Some thoughts about conversation

Let’s agree, hosting a kiddush in one’s home every Shabbat morning, as I do week in and week out, is not the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do, but there are things to consider if you want to make it a thing of beauty. One issue that you might not think about right off the bat is the quality of the conversation. Take it from me, it makes all the difference in the world.

My general rule of thumb to my guests is: say what you want as long as it makes some sense and you can defend your position. (It also helps if it’s entertaining.) But, if it’s reheated dregs from some deranged source, don’t waste your breath; I’m not interested, and you shouldn’t be either. Recently, I had to make a direct appeal to those assembled: CHANGE THE SUBJECT. No, you may not bash ‘immigrants’ in my presence, certainly not in my living room. The way I look at it, there are two groups of people seeking refuge: the ones fortunate enough to find a country to take them in (as in the U.S. prior to 1922) and the ones not so lucky (British Mandate Palestine, for example). And if you or your ancestors have been in the first group, don’t sneer at those who haven’t had your mazel. Let me refill your glass, and you’ll think of something else to wax rhapsodic about.

Another topic, not nearly as toxic, that I don’t want to hear about is real estate. As in: so-and-so is moving; how much is their apartment worth?; where are they moving to?; when are they moving?; we’ve heard you’re moving? I DON’T want to hear it, at least not on Shabbat. I am trying to CHILL, by which I do not mean sending chills up and down my spine.

What I am trying to accomplish is to create a space in which I and whoever wishes to join me can calm down, relax, decompress for one or two hours after davening on a Shabbat morning.

The way I see it, the world around me is spinning out of control. I have some ideas about what should be happening, but my thoughts on the matter are constantly being altered and revised as life goes on. Even if I were certain that, at this moment, I am right, who is there to listen? The best advice I can give myself and anybody else is, don’t let what’s going on around us eat us alive. It would be one thing if we and our friends were in imminent danger, but we’re not in the line of fire – at least for now. (As in: “You will have realized by now that we are drifting towards great catastrophes…I won’t bet a penny on our lives. They have succeeded in establishing a reign of barbarity. Do not fool yourself. Hell reigns.” – from a letter by the writer Joseph Roth to his mentor Stefan Zweig, dated Feb. 1933.) Maybe focusing on being kind and considerate to one and all is the best we can do, but even that takes some effort. So let’s practice on each other.

A White Russian on steroids

Unlike at the typical shul kiddush, my guests can sit comfortably around the coffee table in our living room and chat, no fighting for a piece of kugel, no warding off some random child who wants to push his way in ahead of you. There is a modest expense incurred, but if you can’t pamper yourself and a few chosen friends on Shabbat, then when will you have the chance? As I have said thousands of times, Life’s too short.

If you’re going to do it yourself, then you need some form of liquid on which to recite the appropriate ‘kiddush for Shabbos morning.’ It just so happens that I have spent some time investigating the availability in our area of kiddush-worthy beverages. Grape juice does not bring a smile to my lips, nor does cheap whiskey make the day seem brighter. But there is plenty of good whisk(e)y out there that I’d be proud to pour and my guests would be happy to drink. So, why not go for it? But while I’m at it, why not up the ante? Let’s try some cocktails, which is a whole ‘nother ballgame. Some of what I have served has gotten multiple thumbs up, and some hasn’t. But recently, flushed with my success in finding some KLP vodka, I created an original cocktail, a real winner: equal parts vodka, pineapple juice, and crème de cassis liqueur. YES!

But as a special treat, on Shabbat mevorchim (the Shabbat before Rosh Hodesh), you will be guaranteed a White Russian, because, as far as I am concerned, ‘the dude abides,’ and will continue to do so for the foreseeable future.

