores and pharmacies continue to inundate consumers with pastel eggs and bunnies in anticipation of Easter, Israel has just ushered in a new bunny of its own. Playboy magazine launched its first Hebrew-language edition March 5 in Tel Aviv.

The Jerusalem Post quoted attorney Daniel Pomerantz, an Israeli immigrant from Chicago and Playboy Israel’s CEO, as saying he envisioned Playboy’s Hebrew edition launch as an opportunity to bring fun, fashion and serious debate, “all the things that Playboy stands for,” to Israel.

“Israel is taking another step into the community of regular nations with the debut of Playboy Israel, an all-Hebrew glossy monthly complete with nude photos of Israeli women, sports, style advice, political interviews and a mission to mentor Israeli masculinity,” said Jerusalem Post writer Niv Elis in the same article.

The English-language version of Playboy magazine has been available in Israel for years. Now, Israelis have an all-Hebrew version of the monthly magazine with Israeli models.

It’s worth questioning, however, why Playboy, with its ever-shrinking print readership, would target a small-scale country with a religiously influenced government. What impact is the company truly hoping to make with this small and divided population?

Playboy’s originator, Hugh Hefner, who founded the magazine in 1953, is quoted across media publications, saying he sees the Israeli launch as an affirmation of Israel’s shared values in freedom of speech, freedom of choice and freedom of the press.

“I am equally pleased that so many of the core values of the magazine are also the core values of the country and the society that has so graciously invited us to be a part of its cultural landscape,” said Hefner, according to the Post.

Some Americans credit Playboy for playing a positive role in the sexual liberation movement of the 1960s and 1970s, while others criticize its negative effects on gender equality.

“Marketing Playboy ‘b’aretz’ will be a tough sell. There’s a precedent of failure for imported American pornography in Israel,” according to a Jspace.com article.“Penthouse had a very unholy existence in the Holy Land, lasting only… between 1989 and 1993. And that is to say nothing of two strong contingents within Israeli society that will certainly oppose the venture on moral and ethical grounds: religious groups and progressives/feminists.”

Jezebel.com columnist Hugo Schwyzer also said Israel’s stance on nudity and modesty is complex.

“Part of that complexity is an increasingly nasty division between secular and religious society,” Schwyzer said. “The so-called ultra-Orthodox have begun enforcing Talibanesque modesty codes in some neighborhoods, even beating young women who show too much skin, while more moderate rabbis have called for a ban on female models in public advertisements.

At the same time, some secular politicians, emboldened by slight gains in the recent elections, are demanding that the government do more to protect the rights of women in public spaces,” Schwyzer added,” as well as improve the dismal percentage of women in Israel’s judiciary.”

I conferred with my Israeli friend, whom I met during my Birthright trip a few years back, and he certainly had a good laugh over Hef’s claim of common core values between Playboy and Israel. Further, he expressed doubts about Playboy’s future success in the Holy Land, citing that most Israelis consume pornography via the Internet, as Americans do. He pointed out that the Playboy Channel’s launch in Israel years back wasn’t incredibly successful.

My Israeli friend found additional—perhaps simpler—problems with Playboy Israel’s launch. He theorized that Playboy will be hard-pressed to find Israeli women who will be willing to model for the magazine, simply because Israel is a small country—and, there’s nowhere to hide once one has modeled nude.

Jezebel.com’s Schwyzer quotes Pomerantz describing the magazine as “complex” and “beautiful”--“the perfect fit for a country as complex and beautiful as Israel.”

You can dress the bunny up in high brow language and different colored bunny costumes—but what are we really talking about here? Pornography. Playboy can make grandiose claims about reinforcing democratic values of free speech through its print publication filled with fun, fashion and serious debate. But let’s be honest, publications like Playboy make progress difficult for women everywhere, and it’s not about to pay Israeli women any favors. The over-sexualization of women in America is not something to be emulated. I don’t view Israel adopting and further integrating an American model for objectifying women into their culture as a positive step forward—maybe it’s two bunny hops back.

I am almost constantly guilty of calling my 10 to 20 or so closest friends my best friends. My mom used to always inquire as to how I can call my closest friends from school, camp, abroad, and life in general all my best friends. Mindy Kaling summarizes this perfectly in her sitcom, The Mindy Project, “[a] best friend isn't a person; it's a tier.”

Unfortunately (or fortunately) for me, my personal tier extends across the country. Last weekend, I visited New York City where seven of my closest friends from school, camp, and study abroad live. Not only was it wonderful to spend time with friends from three different “worlds,” but it reminded me of what I should be ardently grateful for: the friends that you know will be in your life forever. Lucky for me, I had seven of them in the New York City area alone, five of which are from one of the most life-changing experiences of my 22 years on this earth: study abroad.

Study abroad is controversial sometimes, in the sense that people envision obnoxious upper middle class Americans raging their way through a continent without a care in the world, thinking that they are entitled to everything. In some ways, the aspects of having a good time filter into everyone’s abroad experience, but my four months in Barcelona were about much more than delicious drinks and nights that were memorable in the sense that no one could really remember them. My experience was grounded in spending four months with incredible people, experiencing different cultures, seeing truly awe-inspiring sites, trying delicious new foods (note: this was while remaining Kosher, excusing the monthly occurrences where I accidently ate swine and would proceed to panic for at least ten minutes following the incident), learning a lot about myself, and creating memories that I will always cherish.

On a whim, one of my closest friends, Rachel, who I studied abroad in Israel with in high school, and I decided we would study abroad together. After annoying her for months (possibly years) about my yearning to go to Barcelona, she caved and applied to the same program as me, where we ended up living together in homestay. Our señora was a cute, older woman from a small Pueblo in Spain named Conchita. She loved Indian music, Bollywood, shopping sprees, telling me fun facts about “Los Judios” (otherwise known as the Jewish people), and earning her livelihood as a manicurist. She also only spoke Spanish, which was a blessing in the sense that I learned to speak Spanish much better and a curse in the sense that the language barrier was often an obstacle. We once told her that we couldn’t shower yet, because we needed soup “No podemos duchar porque necesitemos la sopa.” Classic mix-up.

Within the first month or so, by some spark of fate, I had a group of friends that were normal, and although this sounds way too cheesy to be okay, I felt very blessed. Although including the boys there were 15 of us who spent a large majority of our time together, the six girls of the group became friends on a different level.

Abroad was kind of like camp in the sense that if you spend a lot of time with a small group of people living or traveling together, your shared experiences and connection as friends is catapulted into something amazing in a short amount of time. This also makes you the kind of friends where it doesn’t matter what you are doing, as long as you are just together enjoying life. From Sevilla and Valencia, to Prague, Italy, and many places in between, we explored Europe together and we were content, as we should be. There wasn’t even a trip that all six of us were on together, but somehow we stayed a cohesive group. In May 2011, we all went our separate ways, until they all moved to the New York City area.

It only took me until a few months ago to get myself in a together enough place to be able to buy a ticket to New York City. I sat at work last Friday fidgeting because I was so anxious and excited to all be together again, seeing as I hadn’t seen three of my closest friends in almost two years. Although I was ecstatic to have a weekend getaway, a small part of me wondered if everything would seem the same that it was two years ago or if the amount of time passed would be far too clear?

After nine hours of travel and many hugs, the six of us were reunited in Manhattan, the kick off to a great weekend away from reality. At one point in the night, I told my friend Gabby how excited I was to be there. Her response really said it all. “All week I was so excited for us to finally all be together and to see you and now that you’re here, this all seems natural. It’s like we never left each other.” I couldn’t have agreed more. I won’t bother you with the mundane details of my trip to New York or how I was finally converted from a hater of the Big Apple to a fan (although I still hate Times Square and no city in the United States will ever come close to being ranked above Chicago), but what I can tell you is seeing people that you know you will be friends for the rest of your life is really an incredible feeling. It is great to know that during a year of such chaos, change, and acclimation to the real world, some things don’t change. Some things remain the same and this consistency is what keeps me (kind of) sane. Carrie Bradshaw said it perfectly—“After all, things change, so do cities, people come into your life and they go. But it's comforting to know that the ones you love are always in your heart... and if you're very lucky, a plane ride away.”

It has been two years.

Two years since I heard the words “No Evidence of Disease.”

Two years of seeing the world in hyper-color.

2 years of wiggling my toes, breathing deep, and savoring moments.

I woke up this morning uncertain of how to approach this day. With my 2 year scan scheduled in April, I was hesitant to celebrate my remission birthday without a concrete scientific endorsement.

After some thought and reflection I came to the realization that while the system that I am in has its own predetermined markers and finish lines, it is up to me to determine which dates and moments in time are significant.

The last two years have not only been about cancer but they have been about choice.

The choice to find meaning in suffering, the choice to find hope amongst trauma, and the choice to use my experience as the catalyst for living a life full of profound gratitude.

I may not have chosen the cards that I was dealt, but I had the ability to choose how to respond.

I chose to face cancer in an authentic, open and honest way – a choice that not only helped me navigate the trauma but has significantly enhanced my life in the here and now.

Perhaps there is a chance that my cancer has returned.

Perhaps there is a chance I will again be betrayed by my body.

And perhaps there is a chance I will again endure hardship and pain.

These what ifs, these unknowns, these maybe’s – are crippling.

Today I woke up wiggling my toes.

Today I had moments in hypercolor.

And today I am reminded of how great it feels to breathe deep.

I am here – I am alive – and I choose to celebrate.

Thank you for those that have been by my side – holding my hand in the darkest of hours – and to those that stood on the sidelines cheering from all corners of the globe.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I felt you then – and I feel you now.

Passover is a holiday filled with tradition. Families gather, familiar recipes are brought out from generation’s old cookbooks, and family favorites are brought alive in the kitchen. I remember learning how to make some Passover “classics” and was reading a recipe for matzoh balls and when I asked about chicken fat, I was told that no one does that anymore, “we use vegetable oil.” The problem with that is that the vegetable oil for Passover is cottonseed oil. Not only does cottonseed oil not taste delicious, but it is not good for you. Cottonseed oil may contain natural toxins and probably has unacceptably high levels of pesticide residues (cotton is not classified as a food crop, and farmers use many agrichemicals when growing it). Furthermore, cottonseed oil is too high in saturated fat and too low in monounsaturated fat.

This year for Passover, I am reclaiming an old Jewish tradition, one that is tasty, healthy and so greatly misunderstood. This year for Passover, I am going to use some delicious, savory chicken and duck fat for my dishes. Sure, I will still use my trusty extra virgin olive oils, but the holiday is all about tradition, and this is one tradition I am going to enjoy.

The 12th-century rabbi and physician Maimonides touted the benefits of chicken soup to one's health. Many other cultures also believe in the restorative properties of chicken soup and it turns out that it indeed may be good for you. Poultry fat has monounsaturated fatty acid palmitoleic acid which boosts our immune system. Chicken fat has the most of this healthful fat and what has instinctively been understood by many cultures around the world can now be backed up by science. There is something magical about the golden pools of chicken fat.

Animal fats contain fatty acids with help our bodies fight disease; help absorb vitamins and lower cholesterol. The human body can burn the short-chained fatty acids found in animal fats and will simply store the long-chained ones found in polyunsaturated fat. When I teach and lecture, I talk about how the human body can process natural fats but cannot tolerate hydrogenated and processed fats. Some states outlaw the use of trans fats and many companies have voluntarily stopped using them in production of their products.

I have often said that margarine will be the dietary ruin of the Jewish people. Once touted as a healthier fat and as a substitute for butter, margarine and other processed fats are known to be unhealthy. It is a myth that eating animal fat makes you fat.

The French Paradox

In the United States, 315 of every 100,000 middle-aged men die of heart attacks each year. In France the rate is 145 per 100,000. However, In the Gascony region, where goose and duck liver form a staple of the diet, this rate is only 80 per 100,000. This phenomenon has recently gained international attention as the French Paradox—they eat more poultry fat in Gascony than anyplace else, but they live the longest.

Using the whole bird

The average American cook purchases their poultry precut on Styrofoam boards wrapped in plastic. We are out of touch with our food. We do not know how to cut it and we pay more than twice as much as we should.

Think about it. The butcher/producer bought the whole chicken and paid for it by the pound. You purchase pieces of the bird (boneless, skinless breasts, thighs, legs or wings) but pay based on the weight of the entire bird. You might as well buy the entire bird and learn to use it from top to bottom.

As a consumer you will come out ahead when you learn to utilize the entire bird. In my home and professional kitchens, I use the pieces of chicken for meals, the carcass for stocks and the fat for EVERYTHING!

Ashkenazi Jews have a long history with schmaltz. Instead of butter and in the absence of olive oil, European Jews turned to schmaltz as their cooking fat.

In America when in 1933, Procter and Gamble published “Crisco Recipes for the Jewish Housewife,” a promotional cookbook available in English and Yiddish, animal fats lost favor as immigrants strove to assimilate.

Jewish households never looked back as medical journals wrongly accused animal fats as being unhealthy and touted hydrogenated fats such as Crisco and margarine.

Rendering duck or chicken fat

Start with a whole chicken or duck.

The challenge with kosher duck is that it is always found frozen and whole. This requires a bit of planning ahead and a fearless plan of attack. Cutting duck or chicken is not hard, but like many kitchen skills has been replaced with purchasing cut up pieces. I love cutting duck and chicken and want you to as well—so grab your sharpest knife, thaw your birds, and steel yourself. Here we go.

Place the duck or chicken breast side up on a cutting board with the legs facing you. (The breast side is plumper than the backside). Locate the breastbone that runs down the center of the bird. Cut a line as close to the breastbone as possible down the entire length of the bird. Gently scrape your knife along the body, this loosens the meat without cutting into it. Follow downward with your knife until the entire breast is cut away from the bone.
Repeat with the other breast.

To remove the legs and thigh: cut the piece of skin that attaches the leg to the bones. Bend the leg slightly to loosen it from the joint. Cut the skin on the back and remove the leg and thigh. Trim any pieces of fat and loose skin from the chicken or duck.

I individually wrap my poultry pieces and then freeze them. I save my carcasses for stock and the fat for rendering.

To render the fat

Place the fat in a saucepan. Add about ⅓ cup water for 1 pound of fat/skin. Place the pan on very low heat and let the fat melt very gently.

The water will evaporate and pieces of skin will start to turn golden brown. This process can take several hours. You can do this in a very low oven at 275 F.

When the skin turns golden brown, pour the fat and skin through a strainer. Press on the skin to get every last drop of fat.

Cool the fat before storing. And see below for Gribenes/Cracklings.

Gribenes

Return the skin to the pan and turn the heat to medium. Add one medium white onion that has been diced. Continue cooking, occasionally pouring off the fat and saving it, until the skin turns a deep brown and is very crispy.

Parsnip and Roasted Garlic Soup with Gribenes
Serves 6+

I have never really liked the standard potato-leek soup so popular in the late winter and early spring. The soup just doesn’t have any OOMPH!

My roasted version with the addition of parsnips, roasted garlic, and generous sprinkle of gribenes with the caramelized potatoes and leeks has punch and flavor. The soup is addicting with a decadent creamy consistency.

1 small medium white onion, diced
1 medium leek, white part only, sliced
2 large Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and diced
6 medium parsnips
Several tablespoons of chicken or duck fat
Several springs of thyme
1 bulb of roasted garlic, squeezed so all the flesh has been removed
10 cups of chicken stock
Suggested garnishes: chives, gribenes

Preheat oven to 350

1. Place the onion, leek, potatoes and parsnips on a parchment lined sheet pan. Toss the vegetables with the poultry fat and roast in the preheated oven until they are medium brown and caramelized (about 20-30 minutes).

2. Transfer the vegetables to a saucepan with the garlic and remaining ingredients. Simmer over low heat until the vegetables are very soft (about 20 minutes).

3. Puree with soup with an immersion blender. Adjust seasoning with kosher salt and freshly cracked pepper.

4. Serve the soup garnished with fresh chives and gribenes.

Duck Confit

Duck confit is like kitchen gold. The ancient method of preserving poultry in fat is not hard, but does take a bit of time.

Confiting is the technique of poaching duck legs and thighs in their own fat. The gentle heat transfer ensures that the meat will retain moisture and flavor. Poaching poultry in water is not the same. The fat molecules are too large to penetrate which is not the case with water. The water actually dries out the meat, whereas the fat keeps the meat juicy. The meat is then stored in the fat where it attains even more flavor and can be preserved for as long as 6 months.

Once made, the confit can be served as a garnish, salad, entrée, or appetizer. I keep a couple of jars in my home refrigerator and “buckets” of confit at work.

After the work is done (most of the time spent confiting, you can be doing other things) the confit can be quickly made into delicious and flavorful dishes.

For the duck legs

6 duck legs
2 fresh bay leaves
Several springs of thyme
Several parsley stems
¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
2 teaspoons coarsely cracked black peppercorns
For the confit
3 garlic cloves
6 cups of duck fat, melted

1. Pulse the bay leaves, thyme, parsley stems, nutmeg and peppercorns in a food processor.

2. Spread the herb mix on the duck legs and refrigerate unwrapped overnight or for up to 2 days.

3. Wipe off the herbs and place the duck legs and garlic in a shallow casserole or Dutch oven.

4. Preheat oven to 200

5. Pour the fat over the duck legs.

6. Place the pan on a sheet pan and place in the oven. Cook for 3-4 hours or until the skin has begun to shrink away from the bone. The meat will look cooked through and the leg and thigh portion will be firm.

7. Cool the pan before trying to remove the duck. Gently remove the legs and place in a container for storage in the refrigerator (I use re-tasked cleaned and sterilized jars). Pour the fat through a strainer and directly into the jars to cover the legs.

8. Seal the cooled jars and store in the refrigerator for up to 6 months. 

*Confit jelly at the bottom of the jars—after the confit has been stored for several days, a dark jelly substance will gather at the bottom of the jars. This jelly is loaded with flavor and body and is the by-product of the confit process. Add the jelly to your soups and stews as a flavor base.

Blood Orange-Duck Confit Salad with Citrus Vinaigrette
Serves 4-6

For the salad

2 cups baby arugula (the peppery flavor balances the vinaigrette and duck)
Several confit duck legs, skin peeled off and saved, and meat pulled and shredded
2 medium beets, roasted
½ cup raisins
½ cup dried cranberries
Grapefruit sections, tangerine sections, blood orange sections
1 red onion, sliced thinly

1. Arrange the salad on a beautiful platter.

2. Crisp the duck skin in a medium sauté pan and chop it up. Sprinkle over the salad.

For the vinaigrette

⅓ cup blood orange juice
2 teaspoons honey
½ cup extra virgin olive oil
Kosher salt and freshly cracked black pepper

1. Whisk the ingredients together and pour over the salad. 

Confit Garlic

I confit garlic in chicken fat all the time. It is my secret for creamy-flavorful mashed potatoes, soup bases and vinaigrettes.

2-3 bulbs garlic, separate the unpeeled cloves from the bulb
Several thyme sprigs
1 rosemary sprig
1 cup melted poultry fat

1. Put all of the ingredients in a narrow pan so that the garlic can be covered by the fat.

2. Cook over very low heat for 30 minutes or until the garlic is soft.

3. Save the fat and use it for sautéing. Store the garlic in the refrigerator and squeeze cloves from their skin before using.

Sign up for Chef Laura Frankel’s “Prepping for Passover” cooking class, set for Wednesday, March 6. Visit www.spertus.edu or call (312) 322 1773 to register.

Spertus Institute for Jewish Learning and Leadership is a partner in serving the community, supported by the JUF/Jewish Federation of Metropolitan Chicago.

Laura Frankel is the executive chef at Wolfgang Puck Kosher Catering at the Spertus Institute for Jewish studies in Chicago.

Many wise mothers have shared this saying with me, and yesterday morning, it really rang true: "The days are long, but the years are short." It was 7:30 a.m., and Colin had already been awake for two hours. Ugh.

When he woke up from his morning nap, we went for a long-overdue visit to my former employer to say hello, catch up with former colleagues and show off what a cutie my big boy had become. These wonderful friends had watched as Colin evolved from a twinkle in my eye, to a growing baby bump to a newborn little dude. And at each office I visited, I was asked the same question:

How are you enjoying staying home with the baby?

Of course, my standard answer is that it is a joy. Colin is fabulous, adorable, always growing, changing and keeping me on my toes, but I love him dearly and wouldn't change a thing.

What I don't tell them is that there are days, oftentimes many in a row, that feel like a marathon. Fighting a screaming baby to wipe his runny nose. Dealing with an overtired baby who refuses to take a nap, but doesn't seem so happy to be awake either. Playing referee between dog and baby who are both trying to play with the same toy (usually belonging originally to the dog). There are moments where I feel like I'm up to my elbows in poop, tired of mixing, feeding and cleaning bottles round the clock, and aching all over from schlepping around twenty pounds worth of baby.

No one wants to hear that.

Most of my former colleagues have grown children and many are grandparents. They look back wistfully at their years taking care of their babies and remember the new baby smell. The naps on the couch with a baby sleeping on their chest. The first first smiles, first giggles, first steps and first words. No one thinks back endearingly remembering diaper blow-outs or the never ending pile of laundry.

Each day feels like a marathon, but the year is sprinting by. It feels like yesterday that he was on his first car ride, heading home from the hospital with his anxious parents who buckled him in and triple checked the car seat to make sure he was in there just right. But really, what happened yesterday was that my squirmy little man learned how to dive into his toy box head first, flipping himself upside-down and getting stuck like a baby beached whale.

While it can be exhausting to have someone so reliant on you for help at every turn, I know that in the not-so-distant future, I will long for his outstretched arms (or in yesterday's case, legs) asking for help. We will celebrate his first birthday in May, and instead of reaching for me to hold him, he will likely be crawling or toddling off to play with his friends or chase the dog.

I know that I'm extremely lucky to be able to be home and witness every new discovery, every milestone, every darling accomplishment. But just as someone who loves their job occasionally takes a sick day, complains about their boss or walks to Starbucks to get a break from the hustle, not every moment in stay-at-home motherhood is glorious.

However, there are moments in my day to day madness when I can pause just long enough to appreciate what I'm seeing. I watch in wonder and remind myself: the days are long but the years will be short - enjoy them.

That picture is my son burying his face in ice cream, or is it? It’s actually Ben and Jerry’s Vanilla Greek Yogurt. They only sell it at the ice cream shop. It’s lower in sugar, much higher in protein, and tastes great. My 19-month-old son had no idea it wasn’t regular ice cream. Greek yogurt is everywhere for good reason, it has double the amount of protein as regular yogurt and has all the probiotics found in your Yoplait. You really cannot escape it in the grocery store. And with every other healthy product, companies are bastardizing it. Yogurt companies are adding sugar, making granola bars with it, mixing it into a million unhealthy products. My suggestion, stick with plain and add the following:

• Honey
• Frozen fruit
• Fresh fruit
• Chopped almonds

And you can add Greek yogurt to thicken soups, chili and any recipe that calls for sour cream, you can usually swap in Greek yogurt instead.

Sweet Potatoes are naturally sweet and high fiber. They are more nutritious than your Yukon Gold or Russet and very easy to cook with. I know many people think of sweet potatoes as that ultra-sweet Thanksgiving dish with marshmallows and brown sugar. I’m not a fan of that treat but I LOVE cooking sweet potatoes. My son always likes them and my wife has slowly come around. Here are three easy recipes. All you need for most dishes are cinnamon, salt, pepper, onion and oil.

The other night my son ate three plates of my Skillet Sweet Potatoes:

Pan fry an onion with olive oil until it starts to brown, add a cubed sweet potatoes. Add salt, pepper, and a heavy hand of cinnamon. Cover and cook until they are soft. Add a drop of butter and a little more cinnamon.

Simple Mashed:

Preheat an oven to 400. Place potato in aluminum foil and bake for 40 minutes. Let the potato cool, remove the skin, mash with a fork, add a drop of butter or olive oil, salt, pepper, and cinnamon.

Home Fries:

Preheat the oven to 400. Slice potato and put in bowl, mix in with a drop of olive oil, salt, pepper, and paprika. Bake for 15 minutes, flip the slices over cook another 15-20 minutes. If you have Silpat I recommend using it so the pieces do not stick.

In my heart of hearts, nothing beats a semi-sweet chocolate chip cookie. A cookie a day is not the best approach to eating well, but a piece of dark chocolate is ok. Dark chocolate is gaining a lot of press because it has been linked to health benefits like lowering blood pressure and it won't cause huge spikes in blood sugar levels. Dark chocolate is bitterer than milk chocolate. I like it because it’s an intense flavor that you can have a little piece and feel very satisfied. Health experts want you to buy 75%+ cacao (dark chocolates are marked with level of cacao) to get the health benefits. That’s pretty bitter. I recommend starting with a lower number that tastes great and build up to a higher percentage. And for the record, my son put the bar in his mouth, and then tossed it on the floor, but it makes for a great picture.

Being a health guy, I have to end with a vegetable, and that’s asparagus. This delicious and nutritious veggie is easy to cook with a few spices. A few new nutritional facts about asparagus:

• High in fiber
• Low in calories
• Good source of B6, A, C, E, K, potassium
• And relatively high in protein

Asparagus can be grilled, baked, or pan fried. Season it with salt and pepper, toss a little olive oil on it and it’s ready to cook. One of my favorite recipes is asparagus soup (thank you Tracy Adams). It’s super easy and everyone thinks it’s really fancy:

In a large deep pan, cook a small onion with a little olive oil, add celery and brown the onion. Add asparagus, garlic, salt and pepper. Cover the vegetable mix with low sodium chicken broth. Simmer for ten minutes or until asparagus is soft. Blend it (blender works better than emollition blender), season with a little salt and pepper serve. If you want to add a little cream, add some Greek yogurt. 

It was late at night. I was staring at the ceiling. My mind racing. My husband asleep. “We should take a trip with all the kids to Ethiopia. To see Fray’s family,” I said. Husband replied: “       .” Now I could pretend that I am married to a disagreeable sort of man who can only be approached with expensive, arduous travel plans while he is sleeping because of his domineering and nasty nature, but this would be wildly untrue. Rather, HE is in fact married to an impulsive, semi-inconsiderate, slightly self-centered woman who thinks nothing of starting potentially controversial conversations at 1:00 a.m. I took, “       .” to mean, “Absolutely! Sounds great! Let’s get right on that!” and other shiny and bright exclamations of loving, spousal encouragement to travel with 4 children and spend money. I closed my eyes. It had been decided.

“Ethiopia? With the whole family?” He later asked. I was disappointed. Men never pay attention. “You agreed!,” I said. He replied, “I did? When?” “Last night…,” I responded. “Well, OK. We can look into it.” (See? No reason really to disturb his R.E.M. sleep – except for that I can’t help myself.) So, that very day, I began searching for reasonable airplane tickets for a family of six to fly to Ethiopia to visit Fray’s birth family. The fare results would have been comical if they hadn’t been so tragic. I was undeterred. I contacted a friend’s uncle who was a travel agent. Not much better – certainly not good enough to make it happen. I googled rates regularly. I did fare alerts. I looked into using miles. I became consumed. It was the first step of many to be climbed before this trip could become a reality, and I was stuck in the basement. Without windows. I was getting anxious. I was getting nervous. I was beginning to feel defeated before I had even really started. But luckiest of all, I felt pissed. I do good work when I’m pissed. I sit up late at night (when I’m not blabbering to my sleeping husband) and I brood. I come up with sleep deprived solutions to world problems. (By Googling, of course.) “Cheap ass tickets to Ethiopia!!!” I typed pressing ‘enter’ angrily. And BINGO! A consolidator popped up! And the first step to take-off had been achieved.

“Ethiopia? Cool! Can we pleeeeese go during my chorus concert? I really don’t want to go to that.” My oldest said. Priorities in all the right places. “Ethiopia? Do we need shots for that? Lots of shots?! I don’t want to go! I don’t want shots!!!” My middle said. Ever-cautious. Always dramatic. “Ethiopia? OK.” My youngest said. Used to going with the flow. Generally the most agreeable. And then, Fray. “Ethiopia? Are we going today?” Our daughter said. Our whole reason for going. Our inspiration. “No. Not today. But soon – when it gets cold. Then we’ll go to Ethiopia. Then we’ll go to see your family,” I told her. I still remember the happy flutter in my heart when I said those words.

This would not be the first time Fray visited her birth family since being adopted from Ethiopia in October of 2009. I had returned in 2011 with Fray. It had also been an impulse trip. We had always intended – as an entire family – on going back to Ethiopia, it just wasn’t going to be so soon. But two years ago I had a dream that I woke up from feeling very strongly that I needed to go back to Ethiopia with Fray as soon as possible. Life is uncertain everywhere, but in a developing country, where the average life expectancy is only 52-years-old; I feared if we didn’t go back soon, there would be a blood link forever missing in my daughter’s life. It was a thought I couldn’t bear to be realized. My husband was still too raw from knowing the details of the impossible choice Fray’s family had to make putting her up for adoption. He supported my going back, but opted out of coming with me on our first return trip. He stayed back with the three boys and promised to join us the next time. And he knew when he made that promise; I’d hold him to it…. 

Read Part 2

I have been married, I have been to Jewish weddings, and I have been in Jewish weddings that were not mine. And it’s just hard watching someone who is not familiar with Hebrew struggle and stumble through the thicket of words that are the Sheva Brachot— especially knowing that, had they been given another blessing, they would have come across very nicely.

So this is not about the meaning— literal or spiritual— of the seven blessings said under the chuppah. This is simply a guide to help soon-to-marry couples decide whom to give which blessing to recite in front of dozens, or hundreds, of people. In short: once you have chosen the seven people you wish to read the blessings, how do you decide which person gets which one? (Of course, this only applies if you are, in fact, having them read in Hebrew):

Blessing #1:
This is the blessing over wine, the “boray pree hagafen” that is one of the most well-known of all Hebrew blessings, right up there with “Hamotzi.” It’s the lead-off one, so your impulse might be to give it to someone with an imposing resume. But to them, it might be the equivalent of asking A-Rod to play whiffle ball. Better to give this first one to someone with a basic, general knowledge of Jewish life; there are toughies later that you’ll want to save your heavy hitters for.

Blessing #2:
This one starts like 90% of blessings— “baruch atah…” but ends in three unfamiliar words. And there’s a “chh” in one of the words, too. So you’ll want someone who can learn three new Hebrew words, given enough prep time.

Blessing #3:
The same “baruch atah” start again, but now only two new words. But they are short and easy, with no “chh” sounds. And just two new words! So again, someone who can manage that.

Blessing #4:
This one is the second-longest. It does have the “baruch…” intro, but then it goes on for a while. So you’ll want to give this to someone with a very good knowledge of Hebrew. Maybe a Hebrew teacher of yours, a friend with a degree in Jewish Studies, someone who spent a year in Israel…

Blessings #5 and 6:
These have the “baruch…” part, but not until the end. They require a better-than-average Hebrew reader. Try someone who you know can lead services or read from the Torah.

Blessing #7:
This final one is the longest by far. It also has two passages that have become songs, so the guests might want to sing those passages along with the reader. For this one, it’s best to have someone with a very good knowledge of Jewish traditions and melodies… as well as someone with a decent voice! So you might want to give this one to a friend or relative with cantorial training… or just to the cantor, who would take it as an honor.

Now, if you don’t have enough proficient Hebrew readers in your circle, you still have options. The Sheva Berachot are often done in a sing-song style, so you could probably get a cantor to do them one by one, alternating in the English translations read by your family and friends. Or you could just have the cantor run through all seven, then have your honorees come up and repeat them all, each in turn.

Any way you do this, you will want to let the honorees know at least a couple of weeks that they will be getting up and reading something in public. Most people want to rehearse, so you should provide them with the blessings list, with theirs highlighted. Yes, the whole list, so they know their place in the batting order. Or, if you don’t want them opening up a whole piece of paper under the chuppah, you can give them theirs on a numbered 3x5 card. In either case, you can include transliterations, too.

If you think it’s necessary, you could let the Best Man or Maid of Honor have a master list of who goes when, and have him or her call people up. I’ve even seen it done with intros: “Reading the second blessing, the Uncle of the Bride.” This both tells the guests who this guy is… and signals Uncle Ned to get his tuxedo up there.

I have just seen way too many ceremonies glide along with grace only to come to a jarring halt when it’s time for the Sheva Brachot. You get people forgetting it is their turn, so there is an awkward nothingness until they get to the microphone. People sweating over tongue twisters written in the “wrong” direction. People having to have someone guide them through it, one excruciating syllable at a time, while the guests cringe in empathy and impatience.

All of this can be completely avoided by knowing which blessings are easy to say and which are decidedly less so, and then matching the reader with the blessing appropriately.

One last point: the same Seven Blessings are read again, as a conclusion to the Grace After Meals. If people are put out by not being included in the initial Seven Blessings read during the ceremony under the chuppah, just know you have seven more opportunities to have them bless you on your blessed day.

Hiking at Sugar Loaf Mountain in Maryland near our home

This past weekend we celebrated the Jewish Holiday of Purim. Purim celebrates the story from the Book of Esther and one of the major themes discussed around the holiday is the concept of nahafoch hu. This is Hebrew for turning something around or flipping something upside down. The Esther story is full of characters that turn things around and plot twists that seem to turn the story upside down.

Two years ago my wife and I had a nahafoch hu in our lives. We were perfectly happy to be settled in our Lakeview apartment. We knew we wouldn’t live there forever, but had no plans to move away anytime soon.

Then in early February, the Blizzard of 2011 dumped two feet of snow on Chicago and the entire city shut down. We were relaxing at home when the phone rang. It was an early childhood curriculum company calling from Bethesda, Maryland, just outside Washington, DC. They wanted to fly my wife out for an interview. One thing led to another and about 6 weeks later, she accepted a job offer, and we decided to move across the country.

We drove out the first weekend in April, arriving on a Sunday evening. Tuesday night, we signed a lease for an apartment in DC. She started work the next day, and I flew back to Chicago to finish packing our apartment. Our lives had completely turned upside down.

Now that we have lived here almost two years, it’s wonderful to know that things have worked out amazingly well. Her job is great, and I’ve found my way into some exciting opportunities. Both of us feel like we are in roles that allow us to make the world a better place. We volunteer with several of the local organizations here, we have made many friends around the community, we feel engaged and involved in the social, cultural, and religious scene around us. Of course we miss our Chicago friends and family back in the Midwest, but we are happy, healthy and loving our new life here.

In celebration of Purim, the custom is to wear masks and costumes because there is a lot of masked identities in the story. Most notably Esther hides her identity as a Jew from the King when she is crowned Queen of his massive kingdom. When her people are in peril, she finds the courage to go before the King and invite him and Haman to her banquet. Here is the part of the story where Esther sets up the nahafoch hu for Haman, revealing that she is a Jew and Haman’s evil intentions to annihilate her people.

My Purim costume this year

Throughout the Purim story, one finds that the characters set up these nahafoch hu moments by taking off their masks and taking a chance. Those that continue to trick, hide and connive are destined for destruction in this story. Haman is hanged. Those that remain or come to express their truest selves and intentions are rewarded generously. Mordechai replaces Haman as the King’s closest advisor and Esther the Queen saves the Jewish people.

We can relate. We weren’t sure how this moment in our lives where everything was flipped upside down was going to work. We believed that the opportunity for my wife was amazing, unique and one of a kind. We hoped it would allow her to step onto a true and meaningful path for her career. We gathered our courage and took the chance.

In this week’s portion, Tetzaveh, we find the instructions on how to consecrate Aaron and his sons as the priests of Israel, how to create the High Priest’s special garments, and we also learn how to construct the incense altar (and are told to light incense twice daily).

Really? An incense altar?

Why on earth would our ancestors need to construct an incense altar / be commanded to light incense twice daily? What does an “incense offering” really do anyway?

Well, first off, it seems pretty apparent that the fragrance of incense would be a positive addition to a courtyard in which you’d also find the burning carcasses of myriad animal sacrifices.

In addition to the practical, Maimonides, the great medieval rabbi, doctor and philosopher, felt that offering incense also had spiritual implications:

Since many beasts were daily slaughtered in the holy place, the flesh cut in pieces and the entrails and the legs burnt and washed, the smell of the place would undoubtedly have been like the smell of slaughterhouses, if nothing had been done to counteract it. They were therefore commanded to burn incense there twice every day, in the morning and in the evening, in order to give the place and the garments of those who officiated there a pleasant odor. There is a well-known saying of our Sages, "In Jericho they could smell the incense" [burnt in the Temple]. This provision likewise tended to support the dignity of the Temple. If there had not been a good smell, let alone if there had been a stench, it would have produced in the minds of the people the reverse of respect; for our heart generally feels elevated in the presence of good odor, and is attracted by it, but it abhors and avoids bad smell.

Maimonides, Guide to the Perplexed 3:45.

According to Maimonides, good odors have the ability to elevate our hearts. In addition to this being a strong argument in favor of bathing before going out on a date, it also shows the significant value our tradition places on scent, and its perceived mystic linkages.

We find the first mentioned linkage between the nose and the soul in the Book of Genesis (2:7):

“Then God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.”

We later learn from the rabbis in the Talmud (Berachot 43b):

“What is something that the soul enjoys but not the body? It is the scent.”

This special connection between scent and soul can also help explain why smelling spices is part of the Havdallah ceremony. We learn in the Talmud (Taanit 27b):

“Reish Lakish said: Man is given an additional soul on Friday, but at the termination of the Sabbath it is taken away from him…”

When Shabbat ends, we’re taught that the extra soul departs, and smelling the spices at Havdallah is meant both to revive us – serving as spiritual smelling salts – and to soothe the remaining soul that is now left alone.

While contemporarily it’s not customary to burn incense in synagogues, are there ways that we can better creatively and effectively use our sense of smell to uplift our souls on a regular basis?

Most of us know what it’s like to smell a Shabbat meal before it's served. (There’s just something about challah baking and chicken soup on the stove that puts one at ease and heightens one's awareness). What prevents us from striving to fill that aspect of our souls every week?

Maybe there’s a special perfume or cologne that you want to set aside for Shabbat, holidays and other special occasions where you want your sense of smell to be particularly heightened in order to have a clearer channel to your heart.

Or maybe, you just want to make sure to Febreze your apartment or home before having company over.

By consciously finding ways to infuse our lives with wonderful scents, we can keep our spiritual avenues open, and like our ancestors before us, connect with the Divine.

Ah, to be an Esther during Purim. I mean, I’ve always enjoyed my name, but it can be a little lonely. No novelty personalized keepsakes, ever. Not many famous namesakes, beyond a synchronized swimmer and the protagonist of The Bell Jar. No one knowing there’s an “h” in it, so you’re constantly misidentified as some sort of chemical compound.

But at Purim, it didn’t matter that there was never going to be a Disney princess or an American Girl doll with my name. I was a savior of my people, baby! Kings would do anything for me. Beautiful, intelligent and compassionate, the catch of catches—not to mention because of me we have delicious, delicious hamantaschen. How many girls have preventing massacres and inspiring baked goods on their resume?

There are lots of great things about being an Esther on Purim, and as a little girl, I took advantage of most, if not all of them—sparkly costumes, imperious proclamations of greatness, scarfing down the “uglies” that weren’t making it to the hamantaschen tray. But I’ve always been subversive at heart—my favorite Disney princess is actually Scar from The Lion King—and at a certain point, maybe around 8 or 9, I began to wonder what shaking off the shackles of Esther-dom would look like for a day. Who wanted to be a princess every year? And such a goody-goody: at least Vashti had the self-respect and the spine to refuse a dudebro king on her own, without an overprotective brother advising her on every next move.

So the next time our turn came around to put on the Hillel Purim play, I rebelled. I was ready. I wanted to see the other side of the coin. I asked to be Haman.

It was to become an iconic moment in my young life. I had waist-length hair at the time, and had the inspired idea to give myself a beard by tying a ponytail at my chin. I also acted my little heart out in the finest tradition of outrageous film and stage villains the world over. But the crowning glory was the feast scene.

Let me qualify this by saying that first and foremost, it was an artistic choice. Haman is greedy, right? You want to show that not just in his words, but his actions. It’s layering in a subtle commentary on the state of his soul and his character. That’s what actors do, obliquely and skillfully manifesting the internal through the external.

At the time of this performance, I was obsessed with Twinkies. A well-meaning family friend had introduced them to me a few months before, and they were all I wanted out of life. We didn’t have much in the way of costumes or props for this performance, but I was so committed to the role that I very generously had my parents buy a box of Twinkies and arrange them on a fancy plate for the sake of art and transmitting my cultural heritage.

Dear readers, during the feast scene, where Haman believes he’s going to receive a great reward and instead Queen Esther reveals his dastardly plot to exterminate the Jews of Persia, I ate the entire box of Twinkies in front of my whole Sunday school. It was carnage. My ponytail beard was in shambles. Even I broke character enough to realize that I was a little queasy in the stomach, despite the giddy glee of pulling off such a stunt with such an audience. Being the bad guy is clearly a lot more fun on paper.

Eventually I aged out of Purim plays, but it took a few more years before I came around to thinking about Queen Esther again. I still like deconstructing villains and enjoying fine desserts, but the cliché is true: perspective changes everything. Esther is a person who has to confront power and put herself, her family and her entire people at great risk for the sake of justice. That’s a lot of pressure, but in the end, she’s the one who has to rise to the task and follow it through. She’s the one who does the hard thing, and lives to tell the tale. That makes her a great lady in her own right, and I admire her for that. It’s not a bad way to be a princess; in the end, it’s always good to be an Esther.

Have a good holiday, Oy!sters: dress up to the nines, be excellent to each other—and on behalf of my younger self, eat, drink and be merry responsibly.

If there’s one thing I do in abundance, it’s make fun of myself. I have to in order to survive. It’s a defense mechanism as well as a way of life for me. Even without being prompted, the self-deprecation I have towards myself is always there, but only because I love who I am. When someone tells me I’m funny, I instinctively say it’s because of the face. It’s always good for at least one laugh. But I bring this up because the self-deprecation I have for myself as a way to make others laugh is also the main tactic I employ in combating anti-Semitism. For some, my way of dealing with anti-Semitism may very well be crossing a line but my intention is, in fact, to get rid of that line.

I recently had the privilege to attend a special program that the Anti-Defamation League, or ADL, offers for young adults between their Bar and Bat Mitzvahs and college called Confronting Anti-Semitism. It’s a program that offers insight on what anti-Semitism truly is in our modern world and how we can prevent and educate against it. It is a powerful program that I enjoyed quite thoroughly. For my full account of what the program is and has to offer, you can pick up the March issue of JUF News. A fine publication if I do say so myself. Mostly because they let me write for them even though they choose to accompany my articles with a picture of me. Remember, the face.

I will say right away, I am aware that I come from a relatively easy life, having grown up in the northwest suburbs of Chicago and then attending the University of Iowa for college, a relatively heavy Chicago occupied school for being out of state. Anyway, having attended the ADL program I started to think about my own dealings with anti-Semitism when it has faced me or those I’ve known. As not everyone is keen to do, I deal with it utilizing humor.

In general, I embrace most anything towards me that is meant to embarrass, be slanderous or hurtful, regardless of context. It’s what I do to defuse and dilute what is thrown towards me. I’m like Maxwell Smart where everything that happens to me I pretend it was always my intention. When I screw up, I take it and run with it. For example, if I slip on ice and fall on my bum, I exclaim I was simply testing that gravity was still in full effect. I embrace the hand given to me. On the more controversial side, in my opinion, I do the same with Jewish stereotypes and what some may perceive as anti-Semitic attitudes. By embracing the stereotypes I attempt, as I said, to dilute the stigma associated with them. If I’m not bothered by the joke there is no joke. Embracing helps to never be embarrassed. If someone says I have a big nose, I say lucky me as I get to smell incredible scents that they unfortunately will never be privy to. Not that it needs any help from me, but I try to make it look awesome to be a Jew. Because, well, it is.

As I have said before, part of what enables me to so easily do this is my fortunate lack of truly horrendous first hand anti-Semitism. But I have had friends who have experienced such moments that I still find unbelievable. For example, I had a friend who, upon first arriving at college, met people who had never seen a Jew in their lives. Subsequently, my friend was asked where their horns and tail were. It’s shocking to me that ideas like that still exist. I mean, my goodness, we haven’t had tails for centuries.

See what I did there? If you’re still with me, thank you. If not, you probably aren’t reading this sentence.

But this concept of horns and tails is beyond me. That particular stereotype is one that I simply don’t understand since if I had horns and a tail then I would be exactly like Hellboy and be invulnerable to fire. I fail to see the anti-Semitism because being Hellboy would be awesome.

Humor can often educate stronger than it is given credit for. It may feel like a roundabout way of education, but by using humor and subsequently installing confidence and acceptance with ourselves I feel that we give great power to the Jewish people against anti-Semitism, even if only in minute ways compared to the grand scheme of things. By taking power away from the stereotypes and the concepts that many are offended by, we give ourselves the advantage. No one can laugh at you if you are laughing with them. By instilling humor into combating anti-Semitism, not only do we dilute the negativity but we are then also fortunate enough to add laughs as well. And if there’s one group of people that are known for their remarkable senses of humor, I do believe that would be the Jews. Now if you’ll excuse me, Fiddler on the Roof is on and I haven’t reached my monthly quota of a dozen viewings yet.

When I finished rabbinical school, I moved to Chicago to be a second Rabbi-in-Residence at the Chicagoland Jewish High School. The first Rabbi-in-Residence, Ruven Barkan, remained at CJHS, and I was added on to the staff as his female counterpart.

In many ways, I was the female role model for the impressionable girls. Every morning I showed up for minyan, and put on my tallit and tefillin in order to daven with them. Softly, I encouraged more girls to take on this obligation. Some did, but most chose not to. It would be a lie to say that I did not feel deep admiration for the girls who chose to take on this obligation and stuck with it. Many hours were spent in conversation with female students about their place in the Jewish world. I loved the opportunity.

About three and a half years ago, I left Chicago to be the first Conservative pulpit rabbi in Queens, NY. Currently, only a few women in my congregation wear tallitot, but every twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl has purchased one for her bat mitzvah.

When I pray each morning, the tallit becomes an extension of my body. I don’t put on a tallit to demonstrate or as an act of rebellion. I wear a tallit because I am a Jew.

Monday, Feb. 11 this year was my final day of a week-long mission to Kiev and Israel with the Rabbinic Cabinet of the Jewish Federations of North America. It was coincidence that I was in Jerusalem for Rosh Chodesh Adar, and thus able to support and join Women of the Wall (WOTW) for minyan. This is a group of women who have been meeting at the Western Wall, on the first day of each Hebrew month, for 24 years, to celebrate with prayer, song, and Torah. My colleague, Rabbi Debra Cantor of Connecticut, along with many male rabbinic supporters, awoke early and flocked to the Old City. We had all heard of Women of the Wall, but had never davened with them before.

After a melodious Hallel, we left the Kotel en masse to Robinson’s Arch to begin the Torah service, as is the custom of WOTW. As soon as I exited the metal detector at the Kotel plaza, a police officer asked for my identity papers. I explained that I had a Canadian passport and then she asked for that. When I asked her why, I did not receive an answer.

Nine other women joined me at a satellite police station in the Old City. While some of the women had been detained before, there did not seem to be a clear reason as to why others were chosen. Throughout the morning, we were taken into an interrogation room, one at a time. I was informed that my two crimes were that I violated the regulations of holy places and that I behaved in a way that may violate public safety.

The experience was surreal, not scary. When I was in Chicago, I wore a tallit and was considered a role model, yet in Jerusalem I was considered criminal. It makes no sense.

After some time, we were told that we could be released, as long as we signed a surety document that stated we would not come to the Kotel for 15 days. I signed the document, and then at about noon, we were taken by police escort to a larger police station near the Jaffa Gate. Once there, we were fingerprinted and photographed. And then we were free to go.

Social media has been aflutter with positive comments about this experience. My own father contacted me from Canada to tell me that I was following in the footsteps of Heschel and Martin Luther King. More members of my synagogue have reached out to me to share the nachas they are feeling than I see on a given Shabbat morning.

That is all fine and dandy, but it does not lead to change. Last month, in response to growing pressure from Jews around the world, Prime Minister Netanyahu appointed Natan Sharansky the task of evaluating the situation at the Western Wall. Mr. Sharanksy, if you are reading, can you please do something soon. I am going back to Israel in the summer, and spending time in the company of Old City police officers does not fit into my schedule.

Rabbi Robyn Fryer Bodzin, who used to live in Lakeview, is the spiritual leader of Israel Center of Conservative Judaism in Queens, NY.

This morning on the bus there was this girl sitting a few seats away from me and she looked amazing. Cute skinny jeans, chunky faux fur jacket, color-blocked black and white purse, perfect bright red manicure, and I thought I spied with my little eye a chunky bejeweled necklace under that faux fur. She was totally decked out, but somehow didn’t look completely over the top or crazy. With a glance, I became inspired to push my fashion envelope.

I have come to realize that doing that is a lot harder done than said. I gravitate more towards the classics. Sure I have a fantastic faux fur vest (thanks to my amazing boyfriend) and other trendy pieces that I can pair together, but if I wear my vest, then everything else is totally classic. And, if I were to style someone, I would tell them to do the same thing. If you’re going to go bold with one piece of the ensemble, play down the rest. Yet, after seeing this girl on the bus today, it begs the question, should we do away with the rules sometimes and take more fashion risks? Today, I'm casual in skinny jeans, navy suede riding boots, a simple black v-neck sweater and my trusty hunter green Lands End ski jacket. Cute, classic and pretty much on trend, but let's be honest here, no fashion envelopes are being pushed today.

In fact, I recently joined Pinterest (which I'm still working on figuring out) and I think it’s great, but my "My Style" board, which is a work in progress, looks a little funny right now because it's pretty much made up entirely of neutral colors. I can talk a good game about fashion risk-taking, but I’m not doing it. Admittedly, my personal style is very much about the classics, with an added surprise here and there, and by no means do I want to jeopardize how I define myself through my fashion, but perhaps from time-to-time it couldn’t hurt to engage my fashion alter ego. As they say, “What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?” If you think about life that way, it seems pretty limitless, doesn’t it?

So in honor of New York Fashion Week, which just produced all sorts of glamorous fashion inspiration, and in honor of the new spring season approaching, I am going to use fashion as a metaphor for life and engage my alter ego. You never know, something fabulous may happen!

@mrweilstyle

My grandmother, Row Row, called me the other day and began our conversation with, "I am mad at you." Now there are few things in this world that I am sure about and one of those is that my Row Row could never be mad at me. I responded, "Row Row what did I do?" She said, "I asked Papa if it was alright if I sent Annie (my 6 ½ month old daughter) a Valentine's Day card and he said you would not want it because you are a rabbi. And then I ended up getting a Valentine's Day card from Annie." I said, "Row Row you can always do as you want, Annie is happy to get love from her Row Row any day of the year."

This year I have begun a great deal of research on the topic of Halloween. I have mainly centered my research around Leviticus 18:3, "You must not do as they do in Egypt, where you used to live, and you must not do as they do in the land of Canaan, where I am bringing you. Do not follow their practices." This verse has produced commentary from rabbis for hundreds of years in relation to celebrating secular and non-Jewish holidays because of the words "their practices." I hope to present my research to the kahal, community, sometime next year.

But while I look for answers regarding Halloween and a Jewish perspective on the topic, I ran into many writings about Valentine's Day celebrations and its permissibility for the Jewish people. Now please note that I am aware Jews celebrate Valentine's Day, the question is whether or not halahkically, according to Jewish law, that celebration is permissible. In a paper written by Rabbi Michael Broyde, an Orthodox rabbi and professor at Emory, he concludes; "I think it is the conduct of the pious to avoid explicitly celebrating Valentine's with a Valentine's day card, although bringing home chocolate, flowers or even jewelry to one's beloved is always a nice idea all year round, including February 14th."

Broyde has permitted Jews to celebrate Valentine's Day with presents and other romantic gestures, although note he differs in the observance of Halloween. Broyde comes to his conclusion believing that Valentine's Day has completely lost its status as a gentile holiday; just as New Years has in modern times. He quotes Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, one of the greatest deciphers of law over that last 100 years, who wrote; "On the question of celebrating any event on a holiday of Gentiles, if the holiday is based on religious beliefs [by the Gentiles], such celebrations are prohibited if deliberately scheduled on that day; even without intent, it is prohibited because of marit ayin (for the sake of appearance)…The first day of the year for them [January 1] and Thanksgiving is not prohibited according to law, but pious people [balai nephesh] should be strict."

Broyde suggests that Valentine's Day's (the celebration of love) is something Jews can buy into. This is different than Halloween's rituals, which Broyde feels are traced back to Gentile origins. He finalizes his opinion by once again using Rabbi Feinstein as his source, "Thus, it is obvious in my opinion, that even in a case where something would be considered a prohibited Gentile custom, if many people do it for reasons unrelated to their religion or law, but rather because it is pleasurable to them, there is no prohibition of imitating Gentile custom. So too, it is obvious that if Gentiles were to make a religious law to eat a particular item that is good to eat, halacha would not permit eating that item. So too, any item of pleasure in the world cannot be prohibited merely because Gentiles do so out of religious observance." Thus Broyde is able to approve the chocolate obsession that surrounds Valentine's Day and permits it for Jews.

The question now becomes just because we can celebrate Valentine's Day, does that mean we should? Plenty of things in this world are permissible but that does not mean we should observe them. For example, rooting for the Cubs is permissible, but I would never recommend anyone actually be a Cubs fan. In Rabbi Feinstein's first statement he wrote, "But pious people should be strict." Certainly I agree with that, but it's not necessarily only pious Jews (I believe Rabbi Feinstein really means observant), couldn't all Jews be strict? The fact is that Valentine's Day, New Years, and even Halloween are so regularly celebrated by American Jews. I attended Jewish day school K-12th and I think I celebrated all of these holidays in some fashion every year. However, it would seem that there is a Jewish problem when Halloween is more readily observed than Purim or New Year's more than Rosh Hashanah (or at least day two).

The Jewish people have a day dedicated for love called Tu B'Av (15th day of the Hebrew month of Av). This day usually goes unnoticed since it is during the summer months when Jews are at summer camps or not in Hebrew school. This holiday was originally associated with the grape harvest and took on symbols of love and fertility. And yet, I imagine more Jews celebrate Valentine's Day than we do Tu B'Av. Since every store and television show obsesses over chocolates and teddy bears and it seems like a no brainer that American Jews are more familiar with Valentine's Day. This is probably why today's American Jews care just as much, if not more, about their American identity as they do their Judaism. Americanization is intrinsic and Judaism is often attained, regardless if someone is born Jewish.

However our debate really comes down to defining our Judaism. That is why rabbis have written about Leviticus 18:3 and not celebrating "their practices." Even if Jews can celebrate the holiday, is it "theirs" and can "theirs" also be ours?

So to Row Row I say thank you for the gifts. It is a wonderful gesture and I love you even more for being sensitive about it. And to my daughter and wife I certainly smile a little more on Valentine's Day, even if it is just a reminder of how wonderful the women in my life are. To Rabbi Broyde I say, did Rabbi Feinstein celebrate Valentine's Day and if not (which I am assuming he didn't), how do we reconcile standing on his words? And to the Jewish world I say it's up to you and your communities to decide how to celebrate all of these holidays. I just hope and ask that we treat our Jewish holidays with as much love as we do our secular holidays.

On paper I probably sound like a good husband:
• Take out garbage
• Move heavy objects
• Cook
• Grocery shop

Hey, I’m pretty good at getting my chores done. I get my son up every other morning and usually I give the crazy man baths. Occasionally I will surprise my wife with flowers or a treat. This all sounds probably above average, but there’s much more.

I am a huge pain in the butt. Mostly for two reasons:
1) I think I’m hilarious all the time
2) I have trouble turning off the trainer

First, I’ll tackle my addiction to all things funny. You see, if you know me well, there’s nothing I like more, than making people laugh. Whether it’s an inappropriate joke about my wife’s grandfather or just an inappropriate joke in front of a grandfather, not much stops me. I usually know that my joke was in bad taste, after I get that look from my wife, the one where her hand is on the side of her face as she shakes her head.

I have trouble with using my filter, always have. I figure I have to filter myself at work for 8 or so hours a day so when I’m outside of work, I sometimes forget about my audience. Usually, that audience is my wife. She has to listen to me test material in front of her (yes, I am that guy). Not only does she have to listen to my shtick, but if I think it’s funny, I’m like Jimmy Fallen, I crack up sometimes uncontrollably. When she asks me to stop, I have no control and keep going. My favorite expression is, “If there was a third person in our relationship they would be laughing right now.” And that holds true with a few people, but not everyone appreciates a good limerick (I think my 18 month old son will be on my side).

