One Size Does Not Fit All

and what’s sauce for the goose may not be sauce for the gander – whatever that’s supposed to mean. There are principles, there are generalities, but they don’t always work, just as the clothes that fit me ten years ago are a wee too tight around the waist these days. What am I hinting at? A few articles ago I was waxing rhapsodic about the value of home ownership, and that works most of the time for most people. But, as I am implying, not always. Consider, if you will, the situation faced by our friends, Michael and Tehilla, when they had no choice but to sell their apartment and revert to renting, all of which I will explain below – as well as what it has to do with alleged topic of this article, something about fine dining.

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The invitation we received for dinner was somewhat unusual, but nothing to write home about. What happened once we got there was……well, I’ll get to that in due time. Just hold your horses.

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At last, a ‘Word of the Day’ that I can use in an article. In fact, the one I’m working on now. Every morning, Barbara’s phone gives her a different word, most of which none of us has ever heard of, many of which became archaic three hundred years ago. In fact, one may wonder, are they making these up? The word of the day on May 5, 2026 was ‘clowder,’ described as referring, among other things, to a herd of cats. Let me check this out. Does anybody else in Ma’ale Adumim, in Israel, or anywhere else on this blessed planet have the formidable two volume set of The Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary – complete with magnifying glass so you can read the tiny print – anybody in addition to David Brownstein and myself? I pulled mine down, and, sure enough, there is a brief reference to ‘clowder’ as a variant of ‘cludder,’ probably related to ‘clutter,’ as in a mass of stuff, which might include a herd of cats.

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Yom Haatzmaut is, what, in two weeks? I need to contact Jeff and June and make sure we’re getting together.

Some habits die hard; some you never want to let go of. For eighteen years – with a few exceptions caused by temporary unavailability, epidemics, or wars – we and the Glazers, longtime friends from Teaneck, have spent quality time together on this notable day of the Israeli calendar. It just wouldn’t be the same without them. (And again, the lack of an index to posts about previous occasions is unfortunate.) When the four of us first arrived here, we began going to barbecues at friends of our friends in Rosh Haayin, which tradition continued until, out of the blue, the man and his wife were no longer living together, and we were left to fend for ourselves. Jeff picked up the slack for a few years at their home in The Gush, and then, by mutual consent, we would meet at a restaurant somewhere in Jerusalem. The dairy restaurant Piccolino was our venue of choice, until we had a better idea. One of the bands in which our friend Arvin plays the trumpet started performing at the First Station every Independence Day. Why don’t the Casdens and the Glazers meet up there, have lunch at a dairy restaurant, and mosey over to the bandstand in time to hear the music? That worked for several years, but not this year—for reasons we can only assume has something to do with ‘the situation.’

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Me: I accept the fact that he has ended at least a dozen wars…

Other guy: A dozen? That’s more than I remember.

Me: If you count the ones he doesn’t usually mention, like the Crimean War, the Franco-Austrian War, and the War of Roses. But what I was getting at was that I should also get some credit, if not for ending the current situation, for at least postponing another round of fighting. And that took some planning.

Other guy: This I gotta hear.

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This is important. We just got a message from Dr. Rubin’s office. He wants you to come in either this Thurs. or Sun. Like any good card-carrying hypochondriac, I immediately went into full panic mode. Any time a doctor tells you to come in to see him A.S.A.P, something must be wrong, and I spent the next few days, often lying awake in my bed at 3AM, imagining the worst, because that’s what good hypochondriacs do whenever they get the chance. (It’s cancer. You have only six months to live…) We would find out the truth on Thursday when we would see the good doctor, but until then, in the immortal words of Alfred E. Neuman, What me worry? Damn right, I will.

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You’ll sure have something to write about for your blog. No doubt about that, Ezra! Earlier that week, he had made a suggestion – no, a request – that until things calmed down, that we move our Shabbat morning kiddush to their place of residence, as he felt uncomfortable leaving Shoshana to shepherd their two teenagers down to their miklat if – better, when – there was a siren. Sure enough, at about 11AM that Shabbat, we heard the strident sound of the alarm, and we all trudged down the two flights to the entrance and the two additional flight to the sub-basement.

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That’s not a siren I’m hearing. It can’t be. I must be imagining. Why would there be a siren out of nowhere at 8AM on a Shabbat morning? And then I heard my wife’s dulcet tones from the other room. ‘Fred, get your ass into the mamad; we just heard a siren.’ Well, that settled that. As I explained to her through the bathroom door, ‘I can’t come right now; I’m working on a project in the small room; it’ll have to wait.’

I did finally join her, and together we tried to figure out what was going on. By this time, Barbara had turned on her phone, and at least we understood that we were now in the middle of a war, and the sirens meant we were being attacked.

And then our land line started ringing. If someone is calling us now on this phone right after there’s been a siren, it must be important, and we’d better answer. Sure enough, it was Hadassah hospital. My procedure, scheduled for the next day, had been cancelled, as well as everything else not deemed absolute emergency. Patients were being discharged, if at all possible. Don’t worry, you’re on the top of the list. We’ll call you to reschedule.

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I really enjoyed the parody of ‘Back in the Saddle Again’ in your last post. But why didn’t you include the second stanza? No good reason, I suppose. So, by popular demand, here it is:

Back in the E.R. once more/With a catheter bag on the floor/Will the Good Lord hear my plea/So I finally get to pee/Back in the E.R. again. (It works better if you know Gene Autry’s original, which can be accessed here.)

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You are NOT going to the shuk this morning; we are going to the Emergency Room. There was a time – when I was in my salad days – that I would have argued with Barbara: Let’s wait and see if it clears up by itself. These days, when all my salad greens are wilting, I know better. When you wake up on a Thurs. morning, and your catheter bag is filled (filled!) with blood, you don’t ask questions and you don’t make excuses. So I got myself ready, while Barbara made some phone calls to get at least an unofficial referral from Maccabi, and off we went to Hadassah.

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