However…….. idling through the back pages of the New York Times a few months ago, I came across this intriguing article about Rutt, the moose, wandering through Minnesota in search of a mate, in the process, creating an enormous following and his own Facebook page. But what caught my attention was the enthusiasm of John Brichacek, a local bartender. ‘We’ve got to do a moose drink. We’ve got to do something for Rutt.’ That’s the spirit! I guess if you can’t help him find a mate, the least you can do is make him a cocktail – and drink it yourself. (Equal parts vodka, Kahlua, and Bailey’s Irish Cream. Wait a minute, that sounds like a White Russian on steroids.)

However you describe this new addition to the cocktail repertoire, that’s what was on offer on May 4. (One glass for Ezra, one for Shoshana, one for Barbara, and one for me.) We managed to move the conversation away from the dreaded ‘M’ word, and as a reward, I was offering second rounds of Rutts. Ezra, appropriately concerned about his sugar intake, asked if he could switch to Scotch. Well, of course. I pulled out an appropriate bottle and poured him an appropriate amount. And, in the spirit of waste-not-want-not, I drank the cocktail I had made for him.

I can never speak for anybody else, but there usually comes a moment at the kiddush when, with a glass of whatever I’ve been pouring in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other (we are, of course, talking about beans from Power Coffeeworks), and a plate of herring in front of me, I sense a glimmer of hope for the future of mankind. Would that warm and fuzzy feeling be transmitted to those assembled? I could only hope so.

The conversation continued and, as I had finished my second Rutt, I reached for the bottle of Glenfiddich and poured a modest amount into the glass I had been using, which still contained a trace of the cocktail. Very interesting. That teeny-teeny amount of Rutt gave a whole new dimension to the Scotch. What happens if I finish what I have and pour a little more Scotch? I never did well in chemistry, but there are some experiments I’m good at. Let’s see what I can come up with. I’ll let you know.

And I don’t even watch television…

The kiddush was over, our guests had reluctantly left, and it was almost time to for lunch. (It’s never too early or too late for lunch, if you ask me.) While we waited the few minutes for our food to warm up, I returned to my seat on the couch and randomly picked up Friday’s Haaretz. Have you looked at the Brain strain, I asked Barbara. I got one right. (She hadn’t seen it.) Every week, the newspaper includes ten diabolical questions to tantalize and humiliate their readership. I once got four right. Once. Sometimes I get one or two right. I often get none right. How about this week’s question #1, ‘Golda Meir was Israel’s first female cabinet minister, in 1949. Who was the second?’ I’m supposed to know that? Turns out the answer is Shulamit Aloni. At least I’ve heard of her. Second question: ‘What do the Eiffel Tower and Margaret Thatcher have in common?’ You’ll never guess. ‘Both are nicknamed the “Iron Lady.”’ If you say so. But #7 rang a bell. ‘Which poet was killed in 1837 in a duel with an officer who was courting his wife?’ I had to think a bit. Must be Alexander Pushkin – as if there were anybody out there to react to my suggestion. I’m right! Score one for the team!

I turned the page. ‘The Gaza battlefield monologues, Eight soldiers share their experiences fighting since October 7.’ Do I really want to read this? Haaretz pulls no punches, so it’s probably pretty gory. But I still had a little time before lunch, and maybe I should. At least I had reached a proper state of mind to focus on something that I knew would be disturbing.

Soldier number 1, Or Sznelberg, 24, from Jerusalem, counselor in a pre-army preparatory course, Armored Corps officer. He described escaping from a burning tank somewhere in Gaza:

‘I run, run, run. Afterwards, I was told that the commander who was in a Namer APC behind me saw me running, reported seeing a terrorist and requested permission to shoot me. The convoy commander denied permission because there were more forces there, and he was afraid of a friendly-fire incident. I keep running and see a Golani unit – they’re aiming their rifles at me, I’m signaling to them that I’m a soldier. They realize I’m IDF thanks to my helmet…’

I thought back to my last article and what I had written about death by friendly fire. Two split second decisions, each of which could have ended Or Sznelberg’s life then and there at the ripe old age of 24 – but mercifully didn’t. I guess it wasn’t ‘his time,’ For which we should all be grateful. The article didn’t say whether he ‘benched gomel.’ I hope he did. He should have.