You know how people say, “One day, we’ll look back on this and laugh,” I have no internal clock for this. Don’t take me for that horrible person that laughs when someone falls. I’m the person that makes a joke about that fall, while the person is on the way to hospital. This applies more to arguments. If my wife and are fighting about something, once I calm down I usually say, “I’m going to write in your journal.” I always think that’s funny. When my nephew was five years old (three years ago) he would get mad at someone and then threaten to write in their journal. My wife and I thought that was hilarious, so for a while we would say that to each other. I think jokes have no shelf life, so three years later I’m still saying this, usually it’s in mid-argument. And I laugh every time. I apparently need new material.

When I watch a comedian like, Aziz at Big Event, I am the worst to be around. I will tell any person I know some of the jokes I just heard. And of course, like when I sing a song, I use my own lyrics and might alter a punch line or two. Keep in mind I’m not recycling these jokes once, but multiple times, usually with my wife right next to me. I think of it as sharing the laughter, an obligation that other people should hear Chris Rock talk about Britney Spears. 

Being a personal trainer, you think I would be more sensitive when it comes to gaining weight. For the most part I am not mean, but I did get on the scale at one of my wife’s checkups, to see if her pregnancy weight was greater than my weight. I did not mean any harm; I thought it was legitimately funny and interesting. I was informed by the nurse, the doctor, and some friends, that it was, in fact, not nice. Usually I do not joke about gaining or losing weight, but I am like your grandmother and will tell you, “Stand up straight!” A list of other things that are appropriate for a trainer to tell his clients, but not his wife: 

A. With a judgmental look, “You’re going to eat all of that?”
B. “Are you sure you’re not full?”
C. “Did you work out today?”
D. “Chasing around a baby is parenting not exercising, unless it’s tag.”
E. “It could be fat.”
F. And the worst thing might have been when she was pregnant, “you move like a whale” 

Despite telling my wife, “I did not say you look like a whale, it’s just how you move,” it was still horrible. I know terrible. I am in desperate need of a filter. I am learning. There are some things I will never say again (this for example).

In the meantime, to my beautiful wife on this wonderful Hallmark holiday, thanks for loving me, I love you too!

Had this website been around while I was in high school, I would have been obsessed with it. As anyone who has played in the Red Sarachek Tournament or an intense rivalry game with Jewish pride on the line, JewishHoopsAmerica.com adds a little more fuel to the fire. The Great Rabbino loves the site and the idea, so much so, I reached out to Elliot Steinmetz, the creator to find out more. Turns out he was a pretty good player himself. Below is the interview:

1) Tell TGR a little bit about yourself?
I am currently the head coach of the boys’ varsity basketball team at the North Shore Hebrew Academy High School (NSHA) in Great Neck, New York. In my first season at NSHA, I led the school to its best record ever (23-8 overall, 12-2 league), as well as a division title and the school’s first ever semifinal appearance. From 2003-2008, I developed and ran the JV Elite basketball program before ultimately selling the program and maintaining and running the JewishHoopsAmerica.com website. I live in Woodmere with my wife, Sima and our three children, Jacob, Noah and Lea. During the day I am an attorney licensed in both New York and Connecticut and currently working as an Associate General Counsel at Arbor Realty Trust, Inc. in Uniondale, New York.

2) What made you want to start JewishHoopsAmerica.com?
My brother and I used to run a basketball camp at the end of each summer for Jewish HS kids from around the country called JV Elite. We felt it was great how the players had those five days to see and compete with players they do not see or know of during the year. The site evolved from that lack of connection that we felt existed for Jewish schools across the country. We decided to put together the website and rankings so that players from across the country could have a place to follow each other's progress throughout the season.

3) What are some of the cool features on JHA?
I think the twitter feed is a terrific feature. We see every year how more and more people get involved with social media and this allows our visitors to interact with the site and help get information out there. The rankings are obviously a big hit because there is no other measure for Jewish HS teams nationally to compare. I think the rankings have also helped fuel a lot of the out of town tournaments and turned them into real competitive contests with legitimate repercussions in the rankings. I also have started to try and bring out more feature and interest articles. The last few articles have gotten a lot of feedback and sparked a lot of conversation in the Jewish and mainstream basketball world. I think features like that make it more than just an informational site and start to become thought provoking as well.

4) How do you accumulate all the information for scoring and scores for the site?
Jon Bandler. Many know Jon from the Sarachek tournament at Yeshiva University. Jon is the reason we are able to pull together the national information. Jon is behind the scenes but the site doesn't run without his hard work. He is in touch nationally with coaches and athletic directors and compiles all the information for us to post. Obviously a lot depends on the cooperation of the schools. I would love to see more students get involved as well. Perhaps get credit for a club or put on their résumé their work as a reporter for the site. I think it's been great in the past when we have student-written articles about their teams' success.

5) Who is on the panel for rankings? Is there a New York bias? 
Since I am a coach in the Yeshiva league I am actually not told who is on the panel. Again, Jon Bandler takes responsibility for the rankings panel which consists of knowledgeable basketball personalities from around the country. There is not a NY bias by any means. I think often the stronger base of teams are going to be in NY and CA. You have to remember, with schools like Frisch, Ramaz, North Shore, Magen David and others, along with YULA and Valley Torah, the sheer volume of kids in the schools lends to a stronger talent pool year by year. This generally plays out in the tournaments as well. Any of the big tournaments, be it pre-season in Memphis or Sarachek in the post-season will often see their final four dominated by NY and NJ schools along with CA and occasionally Chicago. Often, though not always, it is the larger schools too.

6) Out of all the players you have covered who is your starting 5 all-time?
Fun question. I would have to go with (in no order):

1. Jordan Marcus of Solomon Schechter (now Golda Och Academy).

2. Eitan Chemerinkski of JDS Maryland.

3. Benjy Ritholtz who played for me at HANC.

4. Yisrael Feld who played for MTA and played for me on the gold medal winning USA team in the Maccabi Games in Australia.

I have to say to round this out I'm going to take a left turn. And by the way, there are so many great players I am leaving out here. But many of them I didn't have the chance to see in person, and truth be told, I had the good fortune to sit on the bench and watch two of the above players win championships for me so those are my guys. But to throw out just a couple of other names, Eric Avdee, Aaron Liberman, Solomon Schoonover, Shlomo Weisberg, Dovie Hoffman were all terrific players. Most of the above players are playing college basketball.

Now for my 5th, I'm going with a young woman who played for Ramaz. Charlene Lerner. Charlene was a terrific player for Ramaz and a great three point shooter. Why does she make this list? Because she did all that with only one arm. Charlene was born without one arm from the elbow down. I was lucky enough to be a guest speaker with her at the preseason Cooper Tournament in Memphis last year. She is an extremely inspirational person with a great story and lesson. She would be my fifth starter along with the others.

7) What is the future of JHA? What is the next step? 
We are actually working on a site update now that will hopefully take place in the very near future. This will help make the site more user friendly and social media capable. It will enhance the coverage and modernize many of the features. My hope is to continue to make the site as interactive as possible and continue to get as much school and student involvement as possible. I also want to continue to regularly put out opinion articles and interview pieces which I think fosters discussion and brings people of many different ages and backgrounds to the site.

8) Can Chicagoland Jewish High School finish #1 even without going to YU this year?
Absolutely. My North Shore team played them in the championship at the Memphis tournament early this season. They were missing a top player and even so, were as good as anyone. They are a well-coached and fundamentally sound team. And the kicker, they play harder than everyone. Those kids are committed to a way of playing that requires major conditioning and major heart. They are a terrific team. I think there are a few teams that can compete with them. Shalhevet in CA is excellent and deep and has size. Frisch, north shore, MTA and Magen David from the Yeshiva League are all very strong as well.

9) Anything else you would like the TGR readers to know? 
Sure. For those of you who have involvement in schools or athletic programs, I think it's extremely important that while everything must be kept in balance, especially with student athletes, I think it's important not to lose sight of the tremendous value that comes with competing as a student athlete. The social and yes, academic value, that comes from being part of a team and representing your school is not only a real honor and privilege for those who have the opportunity, but a real and genuine way to help shape your future. 

I am an attorney at a real estate investment trust. I still remember what my current general counsel said to me during the interview process—he told me he could never put enough value on the level of competency at work that comes with having competed in high school or collegiate sports. I hope that as parents, students and administrators, that we support our schools athletic programs and recognize their importance to the student athletes both for the present and the future.

Thank you to Elliot for the great interview and keeping an awesome site running. 

Can't wait for Sarachek!

And Let Us Say...Amen.
- Jeremy Fine

Yes, I am one of those exceedingly annoying people who actually love Valentine's Day and looks forward to it every year. Guilty as charged. I've shared all my reasons for loving this sweet day of the year in a blog post last Valentine's Day, so I won't reiterate them again here— but the chocolate is to die for this time of year. 

Instead, I'd like to share all the reasons I love life in this moment:

My family. It's because my mom and dad took the pressure off of Valentine's Day when I was a little girl and made it a holiday for everyone to celebrate— instead of just couples— that I love them so much. Every year, my parents celebrated Valentine's Day with chocolate, cards and presents of pajamas. And not just regular old PJs, but the kind of fun PJs a kid would want. As an adult, I still have the best pajama collection around and we've continued this tradition with my nieces and nephews. Nothing takes the burden off of Valentine's Day better than a pair of footie pajamas.

Verizon. I love my phone company. A few weeks ago the on/off button on my old iPhone 4 stopped functioning. Then this past week, so did the 3G and my smart phone went "stupid." Luckily I have insurance, but wasn't really looking forward to spending the $50 to replace my old phone when I'm up for a new phone in a few months. After a few days of not being able to receive email or look up addresses on my phone while in cabs, I reluctantly went to the Verizon store over the weekend. To my surprise, Verizon offered to replace the phone for no charge and they're upgrading me to a 4s. I know it's not the new 5, but I still get Siri!

Award shows. Did you watch the Grammies on Sunday? How great were all the tributes and the return of JT to the stage?! Loved it. The Globes were just as entertaining this year— Amy Poehler and Tina Fey killed it. While I admit the Oscar show is always kind of a snore, I'm still looking forward to it, it's fashion at its best.

Marianos. If you've yet to visit the new grocery store Marianos, then you are sadly missing out. A hybrid of Trader Joe's prices, Whole Food's quality and convenience and Jewel/Dominick's selection, this grocery store cannot be beat. I love everything about it. Where else can you dine-in on sushi and oysters, order a delicious custom-made cake, scoop up some exotic spices from the spice wall and grab a box of cheerios and bulk paper towels at the same time? Also, Marianos has amazing Valentine's Day items and gifts. This past Sunday, they were hand dipping chocolate covered strawberries at one of the demo stations and selling them for just $1 a berry! (Now you know where to go to get that last minute gift for a loved one. Your welcome!)

Surprise parties. This also could have been titled "birthdays." A self-professed planner + a reason to celebrate+ friends= happiness. So with my boyfriend's impending 30th birthday, I went big. I spent five months lying, I mean planning, an elaborate surprise weekend for him skiing at a cabin in Michigan with all of his friends. I'm not sure whether I enjoyed fooling him or the actual party better. In case you were wondering how I got my boyfriend to Michigan without ruining the surprise…it involved a fake birthday party, bikes and dog sitters and I could dedicate a whole blog post about how to throw a proper surprise party.  

Holidays in the "dead" of winter/mild winters. I don't know about anyone else, but I'm always looking for distractions from the cold and snow and reasons to celebrate rather than hibernate during this time of year. Other than MLK and President's Day, the pickings are slim. So even if you don't have that special someone to share Valentine's Day with, spend a few moments in your happy place this February 14th and know that at least one Valentine's Day fan is wishing you a Happy Valentine's Day this year!

Tell me below what or who is currently on your "love" list. 

This post should really be titled, Oy!Suburbia. For work each and every day, I commute out to the north suburbs of this fair city. This is not my first go at the suburban-city shuffle. These days, I brave the downtown-Northbrook route, but just out of college, I journeyed from Buffalo Grove to The Loop for nearly a year. As irony would have it, I currently live a few blocks away from my inaugural post-college job. It’s not terribly ironic, considering my choice to live in the bustling Loop district had everything to do with my crippling fear of driving from the city to the burbs; I would much rather take the train. So Loop living it is, and I couldn’t be happier. The bright lights of State Street accompanied with a 15 minute walk to the Metra, the gilded gateway to suburban life makes it a location, in my eyes, that simply can’t be beat.

An hour-or-so long Metra commute, I’ve come to learn, is a fascinating thing. If you ask any coworker (or anyone who’s known me for more than a few days), they know I am a terribly chatty person. Full of opinions and enthusiasm, always piping up with something, that’s me. Not soon my daily commute. I see the same people every day, the same people see each other every day. And with the scant exceptions, no one speaks a word. I get it, at the wee hours of the morning, there’s not much reason to gab on and on. In the light of seeing a cast of characters whose only lines I have invented in my head, I present my commuting adventures. I’m sure more than a few of you can relate. Here’s to all of us train commuters out there, riding in silence, happily so most of the time. But don’t you wonder sometimes, just what’s going on with that neighbor of yours in the brown coat with the fur on the hood? 

My Imaginary Train Boyfriend (MITB)— The most important one on the list, clearly. I noticed him the first day of my Metra commute. Standard outfit: brown cords, cool blue Nike shoes, a t-shirt or sweater in rotating shades of blue. I’m hard pressed to remember what one of my coworkers wears from one day to the next, but I will most certainly remember when MITB wears the striped sweater with alternating blue hues. Funny how that works.

Smiley Guy— In high school, I distinctly remember this quote from many a girl’s AOL Profile (yeah, I went there): “Don’t frown, because you never know who is falling in love with your smile”. Now, I’m not falling in love with Smiley Guy, but I definitely notice him and his infectious little energy. His bright countenance greets his fellow coworkers each day, a gaggle of guys who commute as well. SG, I salute you. It’s difficult to be cheery at 7 am.

The Sneezer— He looks nice enough. But please, cover your mouth, cover your nose, do something when you sneeze. Every commute/commuter has one. Mine tends to sit behind me.

“We Work in the Same Building…Should We Be Friendly? Nah, Let’s Not”— As these descriptions get longer, the less attached I feel to these people. A woman works in my building. We walk down to go catch the train together sometimes. Why is this of note? It just boggles my mind. In looking at the train commute through a sociological standpoint, it tends to isolate normally outgoing people (I’m referring to myself. I can’t speak for the others). But we all lead our lives; we all go to work each and every day. We do what we need to do.

Other commuters who make up the fabric of my every day:

The Veteran. I know because his hat tells me so.
The last one on the bus (have I mentioned that I take a train to a bus? That’s what I do). She doesn’t take a seat when offered. I wonder why.
Very rarely, one of my coworkers. We’re chatty. I hope people appreciate my effervescent (read: loud) personality when we prattle on about the day’s events.
The Imaginary Train Boyfriend, If He Seemed Nicer. Standards are important. 

So if you happen to head north and west one of these days on the Metra, don’t be shy, stop by and say hi! 

One of the most common forms of film is the "bio-pic," short for "biographical picture." It tells the story of a notable person, either in full, or just focusing on one of the most notable parts of his or her story. Naturally, Jews have been among those whose lives have been depicted on screen, but which Jews are depicted has changed, well, dramatically over time.

In the earliest days of movie-making, only Biblical Jews made it to the screen. In 1909, there were movies about Moses and the rivalry of Jewish kings Saul and David. The first Jewish woman whose story was portrayed on film was Judith, the femme fatale. And then 1923 brought us… another Moses movie.

The first "modern" Jew was not depicted until 1929: British prime minister Benjamin Disraeli. He was followed by two movies telling of the framing of the Jewish French soldier Alfred Dreyfus, two years in a row (even then, Hollywood copied itself!). Next up was German-Jewish financier Mayer Rothschild.

It was not until 1945, that an American Jew's story was told, and it was that of George Gershwin. This sparked a trend of movies about Tin Pan Alley and Broadway songwriters, including Rodgers & Hart ('48), Kalmar & Ruby ('50), Gus Kahn ('51), Sigmund Romberg ('54) and Lew Brown ('56). Plus two about Al Jolson, who sang those songs. The 1940s closed out with the first of many Samson and Delilah films. 

Another Biblical romance, 1951's tale of David and Bathsheba, kicked off the '50s… and the romance of King Soloman and the Queen of Sheba closed it in 1959. In between came the timeless Biblical epic The Ten Commandments. And another Dreyfus movie (This one, in French).

But in the 1950s, Hollywood also began to tell the stories of other, more recent Jewish entertainers and celebrities: Eddie Cantor, Harry Houdini, Benny Goodman, and boxer Barney Ross. Also the painter Modigliani… and the first Holocaust victim: Anne Frank, of course.

The 1960s continued to present Biblical stories, including three movies about King David, as well as Joseph, Jacob, and even Lot (Abraham, his uncle, would have to wait a long time!). Finally, we see more Jewish women from the Bible— both Esther and Ruth.

As for non-Biblical Jews, Freud makes his first of a few screen appearances. Franny Brice, we are reminded, was a very Funny Girl. And the first Jewish villain to have his story told? Gangster Arnold Rothstein.

The 1970s revisited the stories of Jacob, Joseph, Moses, and David. But they also showed us the Marxist Leon Trotsky… and the much more recent stories of Lenny Bruce and pioneering rock DJ Alan Freed.

In the 1980s, Biblical epics were on the wane, and we were only given the stories of David and  Samson (again). Instead, we see the first Jewish athlete since Barney Ross. It's Harold Abrahams, in Chariots of Fire. We see our first Israeli, and he is the heroic super-spy Eli Cohen. And, finally, we see a range of modern Jewish women: the irascible Gertrude Stein, the talented Nora Ephron, and the martyred Hannah Szenes.

Of course, there's nothing like a Biblical epic, and in the 1990s they came roaring back: Jacob, Joseph, Moses (twice!), David, Solomon, Samson, Esther… and Abraham finally got his movie, as did the prophet Jeremiah.

One person's story that jumps from the list this decade is that of "Long Island Lolita" Amy Fisher. It pops out because she was involved in one scandalous crime and has no other claim to fame… but she had no less than three movies in one decade. And then, because her 15 minutes were up, nothing ever again.

But plenty of other Jewish no-goodnicks got screen time in the 1990s: Blacklister Roy M. Cohn (McCarthy's right-hand man); Jack Ruby, the man who shot the man who shot JFK; mobster Lefty Rosenthal; and psycho killers Leopold & Loeb. Gangster-turned-real-estate-tycoon Bugsy Siegel, founder of the Vegas Strip, too.

Other Jews depicted in this decade created controversy with their words: Dorothy Parker, Howard Stern, Ayn Rand, Andy Kaufman, and powerful gossip-monger Walter Winchell. Pianist David Helfgott (Shine) and memoirist Jerry Stahl (Permanent Midnight) were able to create great art despite mental instability— and a doctor, Oliver Sacks, worked to cure it.

We also saw depicted the stories of two famous actresses who converted to Judaism to marry famous Jewish men— Elizabeth Taylor and Marilyn Monroe— as well as another converted entertainer, Sammy Davis, Jr. One of the two movies about European Jews in this decade, Europa Europa, about a child victim of the Holocaust, was a success; the other, about the philosopher Wittgenstein, was not.

Which brings us to the 2000s. We see one Joseph movie, one Moses, one Esther… and that's it. But there are dozens of other films telling the stories of mostly modern Jews (including Modigliani again).

From the world of comedy, we get movies about The Three Stooges (all four of them!), Gilda Radner, Jerry Lewis, Peter Sellers, and Chuck "The Gong Show" Barris. On the literary front, we saw graphic novelist Harvey Pekar, and graphic (the other meaning) poet Allen Ginsburg (twice), plus his fellow radical Abbie Hoffman. Musically, we get the stories of Bob Dylan, blues producer Leonard Chess, and "fifth Beatle" Brian Epstein.

Yes, we get the Holocaust victim Anne Frank again, and the Holocaust survivor Pianist Wladyslaw Szpilman, but also Holocaust resistors the Bielski Brothers show some Defiance.

Speaking of Jews with backbone, we learn about martyred journalist Daniel Pearl, assassinated gay activist Harvey Milk… and United 93  passenger Jeremy Glick (twice), who helped rush the cockpit of the plane on a collision course with the White House on 9/11.

But the '00s were about continuing the Hollywood  trend to show Jews of all stripes, even the less-than-flattering ones, like Hollywood madam Heidi Fleiss and Stephen Glass, a journalist who made stuff up. But we also met photojournalist Diane Arbus, who was solidly committed to showing the truth… the Israeli Ari Folman, who faced his war demons and learned to Waltz with Bashir… Brad Cohen, who became a teacher despite having Tourette's, and poker virtuoso Stu Ungar.

The 2010s, so far, seem to be somewhat disappointing with regard to Jewish biopics. We have only one Biblical epic so far, it's true (Solomon, again)… but also Freud (again), Elizabeth Taylor (again), and Marylin Monroe (again… twice.)

As we enter 2013, the only new Jewish person of note whose story we have seen filmed this decade is, at least, truly a celebrity of the new millennium: Mark Zuckerberg, the face behind Facebook. Let's hope this starts a trend for new stories coming out of Hollywood about new Jewish headline-makers or, if they are figures from our past, at least not the same ones again and again. 

Max & Rita Sher

The Hebrew word for love is “ahava,” from the root hey vet, which means to give. To love, put simply, you must give.

How much do you think the divorce rate would plummet if all engaged couples knew the connection between these two words?

My cousins, Sarah and Chuck, married for more than 48 years, certainly do. I once asked the Chicago couple how they’ve made their happy Jewish marriage last. One word, Chuck told me—generosity. “Be generous with your time,” he said. “And give of yourself.”

In honor of this month’s love issue, I wanted to gain some new insights about love and marriage so I recently called up my two sets of wise marriage mentors—my parents and grandparents. Judy and Neal Sher, my parents, who make a home for themselves in Minneapolis, have been married for 42 years. My Long Island-based grandparents, Rita and Max Sher, will celebrate their 66th wedding anniversary in the spring.

So it turns out both couples know a thing or two about the topic at hand.

Judy & Neal Sher 

Both conversations sounded like a ping-pong game, the marital advice bouncing back and forth between the two sets of spouses. They’d finish each other’s sentences as couples tend to do when they’ve been together as long as these pairs have. When they weren’t interrupting each other, they were laughing—a lot.

For both couples, their personalities are polar opposites, but their Jewish values are in sync.

All four talked about how giving to each other leads to shalom bayit, peace and harmony in the home. Never let an argument fester, they told me. “If something about the other person annoys you, have it out—have the uncomfortable conversation,” my dad said. “Don’t hold a grudge and never go to bed angry.”

“Yield to the other one,” my grandma said. “You can’t have your way all the time.”

Back in 1946, right after my grandfather returned home from serving in the Pacific, my great-aunts fixed up my grandparents. My grandma’s sister and my grandpa’s sister, close friends with each other, thought Rita and Max would make a good pair, so they invited them to a party to get them in the same room with each other. Four months later, they married. They would eventually have two sons.

In their day, there wasn’t so much obsessing, like nowadays, about whether their intended was their perfect match. “It’s a different world today—let me put it that way,” my grandpa told me.

When I asked what attracted them to each other, my grandpa said he liked having an intelligent woman to talk to. “Oh, thank you,” Rita replied, in a faux British accent. And what drew Rita to Max? “He was good looking and tall and we just got along nicely.” Simple as that. They liked what they knew about each other and whatever they didn’t know, they’d learn along the way.

Sixty-five years later, they know each other pretty darn well.

Today, my grandma’s slowing down, and she can’t do as many tasks for herself, so my grandpa is there for her more now than ever before. “He shops, he cooks for me,” she said. “You’d do it for me too,” Max added.

Like my grandparents, my parents were set up too. In 1969, my parents were attending college and grad school in Boston. One day, my mom mentioned to friends that she wanted to see an obscure documentary film. A bystander overheard her and insisted my mother meet this friend of his, Neal, who also loved seeing obscure movies. When the bystander-turned-matchmaker called my dad to give him my mom’s number, he told my dad, “You’re going to marry this girl.”

When Judy and Neal spoke on the phone for the first time, she dug his voice and he loved her laugh. On their first date, they talked for hours over Chinese food. And then, at meal’s end, my mom opened two fortune cookies. The first said, “Your present love is a true and lasting one.” The second read, “Your home will ring with the laughter of children.” The cookies were prescient: they married a year later and would go on to have two daughters, my sister and me.

I asked my parents the secrets to a happy Jewish marriage, hoping some of their marital wisdom would trickle down to me, the next generation, when I tie the knot someday.

“You need to work at a marriage even if you’ve been married a long time,” my dad said. “Keep it fresh and pretend you’re still dating. Make it special and don’t take the other person for granted.”

“Have a sense of humor,” Mom chimed in. “Have a sense of humor about yourself.”

“Don’t try to change the other person in terms of anything important,” my dad said. “It’s okay to be annoyed if someone isn’t neat, but don’t try to change fundamental things, their values.”

My mom may have offered the best marriage advice of all. She said the secret to a happy marriage is to focus on the big picture and not to sweat the small stuff. “Don’t worry if your spouse doesn’t cap the toothpaste, or squeezes the toothpaste from the middle of the tube,” she said. “It’s how he treats you—not how he treats the toothpaste tube—that counts.”

Most families have an heirloom that someday will serve as a prized possession to the person that inherits it. For me, this treasure, a simple silver coin, is undoubtedly the most important thing I own, a token that reminds me of my grandfather, Conrad.

It was 1942 as Conrad stared at the small, old shul, the sun beat down on his back. He began to sweat through his perfectly fitted suit as the June heat of Chicago immediately became more apparent. He adjusted his tie that was tied tightly across his neck and looked at the building. It only stood a few blocks away from his family’s yellow apartment complex on West Augusta Boulevard on the Northwest side of Chicago. However, this building was very different, traditional, and antique. His fascination with buildings began at a young age, as he stood at the structure where he was about to become a Bar Mitzvah. After examining the architecture, he entered the building, making almost immediate eye contact with Ruth, who was the aunt of his first cousin and close friend, Joan. Although they were not directly related, Ruth knew Conrad well and treated him as family. She pulled Conrad aside quickly, handing him a small, brown woven bag. In the bag were five silver coins that brilliantly sparkled in the artificial light of the old synagogue. Conrad thanked Ruth and began to examine the coins as he moved towards the room in which the service was held.

Nervous and looking for any sort of good luck charm before entering the sanctuary, my grandfather, pulled out the coin with the year he was born, 1929, and glanced at it. On one side, the coin was embellished with lady liberty looking into the distance as the sun rose towards her left foot. She had an almost angelic presence that held anyone’s attention that looked at the piece. The top of the coin was engraved with the word “Liberty” in all capital letters and the bottom of the coin simply displayed the year “1929.” In the right corner, next to Lady Liberty’s other foot, the coin displayed the famous quote “In God we trust”. The other side of the piece displayed a classic, American eagle etched between the words “United States of America” and “Half Dollar,” which in all capital letters surrounded the circumference of the metal piece. Conrad glanced at the coin and slipped the small piece of metal into his left pocket. Thanking Ruth again, he said his goodbyes and proceeded to sanctuary where he would become a Bar Mitzvah.

From that day on, he placed that same round silver dollar in his left pocket every single day; no matter whom he was with, what he was doing, or how big of a rush he was in, Conrad carried the coin with him. His family, friends, and most of the people he interacted with during his life knew how much he cherished this piece, although none of these people understood why he carried it. However, our family always speculated.

My mother insists that it was a good luck charm for him while my Nana supposes it reminded him of his Bar Mitzvah, which is why he kept it so close. My brother and I, however, always felt that our “Papa” kept it as a token of his childhood and as an heirloom that he could someday pass down to someone who would appreciate it as much as he did.

Regardless of why he carried the coin, it was an action that he took part in each day. Every morning, he would get dressed and place the coin in the same spot. Every night, he would undress and empty his pockets. He would take out his keys, change, wallet, and the coin, placing it alone on the top shelf of his armoire. The coin was with him for every monumental and mediocre day of his life. The day he met his future wife, the day he married her, the days that they traveled together, moving homes from Chicago to Philadelphia to Washington DC and back home once again. From the births of his two children and four grandchildren, to trips to Italy, the Caribbean, London, Switzerland, Arizona, Florida, California and more, the coin was with Conrad as a good luck charm, an emblem of personal tradition, and a reminder of his past experiences.

My mom considers this a symbol of her childhood. She remembers that he always put it into his pocket as soon as he was dressed. She would hold it when she was a child and examine it carefully. When the family would spend their day boating around Fox Lake on their 25-foot Trojan cabin cruiser, my mom often feared that it would fall into the water, although it never did.

Beyond having the ability to own a boat with a great job as a contractor, a healthy family, and a cozy home in the suburbs of Chicago, the coin granted Conrad the luck he hoped for. In 1966, my Papa was working on Lake Point Tower. As the construction superintendent, he needed to inspect the building. While he was climbing up an elevator shaft on a thin ladder with one of his coworkers, the ladder collapsed and Conrad fell two stories down the shaft. Miraculously, his body made impact with some surface after two stories and his coworker bounced off him onto the surface as well. Something broke his fall and ultimately saved his life.

Although my grandfather dislocated his elbow, an injury that would prevent him from swimming, golfing, and moving his arm in a certain direction for the rest of his life, the outcome could have been much worse; doctors said the accident could have easily taken his life.

Other instances of luck occurred throughout the years. My mom, who was born prematurely and taken directly to an incubator, survived with no complications. Whenever something happened that my grandfather was thankful for or seemed inexplicable, the coin always came to his mind.

Although he wasn’t a superstitious person, he always felt that his coin bought him some sort of luck. When he earned a great contracting job with Kohl’s in the early 80s, my mother said that attributed his success to his lucky coin.

At this point, the coin had completely changed form. Originally, as it began to deteriorate, you could see only part of the pictures on the coin. The eagle’s wings had worn down, most of the ridging around the circumference had gone away, and lady liberty had virtually disappeared. Eventually, all that was left was a silver disk; the initial surface had fundamentally vanished.

“I remember how smooth it was,” my Nana explained. “The surface had worn away completely. That’s what the years did.”

Over the years, my Papa misplaced the worn coin temporarily, but he always recovered it somehow. Once, he left the coin in a pair of his pants that had a small hole in the lining of the pocket. The coin fell through into the lining and was misplaced for a few hours, but he found it soon after.

My mom and grandmother vividly remember the panic in his voice when he called each of them on the December day in 2001 when the coin went missing.

“He was just dismayed. He was heartbroken,” my Nana recalled.

He searched everywhere for the coin. He inspected every pair of pants he owned and searched through his entire condominium. When the coin was still missing, he retraced his steps, including walking around the entire snow covered parking lot of his business and digging through monstrous piles of snow, hoping to somehow find it.

My Papa’s first cousin, Joan, was the heroine in this part of the story. She had coins too from when they were children and found the one dated closest to my grandfather’s date of birth and gave it to him when he couldn’t find his own.

Still, shortly after, my Papa somehow misplaced his second coin. At this point, my mom went on EBay and ordered him a coin from his Bar Mitzvah year, 1942. With the new coin, came a plastic case to keep the coin in from this point on. He felt the case kept it more secure and provided more protection; he would always know where it was.

My grandfather carried this coin each day for eight more years until he passed away in 2009 from a short but brutal battle with cancer. I remember my family deciding what he would be buried in. We picked out his sweater which we called his “Jell-O sweater” that was knit with thin, vivid, pastel thread, and nice pair of slacks. We sat and debated if we should place the coin in his pocket, but after much thought, we all believe it was much more important to keep his memory and tradition alive by passing on the coin. My brother received my grandfather’s jewelry—his Rolex, his diamond ring, and his solid gold chain. I received the coin.

I remember that my mom sat me down and told me that I would be getting my Papa’s coin. There were no dramatic gestures or lengthy descriptions, just a simple sentence that caused me to breakdown.

I remember the tears sliding down my cheeks when I learned that the coin would be mine. My grandfather’s death was extremely difficult for me and as I feared returning to school in DC and leaving my family, I placed the coin in my pencil case, hoping to keep it with me every day.

Only a few weeks later, I called my mother in hysterics after realizing I left my pencil case with the coin inside at the university’s library. Why would I have not been more careful? How could I misplace this coin already? How could I be so careless? I sprinted from my dorm to the library, hyperventilating and wheezing. Thankfully, I was able to find the case at the front desk of the library. As I gasped for air, I vowed I would never carry the coin again; something this important could not be lost.

Little did I know, my brother felt the same exact way. Our papa gave him a coin on his Bar Mitzvah in 2003 that he carried around for a few days. Panicked by the story of my Papa misplacing his coin, Brian vowed to never carry his coin with him as well. Both of our coins sit in the top left drawers of our nightstands, where we are assured they are safe. They might reside in a different location, but they still have an important function; they honor my grandfather’s memory.

A few weeks ago, I had the honor and privilege of meeting Ayush Maheshwari who is the founder of the I AM BIG SHOW, which is a weekly web-based program that focuses on what is working in a big way. I AM BIG focuses on what makes everyday life extraordinary. Ayush believes that there is ‘ bigness’ in each one of us. The purpose of this weekly show is to bring folks from day-to-day life and talk about what’s working in their life, what’s working in their personal lives, what’s working with their careers and what’s working with their connection to the community.

I had the rare opportunity to be interviewed by Ayush for his show and blog for his website.

Check out the blog I wrote for his show.

Ayush— you are undoubtedly changing lives one story at a time.

From the I AM BIG SHOW Blog

Can we write our own story?

Yes we can. Our guest Jenna Benn, at the age of 29, was diagnosed with a rare form of blood cancer. One of the hardest three words one can hear in their lives is ,‘You Have Cancer’. This was not part of her plan. However, she took control and empowered her life. As a result, ‘Twist Out Cancer’ (TOC) was born.

TOC is a movement today and helps survivors and their loved ones combat the feelings of isolation, loneliness, and helplessness that often accompany cancer diagnoses and treatment. In other words, Jenna wrote her own story and continues to do so. It is our honor to have Jenna on our show. The post below is from Jenna to You. 

Writing My Own Story

When you are forced to come to terms with your own mortality at a young age, the way in which you see the world inevitably changes.

Diagnosed with a rare type of blood cancer that affects less than 300 people in the United States, I realized fairly quickly that I had two options. I could either turn into a recluse and cut myself off from the rest of the world or I could write my own story.

The need and desire to write and chronicle what I was experiencing was almost instinctual. Within days of my diagnosis, I had started a blog that served as my coping mechanism and strategy for managing life with cancer. While the rigorous treatments rendered me speechless, I found my authentic voice through writing.

As I documented my journey, I started to realize that I was in a unique position to be able to raise awareness about the unique set of challenges and issues facing the young adult cancer community.

I tackled what it was like to feel betrayed by my body, the inevitable regression and dependency on my parents, and the eventual loss of my perceived femininity. In addition to these challenges, I also painfully opened up about what it feels like to lose your own fertility.

The more that I wrote— the more that I shared— the more I felt the world opened up.

I no longer felt burdened or smothered by my cancer diagnosis, but rather I felt an inexplicable sense of freedom.

Silence is what shames us and so I was screaming.

I chose to find my voice, I chose to write my own story, and I chose to twist out cancer because it was what was right for me. I can only hope that my choices and my story will be able to help others.

Instead of the usual box of chocolates and the cliché soufflés and cakes, give your heart's desire a gift that is from your heart and good for theirs.

I am talking about olive oil. Extra virgin olive oil has a long list of health benefits from reducing coronary artery disease and cholesterol regulation.

My favorite extra virgin olive oil is an unfiltered oil from Spain. It is rich, luscious and smells like artichokes and tomatoes. I recently tasted an oil from France that was rich and buttery. Olive oils like wines have a distinct taste or terroir depending upon where they are grown. I urge home cooks to shop the specialty and gourmet shops for their olive oil. The supermarket oils are often lacking in flavor and are frequently misleading in the origin of the olives. The bottle may say that the oil was bottled in Italy but not mention where the olives were grown. The olives could have come from many different countries and in different stages of ripeness which yields an off tasting oil.

Estate grown oils are picked at the perfect stage of ripeness and pressed right after harvest. This ensures a balanced oil that is luscious.

Baking with olive oil is easy and yields a moist delicious cake. This February 14, I urge you to try something different and say OLIVE YOU, your heart and your beloved's will thank you.

Super Fudgy Chocolate Cake   

This easy and delicious cake has chocolate and olive oil in it. What a great combo! The cake may be made up to 2 days ahead of serving. 

4 large eggs
1 cup light brown sugar
1 cup white sugar
½ cup extra virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon vanilla
1½ cups all-purpose flour
½ cup cocoa powder
¼ cup potato starch
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon fine sea salt
1 cup boiling water

1. Place oven rack in center of oven. Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Oil a 9-inch spring-form pan or 2 9x5x3-inch loaf pans.

2. Place eggs, brown sugar, and white sugar into the bowl of a standing mixer. Using the whip attachment beat on medium-high until mixture is light and fluffy. Slowly drizzle in the canola oil. Continue beating until the mixture is well emulsified. Add the vanilla and mix well.

3. In a separate bowl, combine the flour, cocoa powder, potato starch, baking powder, and salt. Mix together with a whisk until thoroughly blended.

4. Change to the paddle attachment. With the mixer on low, add the dry ingredients to the egg mixture all at once.  While blending, slowly add the boiling water. Be careful not to let any splash out. Continue mixing until the batter is smooth. Finish mixing with a rubber spatula, scraping the sides and the bottom as you mix.

5. Place prepared pan on a baking sheet. Pour batter into prepared pan. If using two loaf pans, be sure to divide batter evenly.

6. Place into preheated oven and bake until a wooden skewer comes out cleanly.  This will take about 1 hour and 15 minutes for the 9-inch spring-form pan, and 40-50 minutes for the loaf pans.

7. Remove from oven and cool on a rack for 30 minutes. For the spring-form pan, remove the collar and cool completely. For the loaf pans, after 30 minutes, carefully run a thin knife around the sides of the pans. Carefully tip the cakes out on their side and then stand them back up. Allow to cool completely. If cakes do not come out easily, allow to cool in pans for 10 more minutes and try again. As they cool, they shrink away from the sides of the pan. 

When cool, cakes can be wrapped and stored in the refrigerator for 5 days. Allow to come to room temperature before serving.

Cakes can be served as they are, dusted with powdered sugar, or glazed with Dark Chocolate Olive Oil Icing. 

Dark Chocolate Olive Oil Icing 

This versatile and rich icing is quick to put together and can be used to frost cupcakes, cakes, pound cakes or as a filling for sandwich cookies. 

1⅓ cups + 1 tablespoon powdered sugar
3 tablespoons cocoa powder
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons water
½ teaspoon vanilla

1. Combine all of the ingredients in the bowl of a standing mixer. Using the whip attachment beat on medium-high speed until the icing is light and fluffy. If too dry and stiff, add more water ½ teaspoon at a time until a smooth, fluffy consistency is reached. If too loose, add more powdered sugar 1 tablespoon at a time.

Yields enough icing for the top of 1 9-inch cake or 2 loaf cakes.

In this week's portion, Yitro, we find Moses (and the Israelites) being greeted by Moses's father-in-law Yitro (aka Jethro) after the Israelites managed to fight off the armies of the nation of Amalek.  Yitro greets Moses, bringing along Moses's wife and two sons.  After telling his father-in-law all that God had done for the Israelites in Egypt, Yitro rejoices, praises God, and offers up a sacrifice.

Shortly thereafter, Yitro observes that the Israelites are approaching Moses to settle every little dispute.  He advises Moses to empower a number of individuals to serve as judges (effectively, establishing the tiered court system that we still use today), thus allowing Moses to only adjudicate the major disputes, while relying on others to adjudicate minor ones.  Once this new system of resolving disputes has been put in place, Yitro takes his leave.

The Israelites then enter the wilderness of Sinai, and approach the mountain contained within it.  On the third day, amidst thunder, lightning, horn blasts, and what appears to mimic a volcano that is about to erupt, the 10 Commandments are given.

The traditional understanding of the text suggests that God actually spoke to the entire Israelite nation assembled at the foot of the mountain, as at the end of the portion we find God instructing Moses to say to the Israelites: "You yourselves saw that I spoke to you from the heavens."

"Revelation at Sinai," as this event is commonly known, is in many ways the central event of the entire Torah (it's where tradition says that we received the Torah itself, after all).

One of the more intriguing pieces of this episode that the ancient rabbis picked up on is that the Israelites supposedly "saw" the thunder and "saw" that God spoke to them - as opposed to hearing these things.  Revelation at Sinai was so significant and powerful in our narrative that it actually altered peoples' senses.

For us today, I can't help but think that before we could ever be in a position to have our senses altered again, that we'd need to be better at embracing our senses as they currently exist.

Do we savor our food, take pleasure in its odor and taste, and express our gratitude after consuming it?

When we hold the hand of or hug another, do we recognize the intense power and energy that physical connections create? 

When we hear thunder and see lightning today, do we take a moment to reflect and be in awe of the power nature holds?

This Shabbat, let's resolve to take a break from our mile-a-minute lives, and to make the time to both figuratively and literally stop and smell the roses.  Because in addition to adding depth and quality to our lives, perhaps once we come to a fuller appreciation of the senses we're blessed to have, we'll be meritorious enough to have our senses altered in ways currently unimaginable, as tradition shares our ancestors before us did.

One of my kids had a play date on the horizon. I entertained his reminders and countdowns for a full week until the joyful day arrived and my son announced, “I am SO excited for my play date!” and he skipped out the door to school. It got me thinking about the ease in which happiness seems to come into the heart of a child. They express an unabashed joy over the simple things. Things like balloons, swimming pools, individually packaged snacks and puppies. They appreciate what we grownups refer to as “the little things in life.” And then the little people morph into big people and us big people seem to need much grander gestures – more bells and whistles – to find the same level of excitement. Things like a new car, a bigger house, more money, a younger wife. Why does this happen? Where does the happiness for the little things go?

When I was a kid, one of my favorite things about going out to dinner was that I would be allowed to order a kiddie cocktail – a Shirley Temple with extra maraschino cherries. It always came with a toothpick umbrella. And if I was very lucky, (and my mom wasn’t paying attention), I could get away with ordering a second Shirley Temple. I stirred the red sugar juice into the bubbly clear sprite with my straw and watched it all blend into the most perfect pink. I felt happiness. I felt joy. And I collected all the toothpick umbrellas in a special drawer in my room.

Sleepovers were another source of happiness for me. I got to giggle and whisper into the late night with a girlfriend until someone’s parents threatened to take “fill-in-the-blank” home if we didn’t “go-to-sleep immediately-and-I-mean-it!” It was the best! Waking up in the morning and seeing your friends eating breakfast in their pajamas was so cool. You got to see the color of their toothbrushes and the kind of toothpaste they used. It was totally worth that terrible, grouchy exhausted feeling that took over the second you got into your parents car and your little body decided that the two hours of sleep was not sufficient to even remotely function for the rest of the day.

There’s an innocence to childhood that seems to wash off of us as we begin to age. Maturing seems to be the slow killer of our belief in everything magical (the good guy always wins; the tooth fairy brings the dollar; your parents never have sex…) I try my best to maintain the magic in my house, but the reality is, my kids are getting older. They read the paper. They ask me about the death penalty, the Holocaust, and the long term effects of people who eat McDonalds. They are seduced by headlines and playground gossip. And alas, I am married to an engineer who is not only a black and white thinker, but has always been suspicious of the tooth fairy and non-fiction books.

When I picked my son up from his play date, he was full of chatter and smiles. He’d had a great time. I had spent the day busy, overwhelmed, running errands, making and going to appointments, my head filled with the usual have tos and need to get tos. But when we were driving home and he was reliving each detail with me, (snack, game, snack, legos, snack, Wii, snack…) I felt a lightness in me. I felt a happiness inside. Listening to my son relay the simple things – the little things – that gave him joy that day, gave me joy as well. Maybe we grownups aren’t so lost after all. Maybe the happiness found in the little things isn’t gone. Quite possibly it’s just waiting to be noticed. And we just need to pay attention.

The tech bubble burst in the early 2000s and I was a casualty. Two companies I worked for went out of business. My career as an underpaid consultant was not leading me to a lucrative career. 

I traveled 100% of the time for the first company I worked for. I was in towns like Macon, Enid, Muskogee, and other exciting towns like Rockford. Please do not take offense if you live in these small cities. I’m just bitter that a coworker of mine would always end up in the big city, like Tulsa, while I was driving 500 miles around the great state of Oklahoma. 

My second consulting gig was a little more glamorous. I drove to Hoffman Estates for six months and then got placed on a project in McHenry, where I stayed at a Motel 6 for another six months. When I was in McHenry I would pack six or so sandwiches for the week and fruit and put it in the client’s fridge. My coworkers would make fun of me, but at some point, someone always wanted half a turkey sandwich. 

My trusty leased Corolla took me back and forth to McHenry, Illinois. When our project ended, there was not much work to be had in the Customer Relationship Management software business. Sensing the end was near, I started working at Bally’s part time. I also began throwing parties in Chicago as a promoter. 

Since I graduated from college I helped my friends throw parties at bars and clubs, for some reason a lot of Jews are in the business. Once my consulting days were over I spent my nights throwing parties and my days training whoever I could sell training too. This lucrative move helped me max out a credit card or two. 

Eventually I started working for my friend at the JCC in Skokie and I kept the other two jobs. The training was really starting to come together. I would take my trusted Corolla to Skokie, then to Webster place Bally’s, and then I would double park outside of clubs and bars. Instead of throwing parties, I was taking pictures for a website (whatsupchicago.com) and selling online ad space for them. My debts were starting to diminish. 

As I cut expenses, I realized I could buy a car instead of lease it and pay less per month. So I did what any freak would do, I bought a car on my lunch break. I purchased a ‘03, white, Toyota Corolla. The car did not have power locks or windows, which forced me to be a gentleman and open the door for any guest. This would later provide my wife with material for ridicule. “You bought a car at lunch? You did not get power locks?”

My poor man’s BMW drove like a dream. While most people took cabs, I walked or took my car. I never cared about parking it on the street or dings and dents from parallel parking. In ten years I only put 70,000 miles on it. 
My insurance company decided to put down the Corolla. In an accident where no one was hurt, and oddly neither my wife or I were driving the car, the Corolla did not survive. The insurance company decided that the price to fix the car exceeded the value. I was crushed. This was my baby, 10 years old and still running well. I wanted to keep this car for a few more years. It had character, it was missing three hubcaps, the trunk was stocked with fitness equipment, the glove box held every oil change and other work done, and most importantly it was paid off. 

Getting a new car was stressful. I had no idea at first how much money the insurance company would cover. I did not want a car payment so used cars were my only option. My wife and I visited a few shops with our son, who at 18 months loved opening the car doors, running around the galleries and did not want to sit still. Car buying attempt number two started Wednesday at 1pm. My wife and I drove from a dealer in Highland Park to Rogers Park. The same thing happened at both spots, “What can we do to get you from walking out the door.” 

Next we drove to Des Plaines, almost bought a Hyundai. Starving, tired and approaching 8pm, we picked up some drive through food (disgusting describes the food and how we felt afterwards) and then off to dealership number four. This place was in Schaumberg. We drove two Honda Accords and decided the gold ’04 drove the best. Finally, I think we found our car!

But then we could not agree on the price. We stormed out with a lot of purpose and Andy, the manager, stopped us. The usual car salesman smile, “Come on, don’t leave. We have a deal.” 

Andy agreed to our price! We arrived home that night at 9:30 pm. While driving my new ride, with heated seats, power locks and windows, I was happy and really tired. My high school car crush was a Mitsubishi Eclipse, and then I saw a totaled one on the street. It looked like a ball of tin foil. I started to crush on a new car, and now I own it!

I keep hearing people holding up the 1950s sitcom as the standard for family structures, notably Leave It to Beaver and The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet. Aside from the fact that I don't even take my family advice from the shows that are on now (do that many people really have a Modern Family family?), I started wondering…

Were the sitcoms of the 1950s only about families with a mom, dad and a couple of kids? I decided to find out.

I found a website that listed 117 sitcoms that aired during the 1950s. I found 80 of them depicting family units or other relationships. Here is what I found:

Yes, the largest group was the one that depicted parents and children. These include the ones mentioned above, and also others whose names we still recognize: Father Knows Best, Life With Father, and Make Room for Daddy.

But there was variety even here. For instance, I Love Lucy featured a family in which the father was an immigrant, and The Goldbergs were Jewish. The show Mary Kay and Johnny showed a married couple sharing a bed, and a pregnant woman, on TV as early as 1948. Another, The Life of Riley, is credited as being one of the first shows to depict lower-class family life.

All of these shows together, however, still only come to 26— not quite a third of the family/relationship sitcoms on air in the 1950s.

Another 16 that I found do show married couples, but without children. Many were married for several years (i.e. seasons) and still had no kids. This fact gives lie to the idea that marriage was always seen as being predominantly for the purpose of procreation. Such famous shows as Burns and Allen and The Honeymooners showed longstanding childless couples. With Blondie coming to TV from the funny pages, Fibber McGee and Molly coming from radio and The Thin Man and Topper coming from the movies, it seems fairly clear that the childless couple was a widely accepted norm. 

Another family structure depicted as early as the 1950s was that of the single parent. While My Three Sons did not debut until 1960, the show Bachelor Father was already on before that. Yes, that show depicted a single man raising his orphaned niece, but other programs, from The Eve Arden Show to The Dennis O'Keefe Show, portrayed single parents raising their own children.

In all the cases I found (three single-mother/adoptive aunt shows and five single-father/adoptive uncle) the reason for single parenthood was the death of the spouse, not a divorce. Evidently, that reality was a bridge too far for a 1950s sitcom. 

I also found a half-dozen shows with dating, but yet unmarried couples, including That Wonderful Guy, featuring future movie star Jack Lemmon.

But what struck me was the large number of shows featuring singles on the dating scene, half a century before Seinfeld and Sex and the City. Such stars as George Burns, Ray Milland, and Ray Bolger (the Scarecrow from Wizard of Oz) played men-about-town.

And while the show How to Mary a Millionaire continued the plot of that gold-diggers-gone-wild movie, So This is Hollywood showed a single woman who wanted to do movie stunts, and The Adventures of Tugboat Annie showed the life of a woman who captained her own vessel. December Bride, decades before Golden Girls, showed the life of a single, older woman still looking to date. 

Already, by the 1950s, African-American actors were appearing on, and even starring in, their own shows. So were women, who were depicted as running their own successful businesses, not dependent on anyone. Jewish, Italian, Irish, Hispanic and other immigrant characters also married, had children, and supported themselves and their families in the America inside those wood-encased TV sets.

So the answer, as I suspected, was no. No, the makers of the sitcoms of the 1950s did not "leave it to Beaver" to depict the variety and scope of American family life at the time. They also left it to Beulah and Amos 'n' Andy, to Luigi and Bonino, to Duffy and Mr. Sweeney. They left it to the Bachelor Father and Mama Rosa, to the Boss Lady and Our Miss Brooks.

Even before the advent of color television, it seems, everyone knew that life was not black and white. 

What makes something Jewish? Who owns the labeling rights to call something Jewish enough? If I go to a service, how do I know if I am experiencing something authentically Jewish? It’s a question that I grapple with. I have a non-Jewish spouse, and when we have kids, we have committed that together we will raise them Jewish. It’s important to me that they are raised “Jewish enough.”

Not long after we moved to Washington, DC my wife and I found our way to a Sixth in the City service at Sixth and I Historic Synagogue. Sixth and I is a nondenominational/non-membership synagogue and Sixth in the City is their brand for programs targeting the 20 and 30 somethings. It tends to be a Reconstructionist meets Jewish summer camp-style service. There is a Rabbi, a song-leader with a guitar, a volunteer choir, a lot of short prayers, upbeat and catchy tunes. There is also a happy hour before the service and dinner is served after. 

Prior to coming DC, it would not have been my first choice for a Friday night service. I identify mostly with what most would label a traditional Conservative service: lots of Hebrew, very little skipping around, and no instruments. Still, everyone had encouraged us to go to Sixth and I. “What is Sixth and I?” I would ask. “You just have to go to understand.” 

Few people would question whether all of this was a Jewish event or a Jewish experience. It’s a Friday night service with prayers, blessings and a Shabbat meal. The food even comes from a kosher caterer. However, after going a couple of times, I had this nagging feeling that this service might not be religious enough for me. To complicate matters, my wife decided she like this service better than any other service we had gone to. She also was very aware that I didn’t love it. I was faced with the choice of attending Sixth and I again with my wife, or going to my flavor of service by myself. 

All of this caused me to reflect and wonder. What makes something Jewish? More importantly, who am I to judge the merit of one Friday night experience over another? Who is anyone to do this? As someone who had spent a lot of time both volunteering and working in the Jewish community, I felt guilty and embarrassed. I was acting a bit superior to others in the room because I had a different kind of Jewish education. Was I cheapening the experience by acting as if I was going to humor somebody? Was I cheating myself out of something? 

To attempt to answer the question, I chose a new approach. The next time I went to the service, I tried all that I could to go without expectation and just be present. It was only then that I understood what everyone had been talking about. What you couldn’t explain, and just had to go to see for yourself.

I began to notice different things. I realized how welcoming and warm all of the staff were. I realized that there were volunteers with nametags there to also greet and meet people. I watched how the service was inspiring people throughout the room. I heard how the direction from the Rabbi was carefully delivered to ensure that everyone was on the same page and nobody felt dumb or belittled. I saw how everyone was able and eager to participate. I saw that almost everyone was smiling. Most of all, I noticed my wife was too.

The Sixth in the City service meets once a month, and we try to go as much as possible. It’s a Jewish event that we can look forward to attending. Is it Jewish enough? I think I have learned that the answer has more to do with those participating in the service, than the service itself.

The entire phrase "you can do it all" must be dismantled from its shaky roots, swaying in an imaginary location deep in never-never-land, where children with needs do not exist, where a day is made up of 200 hours, and where choices do not have consequences.

A person cannot do it all, they must choose and they must make sacrifices. The tale of the Supermom is a flimsy attempt at a chickflick gone wrong; beyond that, it is not something to strive to reach. One must instead strive for what their mission is and, unlike the General Education focus of our upbringing, specialize, specialize, specialize. Specialize in what they do best. Put a little bit of time into those activities, set aside a lot of time for the odds and ends that is existence, and slowly and steadily rise.

You cannot watch your kids constantly and have someone else watch them for you. You simply must make a choice. There is no shame in staying at home, and there is no guilt in going to work. The end question is all in the intention, the goal. 

The question is not: Can I do this. As women, we know it is possible to climb any rank of business. That is no longer our question.

Now, it is not about me acting upon the job, but what will this job do to me? Will it make me into a better mother, a more balanced wife, a healthier Jew? How does my job impact the roles of my life?

It is that integration, from what I do to who I am, that is essential, that must be considered. And while a college resume may be impressed with the person that is taking on seven different clubs and three after school activities, a busier mom, a more responsibility-laden wife, and an overwhelmed Yid are not necessarily things that will elicit positive reactions from the recipients; the children, the husband, the friends. 

I have thought of this deeply, as I took on a new job. One that required what I thought was nothing- four hours/day (of things not directly in my line of interest, the arts).

As I soon found out, the sacrifices were great. By the time I got home to rest, there simply wasn't enough time in my life for all of the things I cared about, especially my daughter and husband. Something had to give. For if you do too much, everything suffers. I had to focus on my core interests and specialize. 

The "you can do it all" motto is so passé. The Supermom imagery is old news and unrealistic. But the specialized, integrated mother, whose activities are work in whatever form she chooses, that builds her emotional, physical, psychological (even spiritual) muscles—that is the new thing.

I may have figured out the shortest route between Fisk Hall and the Evanston Davis Metra station—a dire necessity in Winter Quarter, when your first class starts at 9 a.m. sharp. I’m learning a lot about Evanston now that I’m spending more time there. The coffee shop in the Metra station serves hot chocolate with Nutella if you ask for it. One does not jaywalk across Sheridan Road lightly. It is entirely possible to notice red-tailed hawks perching on street lamps, if you’re observant.

The last time I spent this much time at Northwestern University, I was in high school, at “geek camp” studying physics. Now I’m a graduate student at the Medill School of Journalism—yes, I got in!—and I’ve had to do a lot of adjusting. Evanston itself is virtually unrecognizable from my time there in 1999 and 2000. I keep catching glimpses of storefronts or buildings on campus that give me déjà vu, but there’s something more surreal than clarifying about it. More to the point, though, I graduated from the University of Chicago six and a half years ago, and while I’ve taken classes in improv, singing and ukulele in the meantime, I haven’t been a full-time student since 2006.

I only had a month between my acceptance letter and orientation, so there wasn’t much time to get neurotic about going back to school again. Mostly I was ecstatic, and I held onto that as long as I could. But the closer Orientation Day came, the more nervous I became. What if nobody liked me? What if no one else was nerdy? What if everyone else was miles ahead of me and I would have to struggle to catch up? What if I didn’t know what to wear? You’d think these fears would have been put to rest a long time ago (in middle school, maybe), but anxiety is the Energizer Bunny of useless emotions. I can’t tell you how much I fretted about what backpack to buy.

