Last week, I took a cooking class. I am a terrible cook. I can barely toast. Holidays I host are an amalgam of the food other people bring (thanks, mom and donna!) and take-out. My husband still teases me about the time I forgot to defrost the frozen bread. I thought it seemed awfully crunchy. But, my mom loves to cook and my dear friend Dana Slatkin - a fantastic chef with a new book coming out, The Summertime Anytime Cookbook, tells me that even the worst cook can attend.As soon as I get there, I feel out of my element. I walk in with two aprons in hand, hair in a ponytail, and comfy shoes so I can stand while I cook, only to find out that I misunderstood, it is a cooking demonstration. We get to watch Dana cook and then eat the fruits of her labor. Not so bad.We take our seats in her beautiful kitchen and I look down to find a chic folder for me containing all the recipes she will prepare. Great, I think to myself this should be a snap: drink, eat and watch.With each step, Dana is energetic, educated and knows what she is talking about it. She sprinkles the conversation with tips I might actually use. Grapeseed oil is better for you than olive oil. My mind wanders, how do they squeeze grape seeds?I look around, everyone is engaged. As a teacher, I watch her as a teacher. How are the students responding? Are they getting her? Is she communicating effectively? When she announces between dinner and dessert we are going to make an all natural facial scrub to eliminate any zits, I perk up. Homemade face products that smell good enough to eat, yum.Two hours later, we wrap up, taking with us all sorts of treats and a beautiful folder full of recipes.. My mom is going to replicating the entire meal for a dinner party she is hosting in a few weeks. I have no such expectations. But when I get home, I realize, I feel empowered. While the dessert seems impossible, I have feeling I will make the fish.I call Dana the next day to thank her. I may never be a gourmet chef, but with a teacher like her I might just stop using frozen bread.
In preparation for Passover, I practiced the seder with my 5 year old son. This is the first year that I thought that he would understand that Passover is more than a lot of food and a few songs. We talked about the order of it, the food we would eat and I tried to teach him the part he would be in charge of - the four questions. Since they can be sung, instead of spoken, they were easy for him to learn. I have a terrible voice and sing them off key, he teases me relentlessly, but learned them right away.
During our preparation, I asked him what he thought this holiday meant. He did not hesitate before answering that at Passover we celebrate how the Statue of Liberty gave us freedom. I almost correct him – the Statue of Liberty? But I stopped myself.For Emet, Passover celebrates not just our freedom as Jews but our freedom as Americans to make our own choices as part of democracy. Emet is celebrating that he is Jewish and he is an American. He is celebrating all of his freedoms, because they are inextricably linked.Ok, so he’s 5. Maybe those were not the words he would have used. At five, I think he may understand a lot more than many adults. Passover’s message of freedom is powerful for all the people who are blessed to live in a place where they are free. Freedom is truly a gift. A big one.
Passover is no picnic. Every year I dread preparing for the holiday because there is so much cleaning beforehand. Unlike other Jewish holidays, where I can just prepare the meal, set the table and organize the rituals, Passover is labor intensive. Most years, I start early - mapping out what I am going to clean on each day leading up to the holiday.
But this year, before I knew it, Passover was almost here. I spend all of the Wednesday before the holiday rushing around the house like a crazy person. Boiling pots, cleaning the stove, vacuuming. Usually, by the end I felt a sense of accomplishment. But this year I feel like I have not given it 100%.I feel like I failed Passover 101.
When I got into bed that night I started wonder why I was so obsessed. Preparing for Passover is a chore, but it is not a test. I am not being graded by God Almighty. No one is going to enter my home when I open the door for Elijah and say Sherre Hirsch, you failed; your house is not as clean as I think it should be. No messiah for you.
At the end of the Passover seder, Jews say “next year in Jerusalem.” Our prayer is that next year we will be able to celebrate our freedom in the land of Israel. I am hoping that at the end of seder this year I will say, “next year may I forgive myself for not being perfect.” May I recognize that I did that best I could and that will have to be good enough.