Next was the interview with Or Shadmi, 25, from Tel Aviv, student of philosophy, economics and political science, combat paramedic. He got a call from his unit: ‘Come to the Envelope (referring to the Israeli communities adjacent to the Gaza Strip) as fast as you can.’ I’m on the way (ani kvar b’erech)! Except that at that moment, Or was on a beach in a remote town in Albania. But he was on the way, hitchhiking and arranging a flight! (This is so Israeli.)

Once he met up with his unit in Gaza, he saw the local population heading south, and this is how he described it: ‘I ask myself why they deserve this, and then I remember October 7. There’s the story about Winnie the Pooh, when Christopher Robin goes down the stairs with him and he gets a bump on every stair; and then Pooh says that if Christopher Robin would have thought about it for a minute, he would certainly have discovered that there’s another way, but what?… I remember the tired and apathetic looks of the people who wandered south. Those gazes have stayed with me…’ (I should mention that anybody who references Winnie the Pooh is my kind of guy.)

And then this young warrior was sent home. He went to his apartment and found out that one roommate had left and had taken the TV with him. ‘The moment I saw that, no matter that it was 9PM, I went out and bought the most expensive TV and installed it that very night where the previous one had been. And I don’t even watch television.’ Imagine what he would have come home with if he did. (Check with some of my friends; they’ll give you some ideas.)

Lunch was ready, so I would defer reading about the other six soldiers until later. Barbara and I were in agreement. This was one of those days when we had to (had to!) have our meal on the merpeset. It wasn’t too hot; it wasn’t too cold; it wasn’t too windy. The problem was that neither of us was too hungry. I drank my wine and we nibbled at our food. I think we have dinner for tomorrow night. If we couldn’t finish our meal, we could get an early start on our nap. At least get something right.

Considerably later, now wide awake, I had time to go through some of the material I had prepared for Shabbat reading before heading back to shul for mincha, Nachum’s shiur, and maariv. I never got the chance to return to the six soldiers I had left in limbo. Maybe I wasn’t up to it, after all.

A week passed and I was again preparing to torture myself by perusing the weekly Brain strain in that Friday’s Haaretz. I do not know ‘the connection between pastry and the Knesset’s location.’ As for ‘which currently serving female MK appears in an Israeli horror/comedy film,’ not a clue. But this one was, at least in theory, right up my alley. ‘Which famous American author’s grandparents lived on a farm at the site of a present-day high school in south Tel Aviv?’ (Well, maybe not my alley; my street corner, perhaps?) I was thinking, a Jewish author?; that would make sense. Philip Roth, Henry Roth, Saul Bellow, Bernard Malamud, Nathanael West, Daniel Fuchs? If not a Jewish author, then who else? F. Scott Fitzgerald, Edgar Allen Poe, Ernest Hemingway? I give up; haven’t a clue. Oh, give me a break! ‘Those of John Steinbeck, devout Christians from Germany, who abandoned the site after being attacked by local Arabs.’ Yoana Gonen, you’re killing me with these absurd questions and answers. Here’s one for you: who was the eleventh paying customer at the Israel Museum last Thursday? Betcha don’t know!

The only good thing is that Haaretz’s quizmaster isn’t actually killing me; it’s just an expression of frustration. But I should be careful what I’m writing, what with it being so close to the two Yoms that commemorate those who weren’t just ‘frustrated.’And then I thought about what I had just read: ‘…devout Christians…who abandoned the site after being attacked by local Arabs.’ It’s a tough neighborhood. Always has been, always will be. Glad to be here, but the kiddush every Shabbat does help to keep me from hyperventilating. Let’s ‘chill’ collectively and keep going for another week. And may we soon hear good news about the hostages, may our soldiers be kept from harm, and may all of us be safe from famine, pestilence, and friendly fire. I’ll drink to that, and you may join me.