Anxiety is also not as special as we think it is. Everyone else in my cohort was just as nervous and excited and confused as I was. We’re bonding even more under the crushing workload, which we’re all too overwhelmed to accurately judge whether it’s actually crushing yet or if the best is yet to come.

The adjustments aren’t entirely external. My journalism background so far has consisted of a love of the internet and blogging, plus some professional experience with copy editing. It’s not so much that I’ve never recorded nat sound or written a lede or edited b-roll. I’m still surprised to wake up in the morning and think of myself as a journalist. I never thought I would be a journalist—except I used to long for a job that would let me meet people and write about them and travel and create media and spout opinions about the world. I tell everyone that I was looking for a career that would let me be Studs Terkel. I’ve been searching for it for so long, it’s strange to know I finally have a name for it. (It’s just as strange that it took me this long to make the connection.)

Now that I’m here, though, I’m blindingly happy. I feel like I’m among my people. And it’s only been three weeks—there’s so much left to learn: interviewing, audio profiles, the rule of thirds, the editorial drive, AP style, Supreme Court cases, news judgment, media ethics, the best place for sushi on a budget… and if there’s a quicker, warmer way from the train to Fisk Hall.

1. Shorten the titles of my blogs for Oy!Chicago.

2. Stop listing things before the actual introductions of my blogs for Oy!Chicago.

Welcome to the delayed introduction of my blog post for Oy!Chicago! A post that is so much more than a blog. A blog that is, in fact, a vessel of hope and inspiration for the full year lying before us. I say lying because at the time of this post we are down 3 weeks, so a full year this is not. I have to say, my goodness how time……..flies. There’s a large group of flies out my window. And if there’s one thing that distracts me, it’s a large group of flies. Oh! That’s perfect!

3. No longer get distracted by large groups of….they just keep going in circles, don’t they?

Sorry. Where was I? Ah yes, time and its ability to levitate. That might actually be a good goal this year, being able to fly. Nah. This year I want to try something different. This year, I want to be realistic with my resolutions. Hence, we have the following list which I composed on a whim. Just so you know, all my life I have referred to chairs as whims. Now, these are the realistic resolutions I have set for myself in this New Year that you will call 2013. I might as well call it that too. I put a lot of thought into these as most people don’t often set resolutions they can realistically achieve. I want to be different. Therefore, when I say “realistic” goals I mean realistic in the sense that I realistically want to accomplish them. But as far as them being realistic in a realistic sort of way, well, that’s another question entirely. And here is that other question in its entirety. Are they realistic in a realistic sort of way?

No. No they are not. Enjoy!

4. Actually read a book cover to cover. Maybe even two considering it’ll only take a couple minutes to do each one. Less if I choose Dr. Seuss books. 

5. Speaking of books, go against the saying and judge a book by its cover. The same way I judge people by their clothes. Okay, maybe it’s just me I judge. I don’t think I should be a judge. That’s a funny word. Judge. Now I want some fudge. But just a smudge. In fact I would like a smudge of fudge to judge for my ludge. Lunch. 

6. Stop going on tangents about fudge. 

7. Tell a joke worth telling. That previous sentence might suffice. 

8. Finally understand the difference between the word affect and effect. Also the words weather and pancake. 

9. Write a play. Oh. Just did it. That’s wasn’t so hard. Shoulda figured since it was only two words. 

10. Stop reading into things so much. I’m tired of bruising my face.

.11 Learn how to number things properly.

512. Learn how to number things properly. 

?@H%&. Learn how to number things properly.

12. Stop repeating myself.

12. Stop repeating myself. 

14. Get over my fear of silly superstitions. Learn to deal with only the regular kind of stitions. 

15. Learn a new language. Like blortic. Get it? Because it’s a NEW language and you thought I meant…moving on.

16. FIX MY CAPS LOCK BUTTON AND MY LACK OF BEING ABLE TO DISPLAY GREAT EXCITEMENT!!!!!!!!! 

17. Overcome my fear of using the word synthesizer in the proper context of a banana. 

18. Capture, train and domesticate a great white shark to become my own personal marine life bounty hunter.

19. Work, on the, problem I have with, using unnecessary com,mas,. ,,

20. ,

21. Whenever I walk past someone trying to hail a taxi, hi-five them. 

22. fewkjwe@**6*Sskdhiwehk0)0S@1wejq92kqjkq20W):’!’1’

Sorry about that. Just killed a spider on my keyboard.

23. Go around dressed as the planet Mercury complaining about how hot I am because I’m so close to the sun while yelling at everyone else for not understanding true first world problems. 

B-7. Bingo!

24. Communicate with old friends that I’ve lost touch with. This applies mainly to my butt. We’re not on speaking terms right now which is a shame because we used to be really tight. 

25. Bah-dum chee!

26. Start acting my age, not my shirt size.

27. Not die. I’m actually going to try this one.

28. Do more outdoor activities in the comfort of my own apartment. 

29. Finish everything I start, including showers. 

30. Work out more. I’m tired of constantly workin’. (See what I did there? Neither do I)

31. Eat healthier AKA stop swallowing my food whole. 

32. Convince Whole Foods Market to sell me an individual slice of pizza. Or a piece of pie. I don’t always want the whole thing for goodness sake. Although sometimes I want the whole thing for deliciousness sake. 

33. Try walking a mile in someone else’s shoes because walking a mile in my own shoes takes about a month. I don’t go anywhere. 

34. End this list as anti-climatically as possible. 

So there you have it. My list of realistic New Year’s Resolutions for the year that will eventually be formally known as 2013. I’m feeling pretty good about this list. In fact I don’t think this list is half bad. It’s closer to about ¾ bad. Just like my humor.

Happy Jewish Newish Year!

Photo credit: Bob Kusel

Edon Pinchot is the Skokie teen, a freshman at Ida Crown Jewish Academy, who took the country by storm in 2012 on America's Got Talent. He wowed the judges and charmed the crowd with his heartfelt piano renditions of today's hits, reaching the semi-finals-all while proudly wearing his kippah. He opened for Aziz Ansari at YLD's Big Event.

Below are excerpts from an interview with the phenom. The full interview is available as a podcast on www.jufnews.org.

On deciding to audition for America's Got Talent 
I had always been a fan. I had seen that they had had really talented kids on the show. People were encouraging me to put my talent out there.

On auditioning and performing 
Up to going on the show, I had never had experiences of going in front of a crowd. I had never performed in front of more than 10 to 15 people. It was nerve-wracking but also exciting. My dad and I flew down to Austin for the audition. It looked like a circus! There were acrobats and dancers, and crazy, crazy acts. It was overwhelming, but the response from the judges and crowd was exciting. As the show went on, it became live [for every performance], so then I was more nervous. Once you are in front of that crowd, there is not much you can do. Performing was one of my favorite parts of the entire experience. That was fun for me. Once you start playing, you let everything go.

On his songs 
The songs were chosen by me. As the competition goes on, they give you tips. By the live round, it's me choosing the songs and them approving them. In between each stage of the competition I had about two months of preparation, which was more than enough. It's fun to take songs that other people already have a connection to, and to be able to make it your own- one of the most exciting parts of the show. I listen to a pretty big variety of music. I recently got into country, and I listen to pop and alternative. I listen to one song over and over until I get sick of it!

On piano lessons 
I started when I was 9. I had been asking my parents for a couple of years at that point. I was playing classical, and I hated it, for a year and a half. I wanted to quit. One summer, I stopped taking lessons. But my friends were at camp. I had nothing to do. I sat down and started playing something I heard on the radio with one finger, which started to turn into chords, and then I started to teach myself a little bit. I realized I had to start taking lessons again…I had something going for me there! I started with more mainstream chord progressions, more what I wanted. Having that background in classical music really helped!

On being openly Jewish on national TV 
We got some comments about what the yarmulke is. People would ask why I couldn't be there on Shabbos. Overall, I was treated like anyone else, which was an amazing part. It was an experiment, to see how people would accept someone wearing a kippah, how they would react. As the show went on, we started to realize more reactions across the country, more people picking up on me. That's when it hit us, the aspect of me kind of representing the Jewish nation. That was one of the really cool parts. As the competition went on, I started to see more Jews were following me, excited about what I was going to do.

On his life and music now 
I came back from New York, straight into starting high school! In the past months, I have been doing a couple of performances. I did the GA (The General Assembly of the Jewish Federations of North America). I am going to start doing some more YouTube stuff. Hopefully, I'll be able to record some original music.

On what he learned 
From a performance aspect, I've really matured. Getting a response from a crowd like that, and the judges, was amazing for me. I had my doubts, [thinking] 'This person is better than me. There is no was I'm getting though this stage.' I really progressed with my music and as a performer. One of my main goals in my music career is to be able to share it with everyone. You don't need to make up some alter ego, to change everything about you in order to have people enjoy what you do. You have to stay true to who you are. I've matured, but I've tried to stay the same person I was.

This year, instead of throwing together a list of resolutions I'd promptly forget or break, I made a handy "13 Goals for 2013" list, which I've plastered all over my house and lodged deeply into my brain (and my blog). One of my ambitions in 2013 is to find ways to incorporate Judaism into Colin's life in baby-friendly ways. 

In no way would I self-identify as "religious," but before I became a full-time mom, I spent five years working full-time in the Jewish community, four years before that active at the Ohio University Hillel, and four before that as an active participant in the B'nai Brith Youth Organization. So without being particularly proactive, I've always had an obvious, natural foot in the door for easy entry to the Jewish community  I always had my niche, without having to actually invite Judaism into my front door.

Since Colin was born, that has not been the case. Of course, we tied a little kippah on his head, had his bris, and ate a bagel in his honor. We traveled to Ohio to celebrate the High Holidays (which Colin basically slept through), and we lit candles and gave C presents during Hanukkah. But on a day-to-day basis, we haven't been particularly Jew-ish. 

What I love about being Jewish is the sense of continuity and community it propagates and the set of values that we share as we share time-honored customs and traditions. I guess that is a fancy was of saying that being Jewish is cool, and I want Colin to feel the same way.

I know I have time to address this, since our days consist primarily of scooting across the floor, singing silly songs, drinking milk, going for walks and attempting to ingest solid food. But nevertheless, I think that starting early can never hurt.

The first and easiest thing I did was hop onto Amazon and order a set of inexpensive candlesticks. Colin certainly doesn't even know what day it is, much less when it's Shabbat or otherwise. But starting to light candles now will hopefully mean that by the time he can ask, "why?" and understand the concept of Shabbat as a day of rest and quality time as a family, it will have become a regular weekly habit. 

The other big news on the Jew-ish front for the Friedman family is a class we enrolled in called Zemer Emet. It meets at a local synagogue that is only four blocks from our house, which is super convenient. It's a music class for kids under three, and we sing all sorts of traditional and not-so-traditional songs in Hebrew and English (and by not-so-traditional, I mean Head Shoulders Knees and Toes in Hebrew - yikes! I'm glad the words are written on the marker board because I wouldn't have a clue otherwise).

I like exposing Colin to Hebrew songs at a young age, and hopefully as we learn some of them better, we can sing them at home too. This class has been really cute, because most of the kids are older, and Colin sits and watches them with such curiosity. While he gums the musical instruments as the other kids play them, it's a great preview for me to see what having an older kiddo will be like. 

Colin dressed all fancy for his first time at Temple for class

Also, this week's class reminded me that we have Tu B'Shvat coming up. While I may or may not have forgotten prior to class that this holiday existed (Happy birthday, trees…sorry I forgot about you.), it was a great reminder. 

Around the same time, I got an email about a family program called Jammin' with the Trees, sponsored by PJ Library. So on Sunday, February 3, we're going to visit the Garfield Park Conservatory, reconnect with nature and wish all the trees a happy birthday with a ton of other young Jewish kids. (PJ Library is a program that sends free monthly books to Jewish kids under the age of five…which is awesome! If you have or know a child who should be receiving these books and isn't, it's easy to sign up - just click here.)

Down the road, I'd love to try bringing him to a "Tot Shabbat" program and getting him involved in TOV's Hands on Heroes program for volunteering with little kids. But so far, we're off to a great start!

Photo credit: Jeff Ellis 

Those of us working with young adults know all too well the many challenges of attracting this demographic to fundraising events. We constantly look for new ideas, venues, speakers and incentives. Then we use facebook, twitter, email, websites and more to market the event, with the hope that people don’t ignore us. We check our registration lists incessantly and pray that people show up. We try to explain the cause in an effective way and hope people understand. We review each aspect of the event so it delivers in hopes that participants will enjoy and bring their friends in the future. Sound familiar?

If you’ve felt this way and are looking for a single event that can draw hundreds of young adults in support of the community then read on, because in Chicago, we’ve spent five years building an event that thousands of young Jews know about and attend each year.

In 2008, the Young Leadership Division’s (YLD) professional and volunteer leadership team dreamed of something BIG, something new that would attract hundreds of young adults to come together for a single evening to support the Jewish United Fund and the Chicago Jewish community. In its first year, the event attracted over 700 participants, including 250 new donors and 100 Ben Gurion Society members, donors who contribute a minimum of $1,000 to the Annual Campaign. In total, YLD attracted triple the number of people than at the two major fundraising events from the previous year. YLD’s first Big Event was the largest YLD Campaign event in its 60 year history.

This past December, and five years later, YLD held its 5th annual Big Event, which is now the premier fundraising event for the next generation of Chicago’s young Jewish community. The event, held in a ballroom the size of a football field, drew a crowd of more than 2,400, including hundreds of first-time donors. The evening featured entertainment by Edon Pinchot, 14-year old semi-finalist on America’s Got Talent, and Aziz Ansari, Parks and Recreation star.

Photo credit: Bob Kusel

Elements of Success

There are three important elements of the Big Event that we have focused on each year:

1. Provide great entertainment: Having an A or B list celebrity provide the evening’s entertainment has generated enormous buzz over the years. YLD has been entertained by Matisyahu, Andy Samberg, Sarah Silverman, Jimmy Fallon and Aziz Ansari.

2. Make the event accessible: For the first time in YLD’s recent fundraising history, the Big Event had no minimum gift to attend. Rather, the requirement is for every new donor to give a gift that is meaningful to them (for some it is $18 and for others $1,800). For all previous donors, the ask is to match or increase their last gift.

3. Recruit: Our best recruitment strategy has been to leverage the relationships of community members to recruit their family and friends. We utilized a table host model to incentivize people to recruit their networks by securing preferred seating with friends at no additional charge. YLD has held five Big Events and with each year, we gain more momentum. In the first four years, attendance increased 50% or more from the prior year. The maximum attendance was in 2012 with over 2,600 (Jimmy Fallon was the entertainer).

Photo credit: Bob Kusel

Measures of Success

Attending the event is a commitment in and of itself. Each participant must purchase an $80 ticket, commit to give a gift to the Annual Campaign and spend an entire Saturday night with JUF. We are proud that thousands of young adults opt into this year after year. We know that the entertainment and open bar are great perks, but we also believe that people are coming to show their support for the Jewish community.

At the event, participants demonstrate solidarity, strength, and collective responsibility. This past year, over 2,400 young adults of all backgrounds joined together to recite the Chanukah prayers, light up a room (with glow sticks) and commit a gift to this community.

Anecdotal comments have also been telling. People have expressed their appreciation of having a way to connect with hundreds of other young adults and reported feeling good about being a part of something larger then themselves. Table hosts have shared positive experiences about their leadership roles.

As for fundraising, the first Big Event raised over $250,000, 25% more than the two major fundraising events from the year before. By 2012 that number has doubled to close to $500,000.

Every participant receives an “interest” card at the Big Event, which offers a personal connection to YLD leadership. Hundreds of people have filled out this card and met with YLD Board members and professionals. Several Big Event attendees have taken on leadership roles in the community because of a connection made through the Big Event.

Communities across the country are inquiring about and replicating the Big Event model. In 2011, Michigan held their first Epic Event and is planning to host it again in the Spring of 2012.

In total, 5,763 unique participants have attended a Big Event. As the younger generation begins to step up, accept responsibility, understand what the community is about and come to an event because they want to, we know the future is in good hands.

Photo credit: Bob Kusel

What’s in Store for the Future?

We are constantly re-evaluating our fundraising strategy. At an event that keeps growing, it becomes more difficult to get the room’s attention and to explain why it is important to give through the Jewish United Fund. This past year, the pitch included several elements to make the message of JUF more relatable. For the coming year, we will re-evaluate the messaging and explore how to best capture the room’s attention.

We are constantly gathering feedback from community members in an effort to ensure that we plan an event people want to attend. We strive to understand where we can improve. We are encouraging everyone to weigh in, because we want this event to remain relevant, even if it looks different than before. What worked five years ago may not continue to work and we are open to exploring new options.

The Chicago Bears hired a Jewish head coach, Marc Trestman, to improve their pigskin prowess.

Trestman, 57, a longtime NFL assistant, was named Wednesday to his first head coaching post in the league. The 57-year-old Minneapolis native will be the only Jewish head coach in the National Football League.

Over the past five seasons he served as head coach of the Montreal Alouettes in the Canadian Football League, leading them to two championships.

In Chicago, he succeeds Lovie Smith, who was released following nine seasons that included one Super Bowl appearance. The Bears finished 10-6 last season but did not reach the playoffs for the fifth time in six years, even after a 7-1 start.

Trestman, who has been an offensive assistant with several NFL clubs, has gained a reputation for improving the play of his quarterbacks. The Bears were seeking improvement on offense.

"He understands quarterbacks," the Bears' signal-caller, Jay Cutler, told the team's website. "He understands their thought process and the minds of quarterbacks and what we have to go through. It's going to be a quarterback-friendly system and I can't wait to get started with him."

The Bears reportedly interviewed at least 13 candidates for the position and had brought back two others for second interviews.

These days, it seems like I'm just devouring books. I'm not sure if it's because it's so easy to download new books on my Kindle, or the hour plus each day I spend reading on my iPhone while trying to balance on the El, or the fact that I often can't fall asleep at night, but lately I find myself finishing up to three books in a week. While my elementary school teachers would be proud, this habit is not so healthy for my bank account. To save some bucks, I tend to read a lot of not-so great books I find on the lists of free books like Pixel of Ink or on Amazon's books for under $3.99. Sometimes the books on these lists are fabulous, but not always. (Someone recently mentioned to me that the Chicago Public Library lets you check out books for free on your Kindle—gotta look into that.)

Despite all the junk-reading I do, which on top of my reality TV-watching makes me incredibly cultured (not), I did manage to read a lot of great stuff this past year. Not all of these books came out in 2012, and I'm not claiming these are the best books of 2012—though some of them are considered among that list. This list merely represents the best of what's on my Kindle from 2012. 

A Dog's Purpose and its sequel, A Dog's Journey by Bruce Cameron and The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein 
Okay, so thanks to my bichon poodle puppy Bialy, I'm a little obsessed with all things canine these days. While the third is not related to the first two, all three of these books are written from the perspective of the dog, which I just adored and because of which now spend a lot of time trying to figure out what Bialy is thinking. Whether or not you're a dog lover, I think you'll love all three of these doggy tales about the special and unbreakable bond between humans and their dogs.

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn 
Love it or hate it, this thriller about a super messed up marriage is one of the more disturbing, suspenseful books I've ever read—I couldn't put down. 

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern
We learned about this magical book about a circus filled with all kinds of enchantment and mystery that arrives only at night from Oy! blogger Jon Meyer back in June—I read it based on his recommendation and this was definitely one of my absolute favorites from this year. 

The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky 
This book came out in back in '99 but resurfaced in 2012 when the movie came out. I hadn't read it before now—it's a classic coming-of-age story about all the awkwardness and angst that is high school and a really good one at that.

Tiger Lily by Jodi Lynn Anderson 
This book about Peter Pan's friend Tiger Lily was recommended to me by a friend, otherwise I might never have discovered it. If you love Peter Pan and love stories and you have an imagination, you'll enjoy this book. 

50 Shades of Grey Trilogy, by E L James 
What? You know you read them too.

The Middlesteins: A Novel by Jami Attenberg 
I had to check this one out because it's written by a Jewish girl from the burbs of Chicago about a Jewish family in the burbs of Chicago. While not an uplifting story, the characters are so well-written and real I felt like they were people I knew—and maybe they are. It's a good read filled with local references and landmarks those of you from the North Shore will definitely recognize.

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green 
This is one of the best and one of the saddest books I have ever read. It's about love, cancer and childhood. Have tissues ready.

As we move into 2013, it's about that time to refresh my Kindle, so tell me—what's on your reading lists? I need your help to keep feeding my crazy reading habits!

PS-While we're on the subject of Kindles, I should mention that the anthology I edited, Living Jewishly: A Snapshot of a Generation, came out on Kindle last month, so if you haven't yet checked it out, now's a good time!

There are not too many great Jewish NFL moments to write about, the highlight being Adam Podlesh's two-point conversion. Most of our great Jewish NFLers are Offensive Linemen (we are not complaining). Here is how everyone checked out.

The season began without David Binn, Sage Rosenfels, Kyle Kosier, Adam Goldberg, Igor Olshanksy, and Greg Camarillo on NFL rosters. Camarillo did find his way onto a team, signing with the New Orleans Saints during the season; he finished with four catches for 44 yards. 

Gabe Carimi was one of the bigger stories of the Jewish sports year, but unfortunately for being benched. The Bears OLine struggled and Carimi was a part of that. We are still big fans and hopefully with a healthy off-season he can come back better than ever. 

Brian De La Puente had a nice season blocking for Drew Brees and a slew of RBs in New Orleans. He started all 16 games for the Saints.

Mitchell Schwartz, a top draft pick for the Browns, started as well. Looks like he and Trent Richardson were good finds for a struggling team.

Erik Lorig scored his first NFL touchdown. He started seven games for the Bucs and had 12 receptions for 83 yards.
Antonio Garay had only one sack in his 16 games. He did however keep up his amusing Twitter account @antoniogaray71.

Julian Edelman (while I know some people hate that I include him) had 21 receptions for 235 yards and three TDs. He also continued to return some punts and kickoffs returning one punt for a TD. He ended the season on IR.

Taylor Mays played in all 16 games and should appear in the playoffs for the Bengals. He had 22 tackles.

Adam Podlesh had another solid season for the Bears. He averaged 42 yards per punt with 34 inside the 20. He also scored a nice two-point conversion.

And we have decided to give Geoff Schwartz the TGR NFL Player of the Year Award. Granted Schwartz did NOT start on the Vikings OLine, he was a vital part of their blocking scheme. Which as we all know led the way for Adrian Peterson to have one of the greatest and historic seasons of all time. They protected Christian Ponder as well. Congrats the Schwartz.

Another bizarre year in the NFL. Keep an on eye on Mays and Schwartz in the playoffs.

And Let Us Say...Amen.
- Jeremy

Ever since my late teens and into my twenties, this motto “New Year, New Me” echoes loudly in my mind this time of year. I’m both a terribly sentimental and superstitious person, so New Year’s also tends to elicit my most ambitious activity seen all year round. It’s simple enough most of the time. Work out more. Be a better friend, sister, daughter. Do more of what I enjoy. Give back. And then some. 

And so propelling through January, driven by this motivation, I’ve been trying to do the normal, day-to-day stuff with a little more umph, a little more purpose. I’m kidding myself, aren’t I? And this is all in preparation for the personal milestone that looms large for me at the end of the month...my birthday. I’m turning 26 this year. No comment. 

This past Christmas eve, I attended, for my third time no less, the Matzo Bash. It’s a gleeful gathering of my friends and an immense crowd of every single person I grew up with, all under one roof. For a social butterfly like myself, it’s an interesting opportunity to kibitz the night away (an open bar does not hinder such a situation). By Christmas eve, the thoughts of what the new year will bring and what last year taught are under full rumination by most. What shape will the new year take in our lives? How can we best prepare to expect the unexpected? 

I started talking to a guy a couple of years older than me, who grew up here but made a rather thrilling pilgrimage to the West Coast not too long ago. A web/app developer, he just screamed “2013” to me. Young, entrepreneurial, living a life of his own invention. He very clearly had a “look”...a cross between a curly Jew fro and a ‘80s French pompadour ‘do that he was definitely pulling off. As we chit-chatted, he talked about his ultimate 2013 goal: living the life of a renaissance man.

I looked at him. This was a conversation at a party, but even still he was very committed to this notion. A renaissance man, he said. He tries to reinvent himself as often as he can. Whether it be a change of style, a new activity, anything. Anything in the name of being shiny and new. Skeptically, my first thought was, “does this guy think he’s Madonna?” But I took a step back (New Year’s resolution #1401: be more thoughtful). 

Could I be a renaissance girl/woman/what have you? Would I even want to be? I joyfully listened to my new friend list activities like skateboarding, surfing, making short films, attending short story readings and I let my own imagination run a little wild. It’s not too far-fetched. Looking back at my twenties thus far, two of those birthdays were spent in France. I’ve been running between Champaign, Chicago, the North burbs and France for the last seven or eight years. Everywhere I go, I’m a little bit different, by nature. Everywhere I go, I try new things. Is that reinvention? 

He talked about his favorite story-telling hour at Hopleaf and I thought about the book I want to write (at some point before I’m thirty). I looked at my friends scattered about the room, I thought about my family, my job, and how everyone has these thoughts from time to time. So I bid my new friend adieu, and went back to enjoying the evening with the rest of the group.

So here’s to 2013, may it bring something special to all of us. Here’s to having fun while you’re young, making the most of opportunities, caring for others and appreciating the good. 

Make a New Year's Resolution to be healthier and help those in need by joining TeamJUF at the 2013 Bank of America Chicago Marathon on Sunday, October 13, 2013!

TeamJUF members don’t just race for the finish line. They help thousands of people throughout Chicago and around the world. And they have a blast doing it. TeamJUF participants will enjoy the benefits of fully-supported training in partnership with CARA (Chicago Area Runners Association), tech shirts, fun runs, social opportunities, race day amenities and more.

Your 26.2-mile challenge starts here:

1. JOIN US: Sign up for TeamJUF at www.juf.org/marathon.

2. REGISTER TO RUN: On Tuesday, February 19, 2013, sign up for the Bank of America Chicago Marathon at www.chicagomarathon.com. (Joining TeamJUF does NOT register you for the run. You need to do that separately.)

3. TRAIN: CARA Summer Marathon training starts June 2013.

4. RUN: The Marathon is Sunday, Oct. 13, 2013. TeamJUF members will be required to commit to a fundraising minimum of $500 for the 2013 JUF Annual Campaign. This minimum is in addition to a runner's individual 2013 Annual Campaign gift.

Not a runner? You can still be a part of TeamJUF. Volunteer. To find out more, go to www.juf.org/marathon, email marathon@juf.org or call (312) 357-4877.

Valentine's Day is more than a month away, but I am hating on love a little early this year.

Love songs are like audible reminders of lovers past. If I hear a song that frequented the radio waves while I was dating a certain guy, it sticks. I will always think of him years later when I hear that song. Just like Selena Gomez's Love You Like a Love Song, it's painfully hard to forget.

For instance, I can't listen to Regina Spektor's Samson or Fidelity without thinking of an ex I dated one summer during college. Dave Matthew's Band's Crush will always make me think of my high school crush (no pun intended). Often, I hear Adele's Someone Like You come on my car radio during my evening commute and I want to cry a little bit—but let's face it, we all find someone to identify with that song—that's why her "crib" is now filled with Grammy's.

If only our senses and memory triggers were that strong when meeting and assessing new potential mates. I knew I had the topic for my next Oy article when I found myself re-dating.

During lulls in my dating calendar, I return back to the online dating world, only to be more disappointed and horrified by what I find there. A recent encounter involved a guy who shoots video for some of the major sports teams in Chicago. He seemed interesting enough, although I have little-to-no interaction with football, hockey and the like. Friends and family annually have to inform me when my alma mater is doing well or entering into a bowl. Someone mentions a "sugar bowl" and my brain trails to where I can find my next chocolate fix. After conversing with him via the site over several weeks, he sent me his phone number. I entered the number into my phone, only to find I'd already programmed him in my phone—years ago.

Somewhere between laughter and panic, I recalled the Season 9 episode of Friends, in which Joey enters his date's apartment, only to find he's already been there. He's dumbfounded that both he and his date can be so slutty as not to remember each other, until Joey's date's roommate walks in and he realizes he had previously dated her instead.

While my proverbial "little black book" isn't as full as Friends character Joey Tribbiani's, I still managed to get picked up by the same guy twice without realizing it. I code people in my cell phone by how I meet them, and I had coded this sports guy as "Camera Man." He apparently had left so deep an impression the first time I met him, that I didn't actually put his name in my phone. I must have entered him in my phone for the sole purpose of screening him. I did, however, recollect how we'd met. He and I worked in the same office building a few years back, and he worked for a different division of our company. With no prior introductions, he'd cornered me one day in the parking lot and asked for my phone number. I remembered thinking at the time that he was very awkward and I just wanted to escape to my car. Thankfully, he never followed up after his bold number exchange—until now.

I couldn't actually meet this guy face-to-face without confronting the back story. Present day" Camera Man", meanwhile, kept texting me to meet for a first date at odd hours, requesting, for instance, that we grab midnight drinks at Big City Tap. This should have been my second red flag. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt and considered that he might work odd-hour shifts with his line of work. There are no excuses, however, for proposing Big City Tap. Generally, making excuses for guys' bad behavior is not productive or advised.

The week we arranged to meet, I finally texted him my hypothesis of how we'd already met. I was correct; he was shocked. He appeared not to be scheming. In fact, he seemed happily surprised. Thus, I agreed to go through with an actual date.

We met for an early evening drink. Half the night consisted of civil getting-to-know-you conversation over beers. The second half of the night, I played defense to his offensive pawing (see, I can use sports terms!) and late-night invitations. I felt like I was on a date with a horny 15-year-old. Camera Man was no Joey Tribbiani; he wasn't slick enough. Rather, he was a forever-awkward (and apparently forgetful) doof, fueled by alcohol and false confidence.

Lessons learned? I should code my phone better and follow my initial instincts. It saddened me that for a brief moment, I romanticized this guy before meeting him. I thought our scenario could be like the movies: We meet once, but the timing is not right; we meet again, and it's magic. I think I've been watching too many romantic comedies on television. Sleepless in Seattle and Love Actually can wreck a girl for real-life romances for years.

Some re-encounters with those we've met in the past are eye-opening in a good way. I've run into old friends and people I've dated or been interested in and seen them with fresh eyes, as we're both in different places in our lives. Revisiting those old romances or "wonder-if's" can be amazing and/or heart-breaking.

Online dating has the tendency to magnify all of the problems of "in real life" (IRL) dating and even exacerbates them. When two people meet in person for the first time, the process of getting to know each other is a tango between two people showing the best versions of themselves. In online dating, you get all of that first date info and best-self impression fluff out of the way before you even meet. Often when you actually then meet each other IRL, the crazy seems to come out more quickly. As with shopping online, expectations are inflated before contact. It's like picking the toy out of the cereal box and realizing it's half the size and made out of a really cheap plastic. (P.S. Guys lie constantly about their height on their profiles. We never know whether to wear heels or flats, because who knows what's going to walk through that door?)

In all fairness, my perspective is heavily informed by the female experience, because I mostly talk with women about their online dating stories. I know guys who have their horror stories about us too. However, it seems some men, in particular, use these sites to get laid, trade up, mess around and altogether inflate their egos. For some, it's a game, and we, ladies, weren't given the playbook.

The truth is, as much as I love to bash Internet dating sites, navigating getting to know someone you initially met in person can be equally puzzling and demoralizing. Everyone has skeletons in their closet. Through dating, we only get to peek at them, a bone at a time.

As some Oy readers might recall, my Valentine's Day tribute last year was also centered on a nightmare online dating experience. It grieves me that this year I had yet another tale to tell. Last year, I categorically delved in the creepers trolling the dating sites. I won't do that here again.

However, I will recall my aforementioned thesis that amnesia, perseverance and optimism are needed in this crazy dating world. In my case, a little less amnesia might save me some time.

The author, back in junior high, with her grandma, Tessie.

My late grandma Tessie was the ultimate optimist.

Growing up a poor, Jewish girl in famine-stricken Russia, around the time of the Russian Revolution, my grandma and her family could often scrounge up little food other than onions, which they'd fry up and eat meal after meal. You would think Tessie would come to hate that food, considering her onion overload. But to the contrary, onions were always a treat for my grandma back then--and even years later as an adult living in the United States.

Her love for something as measly as fried onions is just one small way she saw her world through rose-colored glasses. The same Tessie, who never met her father until she was 9, who lived through czarist Russia as a persecuted Jew, and who had seen countless loved ones die, including her beloved husband and a cherished son, that same Tessie never complained about life.

"Darling, I am the luckiest woman in the whole world," she once told me. "Many women who lose their husbands become not very sweet, but not me. I'm the happiest woman in the world."

I'm always amazed by the sense of perspective that certain people-like Grandma Tessie-possess, even those who have faced an uphill climb in life.

Perspective, it seems, has little or nothing to do with the cards you're dealt. In fact, I once read a study revealing that Africans, who live on the poorest continent, are more optimistic than inhabitants of almost any other locale in the world.

We all know people in our own lives whose resiliency allows them to come out the other end stronger for it, people who don't dwell on their own misfortune. These are the people who inspire me.

People like my late cousin, Eric, who faced a long battle with brain cancer and eventually succumbed to his illness in his late 30s. Despite his health struggles, Eric maintained a bright outlook and sense of humor throughout his life, and managed to complete college and law school, work as an attorney, get married, perform comic improv at hospitals and senior centers, and have a daughter, and then a son--who was born after Eric passed away. 

Eric's father, Ron, once spoke about his son's optimism with the following nugget of wisdom that I think about all the time. "The happiest people are not necessarily the people who are lucky enough to avoid problems," Ron said, "but rather the ones whose ability to cope increases at a more rapid rate than their problems do." 

And then there's Clemantine. I was lucky enough to meet Clemantine Wamariya, a young woman who had fled genocide at age 6 with her older sister during the Rwandan conflict in 1994. After escaping, Wamariya found refuge with a loving host family in Kenilworth, Ill. In 2006, I had the opportunity to interview Clemantine, who was one of 50 winning students--picked from 50,000 submissions--in Oprah Winfrey's national high school essay contest. The students were asked to answer the question: "How is Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel's memoir Night relevant today?"

I will never forget Clemantine. She was poised, kind, easy to connect with, a woman wise way beyond her years. She never felt bad for her own plight, but wished only to move forward and tell her story to make the world a better place. During our interview, she told me the lessons her own mother had taught her as a little girl back in Rwanda. "She taught me to love, to just love people, to hug them," Clemantine said. "She taught me to love people not just because of what they look like or what they have, but just to love them because they are people."

Today, in her 20s, Clemantine, who is finishing a degree at Yale, advocates against genocide, teaching people about the lessons of love, peace, and kindness imparted to her by her mother a world away all those years ago.

Israelis, collectively, also share a beautiful sense of perspective. Despite all the terror and heartbreak they have faced during the country's 65 years in existence, Israelis persevere. When more than 1,000 rockets were fired into Southern Israel in November, I called to check in with my American friend who has made a home for herself in Israel. "Are people over there consumed by the violence?" I asked her, concerned for my friend and all our Israeli brothers and sisters. She said they talk about it, of course, but then they go on and live life because what else, really, can they do?

In his book Always Looking Up, actor, activist, and writer Michael J. Fox, stricken with Parkinson's disease more than 20 years ago, writes about his optimistic outlook, despite the advanced progression of his disease. He writes the following:

At the turn from our bedroom into the hallway, there is an old full-length mirror in a wooden frame. I can't help but catch a glimpse of myself as I pass. Turning fully toward the glass, I consider what I see. This reflected version of myself, wet, shaking, rumpled, pinched, and slightly stooped, would be alarming were it not for the self-satisfied expression pasted across my face. I would ask the obvious question, "What are you smiling about?" but I already know the answer: "It just gets better from here."

Over the last two years I have spent a great deal of time connecting with other cancer survivors to learn about their unique experiences in managing their illness. Some of these survivors describe feelings of isolation, loneliness, ostracism and misunderstanding, whereas others describe unprecedented love and support. Some survivors describe their experiences as colored by profound loss and repeated victimization where as others describe it as a journey filled with countless blessings.

What is clear is that there is not one cancer narrative— not one coping strategy— nor one particular model patient experience we can look to mimic or follow. And perhaps our experiences and the way we choose to describe them are influenced by where we stand. Are we recently diagnosed, currently in treatment, recently relapsed or post treatment? The options are endless and the words we choose to describe our stories can quickly change depending on where we are at.

In my case, with little to no statistics or research to explain my diagnosis and treatment regimen, I realized early on that I felt empowered by writing my own story. Writing became my primary coping mechanism for how to navigate an experience that was traumatic, chaotic, yet undeniably mine. As I felt increasingly lonely and isolated, I was deeply concerned that I would eventually lose my own voice. There were times when I appeared silent, but I was really screaming. And there were times when I was screaming, yet struggling to speak.

In a failed attempt to preserve the voice I once knew and once loved, I ended up by accident discovering a more authentic self. This self was braver, more courageous, and more giving. This self was determined to raise awareness, educate and find an outlet for my creativity.

The voice that I was so desperately clinging to was no longer the voice that I needed.
And today, I have recognized that the voice I had during treatment is no longer relevant for my here and now.

Our voices, our narratives, our twists on cancer are ever- changing.

Perhaps through writing, through art, through music, our voices then and now can and will always be preserved.

On April 17, 2013, Twist Out Cancer will launch, "Brushes With Cancer: Pairing Artists and Survivors to Create For a Cause." This event will celebrate survivorship and hope through art, music and storytelling. Over the next few months, survivors will be asked to share their “Twist On Cancer,” (lessons learned, fighting strategies and new perspectives) with our online community of support. Their ‘twists’ will serve as inspiration for local and international artists to create unique pieces of art. The art will be auctioned online and in person at the Twist With An Artist Benefit taking place on April 17, 2013 in Chicago.

At the event, participating survivors will have the opportunity to share their “Twist on Cancer”, and the artists they inspire will discuss their creative processes and reveal their final works of art. All proceeds will go directly to the Twist community.

Inspirational stories of hope will be provided by: 
Jenna Benn, Founder of Twist Out Cancer
Jonny Immerman, Founder of Immerman’s Angels
Keynote Speaker
Ethan Zohn, Two Time Cancer Survivor and Winner of Survivor Africa
Music Provided by Palter Ego
Commentary provided by Anthony Ponce, General Assignment Reporter at NBC5

Call For Submissions
Twist Out Cancer is calling upon survivors to share their twist on cancer between now and February 28, 2013. To submit your Twist On Cancer click here.

Selected artists will have the opportunity to showcase their art online and person. The art will be displayed and auctioned at Twist Out Cancer’s annual benefit taking place in Chicago on April 17, 2013. Proceeds from the auction will go toward furthering Twist Out Cancer’s mission.

If you are interested in participating as an artist please contact me at Jenna@twistoutcancer.org.

"Worries go down better with soup than without."
(A Jewish proverb)

I love winter's crisp, cold air and the way the sunlight casts shadows. I enjoy the long dark nights and I especially love to cook during the winter months. I hunker down in my kitchens and bring long cooked soups and stews together with aromatic herbs, dried mushrooms and root vegetables.

I notice my customer's habits changing as well. Suddenly everyone is actually hungry. Summers dainty and delicate appetites are replaced with something a bit heartier. I really look forward to soups, making them and eating them. They remind me of my favorite sweater taken out from summer storage, cozy and familiar, like an old friend.

I teach cooking classes all over the country and am often asked how to make the perfect chicken soup and about the differences between broth and stock.

Here are some definitions.

Stock--is a liquid base from which soups and sauces are made. Stock is made by simmering bones and sometimes meat with mirepoix (aromatic vegetables) and herbs and spices.

Broth--is an already flavored stock or water with vegetables and sometimes starch added to make it more substantial. Many prepared stocks contain flavor enhancers.

Bouillon--In French means broth, it is broth simmered with vegetables, herbs, and sometimes meat or poultry.

Bouillon cubes--are made by dehydrating vegetables, meat stock, a small portion of fat, salt, and seasonings and shaping them into a small cube. Dehydrated broth is also available in granular form. Bouillon cubes are convenient but have little nutritive value since they mostly contain flavor enhancers from monosodium glutamate or yeast extract.

Stock is the backbone of every delicious soup. Sure, you can make a soup with water or canned broth, but you will not have the richness of flavor and mouth feel. As a professional chef and mother of three, I like to make my own stocks not only for reasons of attaining superior flavor, but also I like to know what exactly is in my soup. Every ingredient in the soup is in my control and I know that when I serve my family and clients, I am giving them a delicious and nutritious gift from my heart.

I make soup with a technique called Ad Hoc cooking. It means "for this." What I mean by ad hoc is that I start out with the intent to make a great soup. Each ingredient is thought out and has a purpose. Many people make soup with "a little of this and a little of that" mentality. While you will end with soup, it will not have a defined flavor and texture. I tell my staff that soup should be made just as carefully as a sauce or braised dish. That means technique as well as love goes into the pot! I do not throw leftovers into a pot hoping for a great end-product. I start with carefully chosen ingredients and then add some touches usually in the form of garnishes.

Winter is in the air and it is comfort food season. There is nothing more comforting than a big bowl of delicious soup. Like a great book or your favorite dining companions, Chicken soup is complete on its own. You do not need much else. It is the ultimate dish.

The 12th-century rabbi and physician Maimonides touted the benefits of chicken soup to one's health. Many other cultures also believe in the restorative properties of chicken soup and it turns out that it indeed may be good for you. Poultry fat has monounsaturated fatty acid palmitoleic acid which boosts our immune system. Chicken fat has the most of this healthful fat and what has instinctively been understood by many cultures around the world can now be backed up by science; chicken soup will cure what ails you!

"Whoopee once, whoopee twice, whoopee chicken soup with rice." 
Maurice Sendak--author of "Chicken Soup with Rice"

Chicken soup is popular among many cultures and during my class "Everybody Loves Chicken Soup" we will make, explore, and taste some versions of the classic comfort dish from around the globe.

Here is my favorite chicken stock recipe.

There are only two things to remember when making chicken soup:

1. The World's Greatest Chicken Soup is made from chicken. Chicken bones, that is. The bones have all of the gelatin and collagen in them. There is no need to boil away a chicken--all you will have is "chickeny" water. Have your butcher set aside bones for you in the freezer or learn to cut your own whole chickens and save the bones.

2. Chicken soup does not come from a can, a carton, or bouillon cubes. It takes chicken bones to make a rich, flavorful, and heartwarming stock that you can turn into soup.

World's Best Chicken Soup

Yields: 4 quarts rich stock

4 pounds of chicken bones (wings, carcasses, necks etc…)
Approximately 12 cups of water
1 large Spanish onion, chopped
3 large carrots, chopped
3 celery ribs, chopped
3 sprigs of fresh thyme
5 parsley sprigs
1 bay leaf
1 whole clove
1 teaspoon of whole black peppercorns

(Do not add salt at this point. The stock will reduce as part of the natural simmering process and salting it can make it overly salty.)

Place all the ingredients in a large stock pot and fill with water only to the level of the bones and vegetables (this will guarantee a rich, not watery stock).

Place the stockpot (uncovered) over medium heat and bring to a simmer.

Skim off any scum that floats to the top. The scum will make your soup cloudy and bitter. Continue simmering for 4 hours. Turn off the heat and allow the chicken stock to steep.

Strain out the bones and vegetables and discard. Cool the stock, in your stock pot in a sink filled with cold water and ice, ompletely before storing covered in the refrigerator or freezer. Ladle off the fat from the top of the stock before using.

Stock may be stored, covered, in the freezer for up to three months or in the refrigerator for up to 5 days.

From stock into soup

1 pound white or dark chicken meat, cut into small cubes
½ cup thinly sliced celery
½ cup thinly sliced peeled celery root
½ cup thinly sliced carrots
½ cup thinly sliced parsnips
½ pound wide egg noodles
¼ cup chopped fresh parsley
Salt and White pepper to taste

1. Bring chicken stock to a simmer in a large saucepan or stock pot. Add the ingredients. Adjust seasoning to taste.

Want more chicken soup recipes or want to see the process of making the best ever chicken soup? Come to "Everybody Loves Chicken Soup" on Wednesday, Jan. 23, at Spertus at 6:30 p.m. Visit www.spertus.edu for more information.

Today, January 4th, is World Hypnotism Day! In honor of this wonderful occasion, I am going to share some wonderful news with you - hypnosis is real and it really does work for everyone! How do I know this? Well, besides being a certified hypnotist and having hypnotized dozens of people - skeptics and believers alike - I know from personal experience that everyone can be hypnotized and enjoy this deep, relaxing state of mind. It's also backed by science and even originated from physicians and surgeons searching for ways to treat people and also to discover new and deeper methods of relaxation. Would you like to learn more? I bet you do!

Hypnosis has actually existed for thousands of years, dating back to the ancient Egyptian times. The word "hypnotism" is actually a fairly recent term, coined by James Braid, a physician and surgeon in the mid-1800s. It was short for "neuro-hypnotism," which stands for 'nervous sleep' (sleep of the nerves - not anxious sleep!). Many of us are also familiar with the word "mesmerized," coined by Anton Mesmer, a Scottish physician who believed in 'a natural energetic transference between all animated and inanimate objects' (source).

Since then, hypnosis has taken off in both popularity and effectiveness, as techniques and theories continue to refine and perfect the craft. The two biggest names in the last 50 years are psychiatrist Milton Erickson, who was the influence for NLP (Neuro Linguistic Programming), and Dave Elman, who pioneered rapid and instant inductions that took individuals instantly into a very deep state of trance, thus allowing him and others to truly help people who needed both physical and psychological treatment. Elman, in fact, turned his mastery of hypnosis around and trained dentists, physicians and surgeons to use hypnosis as an alternative to anesthesia or other conventional treatment options. Famous psychologist Freud used hypnosis to treat himself and patients, and several celebrities like Matt Damon have used it to quit smoking or lose weight. 

But let's not forget about the other side of hypnosis that has flooded mainstream media and culture, which has, in part, ruined the wondrous reputation and good name hypnosis once had: stage hypnotism. When you read the words "hypnosis," chances are your first thoughts are of an eerie looking guy with a wire mustache waving a gold pocket watch in front of your face, saying in monotone, "You're getting sleepy. Your eyes are getting heavy. Heavier and heavier." In the movie The Fourth Kind, the director and writer absolutely tarnished the perception of hypnosis by the population as "manipulative" and a scary, unknown experience. Let me reassure you, it could not be farther from the truth. You will learn in a little while why these stereotypes and typecasting images of hypnosis are totally wrong, and why I'm on a mission to hypnotize as many people as I can and to show you the truly awesome and positive power and effect of hypnosis.

The history of hypnosis is well-recorded and well-substantiated by both science and human experiences, yet many of us remain skeptical over its ability to actually work. What we do not understand, we normally feel fear. So, let me break it down for you, starting with debunking the three most common misconceptions regarding hypnosis.

Myth #1: You lose complete control when you're deep in hypnosis.
You will NEVER lose control when in hypnosis. Why? Because all hypnosis is self-hypnosis. The hypnotist merely acts as a guide who knows how to access those deeper levels of relaxation that all of us have been trained to neglect. You are aware of everything that's going on. If I asked you under hypnosis to cluck like a chicken or bark like a dog, and you don't feel like doing it, then you won't. Why, then do we see people doing those things in stage shows? Because they know they're on stage and part of a show, they are volunteers willing to act a little goofy in front of others for a show. That is only one segment of the world of hypnosis.

When we were babies, we consciously went in and out of hypnosis all the time, because of its pleasant, relaxing, euphoric feeling, like you don't have a care in the world. Over time, as we grow older, society and our fast-paced culture raises our collective anxiety and stress levels, and we quickly lose this ability to return to this relaxed state we once did instantly. How would you like to learn how to take yourself back into that deep, relaxed state whenever you like? Anxiety can be a thing of the past, bad habits can be undone, positive and confident attitudes can rise up, but only if you the hypnotist want it to work. You are responsible for your own motivation and participation, period.

Myth #2: You can get stuck in hypnosis.
This is absolute baloney. Have you ever been stuck in a daydream? No! Not unless it was so good, you didn't want it to stop or end, right? Exactly the same with hypnosis! We're all guilty of daydreaming, which is a light state of hypnosis. If I were to hypnotize you and walk away, you would simply fall into a light sleep and naturally emerge from your sleep shortly after. As I already mentioned, all hypnosis is self-hypnosis, so you are in control of how deep and relaxed you wish to go. Some of us enjoy hypnosis so much and reach such a deep, relaxed state, we don't want to come up! Haven't you ever wondered if you could relax to reach that point of total bliss and without any care in the world? I know some people that did! We in the business call that the 'coma state' or Ellsdale state, where the subject is so relaxed that they do not wish to emerge from hypnosis. This is also the most workable state of hypnosis and where the most effective therapy can be done.

Myth #3: You tell personal secrets or personal information.
This is really important to point out to any skeptic out there: anything you don't want to tell me when you are awake, you won't tell me when you're in hypnosis. If I was to ask for your ATM pin or Social Security number, you would give me an emphatic no. Duh! Same goes for you when you are hypnotized; you will absolutely not share anything you wish to keep secret when you are under hypnosis. Simple as that.

So, what are you waiting for? Come find me and get hypnotized! Whether you have a minute or an hour, I promise you an unbelievable experience you'll wish you tried earlier. I may even teach you how to hypnotize yourself anytime you want to relax!

Now…SLEEP!

L'Chaim!

Are you busy? The number one excuse I get for not exercising is time. Here are some of the other excuses I hear:
· I don’t have the time
· I’m too busy
· I have a social life
· I have a job, a kid and a wife
· Three times a week, really?

Well Mr. or Ms. Too Busy, I have some shorts (video shorts) for you! You do not need to work out for 60 minutes, or even 30 minutes to reap the benefits of exercise. Fit in an exercise here and there throughout the day and it still counts. You might not get six pack abs that way but it will help build muscle and burn fat.

To help you get in shape on the go I’m creating the “Suit Series.” These videos will be quick and effective exercises you can do in your office, at home or in the gym. This first video demonstrates awesome core exercises with a small band. Enjoy! Email me if you have any questions or comments. rkrit@fitwithkrit.com

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Oh winter, such a tricky fashion season. I always find that I'm more creative and spirited with my fashion over the summer. Fun colors, light weight fabrics, etc. Well, I digress ... back to winter. While maturing and getting older, I have refined/streamlined my style and I have found that during winter, a few key fashion elements are helping me get through the cold and dreary weather (only three months to go!). Here are my tips for relatively simple, yet fashionable, winter style.

Buy several black layering pieces. I have found that owning many black layers to mix and match with each other and other pieces is a) easy b) allows for a variety of outfits and c) always looks sophisticated. Try a short-sleeve black cashmere T (Bloomingdale’s has a great cashmere selection) over a crisp white button down shirt - I did this yesterday (Clueless style!). The next day, go for a black T or tank under a thick and cozy black duster cardigan. Perhaps belt this one with a pop of color. As always add some punch to black with a couple colored or metallic accessories.

You can never own too many pairs of knee-high boots. Most Chicago fashionistas have already figured this one out, but I simply want to emphasize the point. I own at least five or six pairs in different neutral colors and I’m not done! Whether over jeans or tights, day-after-day these are fashion life-savers. For affordable and comfortable boots, I love Enzo Angiolini. For a lux option, go for Stuart Weitzman.

Use accessories, but sparingly. Summer is great for layering on the bangles and beads, but I find that winter fabrics are so rich and cozy, you should draw attention to your clothing and simply accent with a few key accessories each day. I stick to two or three max. There is no need to distract too much from the lovely cashmere, velvet, wool, leather and fur (or faux) of winter.

Stock up on scarves and pashmina shawls. They keep you warm outside and stylish inside. I find that choosing complementary scarves to go with my outfits works fashionably inside and outside the office and keeps things interesting. 

I hope this is helpful information as it has certainly helped me! You can follow me on Twitter @mrweilstyle and feel free to reach me at michellerweil@gmail.com if you’re interested in styling services or tips.

It's been really hard for me to wrap my head around what happened at Sandy Hook Elementary School less than a week ago. Normally, I'm one who takes note of these horrific stories and then tries to shut them out of my world, avoiding the news so I don't internalize the hurt and suffering.

But this time, watching horror stories on the news day after day and hearing stories of viciously murdered kindergarteners has really broken my heart. The mama in me imagines Colin as an elementary school-age kid, and I literally have no words. Just tears.

So when I heard that my favorite former anchor of the Today Show, Ann Curry, had started a movement via twitter about doing 26 random acts of kindness to commemorate the 26 lives lost in this tragedy, I knew I was in. The tricky part is that with a sick baby and a potential snow storm today, we can't venture too far from home. So we have to start small, with things we can do from home or that require very minimal travel.

Many of you know that in my former life, before the days of stay-at-home-mommy hood, I was the volunteer coordinator at a local nonprofit. I've seen first-hand the wonderful acts of kindness that others can do, and I've already made an effort to teach Colin by example. We've delivered food and purchased Hanukkah gifts for the less fortunate.

But all of those projects have revolved around upcoming holidays, and I love the feeling of doing good because we want to. Not because we're taking part in an organized program or because others are doing it to, but because it's a right and an honor. Because it feels good to give back, and in the wake of such a monumental event, it's a great way to turn something terrible into something positive.

So Colin will help - mostly by being the cute baby that makes others smile, while his mommy does the typing, the driving, the paying and the giving. Here are our first five of our #26 Acts of Kindness:

1) Donating clothes. This is something we do regularly, and I already had a pile of stuff brewing in the closet, so it seemed like a great way to start! Because of our lovely germ-fest going on, we're going to deliver them on Sunday when daddy can watch the dude. We take our clothes to The ARK's Thrift Shop, where ARK clients can shop using vouchers and any money from other sales goes directly back into their budget to fund the awesome work they do!

2) Colin is so lucky to have four wonderful and worldly-wise great-grandparents. And because we live far away from them, we don't get to see them all that often. I thought one of our 26 Acts should be something nice for them, because honestly, if they weren't around, we wouldn't be either! Plus they are the greatest, so here is what we did:

 #26 Acts #2: Going online to order and surprise C's great grandparents with photos from his six month portraits - it will definitely brighten their day"

3) This one is my favorite so far. In my work at The ARK, one thing we heard from recipients of aid from the food pantry was the exorbitant cost of diapers. And having a baby myself, I know - diapers are a necessity. So we ventured out for a (not-so) quick errand this afternoon in between Colin's naps, and here is what we did:

If you can't read it, it says, "#26 Acts: #3 Diapers are expensive! Please take and use this gift card to help defray the cost if you are in need of some assistance, and pay it forward by doing something nice for someone else." I hope that whoever sees it takes the message to heart and only takes it if they need it, instead of just seeing it as free money. While we were at Target, we did #4 too.

4) Buy 26+ grocery items for a local food bank. We chose to buy food for the JUF Uptown Cafe's pantry. I talked to Colin while we walked through the grocery aisles about why this mitzvah was important. I am pretty sure he was just interested in the cereal boxes, but hopefully he absorbs some of this :) Below is the face of a boy who needs a nap... 

And 5) I've been thinking of one of our pals a lot this holiday season. She's been out of town since before Thanksgiving visiting her family, because her dad has cancer, and she wants to help him and her mom and spend as much time with him as she can. We miss having her and her baby girl around, and we hate to see their family face this kind of pain during the holiday season. Since Colin and I can't cure cancer as act number 5, instead I helped Colin send his first bouquet of flowers to a girl, his pal L, who has a sick grandpa.

I think we are off to a great start!

So, here is the fun part.

Post a comment on my other blog Adventures of the Fried-baby with your idea of a way to do something kind for others that costs $26 or less. Not only do I appreciate your ideas, but on Sunday, I'll do a drawing using a random number generator to pick a winner, and that winner will get a $25 Amazon Gift Card (since they don't sell them in $26 increments) to use to pay it forward to someone else!

Every day coming home from work, I walk through the Christkindl market, that bastion of holiday cheer and wonder. Above the glittering lights, the mingling aromas of German food and mulled wine, the general buzz of effervescent cheer stands a steel menorah, courtesy of Chabad. The stark menorah in comparison to the intensely sparkly everything else makes for quite the juxtaposition. “Do you have Chanukah songs?,” non-Jewish co-workers ask me, “why, yes we do.” Songs sung in a minor key, far from the carefree jingle jangle of “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer”. But when someone new asks me the story of Chanukah, the response shines as bright as the most shimmering decoration. 

