OyChicago blog

There’s a lot of reasons to love being Jewish—community, Shabbat, Passover seders, really funny comedians we get to claim as our own, and mandel bread—but here’s another perk:

We members of the tribe get to ring in the New Year not once, but twice a year.

This year, the need for a winter celebration for the Jews seems all the more necessary—with the unusual occurrence of one of the earliest Chanukahs in history in the distant rearview mirror.

During the fall, in the days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, I take seriously the season of reflection, reviewing what I've done right and what I could have done better during the course of the Jewish year, asking people in my life and God for forgiveness.

And then a few months later, as the days draw shorter, the temperature plummets, and the smell of wood and pine fill the air, we get to do it all a second time around.

On Tuesday night, we’ll trade in our shofars for noisemakers, and this time ring in the new year with the rest of the world.

More than any other holiday, Jewish or secular, I hear people talk a lot of smack about New Year’s Eve. “It’s a waste of money…” “Too many drunken idiots…” “It’s a big hassle…” and “It’s impossible to find a cab…” they complain. And, yes, I admit their bellyaching is founded on truth.

But, despite all that, I kinda love it.

I love grabbing a sparkly top from my closet, hanging out with good friends, drinking a glass of bubbly—or maybe two—and starting anew as the clock strikes midnight.

Just like in the fall, I once again take stock of my past year and look ahead to some of my wishes and goals for the next. There’s something hopeful and exciting about the unknown, the many varied paths and possibilities that will unfold for each of us next year.

My life, for one, played out very differently than I thought it would at the start of 2013. And for the people I know, and I’d venture for most of you, your year was different then you'd envisioned too; we all faced both times of despair and times of great simcha.

After we watched some doors close these last 12 months, we’ll see new windows open in 2014—windows that we can’t yet even see our reflection in.

Each of us will take a journey in the coming year. We already know certain hints of where are life is headed, but so much of the new year is a clean slate, yet to be written.

This time of year, the media fills our airwaves, pages, and phones with top 10 lists galore—everything this year from a spy fleeing to Russia to a trailblazing pope to a catchy little ditty sung by the Growing Pains dad’s kid to an irritating new word/dance move created by Billy Ray Cyrus’ kid.

I jump on the list-making bandwagon each December and brainstorm my top 10 resolutions for the year to come. The requisite tasks of dragging myself to the treadmill and procrastinating less usually make the cut, but so too do my deeper mandates, like “Spend the year living a life with meaning,” “Be better to the people I love,” “Do more FaceTime with my fast-growing nephews,” and “Laugh a lot.”

Let's each use these last couple days of 2013 to take stock of where we’ve been these past 12 months and we’re headed in the next 12.

And then, lucky us, we get to do it all again in September.

May your 2014 be filled with love, laughter, and meaning—and may your 5774 continue to be sweet!

You know how it is in Chicago. Two seasons: Winter and construction. And sometimes—like right now—it's both.

I am assuming that the construction gods got together up in heaven and said, "How can we make Lia's commute to work even longer?"

They must have known that in the car I'm listening to the third "Clan of the Cave Bear" book on audiobook (highly recommended, by the way), which happens to be one of the longest books I've ever listened to. It's the only silver lining of all of the construction.

It seems like I am constantly hitting one construction roadblock after another. I know several routes home on my 20-mile commute, but not enough alternate routes to avoid the frequent road closures. I turn right—road closed. Turn left —local traffic only. Turn around, turn left, turn right slow traffic due to a road closure somewhere else. I feel stuck.

To help you visualize my daily commute home, please see Exhibit A.

It makes me feel like I'm actually inside of this:

Unfortunately—or, really, fortunately—I love where I work and I love where I live, so, alas, this commute must remain a long and winding road. Until they invent a way to beam me up to work in an instant, and until we get enough snow for the construction workers to close up shop for the season, I'll just try to sit back, buckle in, turn on my beloved audiobooks, and enjoy the ride.

At any given time, I have about five half-written pieces saved on my laptop. I always flatter the idea of writing about one topic or another for a few paragraphs, only to realize that I am not ready to delve into that subject matter yet, which puts me back at square one. This goes on for weeks until I finally get an idea that clicks and it is usually smooth(ish) sailing from there.

I do this because of two personality traits of mine that I am not particularly fond of: I am a procrastinator and I am extremely indecisive. I know that I procrastinate because I am indecisive, and although I am an awful procrastinator, I express it in a much less obvious way than most. I never pulled an all-nighter in college and, unlike many chronic procrastinators, I can focus perfectly well on a project. I  can sit and work on the same project for 12 hours straight, as long as I have unlimited water, caffeine, and snacks to get me through. I hope (at least from afar) I appear to have everything (okay some things) together.

Still, I always put off my writing until the last minute. I always thought this was because, like most journalists, I work better under pressure. This still holds true: I am a stress case (there is really no eloquent way to describe it.) I know that it's this aspect of my personality that pushes me to do well and get things done efficiently. However, my indecisiveness comes into play more often, which is why it takes me weeks at a time to decide what topic I should write about. It is also why I question things much more often than any person should.

When I was applying to college, I could not decide for the life of me which school I wanted to go to more: University of Wisconsin or George Washington University. The early decision one deadline passed and my GW application remained saved on my computer rather than somewhere in the cloud (actually, I don't even know if the cloud existed then, but when I use the term "cyberspace", I feel at least 70 years old). I ended up sending in my application to GW on the night before it was due for early decision two, when it had been completed for months, except for the edits that I added at least once a day, because why not? My indecisiveness was in full force.