I met Chisley recently. He is from Belize and is living in LA, working as the security guard for the Connie Martinson show. His life is not going as he planned; neither is his daughter’s. They came from Belize years ago and moved to New York. After seven years there, they were both unhappy so they moved to Los Angeles. He is happy here. She is not. He wants more than anything to help her create a life that she loves and thrives in.I hand him a copy of We Plan, God Laughs when I take a break to go to the bathroom. When I walk by again, he hands it back to me and I tell him to keep it, read it and let me know what he thinks. He seems surprised, but I don’t think anything of it.I’m back in the car with my publicist/chauffeur/cheerleader Jason, and I mention Chisley. Jason has been bringing authors to talk to Connie for three years and in all that time, no one has ever stopped to talk to Chilsey. He and Jason have exchanged pleasantries, but never spoken at length.It’s kind of a bummer and I wonder if I sound naïve. Or if I sound like I am trying too hard or pretending. Sometimes in life, it seems like people talk when they need something from one another. What can I get from you? I suppose, I do get something in return from Chilsey. His story. He took a step. He leapt and then did it again. His story inspires and moves me. His story reminded me of why I became a rabbi and a writer. Why we all matter.
No matter how many weddings I officiate, each one continues to be a thrill. You would think after having officiated at more weddings than I could count, dealt with brides, photographers, parents, in laws, grooms, caterers, etc. that as a rabbi I would have had my fill. But last weekend as I am standing under the chuppah (wedding canopy) with another couple, it feels magical again and I feel so lucky to be a part of it.In the Jewish tradition, anyone who is knowledgable in Jewish law can officiate a wedding ceremony. You do not need a rabbi. Even though people think it is my ‘job,’ I feel honored every time a couple asks me to be such an important part of their life. I am blessed to be invited to share in their lives, thoughts, fears, and hopes.This couple already live together, have children together, a house, a dog. In almost every sense they are already married. But when they stand before me, drink the wine, and exchange rings, something changes. It is more than just a contract. When they stand up, in front of their families, friends and God, their spiritual connection deepens. In the moments when they exchange their vows, I can feel their relationship changing.Each and every time I do this it is different. It is also the same. Even though I did it, it still amazes me that every day people find each other, fall in love, decide to spend the rest of their lives together. It’s one of the biggest leaps of faith that we can take. Believing in God, or something bigger than you, can seem easy in comparison. God does not leave the wet towels on the floor every day.
This has been a pretty amazing few weeks. I was in New York with my husband, parents and in-laws when the book came out. My kids are in school and stayed at home. I missed them every second I was gone and told them that when I was on TV, every time I blinked, I was telling them that I love them.
Emet, my son, keeps thinking I am going to wink. No, I tell him, blink. Blink. I can only imagine what my interviewer on The Today Show, Hoda Kotb, would think if I started to wink at her.
Backstage at the Today Show is a hoot. I see Nora Jones getting ready in the room behind me. She is there to promote her film debut. She is reserved, pretty and young. Suddenly I feel my age. Right then, I hear in the background a segment about turning forty. Anne Marie, my makeup artist (or should I say Meredith Viera’s make up artist) is fixing my face. She asks how old I am. 39. “You look great, and no botox,” she says “A lot of sunscreen,” I reply.
I’m feeling a little star struck when I hear George Clooney was just there, when Rocco D’Spirito leans in and asks if I am really a rabbi. I want to seem funny and cool, but can’t think of anything. Instead I ask what he is cooking. “Hamburgers, not kosher.” “Too bad.” Then he confides in me that it is a burger competition and he is not feeling very competitive. I tell him now to worry, while I have never tasted his cooking, I am sure he will take it. Apparently, even Rocco needs a boost of confidence when he’s about to be on TV in front of millions of people.
Now I’m a bit nervous and am grateful when I look up and see 20 tween tap dancers and their mothers and coaches are practicing their steps only a few yards away from me. They are adorable and I feel proud for them. I hope my daughter is watching. She would like the tapping much more than my talking.