A holiday celebrating miracles. A holiday celebrating light in the midst of a very dark time. Chanukah (Hannukah, Hanukah...) gives us a reason to reflect on the miracles in our lives. I see it as an opportunity, looking at the horrific, senseless events of last week, to shed light on tragedies and try our best to discover within ourselves how we can face such horrible events with sympathy, empathy and caring. And it’s another moment to reflect on how faith factors into our everyday lives. 

I encountered a little miracle while living in France a couple of years ago. My new friends had never celebrated the holiday before and didn’t know much about it, so I took it upon myself to throw a Grenoble Chanukah party. And what is a Chanukah party without latkes? I soon came to the daunting realization that no, I’ve never made latkes before and yes, the recipe called for boiling hot oil. This could only end in disaster, right?

I stood up to my fears and marched to the Makolette, the kosher market in town. Maybe I wanted to give the affair a little extra Jewish “umph” or maybe I was feeling incredibly lazy, but I walked out of the store with a box of Manischewitz latke mix, feeling happy as a clam. 

A bottle of French Crisco and a few terrifying instances of burning oil flying off of the pan later, I had a pile of latkes any Jewish mother would be proud of (maybe). I set my table and added the necessary accoutrements of applesauce, sugar and the ever-present Chanukah classic, frozen pizza. As my friends started gathering at my apartment, we dined and delighted in the sounds of the “Hava Nagila” playlist I’d compiled prior to their arrival. My British, German and American guests fawned over my magnificent latkes (ha!) and it was an evening I’ll not soon forget. In a town entrenched in gorgeous, lavish Christmas spirit, the time I got to spend sharing my holiday and little bit of tradition with people who saw it all with new eyes is a memory I look upon fondly. 

That night also marked the beginning of my first holiday season away from home, not to mention my first holiday season in a foreign country. Before signing a seven month contract to live in France over the course of a school year, I never considered just how lonely it would feel being away at holiday time. Even living in a town ensconced in light and cheer, surrounded by plenty of new friends, there’s something a little isolating about being away from one’s nearest and dearest that time of year. But being able to share a little bit of my upbringing and my Jewish life with my abroad family brought the little miracles of this holiday to light in a heartfelt way that took me by surprise.

This year's Baseball Hall of Fame ballot has been released and it's headlined by Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens. Both will be a true test to the steroid era as Bonds and Clemens are arguably the best hitter and pitcher respectively who ever lived (please note that I wrote arguably).

But we here at The Great Rabbino are less concerned about Bonds and Clemens and more concerned about first-time ballot nominee Jewish baseball player Shawn Green! In all honesty, Green does not have much of a chance of making the Hall of Fame but it's nice to see his name on the list. Other first time nods include a handful of former White Sox (Royce Clayton, Sandy Alomar Jr., Roberto Hernandez, David Wells, Sammy Sosa, Kenny Lofton, and Julio Franco) for more click HERE.

So let's look at where Green stacks up and does he at least have a chance of getting on the ballot more than once.

Shawn Green - .283BA, 328HR, 162SB, 1070RBI, 2003H

NEW TO BALLOT (some of the players)

Barry Bonds - .298BA, 762HR, 1996RBI, 514SB, .607SLG, 7MVPs

Mike Piazza - .308BA, 427HR, 1335RBI, .545SLG, RoY

Craig Biggio - .281BA, 291HR, 414SB, 1844R

Sandy Alomar Jr. - .273BA, 112HR, 588RBI, RoY

Julio Franco - .298BA, 173HR, 2586H, 1194RBI, 917W

Rondell White - .284, 198HR, 1519H, 768RBI

Steve Finley - .271BA, 304HR, 1167RBI, 320SB

HOLDOVER ON THE BALLOT (some of the players)

Jeff Bagwell - .297BA, 449HR, 1529RBI, 202SB, RoY, 1MVP

Tim Raines - .294BA, 808SB, 2605H, 170HR, 980RBI

Larry Walker - .313BA, 383HR, 1311RBI, 230SB, 2160H, 1MVP

Mark McGwire - .263BA, 583HR, 1414RBI, 1626H, RoY

Bernie Williams - .297BA, 287HR, 1257RBI, 147SB, 2336H

It looks like Bonds, Piazza, and Biggio will stay on the ballot. Alomar Jr. has chance. Green....well....with enough Jewish voters maybe he could stay on for one or two more tries. This year should see Jack Morris and Piazza into the Hall of Fame and possibly Bonds and Clemens if voters overlook the steroids. Biggio will come close but I bet he just misses it.

Should be interesting. Let's hope Green stays on!

And Let Us Say...Amen.

This post was written Friday afternoon, following the tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut: 

I have never been so shaken so quickly as I was today. When I first saw the story, all I saw were random words, phrases and numbers and they added up to something insane that made me feel some sort of emotion I can’t comprehend right now. I don’t want to comprehend. I don’t like this. No one would. I have no direct connection to anything that happened and I feel this way. I can’t even pretend to imagine what anyone involved is going through right now. Everything on social media has me incredibly conflicted. On the one hand, people truly, honestly need to think about what they say before they post it on social media. This is obviously a sensitive issue—this is not a time to preach or react in a perverse manner. I feel ironic for saying that first part but while I’d rather be silent than say the wrong thing, that had to be said, despite the contradictory nature of it. If this is a jumbled mess I apologize. I wrote this for me, even though it is directed outwardly at times. It makes me feel, not better, but at the very least, like I’m not ignoring what happened. This is what I am doing as the most minimalistic action to keep my head about me. 

I like when people are saying to do something. Do something. This is advice that should be taken to heart. Talk to someone. Tell your loved ones that you do in fact love them. Hold them close. Hold them long. Never let go if you can. Tell them everything you want to tell them about how wonderful they are because we all know life is delicate and I say time and time again, we unfortunately don’t live that way. I wish I could live everyday like it was my last. In the most ironic way possible, life gets in the way of that. But we live in a time where so much can be done because of the simple advances in communication, we have to do just that. Communicate. Talk. Do something. Be there for someone today. And every day for that matter. Be a good person because you are one. Show it. Express it. Share it. Live life and be happy. In regards to today’s events, to state the obvious, no one should ever have to go through anything like this ever. Everyone seems to bring up different issues and that is entirely fine, but choose them appropriately. Focus on what’s truly important in the present and express yourself eloquently and humbly. I keep bringing it up but focus on not what needs to be done, but what is it you can do. There is something in your power that can make someone’s life better. Find out what that is and take charge. 

I held back tears more times than I care to count today. I can’t remember that ever happening to me in relation to real life events. I was too young during 9/11 to comprehend. I’m almost thankful for that in a strange way. But today, I am an adult, and I know exactly what happened, and I’m holding back tears writing this sentence and I am not ashamed to say it. In reaction to today, I have read some things online that make me downright angry and disappointed and yet there has been a multitude of beautiful words and gestures as well. Take today and know that this should be the worst and cherish that every other day is going to be better. The worst day of my life and the lives of most people doesn’t compare to today for the unfortunate select few. I am blessed with what I have. I am lucky to a level that most people might never get the chance to experience. I have a roof over my head, food on my table and loved ones to share it with. I have no right to complain about anything. Not about my day, not about my job, not about the economy, not about the government, not about anything. I try to cherish what I have because at any second it could all be taken away for no reason without ever a logical explanation. I don’t cherish what I have enough. I don’t think anyone does. That’s not to say I’m not appreciative or aware of what I have, I simply don’t acknowledge it appropriately. Today was a day that is unreal. That shouldn’t exist. But it does. It happened. We can’t go back and do it over. Go forward and do what you can to make every day ahead better and brighter. Be the best person you can be so we never see another day like this again. 

If you read this, I thank you sincerely. I wrote this for me and wished to share it with you, and you are an honest to goodness wonderful person for taking the time to participate in something that has helped me get through this day.

Why is the Newtown tragedy affecting us so much more than other acts of violence? There are so many random, senseless, acts of violence out there. Why does this fill our hearts with such sorrow, shock, and disgust, but hearing about the Batman movie massacre only fills us halfway?

I think mostly it is because they are children. Children that don’t understand the darkness of the adult world (or that we want to shield them away from it). Children who are not in any way responsible for the mess-ups and the confusion. Children who are innocent and want to love and want to play. Children who are pure, unadulterated light. 

The injustice of it, being children, reaches our hearts straight on, fills us with breaking sadness. We want to do something, anything.

We see in the scene, in our minds, the fear that the children must have had. The confusion. The screams of children who could not be protected. The screams of the parents who could not protect. It is almost too much to bear, for the injustice reaches a fevered pitch, a breakable level.

And who, our conscious, rational minds asks, who goes after children? Who is so angry at these children? Six-year-old children? A child who is caught in the gunfire, caught in the messed up dark ramblings of the adult world. But a gunman who purposefully targets such innocence, such potential, who silences those who want to giggle and laugh and run around and learn? 

That is the greatest question of all. Who, our minds beg for some sort of answer, who did this gunman hate so much that he would do such a thing?

People are crazy, of course. People do irrational, irreconcilable things. But that doesn't alleviate the pain.

The thought of the children wears us down. We, the nation, want to maternally wrap our arms around them and bring them back to life. We, the nation, want to tell their parents it was all a bad dream. We want to re-right the world again, bring sense back into the classroom. Give ourselves, and our children, the assurance that things are good and life is safe, and if we follow the lines, we will get ahead.

But instead, we see the shattered world, the unfortunate injustice, and the pain, a gaping hole in our hearts, for the tragedy of this injustice.

In the face of tragedy, in the face of unparalleled darkness, we have only one option— to bring more light into the world. If Hanukkah taught us anything, it was this. 

May the parents, the community, and the nation somehow be comforted, emotionally and psychologically, for the shattered world that sits in front of them, and may we somehow build back the pieces so that it all makes sense again. Children are our future, they are our potential, and they are the light of our lives. They deserve to be safe. May this be an opportunity to bring more and more light into the world, somehow. Somehow, let’s help set the world straight again, bringing justice.

And for the lives that were lost, may they be remembered always. And may their memory be a reminder for how we thus changed the world afterwards, for the better.

A few of the TOV volunteers in front of the center before gutting begins

On the second day of Chanukah, thirteen JUF TOV volunteers boarded a plane for New York on a Hurricane Sandy Relief Mission to help those affected by the severe flooding that decimated parts of New York and New Jersey in late October. The floods forced thousands of New York and New Jersey residents from their homes and major swaths of the states are disaster areas.

The three-day community mission to New York was sponsored by JUF's TOV Volunteer Network in partnership with NECHAMA: Jewish Response to Disaster. NECHAMA—which means "comfort" in Hebrew—is the only Jewish disaster response organization in the United States and has been on the ground since the hurricane struck the region.

"Disasters are very heavily faith based," said Gene Borochoff, President of the NECHAMA board and one of the organization founders. "We feel that there is a need to represent the Jewish community and the Jewish community needs to be involved and represented in the disaster response."

"This is great being able to work in a synagogue [today]," Borochoff continued, "but for the most part we spend the majority of our time in places that don't have a Jewish population…trying to help those with [the] greatest need. Coming in with your own hands and heart, that is a major difference."

The TOV volunteers were sent to The Jewish Center Brighton Beach, which was devastated by the storm. Built in 1928, the historic landmark is one of the oldest synagogues in New York. The congregants are currently using a local department store as a house of worship.

Dressed in old clothing, facemasks, eye goggles, and work gloves, the volunteers gutted the synagogue removing toxic debris and mold all the way down to the frame to prep the center for reconstruction.

Volunteers hauling out debris

"We are pulling away all the debris…," said Judy Springgate, a TOV volunteer. "There's drywall, doors, insulation, wood, exit signs and pipes and we took all [the materials] out with our bare hands and really helped this community."

Gutted wall

While there, the TOV volunteers celebrated Chanukah with local rabbis at a synagogue that had been repaired and rebuilt by NECHAMA and finished the week prior.

"It was a particularly meaningful time to bring a group of volunteers over Chanukah," said Yael Brunwasser, director of the JUF TOV Volunteer Network, "a time of year when spreading light and rebuilding are essential themes. Over the course of three days, volunteers worked to repair a destroyed synagogue, truly embodying the spirit of tikkun olam."

"It is so unbelievable the group of people who've come together from different ages, different groupings, and different backgrounds, even from different states," said Wendi Passen, a JUF Women's Board member and a mission participant. "It was so cool to team up with NECHAMA. The fact that we are doing this for three days and they are doing this for two years or four years and fifty days in a row…this is an experience I will never forget."

There are still over 200,000 homes and centers in New York that were declared inhabitable that require repair.

"How bad the damage is, is unreal," said Erin Gordon, another TOV participant. "You don't really see or hear about this on the news anymore as much as you did in the beginning and it's just sad and scary how bad things really are."

A second Hurricane Sandy Relief Mission comprised of Chicagoland Hillel students leaves Sunday, Dec. 16 to continue the long and arduous process of readying the Jewish Center Brighton Beach for reconstruction.

As of Nov. 19, Jewish Federation's Hurricane Sandy Relief Fund had raised almost a half a million dollars for relief efforts.

"I'm delighted to be part of this amazing effort coordinated by JUF and TOV, said Adam Hyman. "I'm going to tell everybody about the organization NECHAMA and the important work that they do. I feel fortunate to be a part of it."

Proof of the volunteers' hard work

Click here for more information about NECHAMA— Jewish Response to Disaster.

The Jewish Federation of Metropolitan Chicago is accepting donations to help those impacted by Hurricane Sandy and the following snowstorm along the Eastern seaboard. Chicagoans may contribute online at www.juf.org/relief, by calling (312) 444-2869, or by sending checks to: Jewish Federation Hurricane Sandy Relief Fund, Room 3022, 30 S. Wells St., Chicago, IL 60606.

The Chicago Federation will absorb all administrative costs, ensuring that 100 percent of all donations go directly to aid those most affected- -both the Jewish and general communities and to first responders along the East Coast- through the Jewish Federations of North America (JFNA) and other relief organizations and social welfare agencies.

For more photos from the mission, visit www.facebook.com/tov.volunteer

I'm an early riser and always have been.

Even as a teen, and now in my not-so-teen years, when people my age relish sleeping through breakfast, my circadian rhythms are less like my peers and more like my 89-year-old grandpa, who grabs his morning coffee and paper at dawn every day.

A visitor of mine from out of town, in his 40s, recently told me that whenever possible, he sleeps in 12-hour stretches into the afternoon, an admission he made to me when we met up for pancakes at 1p.m.—his choice of time, not mine. At first, I was envious of 12-Hour Sleep Guy. My body clock just doesn't work like that but, then again, I don't think I'd want it to.

After all, I love the morning because I'm a big fan of the sun. Whenever I can, I'll jog along the lake early in the morning and take in the sunrise. I'll watch the sun dawn over the shimmering water. Each time, I'm struck by the light and beauty of the sky, a palette of oranges, yellows, and reds dancing together, each sunrise breathtaking and different than the one that came before it. It never gets old, something that I can depend on—literally like clockwork. The chores and work for the upcoming day are far from my mind as I'm enveloped by the peaceful majesty of the scene.

It's comforting to know, that in a world with so much uncertainty, we can depend on the sun rising every day. Can you imagine how relieved early cavemen, who were still learning how the world operated, must have felt every time the sun rose another day?

When I watch the sun rise, my belief in God grows stronger. There's a prayer we say thanking God for creating the sun, called the Birkat Hachama, the "Blessing of the Sun," and I think about that blessing in these quiet moments at dawn. 

Light is a constant theme in my life. My bat mitzvah Torah portion, chanted 21 years ago, was Bereshit, the story of creation. Remember the one where God said, "Let there be light," creating the moon, the sun, and the stars? Even my name Cindy means "light" in Greek. Actually, the title of this very column, "Chai Lights" is a play on my Hebrew name—Chaya (life)—merged with my English name.

There's nothing more beautiful to me than the concept of light—both in nature and on a philosophical level, as illumination, a combination of wisdom, optimism, and hope.

It's ironic—all this talk about light—as the shortest day of the year, the winter solstice, approaches. But it is now, in the season of Chanukah, that the Jewish people celebrate the light. We'll soon light candles for eight whole nights to celebrate that great miracle that happened there.

No matter what season, I see light all around. I see light in the kindness of a stranger buying a homeless man a cup of hot chocolate on a cold Chicago day. I see light when my baby nephew sings and dances to Carly Rae Jepsen on the car radio. I see light when I watch an elderly couple hold hands walking down the street.

And I see light in the traditions of our people. I even see light in the darkest days throughout history for the Jewish people. It's then that we've had to keep our lights burning brightest, through all of our peril, persecution, and turmoil, such as in Israel right now. But we as a people recognize that light, in the end, vanquishes the dark. 

My mother, who is a playwright, wrote a play staged in Minneapolis back in the 1980s and 1990s, adapted from Shalom Aleichem, called The Adventures of Mottel, about a little Jewish boy who emigrates with his family from Russia to the States at the turn of the 20th century.

Mottel and his family carry candles on stage to commemorate the end of Yom Kippur. After all he and his family had endured in Russia and on their long journey to America, the family gets through all the adversity by maintaining their sense of humor, hope, and light. And then, Mottel closes the play with the following words of wisdom: "If you carry your own lantern," Mottel tells the audience, "you can make your way through the dark."

This week marks my tenth week at my first full time job after college. It is honestly remarkable to me that it has only been 10 weeks because I feel as though I have been here for so much longer. My position is at the Simon Wiesenthal Center, which in their mission statement is described as a “global Jewish human rights organization that confronts anti-Semitism, hate and terrorism, promotes human rights and dignity, stands with Israel, defends the safety of Jews worldwide, and teaches the lessons of the Holocaust for future generations.” In my new role, I act as an event coordinator in addition to the administrative assistant to the Midwest Director. As you can imagine, this is a very inspiring place to work. My boss’ office is covered with photographs of Simon Wiesenthal, Winston Churchill, Anne Frank, and Theodor Herzl. Hard to not feel inspired each and every day. 

The Midwest office that I work for actually just opened at the very end of the summer. Because this arm of the center is relatively new, I definitely feel as though I have an opportunity to get more hands on experience than if I were to be working for an office that had been established for years before my arrival. It is really flattering and interesting to be able to provide your opinion on major event details and decisions for the office after only spending a short time with the company. The only reason I am even communicating these feelings of content is because this all became quite apparent to me last week. 

During that time, we hosted two events that premiered the movie It is No Dream: The Life of Theodor Herzl, a film produced through the filmmaking arm of the center called Moriah. These events combined hosted over 200 people and were both fun and, at times, stressful to plan. In the end, the outcome was successful in achieving the centers mission and in my opinion, events that were enjoyed by all of our guests.

It also led to some personal feelings of accomplishment and led to reflect as to how I became an event coordinator. I majored in Journalism in college, which will always be one of my greatest passions. I always will find writing to be a release for any sort of anxieties in my life and I love telling stories, updating people on events and trends, and interviewing individuals about their lives and passions. However, the culmination of my college experience led me to work for a Jewish non-profit—not exactly what you learn about in the School of Media and Public Affairs.

What I realized over the past week is that probably less than five percent of the work I do is anything I learned from sitting in class. My first thought was oy! (pun most definitely intended), but I then realized that it doesn’t really matter where you learn the life skills you use on a daily basis. I am not disvaluing my education in the slightest, but rather pointing out that organized coursework isn’t always what teaches you the most.

I was explaining to some of my friends that most of the responsibilities I have in my position are things I only know how to do from working at overnight camp, pretty much living at Hillel, and being in a sorority. Sure, some basic tricks of the trade in Microsoft Office are skills I picked up during a semester long internships and I probably can write a more eloquent email after taking what seemed like 100 plus journalism courses, but the main day-to-day organizational skills, people skills, and communication skills are all thanks to four years in a sorority and at Hillel, and six years on staff at overnight camp. 

Strangely (or maybe not so much so) this is something that many people I have talked to agree with me about. Many of my friends use skills from outside extra-curricular experiences in order to advance in their careers and maybe less so information they learned in class. Of course, there are many exceptions to this, but it is extremely fascinating to think that the most important things you learn in school may not be from class at all. This isn’t exactly the direction I intended on going when I thought about reflecting on my first job, just as when I applied to major in Journalism during my senior year in high school, I wasn’t thinking that I would end up here. I guess this shows that even when you have a plan or think you know the course that you hope your life goes, things can gradually change, leading you on a whole new path. Maybe in four years my life will be similar to how I imagine or it could be completely different than I could even envision. Just when you think the whirlwind part of your early 20s is over with the end of college, it might only just be beginning.

In my post-treatment chapter of survivorship, I am no longer searching for meaning in my suffering, but rather I am committed to applying the lessons learned to my here and now. This is no easy task—in fact it is rather arduous.

As a 31-year-old young adult cancer survivor, I sometimes feel that I am the gatekeeper of innocuous information, strategies and tricks that at this point in time serve no real purpose for me.

During the eight months of treatment, I learned how to make the hospital my home, learned how to outsmart taste aversions developed during chemotherapy, and learned how to connect my mind and body through deep breathing and meditation. I learned how to see the world in hypercolor, learned how to connect with my authentic self, and learned that there is a fine line between vulnerability and strength.

Today, this knowledge and these experiences, reside peacefully between my two ears waiting to be accessed when the time is right.

While this information may not be applicable to me as a survivor, I have found it tremendously useful in my new role as a supporter.

I know what it feels like to be tied up, and locked in by cancer. I know what it feels like to be betrayed by my body. And I know what it feels like to be on pause when the rest of the world is on play.

I have learned that there simply is no perfect thing to say-and no perfect thing to do. All we need to do is show up—and keep showing up. Instead of gifts, bring love and don't forget to hold hands.

This is what I know.
This is what I learned.
And while I am grateful that I don't currently need these lessons for my own personal benefit, I am thankful to have survived and to now be able to give.

Ah, the holiday season is upon us once more! Some will imbibe on eggnog, others will be sipping fine wine. Whether it’s an office party or a prepaid bonanza, the drinks will definitely be a-flowing. But if you’re looking to try something other than the usual beer or sparkling wine, consider stepping outside the box and joining me on a trip to experience some of Chicago’s best cocktails! 

While some consider these to be the last days of our entire existence, the majority of people will still be looking for the party (and cocktail) to party their way into 2013. So, as this year draws to a close, let’s take a look back at some killer cocktails and where the best places are in the city to find them! 

Cocktail - Fizz/Flip.
Best Destination - Union Sushi & BBQ
For those of you that have checked out this modern Asian eatery for its fabulous sushi and robata grill, you have to go back to see my good friend Adam Staniszeski behind the upstairs bar and author of the newest cocktail on the list (and one of my favorites). A must-try, this version of a historically valuable cocktail recipe called a fizz - a cocktail with egg white - really brings out the flavors of the season. Adam’s versions are really creative, so go during happy hour after work one week and you won’t regret it. If anything, you’ll have great company and an even better drinking experience. Tell Adam that Ari sent you!

Cocktail - Artisan.
Best Destination - The Violet Hour
I have been talking a big game about this place for a long time, and after about six years of infrequent visits, the libations have only gotten better and better. Besides having a chic entrance and some very unique interior decor, this establishment does not disappoint. Their newest installment consists of an earl grey infused London Dry Gin and some lemon acidity, delicately balanced with orange marmalade. Juliet and Romeo, their long-standing king of all cocktails, is worth the trip - and possibly the wait, too.

Cocktail - Classic.
Best Destination - The Drawing Room
While my mentor and good friend Charles Joly has departed The Drawing Room for a prestigious role at Achatz’s The Aviary, you will not be disappointed by those he’s trained and left behind. It’s a wonderfully quaint, boutique style bar with lounges and classic cocktails. Ask for Sergio or Cristiana and they’ll lay it all out for you. If I were you, I’d go for the simple yet classical Manhattan or Hemingway Daiquiri, or be dazzled by the multi-layered flavor of Sergio’s Caribbean Queen, one I intend to taste test myself. I’m sure I’ll be heading there soon myself to remind myself why I loved bartending and creative cocktails so much.

Cocktail - Beer.
Best Destination - Emporium Arcade Bar
Yes, you can pretty much get good beer almost anywhere you go in the city, including your local liquor store, due to the rise of artisan libations and the growing national popularity of companies like Two Brothers Brewery and Goose Island Beer Company. However, there are one or two shining gems that must be acknowledged for their expert selections of brewski on tap. The first may come as a surprise to some, but the newly established Emporium Arcade, known for its vast selection of retro arcade games, actually boasts a killer lineup of beers. My favorites are the Woodchuck Private Reserve, the Lexington Kentucky Bourbon Barrel Ale, and for those just looking for a good ol’ classic and reliable brew, PBR.

Cocktail - Wine.
Best Destination - Pops for Champagne, DOC Wine Bar, Di Sotto Enoteca, Vera, Webster Wine Bar
Wine is not much different than beer in the city, thanks in most part to the growing restaurant industry in Chicago and the rise of regional and local artisan companies that offer eclectic, unique flavor profiles and even more interesting names. In my opinion, each of the places I mentioned above are beyond comparison when it comes to selection and quality. You can take friends or a date to any of these wonderful, cozy, and exciting places to whet your whistle and savor the flavor.

So cheers to you, Oy!sters, see you in 2013!! L’Chaim! 

Every year, I have one or more friends that tell me the same thing: “I’m going to start January 1st. I will work out all the time and eat nothing but veggies and protein!” And it never happens. It’s like a heart patient telling their doctor, “After a triple bypass I’ll start exercising.” What are you waiting for?

Quit procrastinating, because “I’ll start next year” never works. It does not get easier to lose weight; chocolate won’t taste worse in 2013. Burgers (cooked correctly) are always going to be delicious, unless you are anti-meat. So here’s my tip: do not give up anything. This is going to sound too simple—just eat less crap. Buy less treats, stop going to the office that’s filled with sugar for your afternoon fix. Don’t buy the cookie for your “son” instead split an awesome cookie once in a while with your “son” or anyone. 

I am not minimizing exercise, but I want people to realize step one is developing healthy eating habits. Sitting down with a plate filled with pasta, while watching TV, and drinking wine, beer, or soda is part of the problem. Eat dinner at the table, pretend you are at a restaurant. Leave the pot filled with mac and cheese on the burner and just take a small portion of it on your plate and sit down. If you want more food, get up and help yourself. By developing a habit of sitting at a table and cooking your own meals, you save money and calories. 

When my life became extremely busy I asked my wife to find me some easy recipes on-line. She found great recipes, made a grocery list and it made cooking fast. When you are organizing meals, you want to have meat (or non-meat protein like soy), VEGETABLES, and a grain (think rice, quinoa, bread, pasta). Once you start planning meals and snacks it becomes second nature to eat apple slices and peanut butter, and hummus and carrots instead of peanut butter cups. 

# 1 Ron Tip: Cut up two apples on Sunday night, squeeze lemon over it and place in a container. 

Most people are not eating enough fruits and vegetables. Aside from nutrition and minerals, fruits and vegetables actually taste good. Get in a routine of cutting up fruits and vegetables on Sundays and snacking on them. It also makes cooking easier when you already have the veggies sliced.

# 2 Ron Tip: Frozen veggies are so easy for side dishes with dinner. I often make Jasmine Rice and when it has 5 minutes left to cook I drop in frozen veggies. 

Along with eating well you have to move your body to be healthy. Whatever your health goals are, exercise is a must. Many people lose a ton of weight by walking and eating better. Since the number one excuse I get from people is, I don’t have the time, you have to plan it.

# 3 Ron Tip: In your phone, planner, calendar write in workout 11-11:30, or 5-6, 8-9, whatever time works for you pencil it in and do it. Even if it’s 10 minutes start fitting it in. 

Walking for an hour or biking for a few hours around town, is awesome but not always realistic. And I know, not everyone is able to work out at lunch like me. The good news is, you can work out for 10 minutes in the morning, 10 minutes at lunch and another 10 minutes after work and it counts. If I don’t have a lot of time to workout I do an intense 10 or 20 minutes. 

# 4 Ron Tip: If you plateau, you need to take your workout up a level, try something different and make it count. Pick four exercises like pushups, lunges, rows, and hip lifts, and do ten repetitions of each exercise and move on to the next exercise—do that straight for 10 minutes. It’s a simple way to burn calories and build muscles. If you have 30 minutes, you can do three different circuits and you will be sweating! 

Have a great 2013!!! Whatever your goals are, put them down on paper, make a plan how you’ll get there and follow through. Don’t forget to ask for help. If you need fitness help, let me know below. 

My husband and I have talked for years about hosting someone from another country. I have fond memories of my parents doing this when I was a kid. First it was a smoking, Parisian, male (after my mom requested a non-smoking, non-Parisian, female) who fascinated me with his accent and his long romantic draws on his cigarettes. I remember my mom taking such joy in showing Christophe the city, cooking for him and talking culture, art and politics late into the night. She cared for him like a mom, really. He lived with us for a month. Then came his cousin (a non-smoking, non-Parisian, female) who lived with us for a year. She was a dancer with the longest hair I’d ever seen. Every morning she wrapped it carefully into a perfect ballerina bun. She functioned as a big sister to me and someone to blame when I was in a pinch. They both became a part of our family. Recently Christophe’s daughter came to the States and split her stay between my parents’ home and ours. She loved ice cream and pizza and Great America. Just like her dad.

So when my neighbor started hosting a soccer coach from England, I noticed. I saw him take their little girl out to the soccer field, I heard them playing on the jungle gym in the yard. I was intrigued and I inquired as to how this all came to be. My neighbor gave me the contact information for the person who was placing the coaches with host families. I called her on a Friday afternoon, spoke to her on a Saturday morning, and early Sunday, we were told our coach would be arriving momentarily with bag in hand. I cleaned the house before he arrived, wanting to make a good impression representing our entire country to the English. Plus, normally, my house is a complete dump. My mom called while I was tidying. I told her what we were doing and I offered that it was a kind of homage to her and my childhood—wanting to recreate those nice feelings I had as a kid with the people who came into our home as strangers and left as family. We exchanged some memories from that time and then she wished me luck at keeping the house clean for the long term. 

When our guest arrived, I apologized for my wet hand that he wanted to shake. “I’ve just washed them.” I said. “It’s OK.” He said. “My hands are wet too – I’m nervous.” Five minutes later he had one kid on his back while wearing a top hat. Nothing in my house is subtle or slow and this guy jumped right in the fray. The kids were thrilled immediately – fresh meat. But the cementing of their affection came later that night when, (while spiking his hair up into a faux-hawk to fit in with the boys trio of mohawks) Steve remarked (quite accurately) that our dog Rufus seemed to really enjoy playing with his own “jiggly-bits.” In no time, Steve was just another part of the crazy brood. I’m not saying there weren’t things to get used to – no one has EVER called my cooking, “brilliant” and I had no idea there was a man alive who owned as many shoes as Imelda Marcos (although I doubt she exclusively purchased Converse), but our most major adjustment was simply setting an extra spot at the dinner table and curbing the marching around the house in our skivvies.

Steve stayed in many different homes during his stay in America. Each stop brought him into a different family of personalities, food, culture and tradition. He spoke about all of his adventures – the wonderful, the odd and the not so great - with the same level of appreciation. He explained that he was just so thankful to have people open to including him in their lives. Nonetheless, we were pretty surprised when Steve asked to attend High Holiday services with us. We of course said yes. He then went on to have Rosh Hashanah dinner with our family and extended family, fasted on Yom Kipper, stood in our Sukkah and shook the lulov while smelling the etrog and attended my grandfather’s funeral. My husband became seriously concerned that Steve might think we were trying to convert him. “No,” he said. “I want to experience everything. That’s why I’m here.” 

I never anticipated a stranger could fill a spot in our family that we didn’t even know we had room for. Life is pretty full with 4 kids, 2 dogs and all the joy and chaos that goes along with that. But there was plenty of room for a bloke with an open heart and an open mind. He embraced our liberal, vegetarian house with enthusiam. (A meat eater willing to eat tofu every other day? That has got to be some kind of special guy.) And while Steve didn’t smoke and wasn’t from Paris, I had a very similar experience to my mom’s time with Christophe years ago. I took a similar motherly joy in showing Steve the city, cooking for him, talking politics (it was a presidential election year after all!) and… well, I skipped the art talk and replaced it with introducing him to my most favorite series ever - “Six Feet Under.” He said yes to every opportunity/invitation/inclusion we offered him in the three months he was here. 

Steve is missed. The first couple of days after he flew back to England, my middle son walked around the house wearing the clothes he had left behind, styled his hair like Steve’s (with Steve’s hair gel) and wore his leftover deodorant he excavated from Steve’s bathroom garbage can. My oldest sleeps with Steve’s soccer jersey. My youngest boy wants to Skype with him every day so he can show him the various art projects he’s brought home. The wee one just pouts, “I miss Steeeeevvvve.” And you know what? I couldn’t be happier that they miss him. To watch your children embrace the opportunity to be open, to connect, to miss people when they leave and to discover family in a stranger is such a gift for them. What snuck up on me, was how 30 years later, it was still such a gift for me as well.

This year to commemorate Chanukah, I am breaking out of my usual latke habit and shaking things up a bit with savory and sweet fritters. Fritters are defined as a wide variety of fried foods, usually consisting of a portion of batter or breading which has been filled with bits of meat, seafood, fruit, or other ingredients. Sounds good, right?

I am so excited I cannot wait for Chanukah. I love my theme this year. Don't get me wrong, I am wild about latkes, all crackling hot and sizzling right out of the pan with just a little bit of salty greasiness. YUM! I will definitely be making and eating those too, but the fritter has unbounded possibilities. I can use anything, bind it up with a little batter and fry away. I also make sufganiyot (donuts) every year. And I am sure my favorite jelly doughnuts will be on the menu at least once. I am craving something different this year, and the fritter has unlimited potential and variations.

I am like a kid in a candy store. The infinite amount of ingredients that can be bound up in a little dough or batter and then fried up to crispy golden goodness is staggering. I am going to follow some traditional fritter recipes and riff off them a bit. I like to find delicious fried tidbits from other cultures or lesser known traditions. One of my favorite alternatives is to celebrate the festival of lights with a Sephardic style dairy meal. So, I am frying up some Bimuelos De Queso, which are crispy and creamy. They are traditionally drizzled with honey.

I am also making root vegetable fritters that can be served as hors d'oeuvres or as a side dish for fish, chicken, or beef. Finally, I am serving Apple Fritters. Delicate, crispy and light, the apple fritters will have you jumping off the couch to fry up a batch.

Chag Chanukah Sameach

Bimuelos de Queso

Makes about 24 Bimuelos

2 cups drained farmer's cheese, quark, or ricotta cheese
½ cup cornstarch or flour
1 ½ tablespoons light brown sugar
½ teaspoon salt
1 egg
Olive oil for frying
Honey for drizzling

1. Drain the excess liquid from the cheese in a fine mesh strainer over a bowl and allow it to drain in the refrigerator for 4 hours. Discard liquid.

2. Mix the cheese, corn starch, sugar, salt, and egg in a large bowl until well blended.

3. Shape the dough into 1 inch diameter balls. If the dough is too loose, add more cornstarch or flour until workable.

4. Heat several inches of oil in a heavy pot to 350 degrees.

5. Add the fritters, a few at a time, and cook. Cook for 3-4 minutes, turning them occasionally, until they are golden brown on all sides.

6. Drain on a plate lined with paper towels.

7. Arrange on a serving plate and drizzle with honey. Serve warm.

Root vegetable fritters with smoked paprika aioli

Yields 2 dozen fritters

2 medium parsnips, peeled and grated
2 medium carrots, peeled and grated
1 medium celery root bulb, peeled and grated
½ cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
Freshly ground black pepper
Pinch cayenne
1 egg
Extra virgin olive oil, for frying

1. Mix all of the vegetables together in a medium bowl. Add the remaining ingredients and stir to combine.

2. Heat 2 inches of oil in a pan over medium high heat. When the oil reaches 360, use either an ice cream scoop or teaspoon to portion the batter. Place the fritter batter, gently, in the oil and fry, turning occasionally until brown on all sides.

3. Transfer the browned fritters to a paper towel lined sheet. Garnish with sea salt

For the dipping sauce

½ cup aioli, store bought or homemade
1 tablespoon smoked paprika
1 tablespoon warm water
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

1. Mix the paprika and warm water (this helps the paprika "bloom" a bit).

2. Add the paste to the aioli and the lemon juice.

3. Serve the dipping sauce with the fritters.

Apple Fritters

Yields 16 fritters

½ cup all-purpose flour
½ cup rice flour
1 egg
1 cup ice-cold water
1 pound apples (about 3), any variety, unpeeled but cored and cut in to batons about 2 inches long and ¼ inch thick
1 ½ cup canola oil
½ cup granulated sugar
2 teaspoons cinnamon

1. Put the flour, rice flour, egg and a third of the water into a bowl, and mix vigorously with a whisk. The mixture will be fairly thick. When smooth, add the remaining water, and mix again until the water is incorporated. Stir the apple sticks into the batter.

2. Stir the sugar and cinnamon together and place on a plate.

3. In a large, heavy skillet heat the oil to 365 degrees. When hot, pour about 1/3 cup of the batter into the pan for each fritter, making four or five at a time. Spread the batter so that it is not more than 1/2 inch thick. Cook for about 3 minutes on each side, until brown and crisp.

4. Drain the fritters on paper towels, and transfer them to a rack. Dredge the fritters in the sugar-cinnamon mix and serve immediately.

I am proud to say that I am celebrating my three year ann-OY-versary! I wrote my first post in November 2009. Do you remember way back then? Obama was President, gas was only $3.44 per gallon and the biggest issue facing our nation was the economy. It’s amazing how much can change in just three short years— Obama is still president, gas was $3.44 per gallon on 11/12/12, and the economy is filling the headlines. Hmmm, so I guess the big stuff has stayed the same.

In my experience, we often look for cues around us to gauge how everything is going. It is easy to watch cable news or follow our Facebook feed to know that things are not wonderful in the world around us. There is enough negative buzz out there to make even the most optimistic among us worry.

I invite you to consider taking the opposite approach. As the secular New Year approaches and you look back on 2012 to make those important resolutions for 2013, look inside and ask yourself how am I going? We all make up a cast of billions that contribute to a global performance on the world stage. Shouldn’t every contribution we make to the world, no matter how small make a difference for us and for everyone near and far? 

This year I ran my first marathon down in Virginia Beach. It was a deeply personal accomplishment, but by no means something that hadn’t already been accomplished by others many times before. However from posting comments, photos and blog posts on my experience others wrote me to say how they had been inspired. 

Take time in the month of December to acknowledge your contributions this past year and commit to contributing more in 2013. Ask yourself each day, what did I accomplish in 2012? What would be exciting to accomplish in 2013. Keep a running list of both, and use it to inspire your New Year’s Resolutions for 2013.

Happy New Year!

“To see your face is like seeing the face of God.” – Jacob to Esau

This week’s portion begins with Jacob preparing to see his brother Esau after 20+ years apart. As you’ll recall, after stealing Isaac’s blessing intended for Esau, Jacob fled in order to avoid Esau’s wrath. Now, a few wives, a dozen children, and massive amounts of property later, Jacob finally has to deal with his past, as he learns that Esau is coming towards his camp with 400 men (seemingly to attack).

Jacob sends gifts ahead hoping to quell Esau’s anger, and then takes precautions by dividing his camp in two – hoping that if one half is attacked; the other will have time to escape.

The night before his meeting with Esau, we find the famous story of Jacob wrestling with an angel. After Jacob emerges victorious, the angel changes Jacob's name to “Israel” (hence we’re the “Children of Israel”).

The next morning Jacob and Esau finally meet, and to Jacob’s surprise, Esau is full of love for him.

In response, Jacob says to his brother: “To see your face is like seeing the face of God.”

How do we deal with this statement? Jacob had literally just wrestled with an angel the night before! You’d think that this kind of statement would have been reserved for the divine being he encountered rather than for his human brother.

We learn in the Torah that humankind was created in God’s image. Perhaps Jacob’s encounter with t angel, juxtaposed with his reunion with Esau, revealed to him just how similar we really are to divine beings?How do our actions change – specifically as it relates to how we treat others – if we can really begin to see ourselves as reflections of the Divine?

Even if you don’t believe in God in the traditional sense (or at all), can we change how we look at other human beings in order to see each individual as unique, beautiful, and worthy of our love?

This Shabbat, reflect on how you interact with others. Strive to see the innate beauty and special energy that every human being possesses. Approach your relationships and interactions from a place of love and warmth, as if every human interaction is truly one between you and the Divine. 

I don’t want to depress too many people, but I think holiday travel might be a metaphor for existence—or, at the very least, our 20s.

My first flight, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, was scheduled to leave Midway around 1:30. I’m terrible about packing. I always tell people I have packer’s block, and can only do it the morning I leave. It only takes me half an hour at the outside, so I was prepared to enjoy a leisurely breakfast at my Lincoln Square apartment with a huge mug of my favorite tea. Until, of course, I remembered that I wasn’t giving myself nearly enough time to navigate a major airport on the busiest travel day of the year. I’m not saying the scene that followed was from Home Alone, but it’s not as far off the mark as I like to admit.

Turns out more than 500 flights originating in or passing through both O’Hare and Midway had been cancelled since the night before, due to fog. (Yes, really.) My flight was only pushed back three hours, but some people in my gate area would be on standby until after 10 PM. (My sister in Seattle had a worse experience: she and her family got stuck in traffic for two hours, and arrived at the airport half an hour before their flight took off, only to be turned away and put on a flight at ugly o’clock the next morning.)

I was seated in front of the plane’s two screaming babies, but on the plus side, the delay meant that I arrived in Denver at the same time as my dad. The middle part of the holiday, the whole spending-time-with-your-family bit, was fantastic. The less I worried about where I was going or what we were doing, the more present I was and the more I was able to enjoy the company of my brother and sister and nieces and nephews.

There was another adventure calling, though: a very dear friend of mine works at the NPR station in Laramie, Wyoming, which is only a short (two-and-a-half hours) drive from my brother’s house. My brother (after checking with his insurance broker) agreed to let me use his car, and so I got directions, plugged in my iPod and took off for the scenic route.

U.S. Route 287 is, between Boulder and Ft. Collins, the main thoroughfare of a number of small suburban towns: very start-and-stop, very stressful, very aggravating. I was beginning to grumble to myself and wonder why on earth I’d been told to take it, rather than Interstate 25, which is, at least, a highway.

Oh ye of little faith: on the other side of Ft. Collins, 287 opens up into the most beautiful high plains and red rock valleys, and the speed limit is a breezy 75 mph, with no other cars in sight.

I spent all day with my friend, who I hadn’t seen in almost three years. By the time I needed to head back, it was dark, and I had another long drive ahead of me. Thus it was that I made a few more discoveries:

• Wyoming is incredibly windy, and your car will feel it on the highway. The weather, according to a mountaineer my friend once interviewed, is not terribly different from the peak of Mt. Everest, give or take a few degrees.

• It is possible to get incredibly lost anywhere, especially when it’s dark, even in a town as small as Laramie (a town so small that I drove past it for 15 minutes thinking I was looking for another exit).

• I don’t like driving over 80 in the dark.

• I don’t like driving in the dark period.

• This is in part because I was having a terrible time reading the road signs.

I spent so much time furiously promising myself a visit to the eye doctor that I got even more lost finding my way back to my brother’s house. By the time I flopped down on the couch, surrounded by dogs (a Yorkie, a Yorkiepoo and an Australian shepherd, for the record), I was dead to the world, ready for a hard reset. After all, I had to get back to Chicago the next day.

Around noon I began getting text messages from the airline: my connecting flight in Kansas City was being pushed back an hour. I didn’t think anything of it until the times started getting more and more alarming. When I was informed that I would be departing for Midway at 1 AM, clearly something had to be done. I fretted, though—which is silly, in retrospect, but I was worried that I couldn’t expect any help from the airline. They had a profit margin to take care of, right? How much could I afford to pay to switch to another, more reasonable flight?

Turns out when you call customer service and are nice and patient, you can actually get on an earlier, direct flight that lets you make a surprise stopover in St. Louis, with a deeply hilarious flight crew. And you can arrive home by midnight, all the while wondering if that other flight is even boarding yet.

I’ve spent a lot of column inches telling you about my Thanksgiving travel woes, but does it really describe a unifying theory of existence? It could. I’ve spent a lot of the past few years muddling through, worrying about hitting benchmarks and deciding where to go and what to do and whether I would be disappointed if I tried. There have been delays and setbacks and heartbreaks, not to mention a few screaming babies. Some days it feels like nothing is within your control, and you can’t do anything to change that. But then you take a risk, and you see Wyoming for yourself; you meet new people, you have an adventure, you get some perspective, you reach some new conclusions.

This is my last post to Oy! as an employee of the Federation. I’m taking some time off before, fingers crossed, beginning a master’s program in journalism. It’s a big step, but the decision has been years in the making, and I know it’s the right one, despite how scary taking this chance is. After all that traveling, it’s lovely to know that you’re finally coming home.

Thanks for reading, Oy!sters, and catch you on the flip side. 

I always feel like Hanukkah sneaks up on us. With all of the hooplah surrounding Christmas—the decorations, the commercials, the transformed radio stations devoted to playing Christmas music round the clock—it's easy to see how Hanukkah and it's eight twinkling lights can get lost in the shuffle. On years like this one, when Hanukkah starts in early December (on the same night as YLD's Big Event—are you registered yet?), I tend to end up even further behind the eight ball. 

In years past, when I'm ransacking my kitchen for our menorah after sundown, still trying to remember when I stashed it the year before and scrambling to buy a few gifts which are usually tossed into a flimsy gift bag by night six, it just hasn't been a big deal. My husband was rarely home from work by candle lighting time, and although we had been married for five years, creating family traditions wasn't on the forefront of our minds. 

But this year is not like all the others. With a Fried-baby joining the family mix this year, the holiday season seems to have a bit more gravitas. While I know that he won't remember his first Hanukkah at six months old, I want to set the foundation for a meaningful and festive Hanukkah for the years that will follow.

I know that you can't just create traditions overnight. The whole meaning of tradition is that it is something repeated year in and year out, so lucky for Colin, we have time, and I don't just mean ten days.

But in this ten days, besides finding time to shop for gifts for Colin, digging out and cleaning the menorah early, I plan to reflect on my previous 27 Hanukkahs. 

Sometimes the family traditions are more subtle than opening a small gift each night, ranging from feasting on Grandma's latkes to reading a special Hanukkah-themed kids book with Mom and Dad before lighting the candles to volunteering as a family to hosting a $10 gag gift exchange with the extended family.

So while I might surf Pinterest for a picture perfect Hanukkah tradition inspiration that we can do together each year (or I might not...and let's be honest, it's looking a lot more like not...), I know that whatever we decide to do for my 28th Hanukkah and Colin's first will be special because we did it together. 

The Introduction To The Blog Blog
Welcome, welcome, welcome. Yes, welcome to my blog…again! For you see, this is not the first time I have treated my oh so attractive readers with such generosity that is currently happening and is about to follow. I gave you a great six mini blogs for the price of one deal before and feel you deserve the privilege yet again. I’m like a Groupon. Or perhaps, a Jewpon if you will. And oh, I will. Now this first blog serves as a sort of introduction to the rest of said blogs and some of them can be a doozy. Here, a doozy is a synonym for wonderfully hilarious, entertaining and yet poignant. Although if you don’t like them, then here a doozy is a synonym for “not written by Adam Daniel Miller”. I think that’s enough bad humor for the introduction to the blog blog. I’ll save the rest for the other five. Enjoy!

The Little Things I Miss About Israel Blog
I had the wonderful privilege of going on Birthright earlier this year through Shorashim and as I always say, it was the ten best consecutive days of my life. It’s been close to a year since I was there and I wanted to share some of what I miss most about Israel. Enjoy. 

Chocolate milk in a bag: My goodness how I miss this. I miss it so much I’ve started to fill up as many Ziploc bags as I can find with chocolate milk. I’ve even started my own ‘chocolate milk in a bag’ business. It’s called….Chocolate Milk In A Bag: A Business. 

The Ability To Say Shabbat Shalom To Almost Anyone: In Chicago, and the rest of the United States for that matter, I feel that I can pick out my fellow Jews pretty well. (It’s not that difficult to spot attractive people.) However, in the rare cases I assume incorrectly, well, I simply feel foolish. I suppose it is my fault as you know what they say when you assume. The say you make an incorrect assumption sometimes and that’s never a good thing. 

Roundabouts: You know the big ‘ol intersections that are just big circles instead of traffic lights? Of course you do. There’s something a lot more fun about these and while there are some in the Chicagoland area, in Israel, you can find them in abundance. Hence, when I find one around here, I tend to drive around in circles for about three to four hours. Oh memories. 

The Views: In Israel, every single view, no matter where you are, is incredible. Seriously, no matter where my eyes would wander, it was always spectacular. Even looking straight down at my feet was majestic. You know why? Because my feet were in Israel. 

The Things I Like Blog
Hi. I like to be positive about life, so here’s a list of things I like. Enjoy.

Being Jewish, Portillo's chocolate cake shakes, the Peoplemover, being a slightly ambidextrous lefty, calculators, Monopoly, the word 'quite', mirrors, SUBLTY!!!!, rhinoceroses, model trains, k'nex, the letter R, the Muppets, pants straight out of the dryer, old Mad Libs, cinnamon ice cream, the IDF and all the wonderful friends I have that have served, I live very near to Wrigley Field, seeing my siblings, ok my parents too, ok all of my family as well, Chipotle with Cholula, ice cream snickers, postseason sports, people who are utterly fascinated by magic, my nickname ‘Jewbear’, unexpected fun late nights, the Chicago skyline, muscle soreness from exercise (I get this one about twice a year), the fact that you are enjoying reading this…I hope, live television, The Daily Show, Pancheros chips and salsa, the sense memory that comes with smell, British accents, Spaghettios, a cool pillow, making silly voices, not as popular movies, how attractive you are, writing, gummy sharks and coca-cola bottles, good craft beer, writing (needed to be said twice), the perfect amount of sleep, satire, parody, cool calm nights, time to myself, the past, the future, presents, cake.

That was silly. But seriously, I like cake. Moving on.

The Excitement of Jewish Holidays Blog 
As I’ve pointed out before, I love my Jewish holidays. In and of themselves, they are exciting no matter what, but what I want to talk about here is something that is often over looked as to why, fundamentally, they are in fact so exciting. It’s a simple truth that the Jewish calendar is a lunar one. The significance of this you ask? Well I’ll tell you. Every year is different and exciting and spontaneous and awesome. That’s what a lunar calendar does. No two years are the same! Sometimes Hannukah can be as late as early January and sometimes as early as late November. You never know! We always have to be on our toes and it keeps the relationship I have with these holidays very refreshing. Like a Junior Mint. Others should be jealous. Really, they should be. 

I also love the sundown to sundown timing we got going on. Again, it’s a lunar thing that makes it so fantastic where all of the holidays we have feel longer than they actually are. Now the ones that last a technical 24 hours feel like they’re two days long instead. It gives the perfect illusion of maximizing our holiday celebrations. Which leads to my final point. We have Shabbat. We have a special holiday that gives us a weekly excuse to get together with friends and family and have a good if not great time. Some of my best Jewish experiences have revolved around Shabbat and I get a crack at it once every seven days. Everyone should be so lucky. 

The Jewish holidays are so plentiful and often and spontaneous, that to help us out there is even a special site simply called “Is It A Jewish Holiday Today?” If you are unsure if today is a Jewish holiday of some kind, give it a look. If it’s a no, just wait until sundown and try again. 

golB sdarwkcaB ehT (If you get through this one, you are amazing)
.yaw taht ti epyt ot woh wonk t’ndid I tub ,nwod edispu siht etorw osla I ,tsiwt a ni worht ot tsuJ .won werbeH emos daer ot tnaw yllaer I .esoppus I gniht golb sdarwkcab elohw siht ot tnoip hcum toN .dne eht si siht ,yakO .dne eht litnu esualppa ruoy dloh ,esaelP .wonk I tnaillirB !hsilgnE ni tuB !werbeH gnidaer ekil tsuj eb lliw ti taht si golb sdarwkcab a gnivah rof nosaer suoivbo erom eht utB .repap no yllanigiro siht gnitirw gnitarebil os tlef tI .siht fo esuaceb mlap dna yknip ym no segdums teg I efil ym llA .ytfel a m’I ,tsriF .snosaer fo elpuoc a rof pu ssap ot aedi na fo doog oot tsuj si golb sdarwkcab eht fo aedi ehT

The Call Your Mother Blog
So here’s the deal. This was originally going to be a blog about doing little every day mitzvahs, but it evolved in my head into this. Enjoy.

You should call your mother. 

Oy! You should really give her a call. You know she loves you and she misses you and she worries about you. What? Are your fingers broken? Can’t you dial a phone? Even if you can’t, most phones these days have voice dialing, so what? Is your voice broken? Can’t you at least say Mom one time? I know, I know, you want your space and she wants to give it to you but would it kill you to give her a call just once a week? She just wants to know how you are. If you’re eating well. When she can expect those Jewish grandkids. Nothing too personal. Oh, stop. She doesn’t ask too many questions. She asks just the right amount of questions. Maybe if you called more often all these questions wouldn’t be piling up. Did you ever think about that? Hmmmm?? And you never come to visit! Always you are busy with this and that and the other and never any time for your mother. The woman who gave birth to you. Who suffered through 14 hours of labor for you. Yes, you need the reminder. You know you were no peach when you were born, right? And this is how you repay her? So pick up the phone, give her a call. Make her day. It is practically the mitzvah of mitzvahs. She tells all her Mahj friends every week how wonderful you are so you shouldn’t disappoint her. In fact, give her a call when she is with her Mahj friends. It will make you the poster child for poster children who call their mothers. And believe me, your mother loves to kvell over you. Just thinking about it is getting me verklempt. 

Hi Mom. Thank you for reading and supporting me with all my writing. You’re the best and I love you. I might even call you next week. During Mahj. I know, I’m such a mensch.

With Chanukah just around the corner, I've been thinking a lot about Chanukah music and one song in particular. It's not just that it's insipid and babyish and cloying and maddeningly repetitious. No, I hate "The Dreidel Song" because it lies. It lies about every aspect of the dreidel— from what it's made of to how you play the game. And it's also supremely poorly written.

But it's the only Chanukah song most Jews know, when there are hundreds of others that are better… and so every year I have to hear, "Why aren't there any good Chanukah songs? Why didn't all those great Jewish songwriters write any?" asked by people who never raise a mouse-clicking finger to try to find any. Yes, there are good Chanukah songs, great Chanukah songs— tons of them— and you can read about them here.

So here is a line-by-line breakdown of what is arguably the worst Jewish song of all time: 

"I made it"
No, you didn't. You did not make your own dreidel. Nor did anyone you know. Dreidels come from the store, or in gift bags. There are very nice ones that are made by artists, and cheap-o ones that are made by machines. But you do not own or use a dreidel you made. Tell the truth!

"Out of clay"
No, it's not. Clay dreidels don't work. It is almost impossible to make one that is balanced enough to spin well. I actually have two clay dreidels and they spin the worst of all the ones I have, and I have way too many. More than 30. Clay dreidels are almost always uneven, and land as predictably as loaded dice. 

"When it's dry"
Another reason you don't see any clay dreidels. They are children's toys, and kids can't wait that long. Further, true clay art is fired in kilns, not air-dried. 

"With dreidel I shall…"
What's with the passive tense? Weak. And while we're at it…

"shall"
Really? "Shall?" Who are you, Sir Walter Raleigh? Did ye get thy dreidel at yon Dreidel Shoppe a Renaissance Faire? Who says "shall"… or has for the past century or two?

"It has a lovely body"
No, it doesn't. The last person with a body that shape was a Chicago Bears lineman named William Perry, and his nickname was "The Refrigerator." A violin has a lovely body.

"With legs"
If anything, a dreidel has one "leg." It wouldn't spin on more than one. Look at a ballerina or figure skater. When you spin, it's on one leg. 

"So short and thin."
Not really. The base of a dreidel isn't that much smaller than the "body" part. And the base also isn't "thin" but tapered. In fact, the top of a dreidel's base is usually as wide as the body itself.

"And then I win."
No, you don't. If it lands with two of the four faces up, either nothing happens ('nun') or you actually lose pieces ('shin'). If it lands with the 'hey' up, you do get half the pot, but you don't win the round. And even if it lands on 'gimmel,' you don't win, because even though you win the round, the game continues until one player wins all the other players' tokens or until the latkes run out.  

Normally we tackle the top 10 college and top 10 pro basketball stories to watch this season. Due to time and numbers we have decided to combine them. Ball is back and The Great Rabbino is excited.

10) Day School to the College Game
With two former Jewish day school players in the NCAA; Aaron Liberman (Northwestern) and Jacob Susskind (Maryland) has JewBall become a legitimate thing? I will keep a close eye on both prospects.

9) Farmar Far Away
Will we ever see Jordan Farmar back in the NBA? Does some team need a point guard or is this move to the international scene long term?