I moved into my apartment last December, yet last week was the first time that I actually put pictures in some (not even all) of my frames (note: these frames have been hanging on my walls for at least eight months.) I am still searching for which pictures I want to print, what prints I want to order, where I should hang things I already own, which mirror I want to hang where, and so on and so forth. I can't even decide if I like my bedding and last weekend, I rearranged my entire closet for probably the fifth time since last December.

I'm pretty sure I drive my family nuts when it comes to picking out meals.  They always point out that it isn't the end of the world if we decide on Portillos vs. Corner Bakery or going out to eat at an Italian restaurant or burger joint. However, I sit and contemplate where we should go for hours. The same thing happens when looking at a menu. It actually is helpful that I started keeping Kosher six years ago and don't eat meat out, or else my options would be endless. I still get overwhelmed when there are more than, say, five vegetarian options. I act as if the worst thing is ordering the wrong thing off the menu and having food regret. It's clear that these choices are extremely trivial, yet without a doubt, I always let my indecisiveness get the best of me.

Don't get me wrong, if I have a strong opinion on something, I can make an informed decision. I know what I love and I know what I hate. However, it is everything that falls in the gray area between those two emotions leaves very little clarity for me.

Many experts say lack of confidence leads to indecisiveness, but that usually is not the case for me. I will admit that I have too many drafts on Twitter because I have doubts about the relevance of my thoughts, but beyond that, most of my decisions don't stem from a confidence deficiency. Stress is a huge factor in indecisiveness as well; when someone is overwhelmed, it is hard for that person to clear his or her mind to make a well informed decision. That's me...bingo! Experts also suggest that people are afraid to make decisions, even trivial ones, because they think a better option will come along. There are certain situations where it is easy to let the fear of striking out (or swinging at the wrong pitch), keep me from playing the game.

I have also read that people worry about making choices that other people disapprove of, have learned helplessness from their families. I truly don't think that applies to me, especially because I come from a very relaxed family where I have been encouraged to make decisions for myself.  It has just taken a long, long time for me to do so.

So as I sit and try to figure out why I am so indecisive, I realize that I really just don't know. 

Tonight and tomorrow, Jews will descend on Chinese restaurants across the United States to honor the annual tradition of eating Chinese food on Christmas (most likely followed by a movie). I consider myself an observant Jew. I keep a kosher home. I dutifully power down my laptop and cell phone on Friday afternoon, just before sunset and take a break from technology for 25 hours. You can find me in synagogue for most holidays. I give tzedakah to Jewish causes (like JUF!) and volunteer with Jewish organizations. I just won't be eating at a Chinese restaurant on Christmas.

As many regular readers to my blog know, my wife is not Jewish, so we spend Christmas with her family. Even though my wife would not consider herself very religious, she still finds a connection with many Christmas traditions. Come December 25^th, you are more likely to see me with eggnog than egg foo young, eating more Christmas cookies than fortune cookies. Every Christmas, I gather together with family and open presents around the Christmas tree. We all get stockings on Christmas morning. I have one too- because who wouldn't want an excuse to eat chocolate and candy for breakfast? Decorating is a big one too. She has a tree, a village, lights, a wreath and assorted snowmen paraphernalia.

I admit that it took me a while to come around to the idea that I could fully participate in all of this. It helped that my loving and patient wife eased coddled me. For example, one year she convinced her parents to cook Chinese food for Christmas dinner. Also when the village goes up, she always puts a Jewish star on the hall next door to the church. We affectionately refer to it as the Chabad house.

Over the years, I have come to understand that honoring her traditions does not mean that I must compromise mine. Celebrating Christmas with my wife and her family does not make me any less Jewish any more than eating matzah on Passover makes her more Jewish. More importantly, skipping my traditional Chinese food meal for her traditional Christmas dinner allows me to spend time with my wife when she is enjoying her most wonderful time of year.

One day we will have kids. They may never go to the movies on Christmas, but they will surely get a stocking. Who wouldn't want to spoil their kids with chocolate and candy for breakfast once a year?

Down but not out. These were the words that popped out at us as we pulled up to the part of the town of Washington, Ill. that was literally torn apart by a tornado in November. I recently spent the day volunteering with JUF's Tikkun Olam Volunteer (TOV) Network, partnered with a Jewish disaster response team called Nechama.

What started as a fun car ride from Chicago quickly turned real, as the realization of the task at hand sunk in. Imagine your hometown, and think of a normal day that you might spend. You say hello to your neighbors, see your friends at church or synagogue, maybe even join one another for a neighborhood outing. Now, imagine that same neighborhood, but with everything leveled completely. That is the reality of what happened in Washington, Ill. Trees had been uprooted, cars had been destroyed, signs had been torn to shreds, and what I thought were pebbles stuck in my shoes turned out to only be bits and bits of pieces of glass that had been blown out from anywhere and everywhere. The most miraculous thing to me was how two blocks over it was as if there was never a storm. I guess it's just luck of the draw where the storm hit, and no one knew if they were safe or not.

So, back to the house. The house we were asked to take down had a big sign in front that had been put there by the son of the homeowner. On a piece of the house that had been broken off, it read "Down But Not Out." It's hard to explain what it's like to see that sign, while spending the day tearing apart that home. Insurance helps out a lot with tornado damage, but taking down the house saves the owner thousands of dollars. 