I am skirted up to the green room; suddenly, I am on and it’s done. 5 minutes and it felt like 5 seconds. How did I do? My publicist and friends are eager to dissect. Did I notice that Hoda and I matched? Did I get all the right points in? What was it like? Did it feel long or short?
Yes, yes, great, short. All that runs through my mind is “Did I blink enough?”
Last week, I took a cooking class. I am a terrible cook. I can barely toast. Holidays I host are an amalgam of the food other people bring (thanks, mom and donna!) and take-out. My husband still teases me about the time I forgot to defrost the frozen bread. I thought it seemed awfully crunchy. But, my mom loves to cook and my dear friend Dana Slatkin - a fantastic chef with a new book coming out, The Summertime Anytime Cookbook, tells me that even the worst cook can attend.As soon as I get there, I feel out of my element. I walk in with two aprons in hand, hair in a ponytail, and comfy shoes so I can stand while I cook, only to find out that I misunderstood, it is a cooking demonstration. We get to watch Dana cook and then eat the fruits of her labor. Not so bad.We take our seats in her beautiful kitchen and I look down to find a chic folder for me containing all the recipes she will prepare. Great, I think to myself this should be a snap: drink, eat and watch.With each step, Dana is energetic, educated and knows what she is talking about it. She sprinkles the conversation with tips I might actually use. Grapeseed oil is better for you than olive oil. My mind wanders, how do they squeeze grape seeds?I look around, everyone is engaged. As a teacher, I watch her as a teacher. How are the students responding? Are they getting her? Is she communicating effectively? When she announces between dinner and dessert we are going to make an all natural facial scrub to eliminate any zits, I perk up. Homemade face products that smell good enough to eat, yum.Two hours later, we wrap up, taking with us all sorts of treats and a beautiful folder full of recipes.. My mom is going to replicating the entire meal for a dinner party she is hosting in a few weeks. I have no such expectations. But when I get home, I realize, I feel empowered. While the dessert seems impossible, I have feeling I will make the fish.I call Dana the next day to thank her. I may never be a gourmet chef, but with a teacher like her I might just stop using frozen bread.
In preparation for Passover, I practiced the seder with my 5 year old son. This is the first year that I thought that he would understand that Passover is more than a lot of food and a few songs. We talked about the order of it, the food we would eat and I tried to teach him the part he would be in charge of - the four questions. Since they can be sung, instead of spoken, they were easy for him to learn. I have a terrible voice and sing them off key, he teases me relentlessly, but learned them right away.
Passover is no picnic. Every year I dread preparing for the holiday because there is so much cleaning beforehand. Unlike other Jewish holidays, where I can just prepare the meal, set the table and organize the rituals, Passover is labor intensive. Most years, I start early - mapping out what I am going to clean on each day leading up to the holiday.
I met Chisley recently. He is from Belize and is living in LA, working as the security guard for the Connie Martinson show. His life is not going as he planned; neither is his daughter’s. They came from Belize years ago and moved to New York. After seven years there, they were both unhappy so they moved to Los Angeles. He is happy here. She is not. He wants more than anything to help her create a life that she loves and thrives in.I hand him a copy of We Plan, God Laughs when I take a break to go to the bathroom. When I walk by again, he hands it back to me and I tell him to keep it, read it and let me know what he thinks. He seems surprised, but I don’t think anything of it.I’m back in the car with my publicist/chauffeur/cheerleader Jason, and I mention Chisley. Jason has been bringing authors to talk to Connie for three years and in all that time, no one has ever stopped to talk to Chilsey. He and Jason have exchanged pleasantries, but never spoken at length.It’s kind of a bummer and I wonder if I sound naïve. Or if I sound like I am trying too hard or pretending. Sometimes in life, it seems like people talk when they need something from one another. What can I get from you? I suppose, I do get something in return from Chilsey. His story. He took a step. He leapt and then did it again. His story inspires and moves me. His story reminded me of why I became a rabbi and a writer. Why we all matter.
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