8) Pastner's #17 Memphis Tigers
How good can Memphis be? Pastner is finally out of Callapari's shadow, now what does he do with his own recruits.

7) Can Jake Cohen Make a Statement
Last year Jake Cohen led Davidson to the Tournament. They lost a tough game in the opening round, but Jake became a star. Can he create even more buzz and eventually win in the tournament and get some NBA team to notice him?

6) Short man, Big Task
The Detroit Pistons are bad. Can Lawrence Frank make them good? Seriously, if he does he has to be coach of the year. 

5) From Mark Cuban to Micky Arison to ?
The last two NBA champions have been teams owned by Jews. Can we make it three in a row? 

4) Larry Brown is Back
Can the new SMU coach bring the Mustangs some wins? Can he take another team and turn them around?

3) Influx of Israeli's into the College Game Gone Bad
Over the last three years the NCAA basketball has seen three (that I know of) Israelis come over to the states; Nimrod Tishman (Florida), Hen Tamir (Jackson State), and Noam Laish (Maine). All three are gone. Will any other Israelis bring their talents to the States after these 3 failed experiments? 

2) How will David Stern's eventual departure affect the NBA?
With Stern announcing his retirement in 2014 will he have one last final imprint to make and will it make a difference on the NBA's future.

1) Omri Casspi's NBA Future
Casspi came into the league and captured not only Jews attention but the attention of the league. Since his rookie season Casspi has been slipping. Will he be able to bounce back?

And Let Us Say...Amen.
- Jeremy Fine

A couple of weeks ago, I attended a great event celebrating the launch of Living Jewishly, a newly published collection of essays curated by this blog’s founding editor, Stefanie Bregman. It was a nice opportunity to mix, mingle and give some thought to how I in fact, “live Jewishly.” 

A coworker of mine encouraged me to contribute to Oy!, so when she told me she would be doing a reading, I happily tagged along. I rushed to the bar after my long suburbs-to-city commute. It was a warm and welcoming venue (Matilda on North Sheffield) and I made my way to the back to survey the scene. There was a mix of faces new and familiar, and I put on my most engaged networking smile. I was hoping to meet fellow bloggers at the event and I was excited to meet other members of the Jewish non-profit community. 

As the evening wound down, several featured contributors delivered readings of their short stories. Some painful, some poignant, all moving in their own special way. It's interesting, I thought to myself, looking at the world through a uniquely Jewish lens. It was refreshing and relatable to hear stories...funny, wise, wonderful stories...geared directly toward what it means to be growing up Jewish in this generation. 

The older I get, and the more places I go, I learn just how fortunate I was growing up in a community that shares similar views to me regarding Judaism and Israel. In the wake of the new and upsetting clashes in the Middle East, I take comfort in my friends and family that support and share my opinions, or at least can understand where I am coming from. I welcome diversity, but there is something to be said for someone automatically being on (nearly) the same page about issues that are close to one's heart.

I'll never forget the first time I really, truly had to defend Israel to someone. It was a few years back on a train ride from Vienna to Prague. A friend and I sat with a young New Zealander. He was smart and friendly, and we all got on well enough. The conversation took a turn when he brought up the Flotilla, which had happened a few months before. He had some very unsavory things to say about the IDF and Israel in general and I was taken so aback I wasn't quite sure where to begin.

Growing up in the North Shore of Chicago, conversations like this just weren’t something I was a part of. In trying to defend my Zionist beliefs, I came off a little...flustered. I went on about how it was a PR nightmare, about how it is a terribly complicated situation; I conveyed quite clearly how upset the comments made me. I was missing the cool, calm streak of reason. It’s a flaw of mine, but standing up for what I believe in, in that moment, it made me proud to be Jewish. Wanting to stand up for my faith and my people that really made me appreciate my roots, where I come from, and where I want to go.

It’s conversations like that, and conversations discussed at the book launch party that bring up the ever-elusive topic....what does living Jewishly mean to me? To anyone? For me, I think it's a mixture of things. I don't know if it's a part of my every day. I’m hardly religious; my life is not dictated by halacha, for better or for worse. But Israel, that’s a part of me. I think of Israel often, I think of my friends there, I think of family. I think of what a magnificently beautiful place it is, of the incredible strife it’s under at this very moment. I think that no matter how hard I try to wrap my head around the situation, I'll never quite understand it. And that come what may, I hope for the best, and pray for my family and friends and for peace. 

More often than the rules of religion, I think about tikkun olam. When I was a little girl, my father subscribed to “Tikkun” magazine. When it arrived in the mail, I clearly remember asking what “Tikkun” meant, and the definition still strikes a chord with me all these years later.

So, “tikkun olam,” or “to heal the world”...it's a tall order, isn’t it?! After working for a non-profit (my first “real” job post-college), I’ve seen tikkun olam realized on an organized, very real level. I’ve been so very moved by the generosity of others by witnessing the efforts of those donating to a charitable organization. And there are so, so many ways that tikkun olam can be manifested, on a small and large scale. But what can I do, what can “we” do? Donate money, sure. Donate time, even better. “Living Jewishly” is an ever evolving concept. And as I grow older, I hope to up the tikkun olam quotient in my life. Because, in my opinion, there’s nothing like some good old-fashioned g’milut chasadim.

“Who are you?” said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, “I—I hardly know, Sir, just at present—at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have changed several times since then.”

--Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

A few months ago, I attended a going-away party for a colleague who was changing cities for a job. We’d met during an early-career, news internship, and I was flattered to be included in his “goodbyes” after all of these years. I found myself in a noisy bar, surrounded by a bushel of people I’d known for years but hadn’t seen for some time. Some of these re-connections felt awkward, but many of them also surprised me—because they weren’t. Mid-way through the party, I found myself deep in conversation, drinks in hand, with an old colleague who had once been my supervisor, talking more candidly about the news, ourselves, our beliefs…than we ever had. I can only hope that’s how my 10-year high school reunion turns out this fall.

Then again, I think my former supervisor and I fell so easily into conversation because we knew too much going in. Facebook gave the false illusion that we’d been following each other’s lives. It’s darn right creepy. He and I knew where each other currently works, what accomplishments we’d recently achieved and more.

Some half-heartedly joke, “Who needs a reunion, when you have Facebook?”

I already know who’s married; I know who got knocked up; I know who got pregnant on purpose; I know the states in which fellow high school alumni live; I know their professions; and I’ve already sized up how attractive their spouses are. What will we talk about? How will we avoid looking like creepers when we’re scarcely surprised by each other’s life updates? What’s left after Facebook?

Few friends my age pause and contemplate our unique role in Facebook’s coming-of-age story and how it has impacted us and our coming-of-age stories. Fellow members of my high school graduating class, and classes a couple of years below and above me, were among the first to join Facebook while we were in college. Facebook began in February 2004, and my alma mater, the University of Wisconsin, was among the early campuses invited to join—back when Facebook only accepted college students. According to my Facebook timeline, I joined in September of 2004 when I was a junior. My friend who attended the University of Michigan at the time invited me. Facebook, then, was an odd little world in which invitations were necessary to join, and we could search fellow students and what classes they were taking. When photo posting became available, we adopted a narcissistic obsession with posting photos of ourselves and spying on each other. For a short while, Facebook was a college students’ bubble. We never imagined we would continue to trace our lives through this medium for years to come—I’ve now been on Facebook for seven years. Kids are starting much younger than we did, and I can only imagine the bullying implications that come with it. Zuckerberg and his Facebook masterminds have expanded Facebook’s concept into a “timeline” of our lives, from start to finish. Our timelines, however, have more holes than a history text book. It’s oddly comforting, however, that Facebook acknowledges on my timeline that I was born before it existed.

Had Mark Zuckerberg gone to my high school, he would have graduated in my class; we’re the same age. While I was trekking Bascom Hill through several feet of snow at the University of Wisconsin, Z-Man was tucked away at Harvard, developing a little program that would later make him one of the wealthiest people in the world. (That depresses me, by the way.)

I’m now on the precipice of this 10-year reunion and I’m filled with a mixture of dread and curiosity. I have friends who’ve side-stepped their reunions altogether to avoid this uncomfortable experience. The late ‘90s film, Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion, gained iconic notoriety because it touches the core of our collective, reunion insecurities and the desire to prove how far we’ve come when confronted with those of our past. In the film, Michele was so desperate to prove a legacy, she claimed to invent Post-Its.

(Courtesy of IMDB.com)

"Christie: So, Mi-chelle! What are you up to?

Michele: Oh, okay. Um, I invented Post-Its.

Christie: No offense, Michele, but how in the world did *you* think of Post-Its?

Michele: Uh…"

The truth: Most of the growth we’ve achieved over the past 10 years won’t be perceivable to former classmates this November when we re-unite. Some will have fancy job titles; others will have fancy engagement rings (both of which we’ve already seen on Facebook). If you’re attending a high school reunion to prove something to your class, right a wrong, erase a perception—you’re wasting your time. At the very most, fellow classmates will quietly snicker about how attractive or unattractive you’ve become, or they’ll congratulate you on the babies you’ve birthed. At the very least, they’ll remember who you are. We all edit our lives on Facebook, so they’re coming in knowing the best version of you to date already—hey, you’re ahead.  

For many of us, our 20s are a work in progress—particularly with a rough economy—and we might not be ready to gloat and count our chips just yet. At my core, I am who I was in high school, and I always will be—I’m not ashamed.
I’m indebted to Facebook for helping me to re-unite with high school and childhood friends long before this reunion’s arrival. These friends loved me then, know me now and are catching up on my journey.

I’m bemused by Facebook’s daily offerings of insignificant details from friends’ and near-strangers’ lives. At the same time, I’m grateful my high school landscape was a land of misconceptions fed by little information. In hindsight, it was a more innocent time.

I look forward to the awkward—and perhaps creepy—interactions to follow at this reunion. Hopefully, we’ll surprise each other.

A new twitter handle has found a spot in my heart: @PostGradProblems. Although I can admit that a few of their tweets may not be relatable, the whole premise of the account resonates with me. It is blunt, nostalgic, and still possesses a sort of “woe is me” attitude over seemingly minute aspects of life. In comparison to things that most people in other generations would consider detrimental, many postgraduate concerns aren’t truly that pressing (beyond finding employment and confirming that you have enough funds to support yourself and pay your bills, which, of course, are vital worries) many of my complaints are, in fact, fairly silly. 

If my biggest problem is that there isn’t enough coffee and Diet Coke in the world to make me feel like a functioning person on some days, that I can easily pass out at nine p.m.— even in the middle of a presidential debate, an intense Bulls game, or even Homeland (just kidding, I could never actually bring myself to miss even a millisecond of Homeland)— or that I find myself missing the most random and absurd things about college on a regular basis, does that really qualify as a legitimate reason to whine? 

In some ways, of course it doesn’t. However, it is completely understandable to allow both small and large transitions in your life affect you, even if it ultimately leads to stupid complaints.

To backtrack a bit, graduating GW seemed different to me than graduating from most other schools. I wasn’t saying bye to football games and hanging out in the student union and although graduating meant saying bye to some of my best friends, the structure of coursework and extracurricular activities, and Washington DC, I literally told everyone that it wasn’t going to be that big deal. It was barely a transition. I lied.

See, many GW students (myself included at times) are a bit overly confident about the preparedness that school provides us for the real world. In my mind, sometimes it is rightfully so. Interning in the city for three years, living in your own apartment in the middle of DC, and being on your own in an urban setting, 100% prepares you for many aspects of being a young professional. Of course, some of my former classmates may feel totally prepared and as if they “beat the system” and did not have any post graduate meltdowns, but I can’t say the same. Still, there are some things about post graduate life that no amount of coursework or series of impressive internships can really prepare you for:

1. What it is like to live at home after college: This isn’t something everyone experiences, but for those of us who do, it is quite the experience. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love my family, but there is something to be said about living on your own in your own space. There is also something about living in your childhood bedroom that makes you feel like you have regressed to high school, and believe me, even if you loved high school, you have to be crazy to wish this feeling upon a 22-year-old. “Yes mom, I did eat lunch today even though you were out running errands. I am sort of a functioning adult.”

2. What commuting is like: The longest commute I experienced at GW was a thirty minute walk to an internship junior year, which took about 10 minutes if I decided to take the metro. Sitting on the el for two hours every day is exhausting. As @PostGradProblems put it “Speeding up the aging process one commute at a time. #PGP” Nothing says anxiety attack quite like being sardined on a purple line express for an hour after sitting at a desk all day. 

3. How tired you will be: I was extremely busy in college, running from class to work to Hillel to SDT events and then back to Hillel and out and so on, but post-graduate exhaustion is a whole new ballpark. As this said twitter handle so greatly phrased it, “searching for "fatigue" and "lethargic" on WebMD. #PGP.” Besides the fact that my friends joke about adopting bedtimes similar to those of fourth grade campers (and I 100% agree with them), my body literally always hurts and I could always go for a nap (if only offices had a nap room, right?). In addition, I haven’t had an immune system since, well forever, so this new lifestyle isn’t much help. I couldn’t have said this better myself: ”Starting every week by desperately trying to rebuild your immune system. #PGP”

4. How much you’ll actually miss the school part of school: I am not even sorry to say that I miss sitting in class, taking notes, and learning. I absolutely love my job, but I am not ashamed to say that I very much miss some of my professors. However, I don’t miss homework, papers, and exams, even a little bit, so there is something to be said about that. Of course, everyone knows that they’ll miss the social part of college. Why else would everyone joke about “Really regretting the whole "graduate in 4 years" thing. #PGP”

5. How you will never feel old enough to be living the life that you are living: One of my favorite tweets that I’ve read is “laughing to yourself anytime you're categorized as a young professional. #PGP.” There is not a day where I feel like I am actually old enough to be doing what I am doing. Even with the preparation for the real world, sometimes I still feel like I’m like 19, and that’s okay.

I guess what I am trying to say is that it is okay to freak out. Growing up is terrifying, the real world can be scary, and I don’t think anyone is 100% prepared for what lies ahead. I think it is acceptable to complain about these small details that encompass our lives after graduation as long as we make sure to celebrate the good things that come along with “adulthood” or what I’d rather refer to as “the limbo before adulthood.” Post Graduate problems are expected, but the little things that make this new life alright are essential.

Remember when we were kids and we looked forward to our birthdays with gusto, crossing the days off the calendar as The Big Day grew closer? When our only worry on that day was how much birthday cake frosting we could stomach?

Then, somewhere along the way—after we reached birthday milestones like the ones allowing us to legally drive, vote, drink, and rent a car—birthdays took on a bum rap. At some point in our journey, when the number of candles on the cake started posing a fire hazard, growing a year older morphed into a subject of complaint and, sometimes, even dread. Balloon animals and party favors got traded in for over-the-hill jokes and guilt about where we are or, as the case more often may be, aren't in life—not a fair trade in my book. 

In junior high, my girlfriends and I would pass the time on the school bus playing this game called "MASH," where we'd try to predict our future. MASH is the acronym for Mansion/Apartment/Shack/House, delineating the potential choices for our future dwellings. We'd ask each other a laundry list of questions: What would we do for a living? Who would we marry? How many kids would we have? What type of home would we live in?

We'd take out a piece of notebook paper and jot down multiple choices for each category. For instance, for the marriage question, we'd list a bunch of names of potential husbands, like the guys we had crushes on in our grade, and then add in some famous heartthrobs, like Kirk Cameron and Ralph Macchio, for good measure. Then, using the scientific "eeny, meeny, miny, moe" counting system, we'd select the answers to each category, right then and there designing our futures. 

If only we could use this system in real life. And if only the Karate Kid were still on the market.

With my next birthday divisible by 5—the big 35—looming on Thanksgiving weekend, and the High Holy days of reflection in the not-too-distant rearview mirror, I've been thinking a lot about growing older and wiser, and some of life's biggest questions. 

On Rosh Hashanah, I joined my parents at their synagogue in Minneapolis. Their brilliant rabbi, Sim Glaser, recently suffered a burst appendix that almost killed him. Facing his mortality head on, he delivered a dvar torah urging each of us to examine our own life and death questions, in a productive and positive way. What, he asked, is our life's purpose? What were we put on this earth to do?

I've thought about his sermon a lot over the last couple months and, needless to say, I'm still searching for the answers and probably will be for a long time to come. 

But what I do know for sure is that each one of us is meant to do many great things in this world. We're here to fulfill not just one, but many purposes in life, in our multiple roles as professionals, as parents, as offspring, as siblings, as romantic partners, as friends, as citizens of the world, as Jews, as decent human beings.

All these years later, my friends and I are still playing the game of MASH. We may have answered some of the questions posed back on that school bus, but now we're figuring out the answers to more. In fact, if anything, we've actually added so many new questions to our list. And you know what? I don't think that's such a bad thing. 

We're not supposed to have life all figured out by 35 or really any age, because how boring would that be? It's the most Jewish thing in the world to keep questioning, keep striving to figure out who we are and who we're still becoming.

There's the old adage that growing older is better than the alternative. Yep, that's absolutely true. But it's more than that. I say we adults take our cues from wise children everywhere and reclaim the joy that comes with celebrating a birthday. Growing a year older, and wiser, is a big deal—whether you're 5, 35, or 105.

After all, celebrating that we were born, that we were brought into this fascinating, heartbreaking, and beautiful world, and that we're one year closer to figuring out who we are and what difference we're meant to make in this world is worth celebrating—preferably over birthday cake frosting.

I was recently surprised to hear a friend tell me that she does not celebrate Thanksgiving. We were schmoozing over coffee and I asked about her plans for the day. She ticked off the usual expected items like: sleeping late, eating breakfast in pajamas, watching football, etc. I did not hear any mention of turkey or family and friends coming over. So I mentioned it. “Oh, I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving,” she said. When asked why, she replied, “well, it is not a Chag.” I should mention that my friend is a modern orthodox Jew.

This is not the first time I have heard this. When SHALLOTS, my first restaurant, was on Clark Street, we offered a Thanksgiving Day menu complete with turkey and all the trimmings. A regular customer came in and was extremely upset that they were not able to order from the regular menu. I told him that we were featuring a holiday menu. He said, “Thanksgiving is not actually a holiday for Jews.” 

I thought a lot about that conversation over the years and have quietly polled people regarding the American holiday and whether they celebrate it or not. 

I personally love Thanksgiving. It is the most American of all holidays. As a Jew, I especially love the holiday. It is the only holiday where I can eat a big fancy dinner and pile into the car and go visit friends or just drive around and look at the holiday lights. I can run to the store and pick up forgotten items and I can use the internet to check out pie recipes. I can, but don’t watch TV or go to a theatre and see whatever holiday movie is playing. 

On Jewish holidays, this would not be possible. Thanksgiving levels the playing field for Jews and makes you feel just like every other American.

We have a ritual in our house on Thanksgiving. I get up early, brew a huge pot of coffee, pull out the BIRD to warm it up to room temperature and cozy up on the couch and watch the Macy’s Day Thanksgiving Parade. I love the excitement, the floats, the marching bands and the whole hoopla.

When I had my restaurant in New York, I brought my kids with me to New York and we watched the floats being inflated at 2am in Central Park. There were crowds gathered and it was amazing. I also had the thrill of watching the parade right there in Columbus Circle. We loved it.

As an American Jew, I owe this great country my thanks and gratitude for allowing me to follow my religion and all of its dietary laws. I openly celebrate who I am and never apologize or hide. That is not the case all over the world.
As an American I also acknowledge our differences and the right that each of us has to celebrate or not.

Here is a classic Thanksgiving recipe— redone, pareve and delicious. If nothing else— maybe we can agree on the food?!

GREEN BEAN CASSEROLE-2012

1 pound fresh green beans, stem trimmed off
Extra virgin olive oil
½ pound mushrooms, sliced (I like to get really festive and use local mushrooms like chanterelles, royal trumpets or oyster mushrooms)
2 cups thinly sliced shallots
½ cup pumpkin seeds, toasted
For the sauce
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 tablespoons flour
1 cup white wine
1 cup vegetable stock
½ cup pumpkin puree, (I use canned)
Kosher salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 350

1. Toss the green beans with 3 tablespoons of olive oil and salt and pepper. Place the beans on a parchment lined sheet pan and roast them in the oven for about 20 minutes until they are slight browned-but still crispy.

2. Sauté the mushrooms in a large sauté pan, lightly coated with olive oil, over medium high heat until they are crispy and browned. Combine the mushrooms and green beans in a casserole.

3. In the same sauté pan, add about ½ inch of olive oil, and over medium low heat brown the shallots until they are crispy-this will take about 12-15 minutes. BE PATIENT! Combine the shallots and pumpkin seeds.

4. Heat a medium sauce pan over medium heat. Add 2 tablespoons of olive oil to the pan. Sauté the garlic just until it is soft (about 2 minutes). Add the flour and stir for 1 minute to get rid of the raw flavor. Add the wine, stock and pumpkin puree. Stir constantly until the mixture begins to thicken, about 5 minutes. Season with salt and pepper

5. Combine the green beans and mushrooms with the sauce. 

6. Sprinkle the casserole with the shallots and toasted pumpkin seeds. Bake the mixture until bubbly-about 20-30 minutes.

As I was rushing up the stairs to religious school one Thursday afternoon to prepare my lessons for my fourth grade class, one of my friends and fellow religious school teachers, Miron, sticks out his hand and places a folded piece of paper in it remarking as he walked away, “Just read it.” Curious over the contents on this piece of paper, and knowing that Miron never disappoints, I nodded with a smile and continued up the stairs. I had a feeling I was going to enjoy reading this.

After religious school finished, when the classroom was finally empty and quiet, I absentmindedly reached for the folded piece of paper, unraveled it, and began to read it out loud— something I never do. My friend Miron, a sixth grade religious school teacher at the same school, loves to challenge his students in fun ways, usually beginning with an idea or a quote. Here is what the paper said:

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel had a great appreciation of the embodiment of truth in tradition. He was fond of telling the story of a woman who approached him in the synagogue, complaining that the service did not say what she wanted to say.

“Madam,” he responded, “you have it precisely backwards. The idea is not for the service to say what you want to say, but for you to want to say what the service says.” -Richard John Neuhaus

I had to read it a second time to make sure I understood what the quote said. I began to chuckle out loud, not because the quote was funny, but because I know that feeling. In fact, I’ve felt that way for a long time. Being a longtime product of Jewish day school education, I’ve often wondered why there weren’t any of the prayers I wanted in the Siddur, such as a prayer for the Cubs to win the World Series, or a blessing for growing three inches taller, or to get blond hair. Now I realize that it was I that needed to find some meaning, that it would not appear out of thin air or be handed to me on a silver platter. It was not long after that I began to read the translations of many of the daily prayers with much voracity. Now, I didn’t believe as a young boy that people were forcing me to read these prayers, but I did question their value and meaning in my everyday life. But once I was exposed to it and learned about how it connected to me, I began to feel something meaningful when I prayed. I may not be able to say all the things I want when I pray, but I do control the feelings I feel when I pray from the heart. I pray knowing that there has already been 2,000 years of praying from Jews all over the world, that when I speak these words I am participating in a tradition that stretches back, a tradition that has deep meaning and value to those that appreciate it.

How often do we try to mold and manipulate the world or the things in it for our benefits? When we do this, are we thinking of only ourselves and personal gain? Why do we bother with traditions? Pretty heavy questions for sixth graders to tackle, let alone someone with an MA in Education and 25 years of Jewish education. 

I didn’t get a chance to ask Miron afterwards why he chose that quote, or what lesson he planned to teach his sixth graders. Maybe he was just trying to get them to appreciate the meaning of services and prayer by showing them the significance of inner faith and inner motivation. Maybe he was trying to open their minds, to fully commit themselves to the experience of the service, to feel that desire rather than perceive it simply as words and melodies forcefully shoved down your throat without question or hesitation. Or maybe, he just wants them to give tefillah a chance. 

You never know what you might experience if you never give it a chance.

L’Chaim!

Halloween is a killer, not in the gory-scary-chainsaw massacre way but in the belly. It starts the holiday season with miniature morsels of goodness. Even if you are not knocking on doors begging for candy, you have some. And it’s in your office too, there’s no escaping Halloween candy. Up next: Thanksgiving and a disgusting quantity of delicious stuffing, turkey, pies and potatoes. 

Since most people gain a few pounds throughout the winter and don’t lose it, now is the time to be diligent. With work events, friends, and family gatherings it’s hard to stay on a workout regime and eat healthy. You have to outsmart fat. Here are some simple strategies to stay slim this holiday season:

• Pre-eat, I know this sounds like blasphemy but have a healthy snack before you hit the holiday buffet style meal. 

• Appetizers OR Dessert, plan your meals. If you are going to have some pigs in a blanket that are held together by corn syrup solids (gross but usually true), skip the cake or vice versa.

• Ask to bring a dish and make it HEALTHY. HEALTHY can still taste YUMMY.

• Have some soup! Make sure it’s a puree or clear broth. Those cream based soups will kill you (not literally).

• If you are the cook, surf Cooking Light or Spark People and find healthy recipes.

• Plan your day, if you know you are going to have a dessert at dinner, have fruit when you crave sugar earlier in the day.

• Walk after your meal. Aside from burning calories, walking helps with digestion.

I love soup! I know some people are not into to soup, but if you are, here’s an easy delicious soup that’s low in calories:

Asparagus Soup

2 stacks of asparagus
2 cups of low sodium chicken broth
Small onion
2 stalks of celery
2 Teaspoons of garlic
1 Teaspoon of pepper
Teaspoon olive oil

In a deep sauce pan, heat oil on medium, add onion and celery. When the onion starts to brown place chopped asparagus, garlic, chicken broth and cook until asparagus gets soft. It takes about 10 minutes or so. Blend in a food possessor or blender. Add in pepper, serve! Sometimes I add a dollop of Greek yogurt to make it a little thicker and add more protein. 

Do you have a favorite healthy soup? Send it my way!

I wrote the following eulogy and delivered it in honor of my beloved grandfather at his service on November 5th, 2:30 p.m.

In Loving Memory of Isidore "Iz" Siegel 
May 20, 1918 – October 29, 2012

In my mind, I have imagined standing here many times. I imagined eulogizing my grandpa, my “pop-pop,” honoring him, his life, and listing the innumerable people, places and things that were changed, influenced and impacted by him. My grandpa was in his 90s after all – and no one lives forever. But I was in shock the morning my mom called to tell me my grandpa had died. And while I was writing this (and now that I am actually standing here), I realized the practicing in my mind was my heart’s attempt at bracing itself for a huge hole. Our family has lost a most loyal, loving and kind soul.

I have no idea how to summarize my pop-pop’s life in a few minutes. How do I do justice to a brother, husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather and friend? I really only know how to talk about what he meant to me, and how it felt to have him in my life. When I was a little girl, my grandpa would take me to the park. He’d wait at the bottom of the slide for me and scoop me up. He wore an aftershave that lingered on my clothes after he hugged me. That smell made me feel safe. So did sitting in my pop-pop’s lap and squeezing his jowly cheeks while he pretended he was trying to eat my fingers. As a little girl, I remember mornings in Florida when I visited my grandparents. I’d sit across from my grandpa at the kitchen table, he’d be dressed in his bathrobe and slippers, me dressed in my PJ’s, and we’d eat grapefruit halves sprinkled with sugar with special grapefruit spoons for breakfast. He had a hairbrush that always sat out on his bathroom counter that had very coarse brush bristles. I would sometimes run it through my hair and wonder if my grandpa liked the feeling of it as much as I did. And sometimes I used his shampoo that said something about making the silver in your hair even shinier. I pretended it would give me beautiful streaks of silver hair – just like my pop-pop’s.

My grandpa didn’t always know what to say in a moment, and he would fill the space with crazy faces and silly sounds. He’d make one eye big and the other one small and his eyebrows would go all crazy and he’d make a grumpy, squished up mouth. When I was a little girl it made me laugh. Fast forward 37 years, he had my little girl laughing at it too. My pop-pop loved talking to people and I noticed whenever he spoke to someone, he physically touched them – enveloped them. Most often, he would extend his hand to someone, who would take it anticipating a handshake. But my grandpa would always initially go to shake but then hold the persons hand, take his other hand and place it over the handshake, securing it. He turned a social formality into a genuine connection. His hands were soft and warm and he was always looking into your eyes when he greeted you. I can remember observing this about him as a little girl. I didn’t know the word for “finesse” back then, but I remember thinking my grandpa was very brave to touch so many people, pulling them in close and really looking at them. Later, I defined my grandpa a gentleman, a charmer, a mensch.

Over the past several years, my grandpa was bravely battling Parkinson’s. It took away a lot of things from my grandfather. It was very difficult to watch his mind be robbed of things as time went on. Sometimes he didn’t even know who I was. But when I reminded him, he’d nod slowly and smile. And my pop-pop would come back to me. My grandfather always prided himself in his ability to take care of his family. Then there came a time where he was unable to care for himself. This distressed him deeply. But as time went on, he began to acknowledge he needed help, and slowly, he opened himself up to the people who loved him to help him and care for him at the most vulnerable time in his life. He gave us a gift really. He gave us the opportunity to finally give back to him. The gift of giving back to a brother, a husband, a father, a grandfather, a great grandfather and a friend – a man who spent his entire lifetime giving to others. My grandpa gave his heart and his soul to his family. He lived for us. 

Life is very complicated. But loving my Grandpa was very, very simple.

Every water bottle, pitcher or jug we owned was filled with water. A pyramid of canned beans, corn and tuna were stacked neatly atop the counter. The pantry was full of stove-top friendly fare, such as rice and quinoa. The freezer was packed with extra ice, so that it would hold its contents better— in case we lost power. The fridge was unusually bare. We stopped buying perishable goods, once we got first wind the storm was headed our way. The emergency suitcase was prepared for a quick departure with some warm clothes and our most essential documents. We were doing our best to take the threats seriously and “hunkering down” for a hurricane.

Hurricane Sandy made landfall outside of Atlantic City and touched over 65 million people in its path. I heard about school closings as far west as Chicago, because the winds from the storm disrupted the Lake Michigan tides. The DC Metro area fared luckier than most, as many have seen the maps of New York City showing the neighborhoods still without electricity, heat and water. The heartbreaking photos of devastation along the Jersey Shore and neighborhoods in New York such as Breezy Pointe have been difficult to watch.

Looking back at the moments we experienced while this tragedy unfolded through the fuzzy signal on the TV in our living room, we could do little more than “hunker down.” From Sunday evening through Tuesday afternoon, we stayed indoors and waited for the storm to pass. There was real fear as we watched tall, strong trees bounce back and forth in the 50 mile and hour gusts. We even considered sleeping in the hallway as conditions started to really deteriorate. I admittedly wondered what it would feel like and how I would react, if I was awoken in the middle of the night to a tree coming down through our home.

Though, on the second morning, when it became clear that the serious danger had passed from DC, and the news had focused attention mainly on the devastation of our friends to the north, I began to feel helpless. What could I do to help? I was miles from the wreckage and there was no way to be there and make a difference.

Then on my Facebook news feed, a message pops up that the JUF had established a “Jewish Federation Hurricane Sandy Relief Fund.” Time and time again, the JUF steps up when people need it most. Even though I’ve made the East Coast my home, last week was no exception.  

At the beginning of this week’s portion, Vayera, we find God visiting Abraham to check on him after his recent circumcision (which at age 99, was likely taking its toll physically). Modeling for us the Jewish value of bikkur cholim – visiting those who are ill – you’d think that Abraham would have been flattered that God was stopping by to hang out for a bit. Instead though, what we find is one of the more interesting interactions in the Torah. Just as God was visiting Abraham, Abraham looked up and saw three men passing by. Abraham rushes out of his tent to them (leaving God behind!) in order to greet them and to offer them food and shelter as a respite from their journey.

What. Just. Happened.?!

Abraham, our patriarch, supposedly the founder of monotheism, is being visited by his one and only God, and abandons God in favor of greeting complete strangers?

Is this simply a case of excessive hospitality?

There is a midrash that teaches us that Abraham's tent was consciously kept open so that he could see visitors coming in order to greet them in this fashion. [Genesis Rabbah 48:9]

Clearly we can learn from this episode the significant value that our tradition places on welcoming guests – including (and especially) ones that we don’t have existing relationships with.

For example, on Passover, there’s a part of the Seder (the paragraph of “Ha Lachma”) where we say: “Let all who are hungry come and eat!” Many families will actually open the door to their home at this time and shout it to the street so that anyone passing by in need of a Seder will be able to come and join (granted, this model might have been more practical in Old Country where folks were living in closer, tighter quarters, although there’s certainly an argument to be made that in big cities with dense populations the ability still exists).

In the Talmud, we see Abraham’s actions used to illustrate a general (and significant) principle: “Rabbi Yehuda said in the name of Rav: Welcoming guests is greater than receiving the Divine.” [Bab. Talmud Shabbat 127b]

And yet, despite our people’s strong tradition of being welcoming, there are many who find today’s Jewish community to be cold and distant, rather than warm and present. People sometimes feel when they walk into synagogues that they might not be greeted warmly. Individuals will make charitable contributions to Jewish organizations, and may not receive a personal phone call expressing appreciation – rather, they’ll only receive a form thank-you letter in the mail. Someone new will move to town, may not be invited to join existing social circles, and/or may not be invited over to someone’s home for a Shabbat dinner shortly after arriving so that s/he can meet others.

We can and need to do better. Our tradition and accompanying values demand it.

This Shabbat, reflect on what you can do to be more welcoming of others.

Commit to reaching out to someone you know is new to the area and invite him/her to your home for a meal.

We learn from Shammai in Pirkei Avot, the section of the Mishnah dealing with the Ethics of our Ancestors, that we should “receive everyone with a cheerful face.” [Avot 1:15]

Sometimes all it takes to change the world is a smile.

How we spend October 31 can say a lot about us as people. Some of us hand out candy from the front porch. Some of us go wild and hit the town in costume. Some of us go about our day business as usual. And some of us stay up until midnight, furiously outlining the 50,000-word novel we'll start writing when the clock strikes.

Ask anyone in the last group why this is, and they might reply, in varying states of dazedness, elation or exhaustion, "NaNo." It's not a Mork & Mindy reference—it's National Novel Writing Month, also known as NaNoWriMo. The gist of the project is not to produce a perfectly formed story in 30 days, but to create a messy, sprawling, often terrible first draft that you can either edit when you can stomach looking at it again, or simply use as bragging rights for having finished a novel. To achieve the minimum word count by the end of the month means writing 1,667 words a day, a number to which anyone who has participated probably has some visceral reaction.

Your approximately 1,700 words translate to three or four typed pages daily. My favorite method is to write three pages longhand on notebook paper; when I type that up, I inevitably add more words, and can generally make the per diem requirement. (I wouldn't say I'm old hat at NaNo: I've participated on and off since about 2004, and have actually "won" twice. But you learn as much from the struggle as you do from the victory, as anyone who's ever trained for a race can probably tell you too!)

NaNo exacts a toll, I'm not going to lie: my family has long since come to terms with my insistence that I get a couple hours alone in my room during Thanksgiving so I can finish my day's words, and social outings throughout November involve a lot of give and take (and sleepless nights or very early mornings). But if you're the kind of person for whom writing, for all the anguish, rage and self-doubt it can cause, is the thing that makes you feel most alive, NaNo is your marathon, your delirious month of living and breathing story and words, along with hundreds of thousands of other people who have given themselves permission to do the same for thirty days.

The community of NaNo is a life-saver, by the way. Writing a novel alone is hard enough, but there's something awesome about doing it at the same time as other people the world over. Advice and help come from all corners of the internet, though this year's favorite might wind up being the inevitable Fake NaNoWriMo Tips Twitter account (I promise the jokes are hilarious if you've ever tried to write a story or read a writing blog). NaNo also has an extensive system of local meet-ups in place, with communal writing parties at coffee shops, libraries and other spots. And if you're signed up for the official newsletter, every week you get encouragement and words of wisdom from authors you admire—nifty, right?

Some people use NaNo for that great idea they've been nursing for years but never acted on; others go full-bore silly (mine this year involves werewolves, though they're not sexy werewolves, so perhaps this one isn't destined to sell). Every possible genre you can think of (and many, I mean many, that you have not) has some representation, and while literary agents are famously leery of NaNo (December becomes an avalanche of unedited manuscripts in the slush pile), some books you've heard of, including The Night Circus   and Water for Elephants, started out in 1700-word-a-day chunks.

Even if you don't "win" or finish your novel, the benefits of NaNo are quite tangible. For me, it does a great job of killing my fear of the blank page. Your first draft doesn't have to be good, it just has to begin. You learn to go with your first instinct and just plow ahead, because you can always change it later, and you might even surprise yourself when you stray from your own script. That's not just useful for novel-writers, that's a good skill for anyone who relies on words for a living.

November 30 can be a strange time for a NaNo participant. It often feels like the following, if you're on the verge of passing 50K:

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Your story may have devolved into sputtering nonsense, or you may be on such a roll that you clear your last 8K in a single sitting (the two are not mutually exclusive). Both deserve a good round of celebratory beat-boxing. If this sounds even remotely intriguing or appealing, why not sign up and see for yourself? As for me, maybe this whole novel thing can be some sort of meta-examination of NaNoWriMo (and werewolves)—you think I can count this article toward my daily total?

Catch you on the flip side, Oy!sters—if you're writing a novel this month, break a leg (or maybe some pencils), and tell us about it in the comments!

I am alive to write this thanks to my hypochondria. Remember my hypochondria? Of course you do. I talked about it so much that one time. See my hypochondria led to me successfully realize I had a ticking time bomb in my abdomen. That ticking time bomb was appendicitis and I was going to have to have surgery. I have to tell you, this whole experience was actually fun. Yes, fun. I know, fun is not usually a word most people associate with surgery, but I’m not most people. I’m mostly a person. A person named Adam. Adam Daniel Miller. Hence my name after the title. Moving on. 

What’s amazing is that even given my hypochondria, it took me almost 24 hours to do something about the oddity in my abdomen. At first, what I felt was only really obnoxious stomach discomfort. I initially thought it really bad gas. I didn’t think much of it because that happens to me all the time.

Really wish I didn’t tell you that.

Anyway, I thought it would pass, but it just became worse. It even prompted me to take some Tums. You know, for my tummy. Get it? Next morning, the pain was still there. But I had to go to work, and we all know my work doesn’t do itself. Even though I do work as an automatic pilot, but that’s not the point. (That joke could have also worked with me saying that I am a janitor for self-cleaning ovens, so you take your pick.) 

Where was I? Ah yes, at work. Well, the pain was getting strange and focused on my right side so I decided to look up my symptoms on Web MD, as I honestly thought it might be my appendix. Low and behold, my symptoms suggested that appendicitis was a strong possibility. I went straight to the hospital, got myself a CT scan, and yup, appendicitis. Lesson to be learned: Web MD plus hypochondria saves lives! 

In a way, I was relieved. Mainly because if it wasn’t my appendix that was acting up, well, then it might have literally been a ticking time bomb. I was actually quite calm throughout the whole experience. At this point I was just in minor discomfort and no pain. I was in a hospital bed and gown for the majority of my stay and that made me a bit too comfortable. Seriously, all it takes is me not wearing pants to make me happy. The surgery went easy as can be. My last thought I remember, when I was drugged up a little, was lying on the operating table with the oxygen mask on my face, feeling like I was Darth Vader. Had I not passed out two seconds later, I probably would have pointed to the anesthesiologist and exclaimed, “No! I am your father!”

This was only the second time I had been put under for anything, (I had all four wisdom teeth removed, which explains a lot of my ignorance) and it’s fascinating how it felt like not even a moment had passed when I was being wheeled out of surgery. The first thing the doctor said asked was, “How are you doing?” I promptly responded, half in a daze, “Fantastic. How are you doing?” That’s the epitome of my time in the hospital. I was enjoying every moment I could. I even wanted to Live Tweet when I was in surgery, but there’s no cell phones allowed in the operating room. That’s the only reason I didn’t Live Tweet the operation where I was unconscious. 

The first night of recovery was also fun. Of course it did help that I had my parents with me. I had my hour long surgery at about 10:30 at night so I knew sleep really wasn’t really a possibility for me. I was too excited from having just had surgery. But what’s really strange is that when you get put under, it’s like literally shutting down your system so I was currently rebooting. My saliva didn’t work at first and you really don’t realize how much work your saliva does until it’s not functioning. What was fun for me, among so many things, was that the nurse told me I had to try and pee. She gave me four hours to make something happen. I passed with flying colors. Seriously, I was very concerned because I’m not used to that variation of colors. But then after that, my favorite part was when the nurse explicitly told me “Okay, now I want you to please try and fart.” Heh heh. 

Now, when it was time to leave, I had no choice in the matter. My parents took me hostage. But out of love, so I allowed it. Once at my parents house, I became so stiff and sore that I didn’t move from the couch for the entirety of my stay. Although I did end up setting my own personal record of not wearing pants for four days. I’m quite proud of myself. Although that means I also didn’t take a shower for four days. 

Really wish I didn’t tell you that. 

But here’s the most honest part about what I loved from this experience. From the second it was known I was in the hospital, I received so much love and support from family and friends. In this day and age, it’s an entirely different experience because I have Facebook and a Smartphone. I tend to be a little silly on social media and I was joking but also being serious about my appendectomy. It got to the point where people weren’t sure if I was serious or not and I found a lot of humor in the fact that I had to make a blunt, direct post about my situation. My cousin came straight to the hospital to be with me until my parents got there, which was a soon as they could. I heard from both my siblings almost immediately. 

Once I was home, I kept getting phone calls and visits from people who love and care about me. I heard that friends of my parents were saying the Mi Shebeirach so that I would have a speedy recovery. It felt incredible. And then my Bubbie and Zaydie wouldn’t leave me alone, which is quite possibly the best thing ever. Being immobile and recovering from surgery allowed my Bubbie to do what she does best, make me a steaming hot batch of Jewish penicillin. I believe you might call it homemade chicken noodle soup. Don’t get me started on her cooking. That’s a whole other post. 

I found this experience to be quite an amazing adventure. Remember the title? I probably had much more fun than most people rightfully should. The only real tough part was sleeping at first while I was still incredibly stiff, but other than that, it really wasn’t so bad. See, I really try to find the humor in every situation and this case was no different. In fact, one of my favorite aspects of this whole experience was that even though my appendix only weighed about two ounces, I still lost some weight. It’s also nice to know I’ll never have to worry about this again for the rest of my life. Unless that was just my baby appendix and it was going to fall out at some point anyway. Oh boy. Is that a thing? I gotta go check Web MD.

In the midst of Hurricane Sandy, in Brooklyn
It is, of course, true
that we, humble and powerful, witty and nimble,
are servants to nature,
must bow at its beck and call,
must recognize that it rises against us.
Within our four walls, we house ourselves,
but it is always nature that looks on in,
and blows our skirt to the right or left,
or downs our power.
Who needs nature, we laugh, as the reports come in: Big hurricane, headed your way,
and we know exactly when it will strike and we have no need for fear.
Until the moment comes closer, we sit, more seriously now, aware that this could be it.
As the winds howl louder and louder,
our minds get more focused, we sit together closer, we talk quietly,
and recognize in the bizarre calm of the moment, how united we actually are,
how close we actually are.
All of those anxieties, those stresses, those deadlines,
where did they go?
We cannot remember for the life of us, as we ponder the life of us,
why that seemed so important to us
as if those things were more powerful than "Nature," than "Us."
Our minds find unexpected comic relief in finally feeling focused, as the lights flicker, teasingly.
With one thought, our brains unite: Save us now, save us. We will do anything. We are but flesh and blood. And spirit.
As we acknowledge, at last, the nature that hangs over us, we call out to that which gives nature its naughty and merciful power.
Save us now.
One mind, one heart,
one.
At last.

When I walked into the lobby and saw house elves, my interest was piqued, but it wasn't until I saw wands and potions for sale and Snape looming that I truly felt at home. No, this wasn't Hogwarts, this was LeakyCon. Recently I had the pleasure of attending this Harry Potter conference named for the series' fictional bar the Leaky Cauldron. Hosted this year at the Hilton Chicago, LeakyCon is an homage to everything Potter and even encompasses the broader YA, fantasy, and sci-fi genres. The conference had its largest showing yet in its third year with about 4,000 participants made up mostly of pre-teen and teen fans. Costumes, hair dye, and general flamboyance are the norm at LeakyCon, which promises programming stretching from panels and discussions to musical events and pajama parties. Having read, seen, and lived the Potter phenomenon is insufficient at an event where terms like "Team Starkid" and "Nerdfighter" are enough to make even a Hogwarts educated man like myself feel like a Muggle.

Upon arriving at LeakyCon, my first stop was a panel called "Girl Books and Boy Books" offered through the LeakyCon Literature Track. Founded by YA author and Potter fan Maureen Johnson for participants who want a more literary focused experience, the Lit Track offers discussion on numerous topics from "How NOT to write a book" to "Help! My Boyfriend is a Vampire." Johnson recruited a slew of YA/fantasy authors to aid in the Lit Track effort. "Girl Books and Boy Books" was paneled by such authors as John Green, Robin Wasserman, and Lev Grossman who along with moderator Johnson feverishly discussed 1) The common belief in elementary teaching circles that boys do not read, and 2) Why girls are encouraged to read "boy books" but boys are often forbidden to read a book considered to be "girly." That this topic even exists seemed to disgust the panel who collectively felt that children should be able to read whatever they please regardless of their gender. As a male blogger who has recently recommended novels by female authors with female protagonists (Hunger Games and Night Circus) I wholeheartedly agree.

My next stop was the vendor room, where boutique shops and non-profits gather in droves to pedal their goods and their messages to the Potter-ites. Geekbadge offered HP themed magnets and buttons while the Deathly Hallows Shop sold custom souvenirs with the hallows insignia. But these tchotchkes were far less popular than the more magical items like authentic wooden wands, polyjuice potion, and phoenix feather. Delving deeper into the room I found numerous non-profits, the Dumbledore of which is the Harry Potter Alliance, a group that commits itself to "fighting the dark arts in the real world by using parallels from Harry Potter." With such a broad mission the HP Alliance champions several causes in the interest of equality including immigration, the importance of voting, and the popular anti-bullying movement. But my favorite booth in the vendor room was that of the start-up Fandom Dating, which true to the name is a dating website for those looking to find true love in someone who shares their interest in the nerdy, magical, and occult. Needless to say I registered and plan to begin Beta testing the site shortly. I could have stayed in the vendor room forever but had to drag myself home, missing the Guinness book of world records' largest pajama party and a rock concert featuring Harry and the Potters and The Whomping Willows.

The following day I stopped briefly in a discussion that was meant to discuss the similarities and differences between Harry Potter and Star Wars. This ended up turning into a forum to discuss all fantasy, but was nonetheless entertaining. I was the oldest in the room by at least 10 years which should have, but did not, stop me from energetically participating in the debate. But the best event of the weekend was the LeakyCon lit reception where the few LeakyCon participants over the age of 18 were invited to mingle, drink, and in my case stalk the authors who were in attendance. Being one of the few 'adults' at the party I managed to corner Lev Grossman, author of popular The Magicians series, who declined an Oy! interview but obliged to chatting over a Butterbeer.

After inviting myself to dinner with the authors and being respectfully declined I trudged home sad that the weekend was over but thrilled at having experienced such a unique event. LeakyCon is a place where children and adults can celebrate their love of Harry Potter, but more importantly it has become a comfortable forum for children/teens/adults to feel included in a world where they are often considered outsiders. Next year LeakyCon will have two venues, one in Portland and the other in London. The LeakyCon website proudly proclaims why two events per year are necessary, "LeakyCon creates space where you can be geeky/fannish/nerdy, free of the fear of being shunned or misunderstood." LeakyCon certainly has the right idea. We need more spaces like that. I'm sure J.K. Rowling would agree.

This week, I was working in the JCC Camp Chi office helping to jump start registration. This is an annual campaign that camp holds where former staff members come in and help reach out to families about registering for the upcoming summer. During the first night of the campaign, we took a pizza break for dinner and ended up discussing what was on most of our minds: the upcoming festivities surrounding Halloween. The group was a mix between seniors in high school, college students, and those of us who had graduated from college or masters programs within the past few years. For the few of us who graduated from college last year, this weekend will be our first Halloween as adults, our first awkward Halloween as “real people.”

In both high school and college, Halloween was pretty straight forward. I never really had to deliberate about my plans. I dressed up for school in high school and celebrated over the weekend, sometimes even attempting to trick-or-treat. In college, everything seemed planned. You either went to the same 18+ bar that everyone you knew was going to and bought tickets in advance, stopped by one of the many house or apartment parties and fraternity parties happening on campus, went to visit your friends at a different school, or as you got older went on a bar crawl through the city. Although you had to decide which option or options you were going with, there were always clear cut options when planning your itinerary so to speak.

As for costumes, there is a famous scene in Mean Girls where Cady, the main character, is unaware of the Halloween culture in America and comes to a party dressed in a scary costume. She soon learns that rather than dressing up as ghost, most girls live by the mantra that “Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girl can say anything about it.” To be fair, this does a great job of summarizing Halloween from a birds-eye view at any university. However, before I continue, I must defend my costume choices, which have 99% been cute, creative, and far from scandalous, ranging from Batman, Luigi, a Pokemon and Chuckie Finster from Rugrats, to Jelly, Spice Girls, and the ever-so memorable experience of being a ballerina with the rest of my pledge sisters freshman year. It is fair to say that many people use Halloween as an opportunity to wear as few clothes as possible. However, once you enter the phase of your life where you are considered an “adult” (and yes this still gives me the chills to even say that), does that fly? What are the social expectations surrounding this holiday?

First off, who do you even dress up with? If you have scattered groups of friends rather than a core group from high school or college, who do you dress up with? What do you wear? Do people dress up? What kinds of costumes are appropriate once you are 22 and older? If you do dress up, do you go to a bar in costume or do you have to find a Halloween themed house party? If you go out, do people dress up at every bar or just places that are having Halloween celebrations? What do you do if you don’t know anyone throwing a party? Do you celebrate over the “Halloweekend” or the night of…or both? Is it going to be awkward? These were all questions that were thrown out as we laughed about the social stipulations, continued to think about our plans for this weekend, and most definitely agreed that it would somehow be considered an awkward celebration.

So, as for Halloween, I decided on dressing up with some of my friends from camp in cute, comfortable, and creative costumes drawn from movies made in the 90s and early 2000s. We’re going with the flow and although we’re lacking a clear-cut plan, we’re hoping for the best, a fitting attitude for this weekend and beyond. I’ll just have to see where things take me without a planned agenda.

Ok, so the conventions are long over and the debates are finally finished, and your newsfeed is slowly returning to engagement and wedding announcements and baby and pet photos instead of 24/7 election coverage and candidate endorsements and attacks. It’s finally (almost) time to head over to the polls and get to voting and get this election over with already! Right? Well, just in case my beloved Oy!sters need a little urging, here are some of the many reasons to make sure you go and vote in election 2012.

This is our future. The recession, Obamacare, a nuclear Iran, education reform, the future of social security, gay marriage, peace in Israel, stem cell research, the conflicts in the Middle East, reproductive choice— these issues are going to define our generation and affect our lives for the rest of our lives. It’s times like this when it’s more important than ever to make sure our voices get heard.

Why wouldn’t you? What do you have to lose? My dad has sat out more presidential elections than I’ve been alive for, but he’s also never, not once, not showed up to the polls on voting day. Even if you can’t bring yourself to vote in the big elections, or feel like your vote won’t matter, there are other races and other candidates even at the very local level, who need your vote.

Don’t be lazy. Finally, if the reasons why you might skip voting on Tuesday have anything to do with not know where your precinct is, what you need to vote, or when to vote, take a few minutes right now to find out. I’ve listed some resources below and above that will answer all your questions and if you’re still in doubt just Google it. Also, if your excuse is that you just won’t have the time Tuesday to make it to the polls, then think again. You can go vote any day between now and the election on November 6. There are more than a dozen precincts where you can vote early in Cook County. I’m heading to the County Clerk’s Main Office at 69 West Washington over lunch today to vote.

Educate yourself. Time and time again I hear from my friends that they aren’t going to vote in an election because they don’t feel like they know enough about the candidates. I don’t know when this became a valid excuse to not vote, but I’m sick of hearing it. Visit the different candidate’s websites, or Facebook pages or Twitter Feeds and read about where they stand on the issues—you can learn a lot in just five minutes. Don’t be afraid to use the internet. Obviously, the internet has a lot of biased and untrue information out there on each candidate, but it’s still a great research tool. And don’t forget about newspapers. Both the Chicago Sun-Times and the Chicago Tribune run extensive stories and op-eds on all the candidates leading up to the elections.

If that still sounds like too much work, then there is a great new website called isidewith that will do the heavy lifting for you. Just take their presidential election quiz and they will tell you which candidate most lines up with your beliefs.
We live in a Democracy. If none of the above makes you want to run out to the polls, consider this: voting is a privilege you just shouldn’t waste. I know it is cheesy, but we are all lucky to live in a Democracy. We have the freedom to show up at the polls and vote for any candidate we chose with no threat of punishment or negative repercussion. Value your freedom. While it might not be perfect here, we are lucky to be Americans.

Finally, if you don’t vote, then you can’t complain when you don’t like what happens. And what Jew wants their right to complain taken away?

For more information on how to vote and to get educated on the candidates, visit rock the vote. Visit http://www.vote411.org to see who's on your ballot, choose your candidates and print a copy of your "ballot" to take with you to the polls. 

On Saturday, October 13th around 10:45a.m., congregants at the Temple of Aaron in St. Paul, Minnesota might have noticed something a little different about their pulpit. Their rabbis passed the sermon this week to Maccabi Haifa head basketball coach Brad Greenberg.

Maccabi Haifa was in town to play the Minnesota Timberwolves on Tuesday, October 16th, at 7:00p.m. They came from the West Coast having just lost an exhibition game to the Golden State Warriors 108-100. Leading up to the game, Coach Greenberg and the Maccabi Haifa team participated in community wide events, promoting Israel and their charity Haifa Hoops for Kids (helping underprivileged children in Israel have access to basketball and athletics).

Greenberg’s sermon was a big success. He got everyone talking and excited about the upcoming game. Greenberg himself has an interesting story on both the professional and collegiate basketball levels. Most recently Coach Greenberg was leading the Radford University Highlanders. Before that he was the General Manager of the Philadelphia 76ers and was responsible for drafting Allen Iverson.

Greenberg shared a moving story about when he got let go by the 76ers and how it was a tough time in his life. As a member of Har Zion synagogue in Philadelphia, he deeply regretted not reaching out to then Rabbi Gerald Wolpe. He had fond memories of Rabbi Wolpe, specifically a sermon he gave about Kobe Bryant’s decision to forgo college and head to the NBA.

Greenberg also talked about his time in Israel, and his decision to move there in the first place. He has been grateful for the opportunity and the eye opening experience. He spoke about Israel’s tremendous strength and resilience day-to-day, and how his American friends are learning, through him, the incredible pride and happiness Israelis display for their country.

Temple of Aaron thanked Coach Greenberg with some parting gifts and told the coach that they would be bringing a nice constituency to the game Tuesday night. Unfortunately, after only being down three points at half time the Timberwolves went on to destroy Maccabi 114-81.

Maccabi stayed and signed autographs for kids and Cory Carr even threw his jersey into the crowd. It was a great event and a nice showing by the Minnesota community.

And Let Us Say…Amen.

Book cover design by Alyssa Zeller.

Have you read the new Jewish anthology actress and author Mayim Bialik calls "the definitive 'Who am I? and why am I?' book for Jews of our generation"?

Edited by Stefanie Pervos Bregman, associate editor of JUF News, Oy!Chicago blogger-in-chief, and JUF's manager of digital communications, Living Jewishly: A Snapshot of a Generation (Academic Studies Press), is a collection of personal essays and memoirs from Jewish 20- and 30-somethings from across the country. This book tackles hot button issues of Jewish identity, connection to Israel, and what it means to be a young Jew in today's world. 

Each contributor brings a unique perspective as they tell their self-defining Jewish story. In his essay, "Shomer Negiah in the City," Matthue Roth tackles the conflicted and sometimes hypocritical nature of the modern Orthodox dating world. In "To Be a Jew in the world" Stacey Ballis makes the Passover Seder her own. "My (Jewish-Interfaith-Lesbian) wedding," by Chai Wolfman explores the challenges of same-sex and interfaith relationships today. Other essay topics include JDate, connection—or lack thereof—to Israel, issues surrounding conversion, and the seemingly impossible task of defining what it means to be a young Jew in America today.

The book is available in paperback and hardcover on Amazon.com and from other book retailers. For more information about where to buy the book, the contributors, and how you can share your Jewish story, visit www.livingjewishlybook.com or at www.facebook.com/livingjewishlybook .