I took a moment and went down into the basement, which was still intact. I looked up at the door to the upstairs, realizing this was what these people might have seen after the storm. Imagine going upstairs from shelter in the basement, to find everything destroyed. It was very hard to take. Just then, I saw an older man come downstairs; the owner of the house. He explained to me he was looking for his great grandmother's table, which he had kept as a keepsake in the basement. The table was nowhere to be seen. I had prepared myself for the hard work, but it's hard to prepare yourself to see an older man with tears in his eyes having lost something very dear to him, especially from an unexplainable act from God. 

A man from next door came over and told us bone chilling stories from the storm. One man was trying to get his family downstairs, but the storm picked him up and they found him no longer alive up in a tree over a mile away. The car across the street was destroyed but in the trunk you could see a bag from the store filled with wrapping paper that had just been bought.

Later in the day, the wife who lived in the home we were working on came by and told us that the hard part was seeing the house still up; and that reality was sinking in as we were taking it down. She said she was at church when the storm happened. A lot of people in the town were apparently at church at the time of the storm. I knew we were doing something great when she repeated twice, "Jews helping out with a Christian home, imagine that." Our help was really appreciated, but I knew it was just a small part of a huge process.

Lastly, I want to talk about the significance that this all took place during Chanukah. As we lit the candles after a day of hard work, I reflected on the destruction we had helped. One of the members from our trip gave some great words that I wanted to share with everyone. Back in the time of Chanukah, the temple was destroyed and everyone had to rally together to pick up the pieces. They didn't have time to sit and cope and be down, they had to start the cleanup and rebuilding process immediately. The same goes for the tornado in Washington. These families immediately started picking themselves up, and then other volunteers came to help in the efforts. This town is down but not out. They are not destroyed. I am glad to have been able to have been a small part of their rebuilding miracle.  

It wouldn't be fair to leave out the positive things I saw while cleaning up. First, the amount of help and support that I saw was amazing. The Salvation Army came around with hot chocolate and snacks, along with a dog to help raise the morale. One man pointed out they had help from Buddhists, Catholics, Jews, and other religious groups. It seems that one thing we all have in common is the realization that when help is needed we can make a difference. Just as the sign stated, this town was down, but they were most definitely not out.

I want to thank JUF, TOV, Nechama and my own Synagogue, Congregation Beth Shalom for allowing me to be part of such a meaningful experience. 

Matt Rissien is director of Youth Activities at Congregation Beth Shalom in Northbrook. He is a 2013 Oy!Chicago Double Chai in the Chi "36 under 36" winner.

The Jewish Federation of Metropolitan Chicago has sent $5,000 for relief efforts to the Jewish Federation of Peoria. Those wishing to aid in tornado relief should send funds directly to that local federation at jewishpeoria.org

With two weeks left in the NFL season, the top spot in the NFC North division belongs to a team with the worst run defense in the NFL. A team which allowed a record tying 6 100+ yard runners in a row. A team playing without their top three Pro Bowl defensive players.

Your Chicago Bears.

That’s right, as difficult as it might be to accept without constantly looking up and waiting for the other shoe to drop, the Bears sit alone in first place in the NFC North with the Lions’ loss to Baltimore on Monday Night Football. A loss that was clinched with a 61 yard field goal at the end of regulation. In the five games since the Lions beat the Bears and all but had their spot atop the division solidified, they have gone 1-4. In a season we thought was lost with injuries to Cutler, Briggs, Tillman, Melton, Collins, Williams, the list goes on, the Lions have done what the Lions do best, choke. Now the Bears and the Aaron Rogers-less Packers are both in contention for the division with only two games remaining in the season. A Bears win in Philadelphia on Sunday and a Lions and Packers loss clinches the division for the Bears. And while it’s difficult to trust the Bears not to disappoint us all while our hopes are high, it is a distinct possibility with the way the Lions have been playing and with Aaron Rogers still not cleared to return. The Eagles will be looking to bounce back from a huge loss to last place Minnesota, and they bring the best rushing offense in the NFL with them against a Bears team still unable to stop the run.

Worse yet, there’s still the possibility of a Week 17 match-up with Green Bay that brings me back to memories of 2010 when the Packers beat the Bears to get them into the playoffs, and then went on to eliminate Chicago. With this win and the Lions’ loss, the Bears have put hope back in all of us, and it is really hard to accept given the emotional rollercoaster we’ve gone through all season.

It has been a long time since the Bears have been challenged by a true playoff caliber team, and this Eagles game will be a really good indication of where the Bears truly are. My gut is that we’ll see the true Bears this week—an offense with dynamic flashes, a defense with too many holes and unable to come up with big stops in big moments. I see a high scoring game where the team whose defense can come up with the big stop late in the game will win it – and the Bears’ defense has been known to give up late-game full length of the field scoring drives. I don’t think losing this game will completely soil their chances of a playoff berth due simply to the choke-jobs in Detroit – however a loss will tell us that this is still not a team ready to compete for a championship, something we’ve known since early in the season but have been too distracted by the offense to notice. A win goes a long way – it’ll mean that they finally figured out how not to get run all over – but I don’t trust the Bears defense to surprise us suddenly this late in the year. I fear for the worst but, like I do every week, will be watching and hoping for the best.

Lifeline Theatre's Fillet of Solo Festival begins in just a couple weeks and if you are interested in Chicago's burgeoning Live Lit scene you should be there. The festival will bring 10 solo performers and 13 storytelling collectives together for a three-week, multi-venue selection of powerful personal stories.

What is Live Lit? Live Literature, or Live Lit as it is known, is a collage of several different types of performance including bits of slam poetry, stand-up comedy, performance art, improv and literary reading. That makes Live Lit sound like a word problem and far more high-brow than it actually is. Basically? It's good old fashioned storytelling in front of a live audience.

How did Live Lit get to Chicago? It's like the saying goes, "two Jews, three opinions." Some argue that the form can be traced back to The Moth in New York City and its successful storytelling nights or even This American Life. Others might say that the form reminds them of improv comedy in the way that it creates no frills theatre right in front of you.

No matter how you trace the origin of Chicago's Live Lit scene, it is here to stay. On any night of the week you can find at least one show (and probably more) to see. Each show has its own personality and rules. Some shows are full of featured performers, have auditions or calls for submissions; while others offer open-mic slots or a hybrid of all of the above. There are Live Lit shows that only want non-fiction tales, while others showcase fiction or maybe even a combination of both. A few shows are themed. Some aren't. You really have to do your research and decide what you want to see or how you want to participate.

That of course begs the question, "How can I participate?" Again, I'd say do your research. Go see a Live Lit show. Many of these shows are free or inexpensive. Stay after and talk to show runners. I produce a show called You're Being Ridiculous, which will be in the Festival. I can tell you that I am always looking for new writer/performers/helpers and I'm certain that other shows are too. Another great way to stay in touch or to do a little research on the DL is Facebook. Search for shows. Follow them. You'll find out the who, what, where, when and whys. There are tons of shows in the city, which means there are more ways to participate than can be listed.

The best way to get to know the form is by coming to the Fillet of Solo Festival next month. It's a unique opportunity. You will have the chance to see a number of Chicago's well-known Live Lit groups all within a couple of blocks and in a short amount of time. Live story telling events are the current hot ticket in Chicago, and we are quickly becoming the capital for the form. The 2014 solo performance and storytelling festival features the work of 2nd Story, The BYOB Story Hour, enSOLO, the kates, The Lifeline Storytelling Project, Stir-Friday Night!, Story Club, Story Lab, Story Sessions, Sweat Girls, Tellin' Tales Theatre, Write Club and You're Being Ridiculous.

Performances run Friday through Sunday at various times from January 3-19. Tickets can be purchased through Lifeline Theatre's website and are only $10 for each performance. Festival Passes are also available for $30, which will allow you admission to any number of performances over the three-week run. Put this festival on your calendar. You don't want to miss it! 

I just finished having an argument with my husband. Or rather, I have (mostly) finished loudly talking at my husband and he has quietly slipped out to work during my pause in thought/rant. I will admit I have a bad habit of starting ill-timed conversations.

He was halfway out the door and mid-swallow swig of his usual berry granola (in a princess cup) when I asked, “Why are there some people who seem to always remember life is short? People who embrace every day and don’t sweat the small stuff? And how come they don’t ever seem to watch TV?” (I will also admit to an unusually excessive amount of nighttime boob tube lately in an effort to not become completely socially irrelevant by not having a clue about ‘Breaking Bad.’)

My husband chewed and busied his hands with a broken drawer that has already been determined a lost cause. I think he sensed a trap. I continued. “Do these people know something I don’t know? Why can’t I know it too?” I want to have a continuous feeling of appreciation and understanding of the bigger picture! I get glimpses! I feel moments! But then it gets away from me (mainly because people are annoying). My husband comes over to me as I load the dishwasher and puts his arms around my waist. “Life is complicated. It can’t always be one way. Some days are better than other days. Nobody is always good or bad. You’re too hard on yourself.” And that triggered my squawking.

Now, you may or may not understand why this response annoyed me. On the surface, it looks and feels like a pretty loving response, (or five fortune cookie affirmations), but in the moment, it did nothing to appease me. It actually made me more upset because clearly, I am married to one of those people that gets it. One of those “perspective” type people. And so my husband’s ease in answering me and being all philosophical and such, only heightened my panic and self-doubt. I started sweating and thinking it is quite possible that I am actually an abandoned alien living amongst highly evolved Super Humans. Super Humans who all “get it.” In fairness to myself, I probably need to own up to a couple of things that precipitated my philosophical quandary/crisis. (So, no need to call those men in puffy white suits that terrified me in E.T. Not just yet anyway.)

As of late, my kids have been trying my patience. They have been argumentative and disagreeable, and from my perspective, incredibly under appreciative. I might even dare to say, they’ve bordered on ungrateful. And as of late, my response to this behavior has been to exhibit a high level of frustration, loss of patience and an inability and/or disinterest in navigating any of this with my kids’ perspective in mind. I have been seeing only mine. I’ve also been feeling very sorry for myself. My poor me mantra is as follows, “I am underappreciated, unimportant and no one likes my cooking.” Catchy, no? I’ve been thinking about putting it on a bumper sticker.

I often get the feeling that people think I am a very Zen mama. This is an aspiration of mine – not a current reality. And to be Zen in and of itself is a lot of pressure. To be a Zen mama, well, that’s damn close to godliness. When I tell a story and part of it includes my divulging that I raised my voice at an offspring, people frequently ‘tut-tut’ me and laugh. Then they say, “I can’t picture you yelling. Come’on. You don’t really yell.” I DO YELL!!! I’m not proud of it, but, yes. Yes. I sometimes yell. I do. Ask my kids. Wait. No. Don’t. (I partially blame the Zen misconception of me on my vegetarianism. People place an unreasonable burden on the average vegetarian to be a better kind of person. We don’t eat animals. It doesn’t necessarily make us more self-aware. Although, for shits and giggles’ sake I was going to list a few notorious vegetarian criminals, but alas, according to google, there are none.)