As a Jewish blogger and editor, I always say that the period leading up to Jewish Book Month is one of my favorite times of the year. So many books come across my desk for review—I only wish I had the time to read them all. Each author, each new book, is not just a potential article for my magazine or blog post. To me, every author—whether they write fiction or non-fiction—is a storyteller, adding their own piece to our collective Jewish story.

This year the tables have turned, and I'm the one hoping and wishing that Jewish editors and writers will choose my book from among the great pile for review—the thought makes me feel proud, humble, and frightened all at once. 

In putting together my new anthology, Living Jewishly: A Snapshot of a Generation, I hoped to be a storyteller as well. In the Jewish world, engaging 20- and 30-somethings is a hot button issue—questions like 'How do we get young Jews to feel connected to Israel? To affiliate with traditional Jewish institutions? To care about Jewish continuity, ritual, and tradition?' float around waiting to be answered.

As a member of this elusive generation myself, I live and breathe these questions in my personal life and as a Jewish professional. As I recently completed my master's degree in Jewish professional studies, I became determined to tell the story of my generation.  

To get started, I sent out a call for stories to my peers:

Are you a Jewish 20- or 30-something with a story to tell? Do you want to be part of a collection of voices that together tell the unique story of our generation?

Within hours, my email box was flooded. I received close to 50 submissions-all remarkable, rich, and more diverse than I could have ever imagined.

In Living Jewishly, I put these essays together to create a window into our Jewish lives and identities. Each essay is beautiful, unique, brutally honest, and revealing. In truth, it is my contributors who are the real storytellers—without them, the story, the picture, would not be complete.

I often think about what it means to really be a storyteller. To me, this is not a title to be taken lightly. With it comes certain responsibility, not just to inform, but to do so artfully, shedding light on topics that may otherwise have been left untold. 

While I don't think I've solved the mystery of my generation, I do have some insights into the types of stories we want to tell. However it is that we express ourselves Jewishly, I'm certain that every Jewish 20- or 30-something has an interesting story to tell-and maybe all we need is the opportunity to tell it.

This article first appeared as a part of the Jewish Book Council (www.jewishbookcouncil.org) and MyJewishLearning's (www.myjewishlearning.com) guest blogging series, Visiting Scribes.

Here's a little background about me. I spent the 2010-2011 school year teaching English in Grenoble, France. Before that, I spent a year working in the heart of Chicago in the Jewish non-profit community. When I was abroad, my eyes were opened to the everyday experience of the Jewish community in my town and in the country at large. I experienced what it meant to me to be not only Jewish in France, but a Jewish, young, female, American in France. It was a ridiculously fun, thought-provoking and thrilling seven months and I'm excited to share these stories. By the way, all thoughts and opinions are purely my own…I take full responsibility for any sweeping generalizations.

One of the conditions of my host stay was seemingly simple: only kosher food allowed in the house. Easy enough, right? However, France is a land filled with delicious traif and endless combinations of milk and meat, and to be honest, I'd never kept kosher before. Of course I knew the basic tenets: no milk and meat, no pork, no shellfish. But from zero experience to a household with two separate dishwashers, I had quite a bit to learn.

I was an eager student, thanks to the enthusiasm of my host mom Daniele. When the only food I brought home from the grocery store was yogurt, she sensed my uneasiness. Sitting at the kitchen table and enjoying a cup of afternoon tea, she described that she hadn't always followed kosher laws, that she hadn't even kept kosher until she met her husband. I let out a sigh of relief. It was obvious, yes, that I wasn't quite sure what I was doing. But at one point, neither did she.

We soon wandered over to her cabinets, filled with troves of food. It was a varied mix of French supermarket staples, products with Hebrew labels on them and a few Manischewitz items thrown in for good measure. The B. family has plenty of relatives in Israel, who from time to time bring over goodies from the homeland. But almost all of the sundries, she said, came both from everyday shopping at French chains and trips to the kosher market, the Makolette. Never one to turn down a trip to a Jewish deli, I was delighted when she asked me to join her on her next visit.

I couldn't help but notice the funny juxtaposition of the tiny, nearly hidden-away Makolette being just down the street from a huge, beacon-like McDonald's. We hopped out of the car, driving back into the city after dropping off her son for a day of med school classes. During my first couple weeks in Grenoble, I must have passed this market a few times, but like most Jewish buildings in this town, it was understated, barely marked and easy to miss.

Walking in, the joint was a little sparser than I expected. To my grave disappointment, there were no bagels to be found. Strangely enough, the food I missed most in France was a hearty bagel and shmear…you can take the girl out of Chicago, but you surely can't take the Chicago out of the girl. The floor plan was pretty open, with lightly stocked shelves and a butcher off to the right, chatting rapidly with his guests. It was quiet on a weekday afternoon. I wandered around, noticing cans of gefilte fish, Israeli imports and more. As Daniele did her shopping, I settled on a pack of pita chips and some tried-and-true Sabra hummus. Pretty soon, we were out the door. I would venture back to the Makolette on other various occasions, most notably to pick up ingredients for my first-ever homemade latkes.

At home, Daniele gave me a thick packet, its contents listing every item in every major French grocery store that was certified kosher. It was overwhelming, to say the least.

But I was fascinated. Admittedly, I was hesitant…I wanted to experience all of the culinary delicacies the country had to offer! And while outside of the house I explored French cuisine to the hilt, when I went grocery shopping, I looked forward to poring over my reference book. To my delight, my very favorite French cookies, PIMs, are certified kosher...what a relief! As I flipped through the pages and my knowledge grew, I experienced the culinary life in France from a completely new and enlightening perspective.

No, it's a not a Jewish holiday by any stretch. But at this point, regardless of its origins, do you know anyone who celebrates Halloween as a religious holiday?

As it happens, a surprising number of horror movies from both America and Europe turn out to have Jewish connections. The new film The Possession is about being possessed by a dybbuk, or poltergeist. Reggae-rapper Matisyahu plays the rabbi who performs the exorcism.

Stories of this spirit have been around for a long time. In the 1914 play by Yiddish writer S. Ansky, it is a bride who is possessed. This plot was turned into a film (1937), an opera (1933, debuted 1951),… and a 1974 ballet by the West Side Story team of Leonard Bernstein and Jerome Robbins, both Jewish. Its first TV appearance was directed by Sidney Lumet, and now it is a play again, by Tony Kushner… also both Jewish. (The funniest movie to feature possessions has got to be Ghost Busters, directed by Ivan Reitman and starring Rick Moranis and Harold Ramis.)

Another Yiddish horror tale revolving around a thwarted wedding is Corpse Bride, made into a movie by Tim Burton as a sort-of follow up to The Nightmare Before Christmas. Jewish actress (and Burton's own bride) Helena Bonham Carter stars, and Danny Elfman did the score.

One of the mainstays of horror is Frankenstein's monster. While Mary Shelley's original novel is subtitled "The Modern Prometheus," she admitted that the monster also had Jewish origins—in the Golem. This Medieval clay automaton is said to be first animated in Prague to protect the Jews from pogroms. The Golem has inspired plays as early as 1908, novels going back to 1914, an I.B. Singer book, operas… and lots of TV, including episodes of The X-Files and The Simpsons (whose Golems were voiced by Fran Drescher and Richard Lewis!).

There are Golem characters in the Dungeons and Dragons game, comic books, even Pokemon. Israel had some early computers named after the Golem. And Golem is the name of a great, fun punk-klezmer band. Some even feel that J.R.R. Tolkien's mysterious Gollum owes his name to this Hebraic hulk. 

Some horror creators have been Jewish, too. R.L. Stine, author of the Goosebumps series, is. In the movies, Sam Raimi directed The Evil Dead (and then the Spider-Man trilogy). And Eli Roth is a writer/actor/director/producer in that genre.

 Jamie Lee Curtis's turn in the Halloween movies was just the first in a line of Jewish "scream queens" including Danielle Harris, who was in the Halloween reboots and the Hatchet series… Neve Campbell of the Scream series… and Buffy herself, Sarah Michelle Gellar. In fact, about half the Buffy TV cast was Jewish: Alyson Hannigan (Willow), Michelle Trachtenberg (Dawn), Amber Benson (Tara), Danny Strong (Jonathan), Juliet Landau (Drusilla), Seth Green (Oz)... and Armin Shimerman (their principal). 

Oz, of course, was a werewolf, and there is a surprisingly strong affinity for these shapeshifters among Jewish creative types. John Landis directed American Werewolf in London, in which the title character has nightmares of Nazi werewolves, leading some to speculate he was himself Jewish. But first, Jewish songwriter Warren Zevon wrote the song "Werewolves of London," inspired by the very first werewolf movie ever, made back in 1935. Jewish director Mike Nichols directed Jack Nicholson as a werewolf in Wolf; Corey Haim, who starred in Silver Bullet as a werewolf-slayer, was Jewish, as was Michael Landon, star of I Was a Teenage Werewolf. Two Jewish screenwriters wrote the Michael J. Fox remake of that one, simply titled Teen Wolf.

This link is not working anymore— horrormovies.org— but it was the source of this list of still  more horror movies with Jewish themes and/or characters. I have taken out the ones already mentioned above: All Good Things; The Devil's Advocate (with Al Pacino); Disciple of Death; The Lowborn; My Wife is a Vampire; Night of the Living Jews (a short about accursed matzah); and Santa's Slay (Santa is played by Jewish pro-wrestling champ Goldberg). 

For more on Jewish monsters and the Jewish participation in the horror genre, here’s what else I… dug up! (insert Crypt Keeper cackle here):

“Possession” and the Tradition of Jewish Horror Films

Halloween and Judaism (video)

And for something truly frightening: ‘Baby Rabbi’ Tops Worst Halloween Costume List.

A year ago today I was fragile but hopeful.

I had been out of the hospital for only 4.5 months and was slowly starting to regain my footing.

My appetite had started to come back, my hair was starting to grow in, but I continuously struggled to feel comfortable in the outside world.

The trauma was still front and center, cancer continued to monopolize conversations, and my relationships were noticeably strained.

For the first time in months, I was able to step outside of my own personal experience with this disease and recognize how it affected those around me.

It was no longer I had cancer but We had cancer.

As I started to empathize with my family and closest friends, I quickly realized that the process of healing, rebuilding and coping was happening in different ways and at different paces.

Cancer may have left my body but it did not leave my life.

The hopeful fragility I embodied last year perhaps remains true today.

I may be more comfortable in the outside world, but I still have moments of displacement.

I may be no longer tiptoeing into the sunlight, but I still have moments of caution.

I may not think about cancer on a daily basis, but her memories are beautifully detailed into the scars that lie beneath—and will forever be a part of me.

Perhaps balancing fear with hope, fragility with strength, illness with health is what life is and should be all about.

This balancing act, this juxtaposition. this existence somewhere in between what was and what is, is exactly where I am supposed to be.

A place of gratitude, a place of uncertainty, a place of hope.

Here is to another year filled with remarkable moments.

To those that stood by me throughout this journey—thank you from the bottom of my heart.

The leaves are falling, the sukkahs have come down, and TV's fall lineup is in full swing. Today, housewives, matchmakers, and weight-loss contests dominate the airwaves, with just a few scripted shows sprinkled in between, but that's not how it used to be.

Back in the ol' days when I was a kid—you know, pre-smartphones—I used to love to watch the new fall shows, especially the situation comedies. Born in between Generations X and Y, I grew up on a steady viewing diet of Keatons, Huxtables, and the barflies at Cheers. I've always loved sitcoms because they make us laugh and allow us an escape, for at least 22 minutes, from the ups and downs of our crazy lives.

We Jews have a great sense of humor. After all, with everything we've been through, a strong funny bone helps. So I thought this month we could grab some popcorn, kick back in our La-Z-Boys, and point the clicker at my top picks—in no particular order—of funny Jewish characters that have graced the small screen. My criteria hinge upon a certain lovability each of these characters possess and in what sort of light they present their Jewishness. Oh, and they gotta be funny too. 

 

Grace Adler
Will & Grace marked a lot of sitcom firsts. It was not only the first prime-time TV show to portray openly-gay main characters, but it also was one of the first shows to feature a Jewish lead female character. The show chronicles best friends and roommates Will, a gay lawyer, and Grace, a straight Jewish interior designer, and their wacky friends, Karen and Jack. Grace, played by Debra Messing, is a redhead, dubbed a modern-day Lucille Ball. Grace, who has a pervasive Jewish sensibility, peppers her dialogue with funny Yiddish words and references to Jewish camp and her bat mitzvah. Later in the series, she marries Leo, a Southern Jewish doctor, played by Harry Connick Jr. Here's another first: Whereas most sitcoms center around interfaith relationships between Jews and non-Jews, the union between Grace and Leo is the first prime-time sitcom ever to feature a wedding between two Jews.

Alan Silver
If you blinked, you might have missed the show Brooklyn Bridge—which only aired from 1991 to 1993—but those of us who were lucky caught this fleeting gem. Alan Silver (Danny Gerard), a pre-teen Jewish boy, lives in a Brooklyn walk-up in the mid-1950s surrounded by his parents, little brother, and grandparents, including his grandma played by Marion Ross of Happy Days fame.

Molly Goldberg
The Goldbergs, created by Gertrude Berg, was way before my time, but I mention it for historical context because the show portrays the first Jewish characters on what is now considered the modern-day sitcom. The Goldbergs originally aired as a radio broadcast and then was adapted into a TV show, which ran from 1949 to 1956. The show features the home life a Jewish family in the Bronx, with Molly Goldberg (played by Berg), a warm, meddlesome Jewish matriarch at its helm. The Goldbergs, beloved by viewers, were the first Jews many Americans had ever seen—on or off screen.

Ross Geller
Half of the "friends" on the hit show Friends were members of the tribe—Rachel Green (Jennifer Aniston), Monica Geller (Courtney Cox), and her brother Ross Geller (David Schwimmer). I picked Ross, the thrice-divorced paleontologist, because on one memorable episode he attempts to teach his half-Jewish son, Ben, about the meaning of Chanukah. Discouraged by Ben's fascination with Christmas, Ross goes to great lengths to tell his son about the great miracle that happened there. He even dresses in a Chanukah "armadillo" costume to counteract the ubiquity of Santa suits in December.

Charlotte York Goldenblatt & Harry Goldenblatt
When news spread that Sex and the City was adding a Jewish character to the ensemble, I got a little nervous. I'm protective of my people and worried the show would play off the ugly "rich Jew" stereotype because the show focuses on themes of wealth and materialism. But thank goodness, I was wrong. Instead, we're introduced to Harry Goldenblatt (Evan Handler), the sweet, bald, and uncouth divorce lawyer, who Charlotte York (Kristin Davis) meets while divorcing her first husband. Charlotte, formerly an Episcopalian, converts to Judaism after learning that Harry had made a promise to his mom on her deathbed that he would marry a Jew. Charlotte undergoes the whole conversion process, culminating with submerging herself in the mikvah (ritual bath). Soon after, she and Harry marry under the chuppah and live happily ever after.

Rhoda Morgenstern
I wanted to be Rhoda Morgenstern, Mary's Jewish neighbor and best friend on Mary Tyler Moore. Of course, the TV series, which aired in the 1970s, ended its first-run episodes the year I was born, but that's what Me-TV is for. A transplant to Minneapolis, Rhoda, played by Valerie Harper, is a single, working woman who talks with a thick Bronx accent and dresses in hippy clothes. Following Mary Tyler Moore, Harper reprised her role on Rhoda, one of the most successful spinoffs of all time. Rhoda tells it like it is and we loved her for that.

Jerry Seinfeld
Did you think I forgot him? I don't think it's legal to compile a list of top Jewish sitcom characters without mentioning the king of `em all—Jerry Seinfeld. Contrary to popular belief, the other three principal characters on the show were not supposed to be Jewish. With all the hateful antics they carried out on the show, I don't mind not claiming them as our own. Most of you could—yada yada yada—recite lines from every episode of Seinfeld, but I thought I'd draw your attention to one of my favorite plotlines. Do you remember, and I know you do, when Jerry's dentist, Dr. Tim Whatley, converts to Judaism, and immediately starts cracking Jewish jokes? He figures now that he's a member of the tribe, he had license to tell our people's jokes. But Jerry's bothered—in typical Seinfeldian fashion—that his dentist had converted purely for the jokes. "And this offends you as a Jewish person?" Jerry is asked. "No," he replies, "it offends me as a comedian."

For a comprehensive list of Jewish TV characters, visit  www.juf.org/tweens/celebrities.aspx.

On the first day of our family vacation, we woke up early and headed out—not to Door County where we had been planning to go—but to the emergency room with two lethargic, dehydrated two-year-olds.

We were way overdue for some quiet time under the stars; unfortunately, the universe had other plans for us: another night in the hospital where I spent a week after having pre-term labor, the place our girls were born, and the home of the NICU where they spent their first month of life. Even though we hadn’t been there for two and a half years, it felt oddly familiar when we walked in, and not in a comforting way.

While our daughters were resting and getting hydrated, I tossed and turned on the fold-out bed. On top of being worried about them, I was having flashbacks to the day they were born and the turbulent weeks that followed. Logically, I knew they were in the right place and getting what they needed, but it was not an easy place for me to rest.

These past six months have been a restless whirlwind of uncertainty for our family, building momentum and crashing forward to its peak—our lost vacation. Starting with iron deficiency, tantrums, and insomnia in addition to the hospital stay, we realized things weren’t working so well and we needed a change. We stripped down all of our assumptions about where our family is going to live, what jobs we’re going to have, what income we need, everything. But when you’re in the middle of the storm, it is full-on survival mode, getting through the days and making sure there are groceries in the refrigerator and toilet paper on the roll. It is responding to the crisis at hand and there is always another popping up. The garage door is broken and no one has a key to the side door. There is a raccoon living between the walls of your apartment. Your toddler is breaking out in hives for no apparent reason (a few hypothetical examples).

After one trip to our neighborhood farmers market I collapsed into a puddle of tears on our kitchen floor, wondering how on earth I was going to make it through the next four hours before I could lie down again and attempt to sleep. It wasn’t any one circumstance that put me over the edge—it was the whole picture crumbling at my feet. Something meaningful was brewing, something larger than any one day.

Many people I know have been going through major changes this year. Several close friends are breaking up after years of being together. Family members are moving to new cities, changing careers, starting businesses. On Facebook last week, three friends posted obituaries of close relatives. Someone else lost their job. Every day there is more emotional news. Maybe this is what life is like as you get older—more heartbreak, more surprise, more sadness. More change.

I feel the calm after the storm now, where the sky is a clear shade of blue and the wreckage surrounds us, but there is one thing still standing—the gleaming tower of impermanence. Neither the strongest will nor the most powerful wind can knock it down.

Thankfully, the girls’ hospital stay this summer was short and they were able to quickly heal back to their hydrated, hyperactive selves. Being in that hospital again made me realize that the emotions I had when they were born are still close to the surface. During that first hospital stay, we didn’t know how they would be breathing one minute to the next and it was terrifying. In the end, they became healthy and strong and came home—both times. My anxiety-induced insomnia had nothing to do with that outcome; it only took my energy away from having a calmer, more positive perspective at the time. The emotional rollercoaster of the NICU was an impermanent state, too.

When I look at all of the big life changes happening around me, I realize that any one day can be filled with that same state of anxiety. When discussing these thoughts with my grandma, she said simply, “Well, the only certain things in life are change and death.” She is clearly wiser and more concise than I am.

Embracing impermanence in everyday life has been a major challenge for me lately, but the more I do, the more I am able to take everything a bit less seriously and have much more fun in the moment. Our plans may change at the last second when a phone is lost, someone gets sick, or the sky explodes in a rainbow of sparkling flower petals. (Hey, you never know.) I’ve learned that I feel stronger and more in control living with impermanence at the forefront of my thoughts. I know I can handle the changes ahead, whatever the forecast may be.

Creative crock pot recipes. Inspirational quotes and nursery decoration ideas. A window in on what friends have in mind for their weddings. Helpful housekeeping hints, fabulous fashion finds and a hundred of the best ways to hang a photo collage on the wall.

Pinterest has wormed its way into my life, and when I start surfing the postings and pinning, it’s amazing how minutes can turn into hours. Next thing you know, it is way past my bedtime (and yes, I have a bedtime. It’s as early as I can convince myself to fall asleep, so I can be rested if my lovely baby decides to be less lovely than usual and wake up in the middle of the night for God knows what reason).

Inspired by Pinterest, I’ve done so many exciting things. I’ve taught myself how to make a pinwheel mobile. I’ve made chicken fajitas in my crock pot. I covered my head phones like a string bracelet, so they’d stop getting so darn tangled. I’ve made fabulous decorations for my son’s bris and a scarf out of old t-shirts. I have parenting strategies pinned regarding everything from potty training to science projects to healthy snack habits, and my son is not even five months old.

And therein lies the rub. Whether you’re pinning as a new mom, a bride-to-be, a future homeowner or a curious and crafty person, the ideas posted to Pinterest are oftentimes a bit more aspirational than inspirational.

It’s not likely that I’ll ever be lucky enough to have a built-in dog house underneath my staircase in my family home, I’ll probably never have the time to turn my future toddler’s lunch into a bento box art project, and Colin’s first birthday party will probably not look like it belongs in a magazine photo shoot. Most people don’t live their lives dressed like models, in perfectly decorated homes, or eating creative and gourmet-inspired dishes each night. And most moms aren’t crazy enough to take weekly photos of their squirmy babies in front of the same backdrop (although as of week 20, I’m still trying).

Can’t we just shop at the mall, decorate with whatever cute cheap stuff we can find at IKEA, and be proud of ourselves if we make a home-cooked meal once or twice a week that’s edible and relatively healthy?

Yes, there are great suggestions for simplifying your life on there too, and yes, as a crafty gal myself, I love seeing the fun ideas other people have time and resources to tackle, but oy, is my Pinterest obsession giving me unrealistic expectations of what my real life should look like? In a world with Pinterest and hundreds of blogs that connect to the pins with all sorts of crazy and creative ideas, are our expectations being warped?

In case you were not part of the millions of viewers cracking up at these videos, earlier this year YouTube became flooded with vignettes depicting people’s interpretations of “things people say,” including those about Jewish attitude and behavior in everyday life. Everyone from Jewish girls to Jewish mothers to even things Christians say to Jews, “Do you like bagels? Do you speak Hebrew? Is Tiger Woods Jewish? You don’t look Jewish.”

What makes the clips so comical is not just that they are hilarious and somewhat accurate, but that we are also able to laugh at ourselves and accept who we are. When I watched them for the first time, I couldn’t help but laugh and imagine people I knew that might say or think those very lines. Comedy is not always about truth, but it does build on some truth, making some of these one-line quips quite colorful. They call it “roasting,” but when people make these videos, they are in a sense honoring and acknowledging their heritage in a fun and comical way.

I’ve heard people say that humor is a Jewish coping mechanism, used to defend against harsh stereotypes. Regardless of its origins, Jews seem to have been endowed with a miraculous ability to make others laugh and even respectfully poke fun at themselves. Jews have always been known for their sense of humor in American society, and their infectious comical genius has influenced modern comedy and humor as we know it today.

Humor is a part of our heritage. It’s in our blood. We may not all be Adam Sandlers or Sarah SIlvermans, but we can sure pretend to be—especially with these YouTube videos—and still have a good laugh. Through our humor, each of us is able to express ourselves and discover our own voices. But whether you are Jewish or not, you have got to keep on laughing and cracking jokes because it’s what keeps life fun and interesting, and maybe acts as a tiny distraction from all the chaos that surrounds us.

Sprout Fitness started about five years ago when my friend and fellow trainer Kim and I thought it was a good idea to have pre/postnatal fitness classes. We were both certified to work with the populations and our friends were just starting to have babies. We thought we would provide a safe environment for women to workout, teach what they can and cannot do, and help them build muscles to hold the car seat. Trust me folks, it gets real heavy, real fast.

My first pregnant client was my sister. It was a little over 8 years ago. I thought it would be cool to help her out. I concentrated on overall strength and a lot of core work. A strong core is helpful for labor and delivery. When Kim and I started our class we decided to focus on four things:

1) Core (abs, hips, back, and pelvic floor)
2) Endurance
3) Strength training
4) Stretching

We also wanted to educate our clients on things they should avoid, like exercising on their back after the first trimester, and what intensity level to train at. Then it happened, my wife was pregnant and we had this beautiful baby that loved being held. And it suddenly hit me, wow, this gets really heavy.

Suddenly my Sprout classes were a lot harder. I ratcheted up the workouts with more weights. We had clients that told us about how their friends had shoulder and back trouble from holding their baby but until I had my own I had no idea just how bad your posture gets and how heavy a car seat is + 15lbs of baby weight.

Even though the workouts got tougher, there was always one constant. These women like to TALK. Now I know I am a talker but man, these women can easily drown out my orders with prego chat. And I’m actually all for it. My wife explained it best to me, “At work no one wants to hear me complain about being pregnant. People don’t even want to give me a seat on the bus. Sprout is the one place we can talk to people going through the exact same thing.” Knowing that our class is a workout and an outlet, made me feel great. That’s when I decided to make sure to give the chatty Cathy’s time to discuss how they are feeling, what they are going through…of course only at breaks or while we warm up.

I now offer unsolicited parenting advice all the time, although it’s more like, “Your baby will put everything in their mouth. Literally, my son eats dirt. And then he looks up when you say no with a huge dirty grin.”

In five short years my perception of why pre/postnatal fitness is so important has changed again. Yes, I still believe exercising correctly is number one, but a very close number two is community. Our Sprout classes lead to friendships. Many times it’s just through the pregnancy and a few months after but that’s such a crucial time for support and chattiness.

This is not an advertisement for our class, but a suggestion for all you moms and moms to be—join a group, class, event…meet other women going through the same thing you are. And of course, if you are healthy enough to workout, DO IT! Just don’t overdo it : )

Few things "scroll" anymore, but many things used to.

Take audio recordings. The ones that came with sound already on them were almost always discs: 78s, 45s, LPs, CDs, and the short-lived mini-discs. But if you wanted to record your own sound you had to use a reel-to-reel machine. Recording studios use master tapes. Later, these were reduced in size to 8-tracks, then casettes, which contained minitaure tape reels. Mini-cassettes were used for what voice recorders do now, and for answering machines.

Now, sound recordings— made in studios or downloaded— are digital files with no moving parts involved.

Movies were once on huge reels. These were delivered to theaters, often marked in code so they would not be stolen. Now, even the most picky directors are willing to try digital recordings, which can be e-mailed directly.

The same is true for making home movies. As the movie Super 8 remembers, home cameras once used film that unravelled, captured a split-second of motion, then re-revalled on another spool. To watch them, we had to rewind them and feed them into a projector¸with its own reels. Now, we press a button on our phones.

Then there is watching movies at home. This recently involved a videocasette. Like its audio cousin, it is a rectangle containing two reels. One winds a tape so that the machine can display the image on the TV screen while the other unwinds it. When we were done, we were cajoled by a sticker on the box, we were supposed to "be kind" and "rewind" the tape back to the start for the next viewer.

Computers the size of refrigerators used to fill rooms. Many of these machines had pairs of reels on their faces with a magnetic tape winding between them, recording and reporting data. Today, a drive the size of a thumb contains more memory than dozens of such reels. And we "scroll" on a computer screen only virtually.

In some movies, you can see researchers looking at screens onto which old newspaper pages are projected. Those pages were photographed, and the photos condensed onto microfilm in an early version of scanning. Now, many of these archives have been scanned digitally.

Wherever we turn, things have stopped turning. We still unwind things from spools— everything from thread and tape to paper towels and foil. But we don't "rewind" that much anymore.

So why has the simple parchment-on-poles technology of the Torah scroll outlasted all of these other, more high-tech "scrolls"? Why are we still rolling back this huge scroll so many centuries past the printing press? And why would we not give it up for all the e-readers in the world?

Just something to think about as we finished reading the Torah this week and "rewind" the scroll back to the beginning.

We’ve reached the final portion of the Torah – V’zot HaBeracha. On the holiday of Simchat Torah, Monday night and Tuesday, we read this portion, and immediately following, we read a section of the portion of Bereshit – the first portion of the Torah – in order to symbolize the never ending nature of our learning. In V’zot HaBeracha, Moses offers a blessing to the Israelites before his death, as they prepare to cross the Jordan River and enter the Promised Land, without him, under the leadership of Joshua.

Upon concluding his blessing, we learn that Moses ascended a mountain, looked out over the Promised Land that he was not permitted to enter, and passed away. The portion tells us that it was God who buried Moses, and that as a result, no one knows exactly where he was buried. We also learn that Moses was 120 years old when he died (one of the reasons it’s customary to shout out ‘ad me’ah v’esrim!’ – until one hundred and twenty!’ at Jewish birthday celebrations). We learn that the Israelites mourned Moses for 30 days, and we find the quote in the header above – that “never again did there arise in Israel a prophet like Moses…”

What is it to live 120 years?

Is it quantity or quality that counts?

Many of us have been to a sushi buffet where we remark, “I actually don’t need a buffet – I’d rather have less sushi and have it be of a higher quality.” Even if we don’t say it at the time, a couple hours later we usually get to that point.

How do we live lives of meaning and purpose, regardless of how long we’ll be here for?

I know some people in their late eighties and nineties who are dieting. At some point, doesn’t it become okay to eat cheesecake whenever you want?

Are there Jewish secrets to living a long life?

While our tradition doesn’t necessarily have much to say about Omega-3 fatty acids or Acai berries, the ancient rabbis had much to say about what sorts of foods one might choose to eat in order to live a healthy and long life:

“Leeks are harmful for the teeth and beneficial for the intestines.”
“Cabbage is for sustenance and beets are for healing.”
“Woe to the belly through which turnips pass.”
[Berachot 44b]

Others looked to non-dietary matters as playing a part in living a long life. For example, Rabbi Hillel taught: “One who increases Torah, increases life.” [Avot 2:8]

Similarly, we learn in the Talmud: “Rav Yehuda said: There are three things that if prolonged, prolong the years of a person: one who spends a long time praying, one who spends a long time at his dining room table, and one who spends a long time in the restroom.” [Berachot 54a] (Don’t worry – the ancient rabbis explain these three things in a bit more detail in order to make them seem a bit more holy).

However, it’s not just about quantity. Certainly, quantity is nice and can be a blessing; but I would argue that quality plays an even more essential role. To live a long life, but in doing so, to have never truly LIVED is not in step with our tradition. While we’re taught to remember that even in our moments of greatest joy, there are others who are not as fortunate as we are (e.g. stomping on a glass at the close of a Jewish wedding; putting salt on the challah on Friday night), traditional Jewish wisdom encourages us to live, and to live joyously.

We are instructed to rejoice in the Sabbath. [Isaiah 58:13]

We are instructed to rejoice in our festivals. [Deuteronomy 16:14-15]

We are instructed to be joyous when we pray. [Psalms 100:2]

A huge portion of our tradition deals with the quality and joy we experience in life! To focus solely on longevity and to ignore life’s moments is to ignore the very essence of what it is to live a Jewish life.

Hopefully, we will all warrant long lives, with longevity rivaling Moses’s 120 years. Yet, we must admit, longevity is often out of our control. What we can control is how we fill the days we’re blessed enough to have.

Cherish each day.

Take nothing for granted.

Eat cheesecake.

Strive to make sure that your life is lived with joy, with love, and with purpose.

Doubtless you’ve noticed all the pink already: National Breast Cancer Awareness Month is here. People of Ashkenazi Jewish descent with a family history of cancer need to know about BRCA and hereditary cancer syndromes. I’ve written about these issues for Oy! before, and I hope the articles still prove helpful:

• Do your genes belong to you?: BRCA, Myriad Genetics and the legality of patenting genes
• The Unfunniest Thing in the World: Gilda Radner and ovarian cancer
• More than pink and teal: Knowledge versus awareness

Today I want to talk about something less abstract: how you can help people with cancer and their loved ones.

Around the High Holidays in 2007, my mom began having headaches and needing frequent naps. I was a year out of college, and had just moved back to Chicago in the spring. In March 2008 she had a seizure, and we found out that she had brain tumors—glioblastomas, a particularly aggressive kind of cancer that Ted Kennedy also had. Very shortly after, she had surgery, radiation and chemo. She was part of a clinical trial at Ohio State University for a treatment that was exploring the use of modified viruses to kill any cancer cells left behind.

For three years we were very lucky, and she made an amazing recovery. In the spring of 2011, however, the tumors came back, and they didn’t let up. After exhausting all her options, in May my mom decided to stop treatment. She died on August 24.

We lived with cancer hanging over us for five years. Our friends, our neighbors, our family and our colleagues were incredibly kind. People I hadn’t heard from since childhood came out of the woodwork for us. It was and continues to be a great comfort to me and my family, because the things cancer does to a person are hideous beyond belief, and we needed all the help we could get.

One thing you hear a lot when you’re in this situation is “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.” I know that when I’ve said it to others, it’s out of a genuine desire to be useful, but not really knowing how, or not wanting to intrude. It’s hard to gauge how any given day is going to go when you’re dealing with cancer or treatment, or when you’re a caretaker, or when you’re grieving, and in any of these situations you may simply be unable to ask for help.

What we found easiest was when someone contacted us with specifics: “I’m going to be in the area this afternoon and wanted to know if I could stop in for a visit.” “Can we come up on Tuesday and weed your garden?” “Can I give you a ride to and from the airport?” Every situation is different, of course, and it’s always good to gauge the other person’s energy or ability to have visitors. Sometimes someone would come and my mom would only be able to see them for a few minutes. The best thing you can do is to be easygoing and understanding.

That’s not always as simple as it sounds. My mom bitterly resented her loss of independence, and I never knew, from visit to visit, what she would be able to do. Managing expectations is not pleasant for anybody, but at the same time, when I look back, I think that given what we were all capable of, my mom and I got the most out of the time we had left together.

Apparently May is National Brain Tumor Awareness Month. As far as I know, it’s not color-coded. Cancer awareness in itself is not something I want to appear cynical about. It’s important to raise money for research and to talk about knowing symptoms and to feel connected with a community. One hope I cling to is that by her participation in this clinical trial, my mom may be able to help someone else with glioblastomas in the future. But I have not often seen these awareness movements address the day-to-day of coping with grief and supporting those who live with cancer. We have to have that conversation: that’s cancer education too.

I can’t speak to any personal experience of facing cancer. I can’t really speak to being a caretaker either; my dad did that heavy lifting, and there’s little heavier in the world. Others like them have shared their experiences, and we should seek out and honor them by listening. But I want to say one more thing, as someone whose mother has died, and that’s to express thanks to everyone who has offered comfort and cooked dinners and written letters and told stories. Grief is messy, and it comes out in messy ways. For me, it seems to stop up my words, or my ability to do things like return a phone call or respond to an email or a card. If you’re reaching out to someone, and it feels like all you’re getting is radio silence, please don’t be discouraged. At any of these stages, for anyone affected by this disease, what we value—what we are grateful for—is that you stick by us, and keep coming back.  

The dumbest thing I do every year is to complain about hunger in the immediate hours after the sun goes down on the night of Kol Nidre. For whatever reason, those first hours always seem much tougher than the final ones. I have previously talked about how Yom Kippur is one of the most important Jewish holidays to me. For what are now a multitude of reasons, this holiday in particular has become a very significant day for me. Yes, I’m well aware that it happens to be a fairly important day for most other Jews as well, but for me, it is a day I hold up on a pedestal. Hence why I believe it’s called a High Holiday. I find my focus on the hunger to be displaced and this year, while the hunger can’t help but be persistent, I took it upon myself to truly focus my Yom Kippur on just that, myself.

This Yom Kippur was significant because it was the first one I’ve had since my Shorashim Birthright trip to Israel. It would take me quite a while to explain exactly the full impact of what that means but a large portion of it stems from my experience at the Western Wall. What I did there is very similar to the way I wanted to handle Yom Kippur this year. I talked to myself. Honestly and openly. I do this so rarely and yet, it provides a lot of clarity in times of confusion to truly speak to myself and discover my own thoughts. The experience I had at the Western Wall was truly unforgettable. Funny enough, I don’t remember everything that I said, but I will never forget how I felt. (I sure wish I could have a transcript of my thoughts) Those feelings I had there are still with me today. It’s mostly because the strength of those feelings keeps it prevalent in my mind. It also helps that I have a souvenir refrigerator magnet and snow globe.

So starting this year, and hopefully every year that follows, I plan on treating what I do during Yom Kippur a little differently. This year I treated it as a time to have some much needed self reflection. The moment the sun went down I stared at myself in the mirror for over two hours.

That’s a little joke. I sure hope that doesn’t count as a sin. I just started over.

But I bring up that idea of sins because my fasting has a deeper meaning to me than simply getting rid of them. I use my fasting as a way to draw focus to all that I wanted to cleanse myself or get rid of outside of traditional sins. I use this day as a time to look at how I can improve myself in the coming year. I reflect on what I did that may have not been so great and what I can learn from that. To get this all in motion, I took a very lengthy walk down Lake Shore Drive at one of the most asinine times to do so. Roughly two hours before sundown, I began a walk from Lakeview to River North. By landmarks, roughly Wrigley Field to the John Hancock building. All on 22 hours of an empty stomach. It was the dumbest and best decision I made that day. During this walk I did exactly what I hoped. I spoke to myself. Mostly in my own head but occasionally out loud when no one was around or when I didn’t notice that lady right behind me. It’s astounding the thoughts that come to fruition when given the chance.

As a part of my walk, I took a little break, sat on a bench, whipped out my journal, and wrote a little. Yes I have a journal. Not a diary. A journal. Like the one Doug Funnie had, for those of you who understand that. I’ve titled my journal “My Thoughts Exactly,” because they are just that. Talking to myself is one thing, but writing to myself can be incredibly cathartic. Especially on Yom Kippur. I really can’t tell you anything about what I wrote in there but know it’s the best stuff that’s ever been written by any person in the history of time.

What writing and talking to myself did for me is give me the initial understanding of what goals I have for the year to come. Some are bigger, some are smaller and some are simply practical. Like that I want to make sure I brush my teeth every night before I go to bed. It’s something small yet important that I have neglected for years that I should always be doing. It’s a realistic goal and starting with that should, among other things, give me the momentum needed to accomplish the bigger goals. And this goal is part of the overarching goal I have for myself which is to not be so lazy. In fact my current motto to myself is “No lazy.” I mean for this to be in every aspect of my life, whether it’s walking a little more or getting a few more things accomplished each day. It’s amazing how difficult it is for me to not be lazy sometimes, but pushing myself makes me, sheepishly, a little proud of myself.

My Zadie has always told me that it’s very important to never lose focus of your own picture. Talking and writing to myself on Yom Kippur helps me finish those edges, add those shadows and darken those lines to make the picture complete and clear. At least clearer. If only my picture was as easy as a paint by numbers. That’d be quite nice. Yom Kippur is one of the most special days of the year to me. I don’t look at it so much as a Day of Atonement but more as a day of clarity and understanding. Sure I’m not a fan of fasting but this is one powerful day. A day I hold in the highest regard. I don’t even care this much about my birthday. Other than the fact I get cake. I love cake. Please excuse me while I got get some cake.

I was going to write about my Top 10 list for fall clothes and accessories and discuss some of the amazing, plush leather handbags, etc., that are on my radar. But, after attending High Holiday services, I thought it appropriate to switch gears. For both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services, I couldn’t help but notice the completely inappropriate attire of the tween females in attendance.

When I was in middle school and high school attending services with my parents, it was understood that although I could still be fashionable, I must be appropriate. (After all, I’m sure all of us ladies have noticed that the aisle between the pews can turn into quite the little catwalk before the Rabbi approaches the bimah.) When I was a pre-teen, I wore dresses or skirts that hit at the knee with flats or low heels and an appropriate blouse or sweater. I always wanted to look my best, and I stayed on trend, but my mother taught me the importance of respecting the synagogue as a place of worship and sophistication and I respected this concept and dressed with that in mind.

Now, I shouldn’t make a blanket statement about every tween female, as I’m sure many of them were dressed just fine at synagogue, but I have to say, I didn’t notice the appropriately dressed ones because I was utterly distracted by the spandex micro miniskirts, slouchy off the shoulder sweaters, distressed leather ankle booties, and tangled waves of hair. These girls literally looked like they walked out of an Urban Outfitters or Free People catalogue and were about to go to an indie concert in a bar (I know, ironic because they are not even old enough to go into a bar). If I was their mother, I don’t know if I would feel comfortable with my 12, 13, 14 or 15 year old wearing an outfit like this to the mall, let alone synagogue.

I have noticed this issue in years past, and never approved, but this fashion epidemic was particularly bad this year. I’m pretty sure that a black miniskirt with red sequins down each side is not meant for synagogue, or really most places, minus the club or the street corner. I am a huge advocate for girls learning at an early age the importance of empowerment through fashion and developing a personal sense of style, but I also believe this should be filtered and modified depending on the occasion. I also understand that middle school and high school are places where being “cool” and “fitting in” are major priorities, and these girls knew they would probably see a few classmates at synagogue, so they wanted to make sure they’re wearing whatever is “in,” but can’t this happen in a way that is tasteful and appropriate?

What are your thoughts? Did you notice this at services this year too? I like to think I’m hip, although I usually lean conservative in my attire, but am I completely out of touch or overreacting?

Other than during college, I’ve only ever gone to synagogue with my parents, aunt and uncle and cousins on the High Holidays. When the holidays appeared early on the calendar, and the weather was nice, we’d drive to my aunt and uncle’s house and walk the rest of the way to services. There’s something about walking to synagogue for the High Holidays with family that makes for great conversation, bonding and reflection on the past year. More often than not, these walks were the best part of my holiday celebration.

But for the past few years, these walks just weren’t enough. While my family has stayed loyal to the Conservative temple I grew up at, I’ve begun shifting and identifying closer to Reform. Instead of leaving synagogue feeling spiritually rejuvenated each year, I left feeling unfulfilled and truth-be-told, unhappy.

So this year, I decided to do something about it and bought tickets to a Reform synagogue in the city with a friend.

Now this might not sound like a big deal to you, but in a close-knit family of very like-minded thinkers (when we argue about politics, we argue about who likes the same candidate more) who enjoy being with each other constantly, this was a very rebellious act. Probably, the most rebellious act I’ve ever committed in my life.

Side note: This is probably a bit of an exaggeration as I don’t really have that many rebellious acts to compare it too. Probably the only other act of rebellion I’ve ever committed was spending a summer in Europe and refusing to call my parents while I was there—of course, I did let them know I’d landed safely.

So for the first time ever, I visited a Reform synagogue for High Holiday services. I’d already been warned to expect some major differences: organ music, more English, a heavier focus on tikkun olam, shorter services where people show up from start to finish (this part I was most looking forward to) and a less participatory congregation. While I was ready for these, there were other changes I wasn’t prepared for: a soloist performing a song from a musical, a haftorah portion read in English and a prayer book that opened left to right.

This might seem obvious to most, but I also found that whether you are at a Reform or Conservative synagogue, some things remain the same: in the end all the same prayers were said (even if some were in English), Jews will always congregate and chat in the aisles while the Torah makes the rounds and you will always be standing more than you are sitting.

What I liked about my experiences at a Reform synagogue (and what I had been seeking out), was that feeling of inclusiveness that had been lacking at my childhood synagogue. From the wonderful female rabbi on the bimah, to the presence of the female matriarchs in the prayers, to a surprise sermon from the new Israeli consul general to the Midwest, and the frequent mentions of support for the Jewish LGBTQ and interfaith communities, this was a place of welcoming. I felt proud to be Jewish.

Not to say that everything was just peachy. I definitely missed the feeling of hundreds of Jewish people praying together out loud in Hebrew, but mostly I missed the feeling of my family sitting next to me praying.

I’m not sure if this particular Reform synagogue is the right fit for me or if I even truly fit under the Reform umbrella. But I plan to keep trying to find my place. I’ve been told by others who faced similar Jewish soul searching moments that I’ll never find the perfect fit for me and that’s ok. At least I’m trying. And I’m still holding out that I can get my family on board with the switch.

In the meantime, I’m going to continue shul shopping.

I like to think of myself as having a laid back, easy going approach to parenthood. But my oldest – my 5th grader - says it ain’t so. This is my kid who has had a mohawk since kindergarten. My kid who had his mohawk dyed orange. And yet when I respond with a, “no” to some of his notions, (riding his bike without a helmet; walking a mile to school alone in the wee hours of the morning; seeing the movie “The Dark Knight Rises”; ordering beer…) I am “…THE most overprotective mom – EVER!!!” On the outside, I shake it off. “This is just the way it is. I want you safe. It’s my job.” But inside, I fret. Am I overprotective? Am I setting myself up for a massive rebellion? Should I be saving up my “nos” for the big stuff like, “Mom- I-want-to-backpack-all-over-Europe-specifically-Amsterdam-and-ditch-on-the-whole-college-deal-because-education-is-overrated?”

My kid has said more than once, “we live in the suburbs for G-d sakes! Geeze!” implying that my fear of him being thrown into a windowless white van by a menacing, hulking stranger is baseless. And this is most probably true. When we looked for a house to buy, we considered three things: Jewish community, my husband’s ability to bike to work, and safety. We are grateful that things like a lawn Gnome being stolen makes the local paper because that’s about the most eventful thing that happens here. But still.

Myself, I was a rebellious child. I got into trouble. I snuck out of the house after I checked-in. I stole money from my parent’s piggybank. I practiced driving without a permit. I had a mouth on me. I got picked up by the cops for curfew violation. I hung with the bad boys and numerous other unmentionables. I recently had to admit to my kids that at a (few) point(s) and time(s) in my youth, I smoked. Since then my middle son likes to occasionally exclaim, “You were a smoker!?” “Experimented,” I say. “I was never a smoker.” He doesn’t buy it. And the questions (and the answering of them) become a slippery slope. “Ever been drunk?” he asked while on a grocery run during our vacation in Michigan. “Yes.” I answer. “When?” “Um…” I stammer. “In college?” he presses. “Yes.” I answer while over-analyzing a wheat-free cracker box. “Since we’ve been born?” he asks with his big blue eyes boring into the side of my head. Oy.

So how long do we keep this proverabal leash on our kids? Do we do a yank, pull. yank, pull and finally release? Do we white-knuckle grip it all the way? As a mother of four and having 10+ years under my belt in parenting, (and having had the privilege and honor of practicing on many borrowed kids in my professional life prior to parenthood) my conclusion is this: I really don’t know. I think I probably have to contemplate my own demons first – the worry that too much freedom will lead him to the trouble I found. Needing to sort through the fear about not knowing what’s going to happen to him and the anxiety about what he is ultimately going to decide to do for himself. And then, I need to take a long look at him. Really see him. View him for who he is separate from me. I need to give him (and myself) the courage to be brave. And to fail. And to not be perfect and to develop the confidence to be out in the world choosing vanilla or chocolate, looking both ways, saying no when it’s wrong and saying yes when it’s right.

Here's a little background about me, I spent the 2010-2011 school year teaching English in Grenoble, France. Before that, I spent a year working in the heart of Chicago in the Jewish non-profit community. When I was abroad, my eyes were opened to the everyday experience of the Jewish community in my town and in the country at large. I experienced what it meant to me to be not only Jewish in France, but a Jewish, young, female, American in France. It was a ridiculously fun, thought-provoking and thrilling seven months and I'm excited to share these stories. By the way, all thoughts and opinions are purely my own…I take full responsibility for any sweeping generalizations. With that out of the way, let's start at the very beginning (a very good place to start).

Looking in the mirror, I almost didn’t recognize myself. Dressed in black skirt down to my ankles and a long-sleeve black shirt, just a little light blush on my cheeks, I was definitely sporting a new look. I felt subdued, perhaps even a little out of uniform without my usual skinny jeans and fall sweater. I don’t often go to synagogue, but today I was making my first-ever outing to a Modern Orthodox shul with my French hosts. Looking into the mirror once again, I tried on my most devout expression.

“You look beautiful!” Mrs B. exclaimed as I gingerly walked down the stairwell. I was wearing her outfit, of course, and it didn’t fit badly at all. I put on my coat and off we went. The streets were quiet on a Saturday morning, most of the people in town taking it easy. I trailed behind Mr. and Mrs. B and their two sons. It was a very rainy morning and I walked carefully as we wandered down one of the main drags in the city. I felt strangely self-conscious. During my time in France, I’d very rarely, if ever, seen religious Jews walking to shul on a Saturday morning. But there I was, part of this fray, feeling even more foreign in this already foreign land. We approached a heavy wooden door, Mr. B. entered a code and we all slowly slipped inside.

Where we entered was a small building, moderately lit, and already filled with chatter and prayer. Mr. and Mrs. B. greeted all of their friends with the “bisou,” the customary French greeting. Wisely, I kept to myself, waiting to be introduced to the others at shul. I folded my hands in my lap as Mrs. B. and I took our place at the back of the synagogue, behind the small partition dividing the men and the women.

I wondered if the service would be led in French, but the elderly rabbi led his congregation entirely in Hebrew. We arrived near the end of the service. As I stood up to say the “Aleinu,” reciting from memory words I’d spoken many times before at services in the Chicago burbs, I felt a comforting wave of familiarity. In my day-to-day life in France, I’d been working so hard to make friends, make myself understandable to the French, to navigate tasks that took no thought in English, but now required immense concentration in French. There were times I questioned if I would ever feel welcome, if I would ever feel truly understood. As I recited the prayers with the same fluency of the women sitting around me, I felt competent and I felt, for that brief moment, completely un-foreign.

The members of the shul filtered into a little room filled with tables for a Shabbat feast. I dutifully took my seat next to my host mother. I gleefully played the role of “American Girl,” answering everyone’s questions, smiling brightly, gesturing wildly, my apple cheeks turning rosy when I wasn’t sure if I’d heard so-and-so correctly. There were many girls joining their parents, but not nearly as many boys. I turned to Malka, the girl sitting next to me, I told her she shared a name with my grandmother and that quickly got us chatting. I asked where all the boys were, to which she replied, “oh, they’re all away at yeshiva at the next big town over.”

After a robust afternoon of chatting and eating, or in my case, being told to “eat more!” the B. family gathered themselves and headed toward the door. “Yalla!” I called, as I saw my host brother dawdling. My host father looked at me and laughed. On the walk home, my host mother asked what I thought. “I liked it,” I remarked. I was tired, I didn’t have much more to say. Compared to my everyday life in Chicago, going to a modern Orthodox shul was one of the most different experiences I’ve encountered living abroad. It took me outside of my comfort zone and showed me a world I know about, but very rarely see and experience. I was never once pressed about my “sort” of Judaism, whether I was reform or conservative; I was never asked how I practice or how often I pray. They extended an invite simply because I am a Jew, and it was Shabbat. And that small gesture made me feel quite at home.

You ready for a clean slate? We Jews are lucky to get a chance to start over every fall as the shofar sounds a wake up call in each of our lives. With the changing leaves, the crispness in the air, and new Justin Bieber Trapper Keepers in the back-to-school aisle comes a promise for a fresh start in 5773.

Since the sum of 5, 7, 7, and 3 equals 22, I offer you 22 tips for a sweeter new year. L'shana tovah tikatevu!

1) Give thanks. No matter what you're doing, take at least a moment every day to stop and say thank you to God, to your parents, to the love of your life, to your kids, and to that barista at your local coffee joint who greets you with a smile and a "half-caff-skim-latte-easy whip" every morning. We get so wrapped up in the chaos of our days that we forget to give thanks for all the blessings, big and small, in our lives.

2) Make Shabbat special. Whether you keep Shabbat or not, it's a nice time to be in the present with a good meal, good people—and a good nap.

3) Get inspired. Go online and click on one of those TED talks, listen to an uplifting sermon by your rabbi, take in a sunset, watch a Spielberg flick—whatever moves you.

4) Learn about your roots. Ask an older member of your family to tell you a story stemming from your family tree. My grandparents just recently told me how they met. Long story short, I might not be here if it weren't for my grandma's Canasta game with my great aunts, Faye and Gertie, who put the shidduch together. How'd your grandparents meet?

5) Spend time with people who you really like and love. And spend less time with people you don't. Life's short. `Nuf said.

6) Raise your heart rate. They say sitting at your desk all day can shave years off your life. It's a pity I write these words as I sit at my desk. So whenever you can, get up and move. Walk, don't drive, the mile to the store. Take the stairs, not the elevator. Do yoga. Shoot hoops. Just move.

7) Never text and drive—capiche? And while we're on the subject, texting and walking is dangerous too.

8) Laugh more. In the book The Happiness Project, author Gretchen Rubin says that a small child typically laughs more than 400 times each day, while an adult laughs only 17 times. Raise that average.

9) Look up at the sky and down at the earth. Pay attention to the sun, the moon, and the stars, and plant something in the ground.

10) Take up space in the room. Last year, I attended a Jewish women's empowerment seminar, where we talked about this concept, but it applies to both men and women: Who you are and what you have to say matter. Own it.

11) Commit gemilut hasadim—deeds of loving kindness. Mentor a kid who needs a friend, volunteer at a senior home, or sign up for volunteer opportunities with TOV.

12) Devour a book—for fun. Read it on your Kindle or the real kind made of actual paper.

13) Give yourself a break. So many people, especially amongst us MOTs, are taught to excel and to make everyone around them happy all the time whether that means making the honor roll, getting that promotion, or saying yes to a project you know you don't have time for. But you know what? Sometimes it's okay to take a day off from perfection. I give you permission.

14) Eat broccoli, beans, and blueberries. Incorporate superfoods like these into your diet to improve your overall health.

15) …But eat ice cream too. I know these last two tips sound contradictory, but it's not like you're training for the Olympics. Yes, eat your vegetables, but every once in a while, go for those two scoops of peanut butter and chocolate ice cream.

16) Visit somewhere you've never been. That may be Israel, India, or Indiana, or it could be your local gym or the Chicago Botanic Garden. Visit uncharted territory next year.

17) Talk about real stuff. Again, we get bogged down in the details of life, logistics, and work, but take some time to really talk to the people in your lives about what really matters.

18) Dance more. So you're not exactly Mikhail Baryshnikov or J. Lo. Well, chances are neither is that guy next to you on the dance floor at the club or dancing the hora alongside you.

19) Find joy in every season—even winter. Despite our infamously cruddy weather, Chicago offers us four varied seasons, so revel in each of them—whether you're seven-years-old or seven at heart. In the fall, jump in a pile of leaves. When it's cold, make a snow angel. Meander through the rain without an umbrella in the spring. And, next July, jump into the lake-when the E. coli levels are low.

20) Be more Zen. I'm a work in progress on this one. Your friend is 11 minutes late for your coffee date. The forecast calls for storms on your wedding day. Your daughter just drew a picture of the dog with a brown Sharpie on the coffee table—rather than on her plentiful construction paper. Don't freak out about things beyond your control. Okay, maybe freak out a little about the Sharpie stain.

21) Do something a little scary. No, not necessarily bungee jumping. My mom would kill me—and she'd probably kill you too. But get out of your comfort zone and do something new that seems easier not to do.

22) Turn your phone off every once in a while. Wouldn't it be nice, every so often—maybe on Shabbat—to not text, not email, not status update, and not tweet—to just be?

Got advice for the new year? E-mail me at CindySher@juf.org and I'll run your tips online.

From a young age, our parents teach us to be joiners.

When I had scarcely learned to walk, my mom enrolled me in a group ice skating class—complete with ice show participation (I recall wearing a sequined frog costume). Along with that, came piano lessons, art classes, swimming classes, summer camp, carpool groups and more. Before I graduated from elementary school, I knew it was time to leave my mark on society and run for student council. I blew the elementary school gymnasium away with my candidate speech for secretary.

That desire to be grouped continues through our school years, but I think it’s sometimes forgotten after we graduate college—a period in our lives when we are most disenfranchised and posse-less. We remember to join a gym and to network to find a job. When it comes to other social experiences, sometimes we’re on our own unless we seek out new opportunities. That said, I think JUF really steps up when it comes to providing social outlets for people in their 20s and 30s.

My first couple years after college were sometimes a social struggle. After graduating from the University of Wisconsin, many of my friends scattered all over the country. Thankfully, when I returned home to Chicago, I reconnected with childhood friends. However, some childhood friends also had moved or our relationships had changed from time apart. Those of us who were around were busy trying to figure out our careers via internships and first jobs. We also found ourselves dumbfounded by a Chicago bar scene where everyone didn’t already “know our name.”

College is perhaps the most socially enriching environment one can have, particularly if you attend a university that nearly engulfs the city in which it resides. In college, I was surrounded by thousands of people my own age, engaging in local activities geared toward the majority population. During my senior year at college, most of my closest friends lived within a 3 block radius of me. We could have performed the old movie cliché with the cans and string from our windows (quaint, yet unnecessary in a cell phone era).

After a few years of life as “an adult” and forging new and different friendship groups, I’ve become more of a joiner. Ironically, the joining came after the friends. I’m of the belief that you can never have enough new people in your life. I also am a big fan of introducing friends to each other, because then I can hang out with people from various facets of my life at one time and not worry about them having nothing to say to each other.