So I am not a perfect mama. Not by a long shot. I try to be a mindful, thoughtful parent. When I’m not, I get sad and mad and frustrated. I’d like to think I have that in common with other moms – Zen and otherwise. We love our kids. We want to do right by them. But parenting, like life, is no straight line. So we try again (take a left). And again (take a right). It’s a lifetime (we desperately hope) of agains and do-overs (U-turn). Our life’s work as parents – the opportunity to visit and re-visit – is just as much a part of the joy of learning as it is the burden of not knowing. Discovery! So as much as I hate to admit it, life is complicated and today was one of those days that was harder than the others. I’m not all good or all bad and I am (probably) too hard on myself. I’m not a Zen mama. Not yet anyhow – and I may never be. But I am a mama and I’m doing the best I can. And to be admittedly flawed and humbled, that has to count for something. Namaste. ish.

This is Mark.
This is Lindsey.

To open, I should state a few things:

I was participating in this challenge with my willing significant other. Hi. We are both creative folks: an architect and graphic designer. We both have a fairly pragmatic approach to our work and lives. We thoroughly enjoy cooking. When you combine these particulars, you will understand our approach to the SNAP Challenge. At the outset, we had relatively little sense as to how feasible the challenge could be. Yet, we fully embraced it, we decided we would keep costs down as much as possible by making absolutely everything, and it would be utilitarian, from multipurpose sauces to the bread we dipped in our stew.

Our groceries to start out the week

To us, the most practical and cheapest way about this challenge would be to buy nothing pre-made. In addition to this keeping our costs down, it also meant our meals were a little healthier. Most importantly, it gave us a kit of parts with which we could make a variety of meals. Having flour, which is extremely cheap, we could make loaves of bread, pizza dough, and a roux for our soups and stews. We still haven’t used the last of the flour we bought.

Mark makes this sound so perfect! He failed to mention that he’d never made bread before without a machine. I actually looked at the finished loaf and said, “Oh, you’re not going to bake it?” But that was it, a flat disc of… bread? After a night out when we very much wanted a late night snack, we turned the disc into garlic bread, which really turned into eating the oil and garlic scraped from the top. Moving on…

Had we bought only a loaf of sandwich bread, we would have been out twice the amount of money, and an item that had only one use. But our taste buds would have remained intact. A can of stewed tomatoes turned into a marinara sauce for pasta and pizza, and also a base for a vegetable stew. The majority of our produce was the essentials – carrots, celery and onion – complimented with more expensive items that were stretched out through most meals – Brussels sprouts, brown rice, olive oil, cheese. I wanted to put cheese on everything, but I refrained for SNAP’s sake.

At the end of a week, we found that we were actually quite successful. I think we were dancing close to having 10 percent of our cash allowance still left to spend. I took offerings of candy at work, is that cheating? What’s more, we feel as though we made some memorable meals. That marinara sauce was amazing! And who doesn’t love a good bowl of cereal?

One of the delicious pizzas we made

However, we also knew that we were very fortunate. We knew how to make these meals, except for the bread, we live a short walk away from cheap, affordable and healthy food, and we had every tool at our disposal – a mixer to knead our dough and a large stockpot to make stew.

There was only one day where I found myself hungry, but I didn’t want to overeat and then not have enough another time, or then be eating a portion of Mark’s food. So I was starving and cranky. And then I went on my way to a horseback riding lesson. Oh, the irony. If I were truly on food stamps I would have had to give up riding long ago. I made several sacrifices, like declining a lunch invitation with friends, and not grabbing a coffee in the afternoon, but to truly NOT be able to do those “simple” things is unfathomable for me.

Despite what we thought was a success, we still felt a bit psychologically drained. The largest take away from the experience was that it – outside of work – consumed the majority of our day. We spent all evening chopping and stirring, and then thinking about what we’d make the next day. We spent an entire weekend afternoon baking bread. One week of living off the average food stamp budget was an interesting challenge, but after that it’s just a burden. 

Now that we have all long-since survived the cholesterol cornucopia that was Thanksgivukkah—during which we celebrated both oil and gravy—it's time to see what other Jewish/American holiday mash-ups are coming up in 2014. 

Program the Trees Day
Tu B'Shvat celebrates trees in January, and Jan. 7 is International Programmer's Day. So instead of hacking down trees with axes, we're gonna have Jewish computer programmers hacking into the trees and, um, program them to do things. Like, I dunno, grow caramel apples, or etrogs that can regenerate broken pitoms. 

Pi-rim
Mar. 14 has been celebrated in some circles as Pi Day because the date recalls Pi's first three digits, 3.14. Purim is right around that time in 2014, but our holiday's shape is embodied in the triangular hamentashen. So the day would be celebrated by baking hamentashen, which involves folding circles into triangles. And then eating too many of them. 

L'Chaim Day
An amalgam of Purim, Mardi Gras, and St. Patrick's Day, three holidays within a month of each other that all celebrate libations. You can wear a mask if you want—actually, you probably should. L'chaim!

Taxover
In 2014, the first day of Passover is Apr. 15, known in America as Tax Day. Just in case getting your house in order for Passover wasn't stressful enough, you have to get your financial house in order in the previous weeks, too. But by the time you sit down at your seder, you will have had to file taxes already. Just in time for unleavened bread, bitter herbs, and in-laws! You might need more than four glasses of wine. 

Earthover
The last day of Passover coincides with Earth Day. On Earthover, we recycle matzah and other cardboard items.

Cinco de Iyar
Cinco de Mayo falls, as its name indicates, on the fifth of May. Israel's Independence Day falls on the fifth of Iyar. When they fall on the same day, we eat "falafos," which are taco shells filled with falafel balls and a spicy, creamy salsa-hummus sauce. We also put on blindfolds and whack blue and white piñatas until they break apart, and all the children dive to grab up the Israel bonds that spill out. 

Mother's Day
This is already the most important Jewish holiday.

Flaguot
On Flag Day, we parade our flags around and, umm … well, anyway, on Shavout, we received the Torah! So we parade the Torah around and … ah, no, that's Simchat Torah. Hmm.

We'll get back to you.

Labor B'Av

This is the day we try to have a barbecue but fail, and instead eat nothing and sit in ashes. Serves us right, forgetting to buy lighter fluid again. And of course the stores are closed for the holiday. 

Arrrrosh Hashannah
Ahoy, mateys! This, ya scurvy scalawags, be the holiday that merges the Jewish New Yearrrr with Talk Like a Pirate Day! Ye never heard such shanties as today, when Cap'n Cantor sings "Oy, oy, oy … and a bottle o' rum!" You can also stick a shofar up your kitel sleeve and go as Rabbi Hook.

Day of Ateachment
The day after Yom Kippur is World Teacher's Day, so on the Day of Ateachment we repent for our incompletes and promise to do better on the next test.

Vikkot
In 2014, the first day of Sukkot falls on Leif Erikson Day. He was a Viking explorer who landed on North American shores, and we mean far north, in 1000 CE, which is a half-century before Columbus. So instead of Sukkot, we build huge wooden ships in our backyards. And sing Wagner's Ring Cycle. This takes seven days.

Shmini Alaska
Shmini Atzeret is sort of the Alaska of Jewish holidays, so today we take down our Sukkot and just sit in the cold to honor Alaskan statehood. 

Torahween
This is the fall holiday on which we finish reading the Torah and go house to house to get candied apples. And yes, you should wear your mask again.

Cyberkkah
Sure, Cyber Monday is on Dec. 1 and Chanukah doesn't start until the night of Dec. 16, but you have eight days' worth of presents to get us! You need all the time you can get!

For the fourth consecutive year, my father, along with the rest of the immediate family, has managed to host quite a special birthday party celebration. The reason I say it’s special is, well … why don’t you tell me if this sounds like a fun and happy birthday party:

First, we rent out a social hall for a couple of hours. Then, we order four five-gallon containers of ice cream with the smoothest, richest ice cream you could imagine, in four delicious flavors: Chocolate Chocolate, Super Vanilla, Strawberry and Butter Pecan – my dad’s favorite – plus all the killer sundae toppings. A choice selection of cookies, wafers and other pastries complement the ice cream sundae station along with two chilled fresh fruit platters. Next, we hire a well-established two-piece band with an emcee to play a beautiful collection of international and seasonal music for the guests to enjoy. Lyrics to the songs are passed around to all the guests to invite everyone to sing along. Finally, the guests arrive, some whom we escort and others by their family members. Everyone is having a fabulous time drinking punch, gobbling up their sweet treats and singing loudly together. Once everyone is stuffed and the entertainment exhausts all the songs in the packet, everyone departs feeling satisfied and in a great mood, but not before a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday” to the birthday boy, who grins and waves to everyone like a kid that just won first place in the spelling bee.

Sounds like a great birthday party, right? Though I’m guessing you wouldn’t have guessed that it was at a senior community.

A few months before turning 60, at a rare moment when everyone was in town and available, my father announced to the whole family one Shabbat dinner that he would like to have a big birthday party and invite lots of his friends. “An ice cream social,” he stated with an excited tone, as a kid would say to his parents when planning an upcoming birthday celebration. “I want to invite as many people that we know, all our friends and family to join us.” We all looked around the table, our eyes wide with excitement. Quickly we exchanged ideas across the table and rattled off all my dad’s favorite ice cream flavors when my dad raised his hand, clearly indicating he had more to say, and we all sat waiting to hear what he said next. “We’re going to host an ice cream social at the Lieberman Home.”

My father wanted to volunteer on his birthday.

“Are you sure that’s what you want, Gregg?” my mom asked, but she already knew the answer. “Let’s get a list of guests and send out a notice, so people can save the date,” she continues, and rushes off to get a pen and pad of paper.

We all looked at each other around the table. I still wasn’t sure how this would go, or who would even want to RSVP to this party. Wouldn’t some people be uncomfortable or awkward at this so-called birthday party? What if people don’t come because they feel awkward volunteering at an elderly home? That notion was quickly put to rest when, a month later, more than 30 of my dad’s closest friends (and our family, of course) RSVP’d yes. My dad smiled, and I could see that – for the first time in as long as I can remember – he was looking forward to celebrating his birthday, sharing in the fun of digging through a make-your-own-sundae buffet and exchanging anecdotes about life, family and celebrations.

Birthdays bring out the best and most loving sides of ourselves and those we care deeply about. My father wanted to celebrate his milestone birthday at CJE SeniorLife’s Lieberman Center for Health & Rehabilitation, not as a preview for the later stages of his life (joke!), but as a way to share in the love and joy. No one at Lieberman knew my father or family personally, yet they felt just as close after enjoying generous scoops of ice cream and singing songs in Yiddish.