About a year ago, I found myself reunited with a childhood friend who’d moved back to the city after nearly a decade away. This friend reunion put me in such a giddy state, that I wanted to spread the love. Around that same time, I decided to form a book club and include reunited friends, work friends, old friends and all of their friends. To say the group was a “mish-mosh” is an understatement.

Our book club is preparing to celebrate its one-year anniversary this month. The group is larger than ever, and its members are very dedicated to reading and to each other. Book clubs are often stereotyped for consisting of chatty, catty ladies who discuss the book for five minutes a meeting and then drink wine and gossip. My group legitimately breaks down each book in heated discussion (while stuffing our faces with potluck food). In fact, we’ve had two authors join our discussions, including Oy!Chicago’s Rachel Bertsche.

I love the group for its diversity, for the ladies’ outspokenness and for their tolerance. It has become an unexpected community of intelligent women I never knew I needed and wanted in my post-college life. Many of the members have found the book club has also re-ignited their passion for reading. Not to mention, friendships forged in the club have led to other social outings and even joining workout classes together.

My advice to newbies in the city and those who are mulling through those early 20s is to continue to put yourself out there and meet new people. Start a group or club based on an interest, and invite people you might not know well to join.

Groucho Marx once said, “I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member.”

However, I recommend surrounding yourself with unlikely company. You’ll be amazed at who you meet along the way.  

A few weeks ago, my mom was discussing our Rosh Hashanah plans with my nana. Somehow, in their conversation, my nana made a comment when referring to services that was something along the lines of, “it’s the same thing every year.” Although this comment grew to be something we teased her about, it led me to really think about the statement. Are the High Holidays truly the same every year?

In one sense, of course they are. Rosh Hashanah, like all Jewish holidays, offers some form of consistency in our ever-so-quickly changing lives. In periods of uncertainty or chaos, the values, traditions, prayers, and even cuisine present during Rosh Hashanah are always a constant. However, part of this experience can be exceedingly different. As we enter the Days of Awe, I can assure you that my Rosh Hashanah was slightly different enough to teach me a lesson or two.

I grew up at a Conservative synagogue in Wilmette and eventually over the years, my family joined a new Reform synagogue in Northfield. Due to a variety of experiences, I became more conservative at school and definitely found my place in the Jewish community of the Hillel at the George Washington University. There were times that I came home for one of the holidays so that I could spend time with my family, but I always was at school for at least one of the Holy Days.

Needless to say, it was a bit of a transition and change to know that I will be home for both holidays this September. After a few years of jumping back and forth between a reform service with my immediate family, the services I was accustomed to at school, and traditional services with my grandparents, my mother and I compromised on trying out a new conservative service this year. It is challenging to simply find a new synagogue for the holidays when tickets to services are costly and in high demand. We were lucky enough to receive complementary tickets from one of our close family friends.

The experience started off a bit odd. We weren’t aware that people brought their own prayer books, probably because it was in a theater in the community, rather than a sanctuary. As we strolled in like lost puppies, we shuffled our way up to the top of the theater and sat down for a few hours. After seeing a few familiar faces, which due to the vastness of Jewish geography, was inevitable, we both found ourselves surprisingly enjoying the same service.

As I thought about how the experience was in some ways identical to years past and in other ways, a brand new experience, I pulled myself away from my mid-service daydreams to listen to the rabbi’s sermon. I usually only love the sermons from my rabbi at Hillel and tend to space out during others, but this rabbi really caught my attention with her personality, humor, and various important messages. Although this was far from the point of her sermon, one smaller detail she focused on was uncertainty. Although she was talking about our immigrant ancestors and the Jewish people, the idea of thinking you know what is going on when nothing is 100 percent certain, no matter the situation, really resonated with me.

I think I spend most of my life with a plan, being sure of what’s next or at least confident of what I want to happen next. With that being said, it is truly strange to feel as though nothing is certain. I sat in the service thinking of the uncertainty present in my life and the anxiety that this has been causing for the past few months. The sermon made me realize that no matter why someone’s life possesses uncertainty, whether it’s due to a large-scale change like coming to America, or a smaller but still vital change of transitioning into the real world, uncertainty is something that you cannot escape. Every year in December before we watch the ball drop and ring in the New Year, we make resolutions of what we will do better in the upcoming year. Although this isn’t necessarily the same custom present in our Jewish new year, casting off your sins in order to start the year afresh can closely be related to pledging to do better in this year than in years past.

With that being said, I think that there is one resolution that everyone could benefit from making and that is to embrace uncertainty. As hard as it is for me to admit, the unknown can be a good thing filled with excitement, possibilities, and the potential for something better than you can ever expect. This 5773, I hope to start off the year with a little more optimism and wherewithal to step out of my comfort zone of having everything planned, organized, and calculated, and enter a new year with a little more spontaneity, perplexity, and willingness to realize that life doesn’t need to be the same thing every year. With that, I wish everyone reading a sweet new year with some great surprises.

In case you have been living under a rock or not watching the news, schools have been closed amidst a debate between the Chicago Public School system and the Chicago Teacher’s Union, displacing thousands of students across the city and affecting all types of students, families—and teachers.

As a recent Elementary Education Masters recipient and newly minted educator, I feel that I might have a few insights to offer about this situation, especially since I am a Jewish teacher in a private day school and unaffected by the strike. But I won’t try to sound too political.

From my perspective, education is not a choice. It is a lifestyle. Let’s not forget that we are inundated with learning from the moment we come into existence, our curiosity and our desire for self-exploration and self-discovery lead us eventually toward interacting with the world around us. It is unavoidable that we are constantly processing and analyzing everything and anyone we come into contact with. In primary school, students are always evolving, constantly growing and adapting. Whether they are in school learning about atoms or practicing taking good notes and learning how to organize a busy schedule and juggle multiple responsibilities—much like an adult—life is their lesson. School is just another setting for learning.

Life does not always choose us, but we must learn to prepare for life regardless; that is the ultimate aim of education, for all people and not just students.

Education is not information, it is inquiry. Education is not about high scores, it is about high personal achievement and growth. Education is not about getting the highest paid job, it is about finding out who you are and what you are capable of doing, and then using that knowledge to live life to its fullest. Education is a means, not an end. Education is a journey, not a destination.

How does the strike affect students? They are always learning, in every environment. When the school environment goes, much more than academic knowledge leaves the school grounds. With technology playing a monopolizing role in current academic and personal environments—constantly flooding students with multiple forms of stimuli and excluding them from real-life interactions—it is very easy to lose the value of adult role models and mastering interpersonal communication between students takes a lifetime to learn. There are no classes for teaching these life lessons to students, yet they are indeed learning them while in school.

Yes, children are losing out on their academic education and falling behind in many subjects as a result of the strike, making it more difficult for teachers and students to not only understand what is going on (and why), but how to move forward from this, because there will be an end at some point. My fear is that students will not learn how to get along in life. Has anyone stopped to think that perhaps students are benefitting from their education at school in more ways than academic?

It really is a tough situation for both sides, and I do hope and believe that a resolution will be made and that schools will reopen and life will go back to its routine. Will we have learned anything from it? Will students have found the ‘time off’ a welcome vacation or an annoying disturbance of their growth and maturity?

Regardless, we owe a debt of gratitude to those who stand on the front line of education, helping to mold the next generations into strong, capable citizens of the world. We all owe a lot to our teachers, whether we liked them all or not. So, let’s raise a glass and acknowledge all the teachers we know: our unspoken role models, our ever-faithful supporters and nurturers, our fans and our companions.

L’Chaim!

My eight-year-old nephew slept over a few weeks ago. Like most eight-year-olds, he loves to just run around. He doesn't need to play baseball or shoot hoops, but whatever he does is fun. As adults we somehow lose the fun factor. People walk by my office with this look of dread on their face and whimper, "tell me I should work out today." And of course, I oblige.

Working out does not have to suck! You can have fun. People like my boot camps and training sessions because they laugh while they sweat. The clients training for a particular event, probably have a little less fun but that's by choice. Some sadists just enjoy a good old-fashioned butt kicking in the gym and I love them for it. If you can make your workout fun, you will be more likely to keep doing it.

People love Zumba because they like to dance. If you do not like to dance, maybe you would like to hike, kayak, play basketball… Those might not have the same benefits of weight training, but you can even make weight training enjoyable.

I make weight training fun by throwing a medicine ball against the floor (slam) and getting out some aggression. I enlist a friend to throw around a medicine ball with me. I try new equipment like the RIP Trainer, sand bags, VIPR… I also love a good agility course. And I've learned a lot of my clients like that too, so did my nephew.

I took my nephew to a park and let him help me put cones, loops, tennis balls, an agility ladder and other equipment in random order. I picked two pieces of equipment to arrange my way, and he picked two pieces to arrange. We then hopped, kicked, ran, jumped, and crawled around the equipment. Check out the short below. We alternated showing each other how to do the course. He LOVED it, and so did I. It was fun. He had no idea he was working on speed, jumping ability, and coordination. When we came home from the park, he guzzled two cups of water and my wife took one look at me and said, "I've never seen you so sweaty." All it took was 30 minutes in an open field, check it out.

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The obvious moral to this story, make fitness fun. A subtle sub plot, make exercise part of your lifestyle and include your friends, spouse, coworkers, children…

I had my first real camp experience two years ago, as a counselor for Camp Firefly. At Camp Firefly, you spend your days swimming, doing arts and crafts projects, horseback riding, rock climbing, and enjoying gooey s’mores by the campfire. Sounds like your typical summer camp, right? Well, not exactly. Camp Firefly is so much more. Camp Firefly, a program of Jewish Child & Family Services, is a unique, overnight camp experience for children ages 9-16, who have been diagnosed with social disorders such as Autism, Asperger’s Syndrome, Social Anxiety, Pervasive Developmental Disorder, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, and Non-Verbal Learning Disorder. Camp Firefly is a once in a lifetime experience that enables children with such disabilities to develop social skills, learn independent living skills, build friendships, and leave camp with a greater overall sense of confidence.

Therapeutic services for children with such disabilities are expensive and sending your child to summer camp is often not an option. Financial difficulties should not be the reason children are unable to experience such a magical place like Camp Firefly. That is why Friends of Camp Firefly and myself have put hours upon hours of hard work into making Camp Firefly’s Third Annual Fundraiser, Give for the Glow a success. On Sept. 29, 2012, Friends of Camp Firefly will be hosting our third annual fundraiser at Slugger’s World Class Sports Bar in Chicago, to raise funds so that children are able to attend summer camp.

Proceeds from last year’s fundraiser enabled camp enrollment to increase by 50%. It is my hope that this year’s fundraiser will allow even more children to experience what the words “Summer Camp” means. I encourage you to visit www.campfireflyjcfs.com to see photos of campers and learn more about what makes Camp Firefly so special. To make a donation or purchase tickets to Give for the Glow, please visit www.formstack.com/forms/?1102596-xbRDklqirk.

I’m touched and left in awe each summer when children are able to tackle their fears, encourage one another, and just be themselves because of Camp Firefly’s carefree, supportive, loving environment. I can’t thank you enough for helping make summer camp a possibility for our children!

First, let me clarify that the word in the title is not “mohel” or some version thereof. A “mohel” is a person who performs a brit milah (circumcision). No, the word in question comes from a different Hebrew root altogether, “mochel,” and means “forgive.”

In the week before Rosh Hashannah, the halls of my Orthodox Jewish high school rang with the voices of students repeating these words: “Moichel me?” Several times a day, I would be approached by one student or other, some of whom I hadn’t interacted with in months, who asked me, “Moichel me?”

He (it was an all-boys school) was asking me— in a combination of English and Yiddish accent and grammar— if I would forgive him for any affront or hurt he had caused me since the previous Rosh Hashannah. Of course I said yes, and asked if he were “moichel me,” in return.

Jewish tradition holds that God can only forgive us for sins we have committed against, well, God. If we have sinned against our fellow human, only that person can forgive us. (Some restrictions apply; please see your local rabbi for further details.)

Now, I may have hurt someone without knowing I was doing so. Or I may have knowingly hurt someone, but that person never knew it was me. It is even possible that neither of us knew, and yet damage had been done.

In order to cover all possible bases, then, the only thing to do was to approach, individually, each and every person we had encountered over the year and ask for forgiveness. Given the enormity of that task and the shortness of time, the question “Are you moichel me?”— roughly, “Are you forgiving of me?”— was condensed to just the last two words.

Around this time of year, I miss this process. It is nice to have a tradition that encourages you to get back in touch with everyone in your life, once a year, and say, “Hey, sorry if I did anything to upset you last year. If I did, I’m really sorry. Are we cool?” And then have them ask you the same. It’s more than just a note saying, “Happy Rosh Hashanah”; it’s “And if it’s not happy, and if I am the reason why, let’s talk about that.”

A blog is a forum for spouting opinions, often in reaction to something recent, without the benefit of having chewed the matter over for a week or so. A blog post (let alone a Facebook post or Tweet), with its insistence on immediacy, almost demands this unblinking, unthinking response.

In the past year, I may have said something (or some things) that upset people, and if I did, I sincerely apologize. I never mean to offend, and I’m sorry if I have.

So... moichel me?

I was in synagogue recently and inserted into the service was the special blessing for the Hebrew month of Elul.  Elul is the last month of the Hebrew calendar which means it's only a matter of another lunar cycle before we kick off the Jewish New Year with Rosh Hashanah and deny ourselves 25 hours' worth of food and drink on Yom Kippur.  It is the Jewish New Year 5773, which means there is a new hope for the days ahead.  It's a time of teshuvah which means repentance, but it also means a return. 

As I wander through my day to day life over the course of the year, I constantly feel like I am pulled in so many different directions.  Everyone and everything demands my attention.  Someone on Facebook, wants me to friend them.  Someone on Twitter needs me to follow them.  My email box is littered with requests for my time, energy and resources.  Yet during the High Holidays I can tap into my moral compass and return to a truer path for me.   It's a comforting feeling to know that every year I can designate this time of year to really find my way in the world again. 

Repentance could happen any time, but the idea of teshuvah during Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur always happening at the same time on the calendar each year is all the more meaningful to me.  This is the time of year where I get to take stock about how I have spent my time.  It's also where I get to explore and hopefully make some decisions about how I want to spend my time in the year to come. 

This year I hope to spend the most time on that one thing that will keep me grounded throughout the year.  You know when you look at the end of a pen really intensely, so much so that the pen comes into focus extra clearly and the rest of the world gets blurry all around it.  I want to be able to focus in on that one thing just like that.  I can't say exactly what that thing is going to be, but I've got a week and 10 days of repentance to figure it out.   

Teshuvah is tough stuff.  The return is never easy.  If it was supposed to be easy, God would have tweeted the 10 Commandments and called it a religion.  We all know that the Judaism that calls millions of Jews to return to services every year at this time brings far more meaning than anything that can be expressed in 140 characters or less.

Shana Tova U'metukah - May you have a wonderful and sweet New Year! 

In this week's portion, Ki Tavo, Moses continues his speech to the Israelites by highlighting a pretty horrific list of curses that the Israelites will be subject to if they don’t follow the proper path (read: the Torah’s laws) once they enter the Promised Land. Juxtaposed with the curses are a number of blessings that they will receive if they do remain true to the Torah’s teachings. As we’ll find later on in the Prophets and Writings sections of the Bible, (*SPOILER ALERT*) the Israelites don’t do a particularly great job of adhering to the Torah’s laws, despite Moses’s warning, and pretty frequently end up worshipping idols and being punished for their actions.

What is it to be blessed? What is it to be cursed?

What power do words really have?

Words have a unique ability to express warmth, love and compassion. So too, do they have the ability to spew hate, encourage divisiveness, and to make others feel less than human. Our ability to speak provides us with an unbelievable amount of power, and as we’re only human, we have all used words for bad, when the opportunity existed to use them for good.

We’re now well into the month of Elul: the month of the Hebrew calendar that immediately precedes the High Holidays (and the Jewish new year), and traditionally, a month full of introspection, given its lead up to Yom Kippur where we stand together as a community accounting for our personal and collective shortcomings as human beings. From last Yom Kippur until now, we have all used words in hurtful ways – essentially turning our words into weapons with which we curse others. And now, with the High Holidays nearly upon us, it’s time to reflect on such situations, to apologize wholeheartedly to those whom we’ve hurt and to resolve to take steps to better ourselves as human beings.

We do not exist in order to be stagnant beings. Rather, we exist in order to continually strive to improve… to constantly work at becoming better people.

We have the power to be the ones offering up blessings and curses, and we have the ability to ourselves be blessings or curses unto the world.

Be a blessing.

That’s a bad title. I’m sorry. I mean, I apologize. I mean…I have to stop that. I say something along these lines more than I rightfully should. Maybe it’s the stereotypical Jewish guilt. I don’t know. Sorry I brought it up. Whoops. There I go again. See? My apologizing is getting superfluous. For example, if someone needs to get by me or I myself need to get by, I say it. It can’t be right that I am always the one at fault. In a sense, saying sorry or apologizing is a form of regret. I wish not to have regrets and am therefore looking for an alternative to the abundance of sorries I hand out. It is a negative word and I like to live in the positive. For example, I don’t call it a lazy eye. I look at it as one overly enthusiastic eye. So from here on out, I want to make sure any regrets, even on a minute level, remain as minimal as possible.

The first thing I need to do is stop apologizing when unnecessary. I’m sorry will be no more. I don’t want to become arrogant or pompous, just less apologetic. I need to stuff my sorries in a sack mister. Based on this entire apology and saying I’m sorry talk, I bet you can easily guess what my favorite board game is.

Go on, take a guess.

If you guessed Sorry, that’s a good guess. It’s actually Monopoly. Monopoly.

Didn’t mean to mislead you there. Okay, maybe I did. Not going to apologize though.

This idea of saying sorry too much, at least for me, somewhat stems from my conscious yet unconscious need of approval from others. By the way, I really hope you are liking this. I’m someone who never wants to anger or annoy anyone as I am very non-confrontational. In the rare times that I am, my body tenses up, a wave a heat spreads over me and I become someone I don’t entirely like. In a word, it’s unpleasant. In two words, very unpleasant. My mother always told me if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing. Hence why you often hear me in these confrontational situations repeatedly yelling “Nothing!”

That’s a bad joke. Still can’t say I’m sorry.

Saying I’m sorry is a way for me to take the blame and prevent any drama from happening. I’m not a fan of drama. Ironic considering I have a theater minor. But I feel that drama is so…I want to say dramatic, so I will. Dramatic. Life has enough drama as it is, which is why I enjoy making people laugh. I sure do hope you are laughing while reading this. When appropriate of course. What’s fascinating to me is that I do all of this to avoid certain situations. I have self-proclaimed avoidance issues and apologizing to neutralize the situation is a form of that. Isn’t it nice how all of these things are bundled together in one nice package for me? By apologizing I’m effectively avoiding drama. See how well that works?

What I really need is a new phrase. A more specific way to say I’m sorry but not be avoiding the issue while still keeping the drama to a minimum. Maybe I should start saying, “I am completely responsible for my actions and I put the blame entirely on myself at this juncture”. That might be a little too longwinded. In fact it is a little too longwinded. Especially when just passing by someone at the grocery store.

The only person I should be apologizing to is myself. Well, unless I actually did something wrong to you in which case I very much should apologize. Like if I stepped on your favorite rubber duckie and now the squeaker is all screwy, an apology would be acceptable. But simply and honestly, I want to always have confidence in my actions. Again, no regrets. I’m young enough and yet old enough to have already accumulated a multitude of them and adding to the list would be preferably avoided. At my current age of 25, as I see it, I’ve barely started real life. I was in school for almost two decades. My brain didn’t finish developing until this year. I at least have that one excuse.

What I want to get across, to put it succinctly, is that I need to be more proactive than saying a simple I’m sorry. Saying it can get you past some of the small issues, but it usually doesn’t solve the big ones. When I stopped going to class during my first semester of college and was subsequently put on probation, saying I’m sorry didn’t do much. (True story. I said I’m sorry at least a dozen times and remained on probation despite the apologies) I want to take my actions along with my words and do some good. Maybe make someone’s day. I should go ahead and do that. Instead of adding another regret, I should add another good deed. Hence maybe looking at these small opportunities to provide a mitzvah. Like when I’m asked for tzedakah, a much better answer is a small donation than saying I’m sorry. I suppose that sums up my whole point right there. So that’s enough out of me.

Sorry for ending this so abruptly.

I mean, I am completely responsible for my actions and I put the blame entirely on myself at this juncture.

Birthdays are a funny thing. As a kid, you count down the days. You obsess over who is and isn't invited to your birthday party. You boast to be eight and three quarters, because it's cooler to be a teeny bit older than your friend who is eight and a half.

When you talked about the future with your friends, the middle schoolers seemed old and wise, and talking about getting married and having babies in your twenties seemed like a lifetime away— you’d be old by then!

As you get older, birthdays come with more significance. Driving at 16. Lottery tickets at 18. Throwing out your fake ID at 21.

Celebrating 23 means you finally have some kind of legit income and can afford to buy drinks at the bar. At 25, you’re a quarter century and can rent a car. Twenty-six and 27 are okay— they don't feel all that different, but slowly you lose interest in throwing that wild pub crawl birthday extravaganza. Maybe an intimate dinner with 10 of your best girlfriends? A weekend getaway with your significant other?

This weekend I turned 28. Officially reached my late twenties. I celebrated at one of the greatest parties I’d ever been to— my best friend’s wedding. The best birthday message I got was a photo of my son, sent from my parents— the world's best babysitters, with a caption that said, “Happy Birthday Mommy!” Instead of birthday parties and cake, I got Facebook messages from old friends, a handful of text messages, and a few phone calls.

Having a birthday that falls on a holiday weekend means your birthday weekend is often overshadowed by barbecues, trips out of town and other commitments. As a kid, I remember hating that my birthday often overlapped with the first day of school. As a grown-up, this year, despite knowing that all my friends were scattered at weddings across the country, I hoped that my closest friends wouldn’t forget about me. Some did, some didn’t.

But somehow as I get a little bit older, it mattered a little bit less. Gone are the days of planning trolley bar crawls and blow-out parties for my birthday— instead, I’ll be planning Colin’s first birthday party before you know it and hoping that no one realizes that I’m one year closer to 30!

I began doing yoga, recently, after resisting it for years. Initially, it felt so boring. As one of those obsessed-with-running runners, it certainly didn't allow for that type of animal pleasure of digging into the earth, ripping through the world, passing people by, grimacing through the snow and the heat and the rain, pushing myself to my limits.

No, yoga was too calm, I had decided, after a dismal, brief attempt. There was no one to fight, not even myself. How aggravating.

Years, months later, housebound with energy begging to be burned, I tried it again. This time, something happened.

I was struck by the (YouTube) yoga instructor when she said "Regardless of what is going on outside of you, how far you are/aren’t stretching, etc., the most important thing is what is going on inside of you. Concentrate on the breath."

I stopped, struck by this simple, novel statement, feeling a rush of exhilaration within me as I realized that accomplishment was, quite literally, within my reach.

The point, l soon learned, wasn't to be somewhere else, to get somewhere else. To become fit, or limber. I was, already there. I was, already doing it. There was nowhere to go. All I had to do was breathe. This euphoric cloud of bliss entered the interior walls of my skin, as each breathe was an accomplishment, delicious, relaxing. I had arrived.

For a few weeks, I was obsessed with yoga, convinced it had solved all of my problems. I was shocked when, after the initial stages of yoga-infatuation faded, life was still a trial. There were still things that bothered my mind, entered into my psyche, clenched and strained my muscles. I was still tense.

Life happens. Stress happens. There are always more challenges and tests in this earthly existence. Such is the nature of things. But I have kept up with my yoga routine, and sometimes, I reach that state again, and I remember.

I remember that it is not the external things that will give me a sense of calm and completion.

That no matter how efficient I am, how many things I cross off of my to-do list, how much my baby conforms to her sleeping and eating schedule, how clean and ordered the house is, or how much money is in the bank, none of these things guarantees a sense of "wellbeing". A sense of "quality of life" that we crave.

I forget this constantly, every day, as I groggily wake up and, feeling the anxiety and the pressures of the day before me, I try to Get Things Done. Moving as quickly as I can, I scan my to-do list. My day seems so short, so little time for life.

As I sit down for yoga, and I start to breathe, slowly, I remember. Something. It starts off as a trickle, as the anxiety and intensity of my former thoughts resume their positions on the sidelines, watching as I cautiously return my attention to my breath. And that memory returns, reminding me that there's nowhere to go. It's all here. It's all good. I'm all good. I do not have to accomplish in order to feel whole, I am whole already.

There's a Jewish prayer, the Modeh Ani, which carries that simplistic message. Meant to be said the instant that we wake up and regain consciousness, the liturgy recalls with our groggy minds that we are indebted to G-d for returning our souls to us, though we cannot say His name yet because of our physical impurity, our contact with death as we slept (Jewish thought says that sleep is 1/60 of death, and your soul "leaves" the body during slumber, sojourning up to the heavens). A deeper explanation of the prayer teaches that, in the midst of this impurity, there is that part of us, that soul, that is completely pure, untouched, regardless. It is that realization of wholeness and perfection we aim to carry with us throughout our day as we tackle the unfinished world.

And that is what I return to, that is what I remember, when I breathe, as I stop. And through the stopping, I am. I am pure, I am grand, I am living, I am there,already.

We do not exist because we think that we do. We do not exist because we get things done. We exist because we are. And what we are is a lot of chaotic, potential energy swirling around a center of calm, beautiful perfection.

Now that's good stuff.

With this thought, the world also loosens up and slowly exhales alongside me.

As much as I love fashion and style, I wasn’t expecting my recent Colorado trip to be fashion-focused, as my boyfriend and I had big plans for more rustic adventures like hikes and horseback riding. However, on an unplanned whim, we decided to spend our final weekend in Denver following stays in Vail, Breckenridge, and Colorado Springs. To my pleasant surprise, there I was able to find my fashion fix.

The morning of our last full day in Denver, we asked our waitress about fun activities for the day. She mentioned that the Denver Art Museum was hosting a special YSL Retrospective exhibit. Of course, my boyfriend had no idea what this meant, and I of course immediately said, “We’re going!” After all, I missed the Alexander McQueen “Savage Beauty” exhibit, which was at The Metropolitan Museum of Art during one of my last NYC trips, and I was not about to make the same mistake twice.

That afternoon, we drove in torrential downpour to the museum, but were greeted by a mass of “Sold Out” signs for the exhibit. However, we pressed on and after bugging the guy at the ticket desk for a while, he miraculously discovered two final tickets to the 8 p.m. showing. This was the second to last day of the exhibit, which was developed by the Foundation Pierre Berge-Yves Saint Laurent, and it had only previously visited Paris and Madrid. Denver was the only U.S. city to host the exhibit, which is a retrospective covering 40 years of Yves Saint Laurent’s life and career. I felt pretty lucky to have been in the right place at the right time.

I actually did not know much about the famous Yves Saint Laurent (1936-2008) before experiencing this breathtaking exhibit, except that I very much admire the name brand’s current line of shoes and handbags (WANT the "dark magenta" patent monogrammed clutch). But I couldn’t wait to learn, and what I learned was magnificent.

The French designer, who believed that fashion comes and goes, but personal style is timeless, worked for Christian Dior during the early days of his career before creating his own fashion house. He was a phenomenal visionary who created a plethora of innovative and chic styles – a complete fashion trailblazer. Many of YSL’s designs are still fashion staples to this day. His innovations include but are not limited to the women’s tunic, the women’s pea coat, and refined women’s work attire, including women’s pant suits and tuxedos, which he famously called Le Smoking (various versions were dramatically displayed on perpendicular walls at the exhibit). A staggering 200 haute couture garments were featured in the Retrospective exhibit. If I could have touched them and taken a photograph next to each and every ensemble, I would have. They were displayed so artfully that I felt as though I was transported into an elaborate, Parisian fashion wonderland.

In addition to the fashions, the exhibit featured a re-creation of YSL’s studio and desk in Paris. This was actually one of my favorite aspects of the exhibit because it reminded me so much of my own personal work space – not my office at work, but my desk at home and the trinkets and magazine clippings I tend to collect from time to time to inspire me in fashion and in life. Just like my own, his desk area was contemporary and mostly white, but with pops of bright color. Actually, my desk itself is even the same style. Seeing all of this really made me smile, as I realized that I have something in common with the one and only YSL.

As I strolled through the exhibit, I became so engrossed that I basically listened to every recording on my little hand-held narrator machine twice (is there such thing as fashion OCD?). Although my boyfriend enjoyed the exhibit and appreciated the opportunity to learn about my passion, he was not as intense about it, and therefore, sped ahead from time to time. At one point, he came darting back to me and exclaimed (in a museum appropriate whisper of course), “You’re going to love what’s next!” As I entered into the next room, I discovered that the outfits were separated by culture, like a trip around the world. Here, I learned that for much of YSL’s career, he designed based on inspiration from various cultures and countries. His favorite? Morocco. For some time now, my boyfriend and I have been discussing a future trip to Morocco as I think it would be a fascinating country to see and experience firsthand. From what I have seen in photos, aesthetically, I think it’s magnificent. I learned that YSL fell in love with the country, especially the vibrant colors. He and his partner both in business and life, Pierre Berge, purchased vacation homes in Morocco and the country was so special to YSL, that his ashes were scattered there after he passed away in 2008. Learning about all of this definitely further inspired me to make the trip.

I walked from this room to the next, and finally into the “grand finale” room, which included a red carpet adorned with dozens of dresses and a unique piece of jewelry in a heart shape called “Le Coeur”, which YSL consistently lent to the model who wore his favorite design from each collection so that she could wear it during the show.

Needless to say, I left the Denver Art Museum completely impressed and enriched that I had expanded my fashion knowledge and appreciation. Yves Saint Laurent, through his tireless work, respect for women and their bodies, and passion for pushing boundaries and staying true to himself and his visions, made a permanent mark on the fashion world. I hope that one day I can experience the luxury and honor of owning one of his designs.

It is strange to think about the things that you miss that you never envisioned you’d be the least bit nostalgic for. For me, this is the first day of school. Ever since I could remember, I mildly dreaded the first day of school. I loved shopping for color coordinated school supplies and picking out that outfit for the first day, that always seemed really cute and fashionable, but a few years later I would find myself asking “what was I thinking?” Even so, I never really looked forward to class, seeing certain people, and being at school in general.

There was always something that I would much rather be doing than staring at the clock, droning out my teacher or professors voice that explained the same set of instructions that I had been hearing for what seemed like eons, and writing down notes about the upcoming year or semester. Don’t get me wrong, I was always a good student and cared about doing well in class, it was just the actual being in class that seemed like a pain…and often it was.

However, today marks the first day since 1995 that I haven’t packed up a backpack or book bag, grabbed my favorite new pencils, and sat down at a specifically chosen desk ready for the first day of class and to be perfectly honest, it felt extremely weird. There is something about the structure of a classroom that is nice to have. These words would have never crossed my mind a year ago, but today, the end of class is real and kind of terrifying. In fact, I actually spent the day that should be my first day of class at an interview, which made this whole post graduate lifestyle switch all too evident to me. To be honest, I am not looking forward to trading welcome back barbeques and first day ice breakers, for job applications and daily edits to my LinkedIn profile. Although uncertainty and spontaneity can be fun, the quick trade from structure to close to chaos, is something that is extremely odd and scary for me.

So many of my friends who graduated last year, and even a few years before, still say they would do anything to be back in their college town for one more year. This is a constant topic of conversation and something that from time to time, I agree with. Looking ahead to a year of who knows what is weird, but I guess the only option is to embrace the uncertainty. So, here’s to a weird, random, and hopefully great year.

Mitch Glasser is not just living out his dream, he is living out mine. Born and raised in Chicago, he moved to Minnesota and then got drafted by his favorite team, the Chicago White Sox. Seriously, I could not have scripted it any better. Mitch is a great guy and motivated by his dream of playing for the Sox (or running them someday). He also has deep Jewish roots which makes us at The Great Rabbino even more of a fan. Here is the story of the life I have dreamed about since I was a kid, actually being lived out by Mitch Glasser.

1) Tell us a little bit about yourself.
I’m 22 years old. I was born in Chicago and named after Cubs relief pitcher Mitch “Wildthing” Williams. My mom is a Sox fan; my dad is a Cubs fan. I grew up a Sox fan my whole life. When my dad brought me to the bleachers at Wrigley, I always wore my Sox stuff. I went to Macalester College where I majored in Psychology and Religious studies.

2) What got you into baseball and when did you know you had a shot to play in college?
My Grandpa taught me how to play baseball at a young age. I have fond memories of playing catch and him throwing me tennis ball batting practice in my grandparent’s backyard. Although I’m lefty in everything, he made me a righty in baseball. He claims it was so I could play more positions. I wish I hit lefty though.

3) What was draft day like?
It was surreal. I couldn’t watch, so I went to the cages and had my buddy throw me batting practice. When I thought the draft was long done, my buddy from college texted me and said congrats. That was the first time I heard it!

4) What are your future baseball/life goals?
I love playing baseball. However, I think I’m a better coach. I would love to one day open up my own baseball academy. If that doesn’t work out, I guess I’d settle for becoming the second greatest Jewish General Manager of all time.

5) Who would you rather start a team with Sandy Koufax or Hank Greenberg?
Easy question. Koufax so I wouldn’t have to face him. I heard his fastball rose in the air…No, thank you.

6) Ian Kinsler or Ryan Braun?
Both. Hopefully they both play for Team Israel in the World Baseball Classic!

7) What was your Jewish upbringing like? How important is your Judaism?
I went to a Jewish day school in Chicago for 11 years where I learned Hebrew and Jewish tradition. In college I took a few classes about Jewish identity with an amazing Rabbi/Professor. There happened to be quite a few Jews on the Macalester baseball team. Some practiced more than others…practiced Judaism that is. We did several Shabbats together at my house.

8) What’s next for you?
I just got news that the White Sox are going to sign me for spring training 2013. I think I’ll do that…it’s only my dream.

9) I ask all Chicago athletes this; favorite Chicago-style pizza?
Deep Dish at Bacinos in Lincoln Park.

10) Anything else you want to tell us?
The U.S. better look out for Team Israel in the World Baseball Classic.

Thank you to Mitch for his time. Hoping to see you in the Big Leagues soon.

Before we venture a few thousand miles over the ocean, I will bring you a brief recap: My name is Emily, I am an art teacher who, after graduating from college, chose to spend the majority of two years in Asia. The later half of this adventure found yours truly volunteering at a Dalit Rights NGO based in New Delhi, India as part of the American Jewish World Service Volunteer Corps. The following was written shortly after a series of field meetings with Dalit communities and activists in Uttar Pradesh and Harayana.

3/2012: I drank eight cups of tea today.
I’m lying in a bed, not mine, in a home in Panipat, Harayana. I’m warm beneath my blanket and listening to nothing, a rare moment of near silence in the crazy, chaotic, supercharged world that is India. There are no physical distractions, but my brain doesn’t want to turn off. It’s buzzing with the homes and faces and stories of the last few hours. And I drank eight cups of tea.

As I sit and think about those little cups of sweet deliciousness, I find it hard not to reflect on my one time favorite book, Three Cups of Tea. Regardless of recent allegations of inaccuracy, exaggeration, and mismanagement, I feel Greg Mortenson was on to something when he described the importance of tea in Pakistan. Similarly, it seems the mechanics of friendship and business and everyday life in India are fueled on chai. We drink chai in the morning at home and again at work. There are chai breaks in meetings and chai before bed and chai whenever you feel like it in between. If you are invited into someone’s home or office, there will more often than not be an offer (that you would never dream of refusing) of a sweet and steaming cup. I like to think (perhaps I am correct in my assumptions) that any important conversation happening in India, is happening over chai.

As part of my work here on the Subcontinent, in an effort to better understand the realities faced by Dalit individuals, I have had the opportunity to go into the field and meet Dalit people in a variety of communities, as well as the individual activists and advocates working at the grassroots level. After a workshop in Lucknow, and on a more recent trip to Panipat, I attended a monthly meeting of a Women’s Domestic Workers Union and met legal advocates who take cases of atrocities against Dalit’s to the local district court pro-bono. I’ve also met volunteer tutors and Dalit children who study at night, having been forced to abandon their standard course of education. Due to the close connections and relationships formed by representatives of my NGO, I’ve been welcomed into people’s homes to hear their stories and into community meetings to discuss issues and solutions at the local level. And in all of these districts, in all of these homes, over many cups of chai, I’ve sat and watched and listened.

Late in the evening, I listened to women from a village outside Panipat, who work as manual scavengers (cleaning human waste from upper caste homes) for little pay in order to provide for their children’s basic needs and education. Many shared how at the end of the day, after their struggle to send their children to school, teachers in the local schools (illegally) practice untouchability, refuse to teach their children, and demand additional books and resources be supplied from home. The women, some of whom also deal with abusive relationships and alcoholism at home, want to know why their girls should go to school if it is not to be taught, and how they can possibly provide for their family and themselves if they refuse to work as manual scavengers. And I don’t have the answer. The government has promised ration cards for basic needs and scholarships for their children, but the people of Gronda (as is the case for so many) have not seen these promises fulfilled.

Earlier, I met a group of women, men and children, in a Refinery District. They were domestic workers 'employed' by upper caste (or ‘general category’) families working at the refinery. The GC families are provided homes in the district and their children attend school for 50% tuition; they are also allowed to hire a domestic worker, whose salary will be paid by the refinery. This worker, essentially a servant, is provided a small concrete room on the backside of the property to share with his or her family. According to the government, these workers should receive 3000-4000 Rupees per month (60-80 USD) for basic cleaning and housework with any additional work earning them extra pay. In reality, many of these workers earn little (a few hundred rupees) to nothing at all beyond their room. They are expected to be on call 24 hours a day, responding immediately to a bell wired from the main household to their single room. Should a worker refuse additional tasks, or ignore a summons from the homeowners, s/he will simply be forced to pack their bags and leave, loosing his or her home and livelihood in one fell swoop. One of these workers, a relative of the women whose home I was sitting in drinking chai, had been accused by the property owners of stealing. Based on this accusation alone, the person was arrested along with a few others, taken to the police headquarters where they were beaten for 24 hours, before receiving instructions to go home and keep their mouths shut. The activist I came with had become involved through work for another organization. She helped the victim receive medical treatment and later file a lawsuit under the Prevention of Atrocities Act. While there was clear evidence of police brutality, after months of intimidation, including threats from the police, threats from the land owners, and the denial of basic resources like water and electricity, the victim was forced to compromise. To date, even the small compensation granted in the compromise was denied.

In addition to speaking with various community members, I've watched and listened to activists supported by my NGO, interacting with these groups and struggling to find solutions to the great many issues facing Dalits across the country. In Lucknow, I met a young woman attempting to organize women domestic workers into a labor union. Some women have responded to her work, and moderate achievements have been seen. When organized, the women were able to pressure a homeowner who had been denying due payment to a laborer whom she had fired for being ill and unable to work. Though this activist has generated interest in the union, and women seem to understand the support it can provide workers in times of need, she is having less success helping them understand the benefits of demanding an equal minimum wage for their labor. "If I do not accept work for whatever payment I am offered," they ask, "how will I support my family and myself?" And again, I do not know the answer.

What I am learning here, what I am seeing in each and every one of these visits, is that there are no simple answers to the problems facing Dalit communities. There are questions asked that I can answer in theory, but even in my head my answers sound flat and unconvincing. My foundation does not expect me to know the answers. They don't expect me to solve the problems, for they are not problems I can solve. They expect me to learn, to educate myself so I can understand what and whom the foundation is supporting, and what I am supporting by working here. They expect me to learn, and spread the knowledge I have gained to others, and they expect me to provide support to the foundation wherever my skills allow.

And that is why I am here. I am here to do whatever it is that's asked of me, with the humble hope it will be helpful to my NGO in the work they are doing. I am here to learn and to listen. And hopefully, as I listen, I will begin to understand. And understanding, I think, is the first step in the great ladder towards progress.

For now, I am thankful to my teachers— the community members, the activists, my co-workers. I am thankful for the stories they have shared, and the knowledge I have gained from the work my NGO continues to do. I am thankful for the warmth with which I have been welcomed and thankful for the many cups of chai. And I am hopeful that, even when the problem seems too big and all-encompassing to tackle, Dalit individuals, with the support from those like the foundation, will inch further towards the path to equality. Further towards the end of caste discrimination. Further towards the finish line in their fight for basic human rights and equality. Listening and Hoping and Fighting. One day, one meeting at a time.

A version of this post was originally published on beautifulcommotion.blogspot.com in March 2012.

For more information about The American Jewish World Service and Volunteer Corps, please visit: http://ajws.org

Here's a little background about me. I spent the 2010-2011 school year teaching English in Grenoble, France. Before that, I spent a year working in the heart of Chicago in the Jewish non-profit community. When I was abroad, my eyes were opened to the everyday experience of the Jewish community in my town and in the country at large. I experienced what it meant to me to be not only Jewish in France, but a Jewish, young, female, American in France. It was a ridiculously fun, thought-provoking and thrilling seven months and I'm excited to share these stories. By the way, all thoughts and opinions are purely my own…I take full responsibility for any sweeping generalizations.

Picking up where I left off…after making my way to France and being introduced to the host family I found through Chabad, I transitioned to living abroad. I flew to Grenoble a few weeks before my contract started and for those first few weeks, I was completely and utterly jet-lagged. The language barrier added to the fatigue. Little things like acquiring a bus pass and figuring out which tram took me to work were a process. French bureaucracy is time-consuming, unpredictable and requires a great deal of finesse even for native speakers. Kvetching aside, the more I came to know my host family, the more settled I became and the more experiences I took on.

Naturally, with each meal I learned more and more about my hosts. Mr. and Mrs. B were business owners with great entrepreneurial spirit. Mr. B. designed restaurant and retail store concepts and owned a few clothing shops in town. Moving to Grenoble from Tunisia with his family in his twenties, he was determined to create a successful living. Mr. B’s mother would often stop by for lunch, Shabbat dinner or just to say, “hello.” A bright and vibrant woman, you could barely tell she was in her eighties. You could tell just how proud of her son she was. Chatty and personable, she always politely encouraged me to eat more, gleefully enjoyed stories of my American life and often told me I was smiley and adorable. Basically, she a Jewish bubbe away from home.

My host mother was just as passionate about business as her husband. She managed a clothing store near the town center. Mrs. B. was raised in a non-Orthodox household in France and “converted” her lifestyle when she met and fell in love with her husband. When she saw me taking in the two dishwasher set-up in her kitchen, she shot me a calming and understanding look. “It wasn’t easy,” she said, when she decided to take on the customs of a modern Orthodox lifestyle. “But it was worth it.”

Mr. B’s entrepreneurial attitude quickly revealed his capitalist leanings in a country with major socialist tendencies. Over dinner we would ramble on about the realities and shortcomings of the French 35-hour work week, the French workplace in general, and the plethora of creative ways French citizens could live off the state. He expressed great interest in the ways of American industry, especially American work ethic. He loved Obama, like most Frenchmen, but pointedly asked if I thought he had Israel’s interests at heart. Acting as an “American representative” made my head spin. I kept up with the news, but I didn’t want to express my opinions as anything other than my own. It was harmless really...as much as the French get a negative reputation for disliking Americans, in my limited experience, there’s more cultural and political curiosity than anything else. Though both nations are very “Western,” the motives that drive both countries and its citizens are very, very different.

My host brother was quite a character. At the time, 18-year-old David was studying to be a doctor, which meant being locked in his room for the majority of the day taking classes online and studying. Medical school in France seemed to be a terrifying endeavor...after the 1st year, more than half of the students are cut. Only the best and brightest make it to the end, so industriousness is necessary. When he emerged from his room, David proved to be an expressive guy with a seriously silly side. He talked like his mouth was full of marbles and was addicted to Diet Coke, well, addicted to Coca-Cola Light. He was a counterpart to his older brother who left early on to study at Oxford for the school year. Joachim possessed a quiet and composed demeanor, endlessly patient in showing me around town. He spoke slowly and smiled often, which was just what I needed those first few weeks in town. The B. family would soon take me to meet their friends at shul, teach me how to keep kosher in France and prepare me for my stay in the lovely and fabulous Grenoble, France.

Years ago, I had a contentious interaction that I will never forget. It was with a man who was involved in the Jewish community. He was speaking to a group of us who gathered monthly to discuss Jewish culture, issues, and traditions. He asked all the people who donated money to charity to raise their hands. He then asked us to again, by a show of hands, identify if we had donated to Jewish charities. His final directive was to raise our hands if we donated to non-Jewish charities. We were then treated to a public reprimanding. I remember him throwing out statements like “…take care of our own!” and “…no one else will!” and “…they have their own communities!” I could have barfed.

Instead, I raised my hand. I remember being shaky and on the verge of tears. “Excuse me. I don’t share in your perspective – not at all. I am raising children and I am teaching them that we have a responsibility to make the world a better place for ALL people who live in it. It’s not us against them. We are all responsible. All of us, for everybody.” He scoffed and started relaying percentages showing Jews as the tiniest minority – and insisted if we didn’t take care of one another, no one would. “I refuse to believe that about people,” I said. Then I referenced the following quote attributed to pastor Martin Niemöller:

“First they came for the communists, and I did not speak out - because I was not a communist;
Then they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out - because I was not a socialist;
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out - because I was not a trade unionist;
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out - because I was not a Jew;
Then they came for me - and there was no one left to speak out for me.”

I have volunteered in Englewood, a community far from “us,” for many years. I have always been received with open arms by both the leaders and students there. My friends sometimes worry about my driving there at dusk to teach life skills to the kids on the far South Side, but I scoff at their worry. I don’t spend time hanging out on the corner or eyeballing people. I bring snacks and hopefully a little bit of helpful discussion. I always learn something myself and the reward is worth the risk of being there. I give to the kids and I get from the kids. It’s perfect.

However, Englewood kids are not technically “mine” – they don’t call me mom and they don’t live with me. We don’t look alike, we don’t live in the same community and we have different cultures and religions. But these kids are mine. I am invested in them and I care about them and I want them to succeed. I am not a Rabbi or anyone renowned in the Jewish community, but in my humble, reformed opinion, being Jewish has everything to do with making a difference in the world at large. Not just in “our” world with “our” people.

When this initial interaction happened years ago, I had two kids. I am now the proud mother of four. There are so many reasons to not take the long drive to Englewood anymore. But I do it because I believe in order to live a meaningful life; I need to extend myself beyond what is easy and beyond what is right in front of me. So in short, Tikkun Olam. Let me always see beyond myself and what is “mine”. I have hope that I will always have something I believe in to offer that can make a meaningful difference in the world.

Oy!Chicago is published by the Jewish United Fund which provides critical resources that bring food, refuge, health care, education and emergency assistance to 300,000 Chicagoans of all faiths and two million Jews in Israel and around the world.

That’s the way it is, he sighs, and grins at his ability to profit off the stupidity and ignorance of others.

He’s happy with the money, he told me so himself, through our translator who herself is a partially broken artist; broken down and beaten into reluctantly accepting the status quo, the way nature must be.

The masses cannot appreciate, don’t appreciate good art, they explain to me, and they laugh at the way they con them with colors and shapes, how the public gobbles up his artwork only because they don’t know any better.

Yet, I know the truth is that everyone responds in their hearts to good art, true art, even if they don’t know why. They will glance wistfully at it, years from now, long after an artist’s passing, tears welling up inexplicably, at the beauty their soul is responding to, coming home.

But his stuff is so fleeting. Entertains in an instant, yet leaves the viewer absolutely the same as before they came, maybe even a little worse off, if that is possible. He thinks it doesn’t come through in his art that he doesn’t care about it, but it does. I don’t want to tell him this because I feel bad that he has exchanged his soul for obedience to capitalism and he tries to instruct me that this breaking of spirit is necessary, and did him well.

He is miserable about his life choices, and yet (or probably because of that miserability, that miser ability), he tries to convince me to do the same. To have company down at the bottom. I shake my head. No can do.

Recipients, art aficionados the world over, beware. Art (and truth) may or may not be brought into the world because of you, the viewer. Which is a huge responsibility.

Respect yourself enough to take your art, your purchases, your tastes, seriously. Know that what you like and what you buy directly impacts what beautiful art (and therefore, truth) may or may not be brought into the world. Demand good art, and glorify those who are defiant enough to believe and to speak.

The artists, they are listening to you, they are watching you, because they are afraid. Afraid of not being liked, afraid of being poor. Who can blame them? And so, to explain themselves, they languish in their studios and hate themselves for selling themselves short (for selling you short), waving their hands and acting as if they are doing a service to the public, to the masses, who unfortunately are stupid and cannot appreciate good art, who can be fooled and satisfied by bright colors and overdone clichés. Who can be told what is beautiful.

It’s not true, but fear builds a vicious cycle, and unless the artist can look up at the sky and believe that what is true needs to be said, and that he/she will be rewarded by the Ultimate Creator for his/her efforts, until then, it will be the recipient in one room and the artists in another, one crying, one laughing.

The power to live in one honest, vibrant world lies in your hands.

I still remember turning the music up loud and dancing wildly that summer night, holding my baby sister Mindy in my arms. She laughed and laughed, enjoying the movement and I joined her. It was unusual for us, because Mindy was not always a happy baby and because a few days before our family had received the worst news, a confirmation of my parents’ worst fears.

Mindy was diagnosed with Tay-Sachs, a degenerative genetic disease that affects mainly Ashkenazi Jews. Now we understood why Mindy, despite initially appearing to be healthy and strong, had started missing her milestones at eight months old. Mindy, dubbed “Super Baby” by our family for her early ability to hold her body upright, wasn’t sitting up on her own or even attempting to crawl. My dad and stepmother took her to see specialists at Children’s Memorial in the city and they quickly discovered the tell tale cherry red spot on her retina. Later I learned that my father yelled at the doctor who invited medical students to come in and look in her eyes. He wasn’t going to allow his daughter to be their science experiment.

I still remember my father and stepmother telling my little brother, Ben, and me as the four of us sat on my bed that evening. It was the first and only time I had ever seen my father cry. My parents explained that Mindy would have to be tube fed when she lost the ability to swallow and that she may eventually suffer from deafness, blindness and seizures. There was a good chance that she wouldn’t live past the age of 4 or 5.

I was only 9 years old and didn’t know how to process this new knowledge that my sister would get progressively sicker and die. Denial quickly set in and I urged my stepmother to look into treatment for my sister. “There’s nothing we can do, Sarah” Susan told me a few mornings later, her back to me while she washed our breakfast dishes. “I am sure there must be something we can do,” I told her. “I am going to the library to find out what sort of research has been done to find a cure”. I saw her shoulders slump, as she told me to face reality, that there was no hope. My brother Ben and I were the product of my father’s first marriage, but Mindy was Susan’s first and only child.

I don’t know what motivated me to push my own sadness aside that summer night I danced with my sister, but I am so glad I did. It was crazed frantic movement and in between songs we would collapse on my bed laughing hysterically. In between her giggles, she looked at me with eyes shining, seeming to ask for more. I picked her up again and again and in my memory the dance and our laughter went on for hours. At some point I remember looking out my bedroom window and seeing my father and brother on the sidewalk in the dark, watching us. I closed the blinds, turned up the radio and got right back to it.

Almost thirty years later I am mother to my own son and fellow dancer, Max, who is named after Mindy. As an infant sometimes the only thing that would calm him down was dancing. There were many nights I clutched him tightly to my chest and danced like crazy until he fell asleep. Max laughed early, only a few months after he was born. His contagious laugh is distinctive and complimented by friends and strangers alike. I know that I am blessed to have him, to have known my sister Mindy, and to have never known a shortage of dance partners in my life.  

Registration is now open for the Center for Jewish Genetics' upcoming carrier screening programs for young Jewish adults. To learn more or register, please contact Taryn Brickman at TarynBrickman@juf.org or visit www.jewishgenetics.org.

We met over a year ago.

I was cycling in place, finishing treatment, waiting to be untied, unhooked, let go.

I held my hopes and dreams tight, I visualized myself on that lakefront path and I was brimming with excitement to reenter the world.

As I was getting ready to break free— you were getting ready to let go.

With cancer as the common denominator our paths crossed, our lives intersected, and I am now gratefully surrounded by your wisdom, your spirit, your spark.

Yesterday at my three month checkup, I carried you with me.

Leading up to this day of truth, this day of anticipation, this day of black and white, you comforted me and reminded me that it is not about tomorrow but today.

I carried you through the two weeks’ worth of sleepless nights, improvisational dancing, mindless TV, and countless other methods of distraction.

You helped prevent my thoughts from steering negative, and you reminded me that my friends and loved ones are the reason I am and will always be.

If the doctors were right (and I hope they weren’t right) you may no longer be physically with us. But what I know for certain, is that the connections you made in your short 33 years will live on in our hearts and minds in the days to come. You are part of the cocoon that protects and surrounds me, and I promise to carry you with me today, tomorrow and always.

As the days pass, as I grow stronger, and as I continue to gratefully receive clean bills of health, I am reminded of Dear Tom.

As a cross country athlete, I spend most mornings in the summer logging miles for the upcoming season. It's a ritual we runners have long undergone: arising just as the sun peeks over the trees, groggily lacing up our shoes, and yawning as we walk out the door, we muster up the energy to get our feet moving and blood pumping, all in an effort to get the day's run in before heading off to our respective summer jobs. 

If you're unfamiliar with cross country, allow me to boil the sport down to its molecular level: cross country athletes run an excessive number of miles throughout the year to train for races in the fall. Running is as much a part of their day as eating or sleeping, and athletes make painstaking efforts to prevent injury and sickness so they may keep to their seemingly extreme and self-indulgent training schedules. Races fail to offer much more appeal: the autumn competitions are held at golf courses, parks, or any otherwise vast grass tundra where athletes first wait around for several hours with much apprehension, and then run a prescribed distance (typically 3-6 miles) as fast as they physically can, often throwing up or passing out after crossing the finish line. And they call it fun.

Because I'm home from college for the summer, most of my training is solitary, without my teammates. This makes it difficult to stay motivated. Runs get boring. I have no one with me to talk while out on the bike trail or neighborhood streets.

On early morning runs, though, I come into contact with runners, bikers, and walkers passing me by in the opposite direction. To ease boredom, I devised a plan: I began saying hello to try to elicit responses from them. It keeps my head up and passes the time during those endless 10 mile runs in 90 degree weather.

A typical encounter goes like this: I make eye contact with passersby, give a smile, and say "good morning" or some similar greeting. More often than not do I receive a grin and a "good morning" in return. Knowing I have some companions out there on the trail makes runs go by much quicker.

Earlier this summer, I was waiting in line one day at the bank when a man approached me. I recognized him as one of the triumphant early morning joggers, and he likewise singled me out as a usual bike trail suspect. He got my attention, introduced himself, and thanked me for saying "good morning" to him on the trail every day without fail. "It's a great start to my day," he told me.

Upon hearing this, I was taken aback. Here I was, a lonely distance runner trying to make summer runs less boring by staring people down and greeting them whether they like it or not, and someone thanks me for it. Guilt was the first emotion I remember feeling.

Still, after giving this encounter more thought, I felt honored that this guy went out of his way to personally thank me for saying hey to him. Perhaps the monotony of my summer runs was all for the best, because it led me to perform good deeds.

I still smile and say hello to others while running; not for my own amusement, but because it's a nice thing to do. Saying hello to someone, that is, genuinely acknowledging his or her existence, is an act of kindness so simple that it has the potential to make a big difference.

I encourage you to offer a sincere smile and a hearty "good morning" (or "afternoon" or "evening") to a stranger who crosses your path today. It keeps you on track and, more importantly, you never know of the impact your simple gesture might carry.

Allow me to recall a conversation I struck up with a couple of ladies one night while tending bar:

“Excuse me, can I have a Margarita on the Rocks, with salt?”

“Absolutely, ma’am. Would you like Don Julio or Patron Tequila?”

“Um, Patron is fine.” (turns to her girlfriend, eyebrows furrowed) “I wonder which one is healthier....I wonder if I should order that or not.” Her friend shrugs, then nods in my direction, to which the first lady inquires, in a louder voice, “I WONDER WHICH ONE IS HEALTHIER.” I was speechless. Before I could give her an answer, as I tried to mentally calculate the caloric content of each ingredient, the guest had whipped out her smartphone and proceeded to research the amount of calories in an average Margarita. I continued to look somewhat dumbfounded as she shot a look up at me, her eyes lighting up, “I’m sure you’re curious to know, aren’t you? I’m saving you a whole lot of trouble looking this up for you, so now you will know what to say when people ask!”