This year, on the drive over, I asked my dad why he chose to do this for his birthday when he could’ve easily donated money and just had a quiet celebration with the family featuring our nana’s famous double chocolate cake. He answered, “I’ve had a lifetime of parties and celebrations, and to live a meaningful life, I wanted to start giving back in a more committed fashion.” When I pressed to find out why he chose the Lieberman and not some other organization or charity, he chuckled and said that they were the only one that accepted him and his crazy birthday celebration idea, and they were the only place open the Sunday after Thanksgiving, when we traditionally celebrate.

I then asked him if he thinks celebrating his birthday with these residents makes a difference. He answered that many residents and their family members, even the staff, came up to him after the first year, complimenting him on how wonderful it was and how much they look forward to the next one. Some of them did indeed remember him and our family from the previous year. “It’s the smiles and the heartfelt thanks from the residents,” he said. “There’s no other feeling quite like it.”

By choosing to celebrate his birthday in this way, my dad made the residents feel special too. Despite the fact that we were celebrating his birthday, it felt as though we were there to celebrate the residents, and I think that was my dad’s intention all along.

At the end of our talk, he said, “I know that something unequivocally good takes place, and there are not too many things in life that are that way. Bringing light and warmth and celebration to those that don’t have much is just a very uniquely fulfilling feeling, for me and for them.”

I thought about what he said and realized that my father had found his own place and way of giving tzedakah, trailblazing the way for the rest of us.

Next year, my dad turns 65. Next year, we will be back at Lieberman for another birthday celebration, catching up with old friends (G-d willing) and making new ones. We all look forward to my dad’s birthday now, and for more reasons than devouring our nana’s ooey-gooey double chocolate cake.

L’Chaim! 

This week’s portion, Vayechi, marks the end of the book of Genesis. We first find Jacob about to pass away, and note that he still hasn’t learned his lesson about the issues that come with playing favorites, as he adopts Joseph’s sons as his own, ensuring that each gets an equal share of his inheritance with his true born sons. He then gathers all of his sons together in order to share with them some insights he has about their futures. Needless to say, some of his words are pretty harsh. After delivering them, he passes away, is mourned throughout Egypt (due to his relationship to Joseph), and his sons collectively travel back to Canaan in order to bury him in the family burial place.

With Jacob having passed away, Joseph’s brothers were worried that Joseph would finally punish them for having sold him into slavery so many years before, and bow down to him begging for his mercy (again – 17 years after having settled in Egypt together). Joseph assures them once more that their actions were part of a broader divine plan, and that they have no reason to fear him.

At the end of the portion, Joseph makes his family promise that when the time comes, they will bring his bones back to Canaan, as they did his father’s. He then passes away at the age of 110.

There are so many real, raw emotions that we find in this portion, and we continue to see modeled challenging Biblical relationship situations often present in our own lives. It is not at all uncommon for families today to have a patriarch (or matriarch), in this case Jacob, serving as the “glue” that holds a family together. Just as Joseph’s brothers were afraid of a potential changed relationship when their father passed away, so too do many contemporary families crumble when siblings no longer have a shared love of their parent(s) to keep them from fighting with one another. Putting aside fights over who benefits from a parent’s estate, which unfortunately are all too common, sometimes siblings are so different from and have so little love for one another, that once their parents are gone, they perceive no further reason to interact and simply go their separate ways.

I can’t help but wonder what the interactions between Joseph and his brothers must have been like during their 17 years of living in Egypt together. Perhaps their relationship was so lukewarm – a farce being put on for the sake of Jacob – that the brothers had every right to be afraid that Joseph was ultimately going to be vengeful. Needless to say, Joseph, as Egypt’s No. 2 honcho, could very easily have belatedly punished his brothers for their past actions, knowing that his father was no longer around.

And yet, despite their long and complicated history, and despite his position of power, Joseph assures his brothers that they have nothing to fear. Even if we read between the lines to suggest that perhaps 17 years prior, Joseph forgave his brothers but still harbored some resentment towards them, we can know for certain now – 17 years later – that he has forgiven them for the way they treated him.

What’s the lesson we can learn from this interaction between Joseph and his brothers?

Forgiveness takes time. Even when we forgive someone (or say “I forgive you”) shortly after an incident takes place, we haven’t necessarily gotten to a place where we’re ready or willing to truly put what we perceive as the other’s shortcomings behind us. Even after forgiving one another, it’s possible that the way we interact with and treat them may not be ideal, and will create lingering doubts in their minds (as it did in Joseph’s brothers). Some wounds will forever leave scars – although with time, they usually become less and less visible, slowly fading away. So too, forgiveness takes time.

This Shabbat, reflect on your family. Who is your family’s glue? How can you enhance your relationship with other members of your family?

Also, meditate on the theme of forgiveness, and don’t beat yourself up if there are folks in your life who you have forgiven in word, but whose prior actions still trouble you. Examine the ways in which you interact with such folks, to make sure you aren’t putting off a negative vibe, despite having “forgiven” them. Be comforted by the fact that true forgiveness takes time.

You might say my family has been really unlucky lately. You know the notion that “bad things happen in threes,” or its less superstitious cousin, “when it rains, it pours”? For those of us who don’t believe in meaningful coincidences, these phrases help us to make sense of life when its randomness and unpredictability occasionally yield a strange, inexplicable pattern of events that suggest some kind of connection, significance – or luck.

Given everything that’s happened lately, I’ve had to revisit these phrases, and I’ve found this conventional wisdom offers little solace. Because when life throws you a string of strange coincidences, it’s hard to trust that things are going to be normal again. Sometimes, it seems, life tests just how brave you are to live it.