While I was flattered by the gesture, I was taken aback more by what guests are asking at the bar. Often times as a bartender, I would be questioned as to whether or not there may be a “healthy” alternative to some of the more popular, highly sugared cocktails. Most of us don’t even consider how many calories we drink, which can be as important, if not more important, than what you eat. There are a thousand food diets with a thousand studies and ten thousand products that people are exposed to regularly, telling us what to eat, how to eat, and when to eat. Yet how often do we pay attention to what we drink?

There, I said it. Ron, don’t hate me, but liquid matters a lot.

Frankly, it should matter more than food to those looking to stay healthy because it is extremely difficult for most of us to consciously be healthy while not sacrificing fun and pleasure, and alcohol is one of society’s guiltiest pleasures. Yes, valuable nutrition comes from food and is the most effective way to stay fit and lose weight. But most of us don’t even realize how we are wasting away calories when we really only want to waste away brain cells. Doesn’t seem like a fair trade-off, does it? Want to do something about it? When going out, choosing a healthy alcoholic drink can be a difficult task, especially if you don’t know what your drinks are made of. There are drinks that have high calorie counts: a 10 oz Margarita can have up to 550 calories, a 12 oz. Pina Colada 586 calories, if not more, depending on what it contains! Here are some of my tips and suggestions for how you can go out and have a great time without having to count calories or ask the bartender weird questions.

Tip #1: Do NOT ask the bartender how many calories are in a cocktail. Period.

Look it up. The guy or gal is there to serve you a drink and somewhat keep your company, they are not a nutritionist or a calorie counter. They have a hundred things to do, so don’t look for them to stop everything and start counting.

Alternative: You can carry a chart with you or on your phone that can let you know relatively quickly how many calories some of the most basic and popular alcoholic beverages will run you. Keep in mind that the numbers are approximate because ingredients and portion sizes might vary. See where your favorites rank!

Cocktails (about 3-4 oz in volume):
Gin and Tonic: 171
Rum and Cola: 164, Rum and Diet Cola: 101
Mojito: 217
Bourbon Soda: 110
Margarita: 280, Strawberry Margarita: 210, Skinnygirl Margarita: 100
Martini: 160-210
Appletini: 148
White Russian: 425
Manhattan: 129
Old Fashioned: 180
Screwdriver (Vodka + OJ): 175
Mai Tai: 310
Mimosa: 75
Wine Spritzer: 100
Vodka Tonic: 175
Champagne: 90-110
Wine (5 oz): 120-150
Cosmopolitan: 200
Long Island Iced Tea: 780

Spirits (per drink, about 1.5 oz):
Vodka/Gin/RumWhiskey: 115-125
Tequila: 115
Beer: 64-198 (12 fl. Oz.)
SoCo: 180

Want to make them at home? You can! Some mixers that won't pack on the pounds include:
Diet soda or diet tonic: 0 calories 
Orange juice (6 oz): 84 calories, Light orange juice (8 oz): 50 calories 
Cranberry juice cocktail (8 oz): 136 calories, Light cranberry juice (8 oz): 40 calories 
Light lemonade (8 oz): 5 calories 
Coffee, tea: 0 calories 
Baja Bob's sugar-free margarita or sweet 'n' sour mix: 0 calories 
Lemon or lime juice (1/2 oz): 10 calories 
DaVinci or Torani's sugar-free syrups: 0 
Truvia: 0 
SKIP THE MIXER ALTOGETHER!!!!

Tip #2: Do NOT be fooled by “diet” labeled drinks or additives when constructing your cocktail.

Sometimes, they can make things worse, “A recent study examined the difference in blood alcohol levels from drinks containing sweetened (regular) versus artificially sweetened (diet) beverages. This study found a significant difference in blood alcohol levels between the two drinks. In fact, the "diet" beverage produced blood alcohol levels that would be considered illegal for driving in many jurisdictions, while comparable quantities of the "regular" beverage did not.” -medicinenet.com  

This leads me right into the next tip, which is...

Tip #3: KNOW WHAT YOU WANT.

Often times the guest will try to string the bartender or waiter along by asking, “Well, how many calories will X have if I take this out or substitute this for this?” If you think it’s hard and frustrating for a chef, it’s even worse for the drink slinger. Figure out what drinks you are most likely to order and know what it’s going to run you. Some drinks will net you very few calories, while others will ruin a well-intentioned week of hard work and sound nutrition.

Tip #4: Explore healthier alternatives to your absolute favorites.

I know, I know, it’s hard to get away from that Margarita or Chioccolatini, but let’s be honest, they are not kind to our waistlines. Well, believe it or not, you can still enjoy those wonderfully rich and delectable flavors without piling on the calories, and we all have our favorite guilty pleasures. Practically every cocktail that has more than 200 calories could be modified to lessen the calories but keep the flavor (and booze content).

Take charge of your nightlife, have a great time without having to sacrifice the fun or feel guilty in the morning. Life is fun, so live it up! Remember, to live healthy you can have your booze and drink it, too!

L’Chaim!

I once had a client drop 12 pounds and lower his body fat percentage by 10% in just four weeks. I often have pregnant clients who have babies and come back thinner than before. I am constantly amazed by the transformations I see in my clients. I get to witness the “after” picture all the time and it’s pretty amazing. Because I know what the body is capable of, I encourage everyone to get fitter, leaner, more muscular… and sometimes I need to turn it off.

You might think, why turn that off? The thing is, I’m learning people do not always want to hear, “you could get leaner” or “actually all calories matter, even those five m&m’s.” (Bear in mind, I breakdown often and have five (yes, I count them) Peanut M&M’s a few times a week.) Now the list of offenses continues. I told my sister she was “a little chunky” in college. My wife deals with the comments that I don’t think are mean, but no one wants to hear, such as, “are you sure you’re not full?” and “you should thank me for helping you eat more veggies.” I know, it’s surprising it took 32 years for someone to swoop me up. However, I have pledged to stop packing protein shakes in her lunch (unless she asks for them).

By the way, my recipe is very tasty: 

½ cup Almond Milk 
½ cup 1% Milk 
Tablespoon Greek Yogurt 
Tablespoon Justin’s Chocolate Almond Butter (or Peanut Butter) 
Banana 
Jay Rob Chocolate Protein Powder

I’m only trying to help when I suggest you switch to Greek yogurt, but moving forward, if you didn’t ask me, I won’t volunteer it. That’s right; I’m going to turn off the trainer. (Keep in mind if you ask one time for advice, you’ll have to ask me another time to turn off the trainer.)

When I’m at dinner with a non-client, I will not suggest the grilled calamari over the fried. If you know me, you know how hard it will be, but I’m going to do it. I will save my fitness suggestions for clients, readers and those who actually ask me for advice.

With that said, for those of you that want a healthy recipe, here are two of my new favorite, super easy sides.

Quinoa Cauliflower and Cheese

This is super easy and tasty! It has a good amount of protein, fiber, flavor and it’s inexpensive.

2 cups low sodium chicken broth
1 cup quinoa
1 package Green Giant Cauliflower and Cheese

Cook quinoa with chicken broth, simmer for 20 minutes. Cook veggies according to label. Mix in with quinoa, let sit for five minutes.

Sweet Potato Hash

This takes a little work because you have to grate a sweet potato but it’s simple and much healthier than the alternative.

1 Sweet Potato (will be enough for two people)
Olive oil
Cinnamon
Curry
Pepper
Salt

Preheat a skillet with a little olive oil. Grate a sweet potato. Place in skillet over medium heat. Add spices, cook until soft or browned. If you want to kick it up a little bit on the flavor scale, put in a tablespoon of butter.

MadaTech scientist taking part providing a lesson with a classroom in Northern Israel.

Israeli institutes of higher education such as Hebrew University and University of Tel Aviv are considered to be some of the finest learning centers in the world. People think of Israel as the “Start-Up Nation,” the Middle Eastern innovator, and a leader in science, medicine, and business. And while these are all true, not many realize the very serious problems and deterioration of the Israeli primary education system.

As a pro-Israel advocate, both professionally and in the writing world, I am troubled most by the Israeli education system’s lack of focus and urgency in the sciences. For Israel to keep its regional qualitative edge over its hostile neighbors, and to keep developing as global innovators, excelling in the sciences at all grade levels is crucial.

A 2010 report printed by the Taub Center, an Israeli social policy think-tank, stated that some 48% of middle school students have less than two hours of weekly science education. Further, much of the time, the science education they are receiving is inadequate. A 2010 report published by the Knesset Research and Information Center on poverty and scholastic achievements included a survey that indicated 30% of Jewish students in elementary schools require private tutors. To make things worse, the report found notable gaps in terms of access to private tutoring services between students from financially stable towns and those from the periphery.

Professor Ofra Mayseless, the dean of the Education Faculty at the University of Haifa (where I spent my amazing year abroad in college) and chairwoman of the Forum of School Leaders for Education in Israel, told Haaretz that, “[t]he inclination towards private lessons stems mainly from the fact that teachers have a hard time teaching, and, in practice, a large part of class time is dedicated to addressing disciplinary problems and not to teaching," According to Mayseless, this has prompted teachers to relinquish responsibility for their students' know-how and education.

"In light of these difficulties, many of the teachers in Israel have lost their joy of teaching. They dedicate less of themselves to the student. Instead of the education system focusing on increasing students' curiosity and motivation to learn, there is a growing tendency for students to study and memorize the material only for the exam, and not to enrich their knowledge," she said.

Dani Ben-David, the Taub Center Executive Director, told Haaretz that, "[t]here are many parents today who have grown exasperated with the education system which, according to them, doesn't deliver the goods. Therefore, they are searching for alternative solutions." There are organizations that have risen to the challenge and need. The Israel National Museum of Science, Technology and Space (MadaTech in Hebrew), located in Haifa has stepped up in a big way.

The Museum is one of Israel’s three largest with over 600 exhibits. But it is its education outreach, which consists of over 200,000 Israeli children K-12, that makes it truly special. Its facilities constitute 25 laboratories, seven learning centers, and three mobile laboratory vans. Among its programs geared to strengthen students’ interest in science, the Israel Museum of Science annual science competition fosters creative and analytical thinking among Israel’s eighth and ninth-grade students. Thousands take part in the yearlong OlympiYeda Science Competition that culminates in a two-week science camp in Haifa, Israel. The summer camp includes an enriched science curriculum with guest lecturers, visits to technological facilities, and scientific activities. The 2010 competition focused on Robotics and in 2011 on sports and health.

The Museum also caters to peripheral communities, something the Israeli government should take note of. According to Dr. Ronen Mir, the Israel Museum of Science General Director, around 40% of the museum’s visitors are Arab, and 40% of its instructors are also Arab. Operation North for Arabic Speakers provides advanced science learning opportunities for Israeli-Arab junior high students. Led by prominent Israeli-Arab researchers, the program educates students on basic tenets of bio-medicine, genetics, nanotechnology, and astrophysics. There are similar programs for soviet immigrants, Ethiopians, and young girls. The Museum’s programs are designed to nurture a love of science in participants from a variety of backgrounds, foster coexistence and respect for diversity among Israel’s population, and promote the pursuit of science education and professions.

Equally important as helping the students, the Israel Museum of Science helps educate the teachers, providing them with instruction, materials, and inspiration.

More organizations in Israel need to undertake activities commensurate with the Israel National Museum of Science. I know it’s easier said than done; fundraising to produce such services is difficult, especially in this economic climate. But the attempt must be made. As a Jew, what makes me proud to have Israel as our homeland is its rapid development and adaptability in the most complex scientific fields, which in turn allows it to make significant contributions to the world; all in the wake of serious adversity and hostility. Studies and testimony suggest, however, that this source of pride may be taking a turn for the worst, starting with the Israeli youth. Both Israelis and Jews around the world need to come together to ensure that this trend is reversed, for all our sakes.

One is a young man and one is a young woman. One is a musician and one is an athlete. One wears a kippah and the other wears Lycra.

But Edon Pinchot and Aly Raisman are both young Jews on TV, making Jews everywhere proud.

He is a contestant on America's Got Talent best known for using his piano skills and powerful voice to turn pop songs into power ballads. She was a contestant at the 2012 London Olympics, best known for using her gymnastic skills and powerful presence to turn "Hava Nagila" into an anthem of solidarity with the Munich 11… and Olympic gold.

Another thing they have in common is how openly, proudly, and comfortably they wear (in Edon's case, on his head) their Judaism. In an era in which Jonathan Stewart Leibowitz, also very openly Jewish, still goes by "Jon Stewart," we don't see Edon saying "Call me Ethan," or Aly competing as "Aly Ray."

This is important, as it allows others to be more openly Jewish in their presence. Howie Mandel never (as far I as know) brought up his Jewishness in five years on Deal or No Deal. Yet, when praising Edon, he said— on national television— "From one to another, Jew are terrific!" 

We adults in the Jewish community— whether we are Jewish professionals, parents, or both— often wonder if we are making a dent. Are we getting through to our kids? Are we being heard at all among all the other voices being shouted at our teens today? Is anything that we present as Jewish as attractive as the flashy new toys and screens being shoved in their faces?

Then we hear Edon belt out a hit by some act that's hot right this minute (and not a minute before!) to then have Mandel ask him if he got a standing ovation at his bar mitzvah.

We see Aly literally leap over her competition and then answer questions about Israeli athletes who were killed more than 20 years before she was born.

And we smile and cheer. Because, yeah, our kids are all right. Our future is in the hands of teens who are bright and talented. Charismatic and confident, yet humble and mensch-y.

Edon and Aly are proud tell the world they are Jewish. And we are proud they are, too.

I submitted this blog at the last second. Really. I did. Do you have any idea how long this took me to write? Months. Months would be a lie. Weeks. Weeks would also be a lie. But days…days would be accurate. I’m already procrastinating on getting to the point so let’s just get there, shall we? In these times we call “the present,” there is a terrible acronym going around, being abused in its meaning by some of the younger folk. However, there is actual truth to the phrase. I refuse to write the actual acronym so to have you understand which one I’m talking about let’s say I take the delicious candy Rolo, subtract the ‘R’ and replace it with a “Why?” Say that sentence out loud if you don’t entirely understand. Or ask the younger folk. What I’m getting at here is I only live once and therefore, why am I wasting any time ever? Hence, with that way of thinking, I feel my procrastination always needs to be productive.

Productive procrastination is unlike regular procrastination in that I made it up. Defined, my version means participating in the activities that are most important to me and that advance my own wellbeing. Or something like that. I think you got the gist. I’m referring to activities like catching up on a television show, reading, working on my comedy, writing or even hanging out with friends, among other things. Basically it’s about getting the most I can from the non-real world while still being productive.

I am truly an active advocate of always being productive. In fact, I make it a point to advance myself in some way each and every day. Whether it’s real stuff like going to work to make a living, getting a shave and haircut (two bits) or finally making it to that restaurant I’ve been wanting to try, I attempt to end each day being filled with new and tangible knowledge. And yes, tangible knowledge is sometimes being able to spew new trivia about certain episodes of Batman The Animated Series.

When I turned 25 a few months ago, I realized a few things. One, my frontal lobe was fully developed and the headaches finally stopped. Two, I was now a quarter of a century old. Or 1/40th of a millennium old. However you want to look at it. And three, I needed to stop wasting time. The biggest culprit, of course, was sleep. I sleep for roughly a third of my life. That means a third of my life I’m technically doing nothing. I always say that I’ll sleep when I’m dead which is why I wish sleep wasn’t such a necessity. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love sleep. Sleep is incredible. I simply wish it I didn’t need it. My opinion towards sleep is the epitome of a love/hate relationship. I detest being tired but the only true remedy is sleep. A lifelong Catch 22 if you will. And I have to say, when I get older, I will NOT take more naps like older individuals often do. I don’t understand it. I’m running out of time at that point. I can’t waste it. That’d be like watching a 2 hour long movie and then I just started fast forwarding through 30 second parts during the last half hour.

My problem was I kept thinking to myself, I’m too tired to this, I don’t have enough time to do…SHUT UP! Why do I put stuff off? Ever? How lazy do I have to be? Every second I’m losing time and to be blunt, death is only getting closer. Maybe one of the only true facts of life. Well, that and Snickers Ice Cream Bars could create world peace. But that’s why I’ve deemed my procrastinating as needing to be productive. I try to limit my mindless meandering through the internet and my overabundance of sleep so I can put focus on accomplishing what I honestly and truly want to. I’ll lose 30 minutes of sleep so I can watch that TV show. I’ll spend that extra 45 minutes playing that video game instead of cruising through IMDB rereading quotes I’ve heard 1,000 times. I’ll take an extra hour to talk to myself. Not in a crazy way, not like a “let’s walk on the other side of the street because that weird guy is talking to himself” way, but in the way I talked to myself at the Western Wall in Jerusalem. The way I really opened up to my own thoughts, goals and dreams. Of course, it helps me at home that I have my authentic Western Wall snow globe. Ladies.

I haven’t exactly said specifically what I’m procrastinating from. I suppose, in a word, life. In two words, real life. Anything during productive procrastination is meant to be an escape. Most people simply call it free time. For me, productive procrastination is free time that is essentially used for a series of escapes, both big and small. The moments between the escapes are real life. I’m not saying life is bad by any means. I love life. It’s the necessary real life stuff that gets in the way of what I most want to do. I have a theory. Most people, even if they have a job they love and love going to, given a day off, would have something else they’d rather be doing. But when I’m stuck at work for my 50+ hours a week (two jobs), I revel in those little escapes. Like checking Facebook on my phone and, as stupid as it sounds, going to the bathroom where I can daydream for a moment and plan my next escape for after work. What it comes down to is this, when it comes to wasting time, I need to make sure I’m never wasting time.

In this week’s portion, Moses continues his speech to the Israelites and emphasizes their potential rewards and punishments for following the commandments.

Moses shares that the Promised Land is one that is flowing with milk and honey (from dates – not bees – a common misconception!), and that “when you have eaten your fill, give thanks to the Divine…” [Deuteronomy 8:10]

Our Christian brethren often do a much better job than we do of expressing gratitude around mealtime by saying grace (which is usually done with a bit more reverence than Ricky Bobby’s “Dear Lord Baby Jesus” offering in Talladega Nights). While we have a quick prayer we are meant to say before our meal (if eating bread, we would say the “hamotzi” which is a single line), our major proscribed blessing is made after the meal (“birkat hamazon” – the Grace After Meals), in accordance with the chronology in the verse. Eat your fill, and then give thanks.

Saying our major prayer after eating, as opposed to before, poses some interesting challenges. For example, it’s often easier to be thankful for food while it is still visible and we’re anticipating consumption. We have the ability to inspect the food, smell it, see the vibrancy of its colors, and be grateful for the meal we’re about to partake in. After eating, many of us would be quite content taking a nap, let alone trying to remember the beauty of the meal. Taking the extra few minutes to reflect on the meal we’ve had and to offer our thanks is an appropriate and powerful way to express gratitude.

Why should we be grateful and take the time to express our gratitude?

Because, simply put, there are people in the world who are starving.

According to Ban Ki Moon, Secretary General of the United Nations, six million children die of hunger every year. Many more are malnourished. Lest you think hunger is not an issue in the United States, in 2010, almost 15% of U.S. households were food insecure.

The United States has the highest obesity rate in the world, and still has citizens, many of them children, that don’t have enough to eat.

Our ancestors, overwhelmingly living in poverty in Eastern European villages, knew what hunger was. My grandmother, who survived numerous concentration camps, knew what starving was.

Nobody should go hungry.

Children should not need to worry about where their next meal is coming from, and should not be going to bed wishing they had something to eat.

These are not political statements – these are human statements. Regardless of your politics, from the Jewish perspective, you are not permitted to stand by as people starve to death when you have the ability to help.

How can you help?

A couple of ideas:

Donate your time and dollars to a food rescue organization, bring cans and perishables to The Ark’s food pantry, volunteer at The Uptown Cafe.

Each time you host a Shabbat dinner or other festive meal in your home, make it a point to invite a family (or individual) that you know is struggling to put food on the table. The ability to connect with such families certainly exists through your local Jewish Family Services, kosher food bank, etc. Make it a point to have everyone in attendance take home leftovers of some kind, so that the family can have some additional food for their home without being self-conscious or ashamed.

Be grateful for what you have, and take the time to express that gratitude.

The other day I was at Argo Tea and discovered, to my horror, that they're now offering pumpkin-flavored muffins. Target is in the full swing of back-to-school shopping, and even CVS is starting to sell Halloween-themed candy. Most of my friends love autumn; I would mind it less if it didn't mean sixteen months of winter were close on its heels.

Even so, I do have a fondness for fall in Chicago: it still feels like coming back to school after spending my summers in Ohio. It's been six years since I graduated from college – six years! – and I have an observation to make: it's hard not being in school. I don't mean dorms or dining halls or all-nighters, though I do miss having the majority of my friends and extracurricular activities be no more than a 15-minute walk away. No, the hardest thing is not being in class. I'm serious. I am that person who misses being in class.

We're lucky here in Chicago, though: if you're interested in something, think you might be interested or didn't even know you could be interested, there's someone in this city that is happy to teach you. I haven't been signing up for discourses on 17th-century philosophy or Introduction to Modern Physics (alas), but as someone who's always hungry for more art and creativity in my life, I've been very lucky to fall into improv comedy (iO and the Annoyance), singing (Old Town School of Folk Music), ukulele (Old Town again), all kinds of creative writing (Story Studio) and, as soon as I find the right time, swing dancing (Big City Swing) and photography (Chicago Photography Center). Let's not even talk about all the arts and crafts courses I could be taking, given how close I live to LillStreet.

It's a little addictive, taking classes in things you've never done before. At Old Town, I'm in the middle of a course called Vocal Techniques. I've never had any formal voice training, so I wasn't sure what I would be learning. This week after class, I said to some friends, "I thought I could sing before. Turns out I didn't even know how to stand!" It's addictive, taking classes, but it's also humbling to be a beginner all the time. That said, the great thing about progressing in eight-week chunks is that you can see your own improvement as you go, which can be another solid difference from taking college classes.

Possibly my favorite thing about classes is how unexpectedly they can improve other areas of your life. I know that improv and a former gig as a copy editor have been the best teachers of creative writing I've had. Learning how to correct my posture for better breathing has helped me adopt commuting by bike. My next goal is to find a way to learn and perform Shakespeare; I've been immersing myself in the history plays this summer, and I can only imagine how the chance to deliver those words in front of people might affect the rest of my day. (If I start doing columns in iambic pentameter without noticing, please let me know.)

So, it may only be early August, but the notices for all the most exciting fall classes are going out now. I'm far from ready for summer to be over, but there may be a greater travesty afoot than candy corn-flavored M&M's, and that is the sad truth that there is not enough time for me to take every course that interests me. Wait, hang on, I know that feeling… Ah yes: yeah, I was that person in college too.

Before having baby, I spent five years working in the non-profit sector as a volunteer coordinator. Over the course of those many days and weeks and months working with wonderful, kind-hearted volunteers, the one inquiry that always blew me away was when parents with infants or toddlers wanted to volunteer. I'd get calls from parents wanting to schedule hands-on volunteer projects to expose their children to volunteerism from a very young age. And I'm talking VERY young. I just didn't get it— what would a nine-month-old take away from this sort of experience?

Well, hello parenthood! Already I'm understanding where these folks are coming from, albeit with a more realistic set of expectations of just what we are able to do at this point.

A big part of being a parent is imparting a sound sense of values upon your children. This I know. And with Colin just ten weeks old, I know that we have plenty of time to accomplish all of this, since right now all he can say is, "Ahh, eeh, mah" and he has trouble finding his own hands.

But still, the first step toward teaching him to be a fine upstanding citizen seems to be modeling the behaviors we would like him to learn. Like being thankful for what you have (writing thank you notes for gifts), caring for others (checking on a friend who is sick), and kindness (not screaming at your husband when you are annoyed with him—being nice instead). And of course, being charitable and helping those in need.

That is where the tricky part begins. I certainly don't think Colin is ready to be serving meals to the homeless or marching on Washington for social justice. He doesn't even eat real food or walk yet. But it's good to start early and model the right behaviors, right?

Enter The ARK's Back Pack Project.

Today Colin and I shopped for school supplies for a 7th grade girl whose family would otherwise not be able to afford everything she needs for school. The ARK matched us up with her and is making sure that everything we brought in, from backpacks and binders to pens and pencils, gets to her before school starts.

Now obviously Colin didn't pick the colors of the folders, whip out his AMEX to pay for the supplies or drive us to The ARK, but while we shopped, I chatted to him about why we were getting everything, and then he came with me to The ARK to drop it off (and be fawned over by all my former co-workers— thanks guys).

I'm hoping we will make this an annual tradition, along with other projects and mitzvah opportunities, all in the right time as they become age-appropriate. My goal is that he will reach adulthood and think that this is something he has always deemed to be important, that generosity of time, money and spirit are qualities that are crucial to being a good person, and that this is something he wants to continue on his own once mom and dad aren't footing the bill or forcing him to tag along.

It was the summer solstice.

My friend and I had just left the Western Wall when we happened upon hundreds of people lining the streets of Jerusalem at sunset holding hands, dancing, and singing "Salaam (Od Yavo Shalom Aleinu)," an Israeli song, sung in Hebrew and Arabic, that's come to symbolize a call for peace.

Some donned dreads, others kippot, and a couple people wore keffiyehs. A few beat on drums, forming drum circles with kids in the crowd.

Maybe if I had witnessed a similar scene in Chicago, my street-smart instincts would have whispered to turn away from the unusual display of people dancing in front of me.

But I was feeling the love, they were singing my favorite Jewish song, and I figured, "When in Jerusalem…"

So I jumped right in and interlaced hands with an Asian woman on one side and a 30-something man in a kippah on the other.

"What is all this?" I asked the man.

"It's called the 'Jerusalem Hug,'" he replied.

In honor of the first day of summer, he explained to me, the Hug beckons hundreds of Jerusalemites and visitors to the city to stand shoulder to shoulder in a demonstration of love, peace, and unity.

One of the organizers of the 'Jerusalem Hug,' leading the crowd through the city.

In a way, the scene couldn't have been more simple—people holding hands with each other. But then again, especially just steps from the Wall, the moment felt holy.

This summer marked my fourth trip to Israel. I had traveled there to participate in the World Zionist Organization-sponsored conference on "Women and Zionism" for 20 young Jewish women from around the world, as well as the Israeli Presidential Conference, under the auspices of Israeli President Shimon Peres.

On past visits, the planner in me structured my itinerary carefully, touring the country's majestic, holy Jewish tourist sites, like the Wall, Masada, and Safed. But in my free time on this trip, I let the wind carry me.

And it's no accident that it was on this visit that I felt most connected to the fabric of Israeli society sharing spontaneous encounters with Israeli people like my fellow hand-holders in Jerusalem. It was in these small, unplanned moments, I felt the power of this holiest place on earth.

Indeed, I felt a holy connection to the people and land of Israel when:

I tasted fresh watermelon at the open-air market.
I swam in the Mediterranean Sea, as warm as bath water.
I shared a seat on a city bus next to a local commuter.
I struck up a conversation with young Israeli guys at an outdoor bar on a breezy Jerusalem night under a crescent moon.

One of the speakers we heard from at the World Zionist Organization conference was a brilliant professor named Gil Troy. A Queens, N.Y. native, Troy taught history at McGill University in Montreal for many years before making aliyah with his wife and two young children. His favorite part about living in Israel, he told us, is doing "normal activities," like taking his daughter to ballet and watching his son practice soccer, in a Jewish state.

To him, and to me, there is holiness in the mundane in this unique place.

After the conference ended in Jerusalem, I took a bus to Tel Aviv. There, I spent a few days with Leah-- my Jewish American best friend from childhood—and her Israeli boyfriend, Itay. After initially meeting in Manhattan, they relocated to Itay's beloved hometown of Tel Aviv three years ago.

Leah and Itay gave me the kind of Israeli education you can't get from climbing Masada; they taught me about what it's like to really live in Israel.

Leah is starting her own fashion design business. When she's not working, she's exercising at Israeli boot camp by the sea, learning Hebrew, and taking on the daunting task of Israeli driver's ed—where she's killing two birds with one stone by learning to swear in Hebrew from a chain smoking, gravel-voiced Israeli woman. Itay is a computer consultant, specializing in technological educational resources for students.

The three of us shared a lot of deep conversations during my weekend in town on topics like what it means to be a Jewish minority in the diaspora versus part of the Jewish majority in Israel.

One warm Tel Aviv night, on our way home from eating sushi and drinking sake at a Tel Aviv sushi joint, Leah, Itay, and I bumped into a crowd of peaceful organizers—more than 1,000 strong—at one of the social protests commonplace in Tel Aviv last summer and this summer.

Israelis marched and chanted in support of civil rights for all members of Israeli society. To the delight of the crowd, a bus driver left his vehicle in the middle of the street, where traffic was at a standstill, and danced with the protesters.

And just like in Jerusalem, I joined in, this time with my friends, marching down the street with the Israeli people—another holy moment in the holy land.

We walked out of the synagogue after my grandma's memorial service and asked what any Jewish family would ask each other after a difficult experience– where should we eat? Despite filling up on coffee cake while accepting condolences from friends, I was in need of some Jewish penicillin, and there was only one place I could think of.

"Let's go to the Buffalo," I suggested. My husband rolled his eyes. He believes the Buffalo is mediocre and overpriced (this from the man who believes the standard-bearer of Italian food is the Olive Garden). Perhaps because his wife's grandmother recently passed away, or because said wife was 22 weeks pregnant, he kept the kvetch to a minimum and dutifully drove me to my matzo ball soup.

The Buffalo Restaurant and Ice Cream Parlor is a fixture of the Buffalo Grove community. Though it's technically a Greek deli, the restaurant serves a variety of Jewish comfort foods and is one of the only places I can never go without make up on, since I am guaranteed to know at least one person there. The menu includes the aforementioned matzo ball soup, which boasts two big, fluffy balls in a just-salty-enough broth. Enjoyed with a roll from the bread basket, matzo ball soup at the Buffalo feels like home.

The Buffalo has played the "supportive and comforting friend" role in my life for as long as I can remember. Being centrally located in between the baseball fields and home, my family would eat there after my brothers played. We went there for ice cream after attending family Shabbat services at our synagogue. In junior high, when I was finally grown up enough to go out to eat with friends (and without any parents), the Buffalo was one of the only places we could get to on foot from our neighborhood. We often paid in change and under tipped the poor sucker who got stuck serving us. Allowance only went so far.

In high school I was involved in theater and choir. After a performance, our cast would often head to the Buffalo, celebrating over deep fried anything, massive ice cream sundaes, and of course, matzo ball soup. My high school boyfriend and I shared many evenings at the Buffalo over the "Lover's Delight," an ice cream creation I'm too embarrassed to continue thinking about.

When my friends and I were home from college on break and needed a place to meet, it was the obvious choice. When I lost my first job, hated my second job, and landed my third job, I drowned my sorrows and celebrated there. Battling a bad cold or upset stomach? The Buffalo. 

I moved to the city, which certainly did not lack for Jewish delis, but nothing compared. It was one of the first places my husband and I went for dinner after we moved back to the burbs. I was excited to introduce him to my place. He probably would have preferred the Olive Garden.

And so I found myself there after the memorial service, surrounded by family, slurping soup, and remembering Grandma. The familiar surroundings, the comforting food, and the shared memories of a lost loved one helped put a Band-Aid on my sadness. The Buffalo, my supportive and comforting friend, came through once again.

 
The recipients of the first Double Chai in the Chi: Jewish 36 under 36 list. 

Pictured: Beth Avner, Jenna Benn, Rachel Drescher, Jeff Ellman, Laurie Grauer, Lizzi Heydemann, Joel Holland, Jonny Imerman, Shalom Klein, Rachel Kohl Finegold, Ari Levy, Scott Lieber, Josh Liss, Ilana Marczak, Samantha Margolis, Michael Masters, Michael Oxman, Matthew Seidner, Benjamin Singer, Cameron Smith, David Solow, Kenny Stolman, Josh Weinberg, Adam Weingarten, Amy Witt, Jill Zenoff

Not pictured: Jordan Bendat-Appell, Brad Finkel, Aliza Goodman, Leah Jones, Lindsey Markus, Matt Matros, Evan Moffic, Brandon Prosansky, Jimmy Sarnoff and Roslyn Turner

Thanks for coming out to the WYLD on the water party last night! We had a total blast and hope you all did, too. Here is a sneak peek of some of the 36 under 36 posing on the boat. To see the rest of the photos from the event, click here.

We all know that chocolate can bring out the glint in a lover’s eye and that the smooth creamy and sensuous Aztec treat is even good for you, with all of its anti-oxidants and flavonoids, but how do you share the sumptuous chocolaty pleasure when it is blazing hot? There is nothing romantic about a box of melted chocolates.

This Tu’B Av pull out your blender and ice cubes and enjoy a frothy, icy and sexy treat.

In Israel, Tu B'Av is a day of love and while it is a regular workday, music and dance festivals are typically held to celebrate the day. Israelis give cards and flowers to their loved ones on Tu B'Av; and, get married. Hot chocolate can warm your soul and is pure comfort on a chilly day. Iced hot chocolate is refreshing and fun. Be sure to use the best chocolate you can find to share with the object of your affection.

Frozen Hot Chocolate
Serves 4

2 ½ cups whole milk
1 cup half-and-half
½ cup powdered milk
4 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped
4 ounces milk chocolate or white chocolate, chopped
1 tablespoon sugar
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1 teaspoon instant espresso or coffee powder
3 cups of ice
Suggested garnishes: vanilla beans, shaved chocolate

1. Heat the milk, half-and-half and powdered milk in a saucepan on medium heat to just below the simmering point.

2. Remove the pan from the heat and add both chocolates. When the chocolates are melted, add the sugar, vanilla extract, and espresso and whisk vigorously. Cool the mix.

3. Place the hot chocolate mix in a blender or food processor. Add ice and process until the texture of a smoothie. Serve immediately. 

He is young, humble, and most importantly, good. While the Jewish world was sparked by the Padres 7th pick in the draft Max Fried, it is Max Ungar who might be the most important Jewish pick in the entire draft. Ungar went in the 36th round (not quite the 7th pick) to his hometown Washington Nationals. But this kid is from an all Jewish high school, Charles E. Smith in Rockville Maryland. When asked how he wanted to be promoted, Ungar said to mention his coaches, family, and friends. So he can play ball and is a mensch. Below is the exciting story of Max Ungar, a kid with a bright future and someone The Great Rabbino is rooting for.

1) Tell TGR a little bit about yourself… Where did you grow up, family life, other interests besides baseball?
I grew up in Bethesda, Md with two sisters, one older (a professional ballerina) and one younger (an awesome soccer and guitar player). My family has always been the most important thing in my life and they have always supported me through my academics as well as athletics and I really want to thank them for everything they have done. Some of my other interests besides baseball include; writing a blog about dieting in college, doing "crossfit" style of working out, hiking, and being in nature.

2) When did you start playing baseball?
I've been playing baseball since I can remember so probably around three or four years old. I have a great picture of me in the backyard with a wiffle ball bat and ball on a tee. When I started playing, I was always at an age where I could either be the youngest on the team or I could be the oldest, and that translated over to school as well. I was one of the younger kids in my class and I usually ended up having to play on summer and fall teams where I was either the youngest or the oldest. This put me at somewhat of a disadvantage because when I was the oldest on the team, I wasn't playing the best competition that I could be playing, and I would go to showcases and the kids there would all be bigger and older than I am used to.

3) Congrats on being drafted by the Washington Nationals. When did you realize getting drafted was a possibility? What was that like?
I really never thought that I would get drafted. Being from such a small school that really hasn't produced the greatest athletes in its history, I was not really expecting this to happen. When I first got a call from Bobby Myrick, who scouted me, I felt like it was a possibility but I really did not think it would happen because, again of the small school. Getting that call was probably one of the coolest things that ever happened to me. My dad was actually the only one home and he picked up the phone and talked to him. When my dad told me the news, I was ecstatic. First off, it was really cool that my Dad told me because he has always been the one who goes out and tosses BP for me or throws with me. However, I still did not think it would happen, I knew then that it was a possibility and I kept it in the back of my mind since that happened, until I went to Israel.

4) What was draft day like and how did you find out?
Draft day was crazy. I had everyone in the neighborhood over and family over, all dressed up, and we had a huge feast and huddled around the T.V. waiting for my name to be called and then... No, just kidding not at all like that. I had actually kind of forgot that it was the last day of the draft and if it was going to happen, it would happen that day. I was more focused on my orientation at Denison. So, it was pretty normal, I went to the gym, packed and left for Granville, Oh. My friend Jordan Tuwiner had texted me a few days before saying that if I was going to get drafted that he would tell me first (Jordan runs a baseball recruiting website). So, I started driving to orientation with my mom (about a six hour drive) and my phone started to ring. I noticed that it was a (301) number so I thought I would pick it up (that was when I remembered that it was draft day). I picked it up and heard someone say "Hello this is the Washington Nationals, we just wanted to let you know that we will be drafting you in about 10 minutes so, you should turn on the broadcast on MLB.com and listen in, congratulations." When I heard that, I was at a loss for words, I think all I could come up with was "awesome, awesome, thank you." I started shaking a bit I think, and probably swerved a little bit on the road. I remember people passing me because I was all the way in the left lane and I started to slow down out of pure excitement. So, we frantically started calling everyone trying to tell them to tune in to the broadcast. Then, Jordan called and said they just drafted me. About a minute later we heard it over my mom’s iPhone on the car's stereo system. It was just a crazy moment. We pulled over and my phone, email, and Facebook just started to blow up. Every other second I was getting a phone call, text or Facebook notification. It was really awesome. All of my friends and family were really nice about congratulating and supporting me.

5) Were you excited it was the Nationals, your home team, who drafted you?
It is awesome that the Nationals, my hometown team, drafted me. I have been to a bunch of Nats games and know some people who have worked for the Nationals in the past. I even remember when the Nats came to town and it was a big thing to be a Nationals fan. Now, they are doing so well, that there are a lot of Nats fans out there and people are impressed when they hear the Washington Nationals. However, I am a Red Sox fan, first and foremost. A bunch of my family grew up in Boston and Red Sox nation has been instilled in me from the beginning by my uncle, aunt, cousins, grandmother, and mom.

6) What is next for you? Do you plan on going to the minors or college? If you go to college do you lose your draft status?
I will be attending Denison University in the fall and playing for the Big Red in the spring. While it is really cool to have been drafted, my teachers and counselors as well as Baseball factory (a recruiting organization) have all taught me that my college education is more important for my future. Unless the Nats offer me a lot of money, I do not plan on accepting. After that, I will go to Denison and play baseball for them while Nationals scouts and possibly other scouts follow me. After my junior year of college, I can be drafted again by any team.

7) What are your long term goals?
My long term goals are similar to most peoples’ long term goals. I want to be a family man first and foremost. If, to get there, the paths of life take me through professional baseball, then that would be really cool. If not, then that's okay also. I am interested in a number of things aside from baseball, and when it comes down to it, I have to make the best decisions for my family. One scenario that I especially want to avoid however, is getting drafted, signing, and then getting stuck in the minor leagues for a long time, where I can't really do much with my life except get better at baseball, where I have little money, and am away from home most of the year.

8) Which baseball player do you try to model your game after? Who is your favorite player?
I would say I try and model my game, and work ethic after Jason Varitek. I think Varitek is the epitome of a professional baseball player. He really knows the game, can predict situations, and is prepared for them. He was one of the hardest working guys in the game of baseball, even if he wasn't the most gifted, or talented athlete, he always used his intelligence and work ethic to make him an all-star and long tenured major leaguer.

9) If you had to start a baseball team which Jewish player would you start it with; Ryan Braun, Ian Kinsler, Kevin Youkilis, or Jason Marquis?
Jason Marquis. Pitching is the key to success. But, I think Braun is a really great player and is going to surpass Shawn Green as the modern day Hank Greenberg.

Good luck to Max in school (or scoring that huge lucrative deal). We will be following your story.
And Let Us Say...Amen.
- Jeremy Fine

Aly Raisman does a leap on beam at the 2010 World Championships. Photo credit: Josh Cheng

Just like her mom, Jewish Americans were kvelling for Aly Raisman after her amazing show Sunday night in London which earned her an unexpected spot in the gymnastics all-around finals alongside fellow American Gaby Douglas. Not only did Raisman turn out a fabulous performance, but her floor routine performed to Hava Nagila (I could only find a video from previous competitions) was a nice moment of Jewish pride after a rocky start for many. While American Jews everywhere became overnight fans of Aly, and will certainly tune in to see how she does in the finals, there are several other Jewish American Olympians turning it out this year that are worth watching.

Here are some to keep an eye on.

As a former competitive high school swimmer, Jason Lezak has always held a special place in my heart. While the Ryan Lochte vs Michael Phelps showdown has garnered most of the swimming PR, Lezak is a swimming veteran. He is returning to London to swim in his fourth Olympics and is one of five captains on the 530-member American squad. Lezak will be racing in the men's 400 by 100-meter freestyle relay.

Rounding out American Jews in the pool is Anthony Ervin. Anthony previously won two Olympic medals at the 2000 Summer Olympics in the men's 50-meter freestyle and the men's relay team in the 4×100-meter freestyle event.  He actually stopped swimming competitively in 2003 (hence skipping Beijing), but decided to begin training again in 2011 and will be competing in the 50-meter freestyle event once more. Anthony is also quite the do-gooder! In 2000, he auctioned off his Olympic gold medal on eBay and donated the proceeds to victims of the 2004 tsunami.

You might not be as familiar with her, but Julie Zetlin has a lot in common with Aly Raisman. Like Aly, Julie is also a member of the gymnastic team- she is a rhythmic gymnast. Julie and Aly both fare from the east coast, are competing in their first Olympic games and are both considered dark horses. Julie was actually awarded a wild-card berth to compete in London.  Finally, Aly and Julie share the dubious distinction of being recently named to the 25 hottest athletes on the 2012 U.S. Olympic Team list. Go, hot Jewish girls!

Moving on to fencing…yep, there is a Jew on the American fencing team and his name is Tim Morehouse. Tim is already an Olympic veteran; he won a silver medal competing in the men's sabre in Beijing. He will be back again this year and get this; he is coached by another famous, Jewish, Olympic, veteran, Yury Gelman!

Now admittedly, I don't know as much about this last athlete, but I'm trying to learn more. David Banks is a member of the men's rowing team. I believe this is his first time competing in the Olympics and it looks as though he competed in the Men's eight over the weekend and they finished in first place in their heat! The finals will take place on Wednesday, Aug. 1, so I guess we will just have to stay tuned to find out if he brings home any medals!

There are also 37 Olympians representing Israel in London, including Illinois-born Jillian Schwartz, a pole vaulter who was on the American team at the 2004 Athens Olympics, but is representing Israel this time around.

Am I missing anyone? Let me know, just don't call me yenta!

Here's a little background about me. I spent the 2010-2011 school year teaching English in Grenoble, France. Before that, I spent a year working in the heart of Chicago in the Jewish non-profit community. When I was abroad, my eyes were opened to the everyday experience of the Jewish community in my town and in the country at large. I experienced what it meant to me to be not only Jewish in France, but a Jewish, young, female, American in France. It was a ridiculously fun, thought-provoking and thrilling seven months and I'm excited to share these stories. By the way, all thoughts and opinions are purely my own…I take full responsibility for any sweeping generalizations.

Picking up where I left off, I was last in contact with the local in Chabad in Grenoble, looking for a place to stay prior to the start of a seven-month teaching contract. I'd heard back from a representative, Arie R. and he let me know he would put the word out.

Just a few short days later, I heard from Arie that a family expressed interest. They were a pair of business owners with two teenage boys, one of them leaving the nest to study at Oxford during the upcoming school year. I feverishly read the email. I shot a quick response back and within a few days, plans were firmed up to stay with the B. family in a house on Rue Raspail. I couldn't believe it. What was merely a suggestion from my boss slowly evolved into a concrete reality. Moving to France was becoming more and more "real" by the day. As I came to know my host father by correspondence, I felt welcomed and grateful. 

As the date of my flight got closer, my investigation of my new hometown grew intense. Now that I had a jumping off point, suddenly my days were spent mapping how to get from Rue Raspail to every possible destination. To my school, where I'd made contact with the principal, to the bars in town, to any potential creperies (my absolute favorite French food), to the mountains that outline the northern curve of the city, anywhere. My new world, with the exchange of a few emails, quickly took shape. Before I knew it, my mother and father drove me to the airport on a crisp September day. Armed with two suitcases, some phone numbers and an iron will to make this all work out, I left my parents at the airport food court and tepidly headed toward la vie Francaise.

There's something a bit heartbreaking about airports. In my younger days, I went to overnight camp. The final day always closed with the whole camp singing "Leaving on a Jet Plane" and it always struck me as a little wrenching. To be fair, I'm pretty sentimental. I'd "left on a jetplane" many times before, but never for this long. And looking at my parent's faces, it finally hit me that I was leaving behind my whole "Chicago" life for quite some time. It would resume, of course. But at that point, I didn't know when I would be back again. A one-way ticket to a place I'd never been. It was exciting, more than a little gut wrenching, but hopefully worth it.

My flying motto is have Dramamine. The flight rushed by. After a lengthy layover at Heathrow, my stomach leaped into my throat as the plane hurtled toward my final destination, Lyon, France. From Lyon, I took the one-hour bus to Grenoble, where the B. family awaited me. The fatigue of traveling untangled my nerves. At that point, I didn't possess the energy for nervousness.

As the night grew darker and the coach bus whisked down the AutoRoute, I caught my first glimpses of Grenoble. What struck me first were the mountains…everywhere. As the bus sped down the main thoroughfare with lights flashing, signs glaring and French people strolling, my eyes lit up. I rolled up to Rue Raspail feeling content, exhausted and overwhelmed. Mrs. B. met me at the gate, and my first night in France unfolded.

It wasn't just any night, it was Erev Sukkot. After plopping down my suitcases, I was shepherded outside to the beautiful sukkah in their backyard. I sat down and saw the smiling faces of Mr. and Mrs. B., their two children, Joachim and David. I knew I was going to be just fine. After we collectively said our prayers over the bread and wine, I breathed a sigh of relief.

We washed our hands and began our meal. I, being the American, was offered a can of Coke; it's our favorite, right? I was asked a peculiar question. In rapid fire French that I was not quite ready for, Mr. B. asked me right out, "So, what think about American Judaism? What do you have to say about it?" Maybe it was the desperate need for sleep, maybe I was taken off guard, but the question gave me pause. I'd been on birthright and I'd been asked similar questions about Jewish life in America, albeit by peers. To Mr. B., I'm sure I rattled off something about how it's a complicated issue, there are shades of gray, to each their own; all of those fair and good diplomatic phrases. In the coming weeks I got to know and develop relationships with this family and learn about their modern Orthodox life in France as well as in Tunisia (where Mr. B. immigrated from). His question was a thought I often came back to. As a very reform Jewish gal, I could only speak from that experience. It was interesting to ponder and discover how French Jewish culture differs from American Jewish culture.

To come…learning how to shop for kosher groceries, going to services in France and more! Stay tuned and thank you very much for reading.

As our bus pulled up to the Jewish Agency camp in Odessa, Ukraine, I was bursting with excitement. Having been a proud camper for over 10 years, I know the impact it can have on one's life and I was dying to see what Jewish camp was like in Ukraine.

Historically, Odessa has been one of the major centers for Jewish life and thought. Many of the most prominent Jewish leaders are from Odessa including Chaim Bialik, Ahad Ha'Am and Vladamir (Zeev) Jabotinsky. While there is a rich history, there is also a significant story of anti-Semitism, including pogroms, Nazi annihilation and Communist purges. With the support of the Jewish Federations of North America and our partners, the Jewish Agency, the Joint Distribution Committee (JDC), and World ORT, the Jewish community in Odessa is experiencing a period of renewal and revival. This 10 day camp experience, a program of the Jewish Agency, is designed to bring Jewish life and culture to teenagers in the Ukraine.

I never expected the kind of experience I was about to have...

When we arrived, every teen was line dancing to Israeli music, and immediately someone grabbed my hand to join in on the dance floor. It took a few missteps before I remembered the choreography, but after about five minutes, I was in my groove, swaying and twisting to all of my favorite dances. These were the same songs and routines I learned at camp 15 years ago. I was shocked by the universality of these dances, and at once I bonded with these teenagers over this common love of Israeli dance.

And the camp...it was amazing! Honestly, I was expecting it to be closer to my idea of a shtetl than the kind of experience I was used to in the US. I was definitely wrong! Not only were the camp grounds exquisite, with a huge communal area, basketball courts, nice bunks, etc, but the decorations and details were out of this world, amazing. Every path in camp was marked by a city name in Israel. When we broke up into small groups we experienced Israel, holidays and different parts of society through engaging, creative and inspiring Jewish programs.

And then, we were brought to an area with a magnificent huge Kotel structure. It was 30 feet long and seven feet high. It was made of bricks that were painted to look like Jerusalem stone, and there was greenery and shading and spacing to make it feel like you were at the Kotel, in Jerusalem. We all put notes in this wall together and shared our most intimate dreams, aspirations and thank-yous. Because our group was heading from Odessa to Israel, one teen asked me if I would take their note with me to the real Kotel...I was honored.

For many of these teens, this camp provides them with their Jewish identity. These children learn about holidays, religion, community and culture and with the help of our partnership organizations these teens can continue to celebrate with a community...a community that not too long ago, did not exist. One child I spoke with only discovered his Judaism weeks before, when his grandmother learned about the camp and encouraged her grandson to attend because it would be fun and because he was Jewish.

It was at this moment, when I heard this, that I realized the following: you could be me, or I could be you. My grea- grandparents were fortunate enough to leave the Ukraine before the war and were able to practice Judaism freely in the US. For my Ukrainian counterparts, their fate was entirely different. During much of the time since my grandparents left, no communal or cultural life was permitted, private prayer groups were dispersed and Jewish texts were confiscated.

Through my experience on the Campaign Chairs and Directors Mission (organized by the Jewish Federations of North America), I have come to realize how important it is that we as Jews care for one another. All people should be allowed to practice religion freely and I am so proud to be a part of a community that supports and promotes the revitalization and renewal of Jewish communities worldwide.

For more information on the details and specifics about what we support, please visit: http://www.juf.org/donate/where.aspx.

I miss the idyllic summers of my youth. I long for the lazy summers I spent as a kid splashing around swimming pools, erecting sculptures in sandy beaches, painting “masterpieces” in summer art classes and picnicking at Ravinia Festival while listening to Peter, Paul and Mary. As I entered high school, I spent warm summer nights rehearsing in a summer theater program, followed by seemingly wild, late-night excursions with friends in our parents’ station wagons and mini vans to chains such as Applebee’s and Denny’s in the suburbs. Often, we’d build bonfires on local beaches beneath star-speckled skies, imagining life beyond our teens.

Summer now consists of a seasonally-seamless work routine, with longer days of sunshine seen only through tinted, sealed, office windows. Shadows of my scarcely raucous youth emerge on weekends when my friends and I go out to play in Chicago at summer festivals, outdoor cafes and evening concerts. Rarely do we approach a weekend or even a single day with the same sense of delicious, aimless abandonment that we took for granted as children.

We spend much of our childhood trying to imagine adulthood; we spend much of our adulthood trying to re-imagine our childhood. We act like children when under duress; we grasp for child-like innocence when recovering from duress.

This summer, my friends and I took a spontaneous trip to the Wisconsin Dells to help distract my friend who’d been through a bad breakup. It was one of the most spectacularly silly weekends I’ve had, perhaps, since I was a kid. Many of us had been to the Dells as children, but had fuzzy recollections of its landscape. I could only recall large-scale waterslides. I spent four years in Madison for college and considered myself a sort of Wisconsin aficionado. However, spending four years wearing red, eating cheese curds and saying “aboot” with the Sconnies didn’t fully prepare me for the Dells.

The Dells is in fact a trippy, trashy, child-adult play land where cell phone reception does not exist. The “city” is filled with see-it-to-believe-it attractions such as a deer petting zoo, an upside-down White House museum, a wizard quest experience, waterslides built to look like mouse traps, roller coasters with animals protruding from them, mock Greek and Roman ruins, all-you-can-eat pizza buffets with ranch themes, Native American trading posts, rumored cult-run restaurants, cheese shops, fudge shops, t-shirt shops and more.

Our ambitions for the weekend loosely consisted of eating junk food and not feeling guilty about it, swimming, visiting the Wisconsin casinos and viewing as many cheesy (pardon my pun) attractions as possible. About seven of us infiltrated a friend’s lake house nearby. While we had child-like goals for the weekend, we rallied like ladies. We lamented our lack of cell phone reception everywhere we went and trucked on. We prepared a picnic and ate by the lake, followed by hours of floating on inner tubes, casually sipping Leinenkugel’s Summer Shandy (a cross between beer and lemonade) and cooling off with watermelon.

One of our nights on the town including playing arcade games, posing for photos with totem poles at Native American trading posts, sampling local pizza (buffet-style, of course), and most memorably, playing dress-up. After comparison shopping between the five old time photo shop studios on a block (very serious business), my friends and I herded into one of the larger shops and debate the merits of various costumes and time periods. We settled on old time saloon girls, namely because the props were the coolest and we got to wear corsets. A childhood dress-up and theater veteran, I was filled with glee at the prospect of wearing ridiculous costumes, if only for a moment. I even whipped out makeup and shared with my friends in preparation for this dramatic photo shoot.

After being released from the surprisingly tight costume corsets, we abandoned the wild Dells night life for another round of dress-up at the house. We all packed for the occasion with Jersey-Shore-like attire. We spent a couple hours, selecting outfits, giving each-other make-over’s and then spent the remainder of the night dancing in the lake house and eating s’mores. That night, we learned new hairstyles, new make-up tricks and new dance moves. No men. Just us. We were 10 again.

We tackled many other important sites that weekend, including sampling several fudge shops, a cheese shop, a visit to Ripley’s Believe It or Not, a trip to a nearby casino—at which we played penny slots—followed by a closing visit to the film, Magic Mike. The entire weekend was essentially a long girlish sleepover where we ate junk, braided each other’s hair and ogled famous, hunky, movie stars.

Had you met me at age 9 or 10, I might have described my ideal weekend similarly. Sometimes, we need to act like a kid again to handle the adult world. A little spiked lemonade helps too.

Skinny fat is a term that’s thrown around all the time. It’s not like jumbo shrimp, but figuring out the term might require fuzzy logic.

For a visual definition of skinny fat, think of the last time you were at the pool or beach. You see someone who has thin arms and legs with a gut. I’m afraid that my love handles (we all have them) will morph into a gut. Fighting the battle is hard because it is so easy to gain a few pounds. The disadvantage to being skinny fat is that it’s not that noticeable, like visceral fat, which is the fat that hangs out around your vital organs. You don’t think it’s a big deal but in reality you put yourself at risk for:

• heart disease
• type II diabetes
• stroke
• breast cancer (women)
• colorectal cancer
• sleep apnea (men)
• and the list goes on...

Skinny fat is really having a body fat percentage that is higher than recommended for your age and gender. In general, for men you want to have a body parentage between 15-20%, women 20-25%. Your body fat percentage is more important than the number on the scale or your Body Mass Index (BMI). BMI should be removed completely as a medical term. It’s a formula that’s calculated based on weight and height.

Body fat percentage can be measured with several different tools that calculate the percent of fat to muscle in your body. You obviously want more muscle than fat because it helps you move better, burn fat, and reduces your risk for several health problems. Almost any gym has equipment to measure your body fat percentage. There is one slight problem; all the various tools for calculating this number (bioelectrical impedance, skin folds, DEXA, Bod Pod) will give you different numbers. My suggestion, pick one method and use that each time. You might not get the most accurate reading but you will notice a trend, hopefully a positive trend.

The best way to keep track of this number without fancy equipment is your pants. If your pants are tight, eat better and exercise more. If your pants fit perfect, then you’re maintaining your weight. How you look and feel in your clothes is always a good indicator, unless your dryer shrinks everything.

Keeping your body fat in check is done with exercise and diet. Eating healthy will help you lose fat and muscle. Weight lifting helps you build muscle mass. The more muscle mass you have, the more efficiently you burn calories. I’m not suggesting you bulk up like Arnold back in the day, but a few pounds of muscle usually isn’t a bad thing. Aside from using steroids, Arnold was also genetically gifted. Most of us can lift weights without looking like a “Hans.”

For more information on body fat percentage and wellness contact me at rkrit@fitwithkrit.com.

It has been quite a ride the last 18 months. Some would say it was colored by hardship and trauma, others may argue it was highlighted by triumph and strength. Depending on where you start and where you finish, I would argue it was and is all of the above.

There have been many transformations, many juxtapositions, many changes over the course of the last 18 months.

From tied up to untied, from the shadows to the sunlight, from sickness to health, I have seen it all.

And here— in this online space— I have captured these transformations, isolated these moments in time, portrayed these hardships and triumphs in a way that is unique, that is my own, that is at my disposal for a