About four weeks ago, my aunt went for a run in the neighborhood as part of her training for the North Shore Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving Day. She ran by a dog that was out on a leash. Sensing a threat, it jumped up and bit her arm. She was taken to the hospital for stitches. She even got coverage in the local Patch (she’s the “person jogging” and later “victim”). Not long after, her husband – my uncle – also training for the race, discovered the start of a stress fracture in his heel and would not be able to run.

Not too bad so far? We’re not even halfway through.

The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, I was on the train commuting to work when I began to feel lightheaded. I got off at my stop and went to the railing on the far side of the platform to catch my breath when I passed out and hit my head on the rail. After I collected myself and got back to my feet with some help from concerned bystanders, I lost consciousness again and hit my head a second time. I wasn’t in much pain, but I had to be boarded and collared anyway and spent the whole day in the hospital getting tested for conditions I didn’t have. The doctors eventually determined it was vasovagal syncope, a common condition, likely due to a combination of dehydration and standing for a long time on a jam-packed and heated El train in a heavy winter jacket.

That was the first of three incidents in the same day.

When my parents picked me up from the hospital they told me that my grandmother’s close friend, whom I consider my fifth grandparent, suffered a stroke while visiting her children in California. She is recovering but it has been and will continue to be a long process. Then, what couldn’t have been hours later on the car ride back from the hospital, my aunt (“person jogging”) texted us that my cousin, a senior in high school, was rear-ended at a stoplight at what the police guess was 35 miles per hour. She suffered whiplash and has since started physical therapy, but was otherwise unscathed.

Well, almost needless to say, on Thanksgiving we had a lot to be thankful for. Despite these scares, every one of us was well or recovering. Were there moments of panic, concern, uncertainty and disbelief? Yes, but not tragedy. This would blow over, we knew. Just not yet.

That Sunday, the end of a relaxing holiday weekend, I was getting ready to see everyone at a family Chanukah dinner when my parents called. It was my brother, who’s in college out east. He had picked up a prescription at the pharmacy near his apartment off campus when three men stalked him on his way home, assaulted him and stole his wallet.

It was hard to believe at this point. I knew this happened – I got all the police emails when I was in school – but this was my younger brother, attacked somewhere he thought to be safe, far away from where any of us could help him. But, as traumatic as this was, even he was fine despite the bruises, and even if it might take him awhile to regain a sense of safety in his neighborhood.

My instinct through all of this was to see it as bad luck – a bunch of unfortunate incidents grouped closely together – but everyone in my family is alive or getting back to normal. There are a lot of incidents people must deal with every day in which they can’t say that so easily if at all. Dog attacks, fainting episodes, strokes, car accidents, muggings – these are awful things, but they happen. They don’t happen to you or someone you love all the time, and you don’t expect them to, but they occur with regularity in this world. Grounding myself with the knowledge that accidents have a certain inevitability to them, and knowing that the phrase “it could’ve been worse” applies to my family’s situation, I think that means we are quite lucky.

The challenge in all of this is moving on. It is living without fear and trusting that an incident is truly random and isolated, while controlling what you can. My aunt will have to run by dogs again if she wants to continue running; my cousin will need to drive; my brother will be faced with walking outside alone near his apartment. Already, I’m apprehensive about getting a seat on the train and staying hydrated. It’s crossed my mind on every commute in the last two weeks.

And there are even more plausible reasons to be afraid. My diagnosis does not rule out arrhythmia or other heart issues; whiplash can lead to future neck problems; a stroke often makes life more challenging; getting assaulted can lead to post-traumatic stress issues. All of these, however, as scary as they are, are treatable or become manageable with time.

Time, as another phrase tells us, heals all wounds, though some wounds leave bigger scars than others. What matters, I think, is how we respond when we remember that we have them. We can be brave or afraid, strong or vulnerable, sure-minded or uncertain. And even though we can’t control our misfortune, we can still choose to believe whether or not we feel lucky.

It’s been more than a Bar Mitzvahs length of time since my Bar Mitzvah, and now, finally, I am an adult. I know what you’re thinking. Nope. Not this guy. Even with the face and the beard and the Bar Mitzvah length since Bar Mitzhvah, nope – he’s no adult. No chance. But yes, faithful attractive Oy! reader, it turns out I am part of the coveted group that gets to sit at the big people table during Rosh Hashanah. It was a shock to me too, but now I have evidence to back it up. In a convenient 18 different items no less. Well, possibly less. Ok, probably less. I’m tired. So I present to you how I discovered I am an adult in 18 examples. Enjoy.

1. Instead of the question, “What do you study?” the first question I always receive upon meeting someone is now, “What do you do?” The answer is still I don’t know.

2. I have the freedom to take a day off of work for no reason other than I don’t want to go to work. I have freedom to do whatever I want, which is mostly not to accomplish anything. I’m very good at this.

3. I can spoil my supper on purpose. And besides, Double Stuf Oreos that will inevitably become Quadruple Stuf Oreos are an entirely acceptable choice for supper. Also, I’ve started saying supper.

4. I’m allowed to get distracted by literally nothing. Also by…sorry. Just noticed how white my wall is.

5. If at any time I have a hankering for chocolate milk, then by gum, I’m gonna have me some chocolate milk. Why I always want to have chocolate milk next to gum, I have no idea.

6. The freedom of being anywhere without anyone knowing. When I was younger, this usually meant I had accidentally locked myself in the bathroom.

7. I have my own health insurance. But that’s not the adult part. The adult part that I don’t use it. I’m 26 and a half. I’m invincible. Well, as long as I have my Bubbie’s cooking, that remains true.

8. I’ve learned that my apartment doesn’t just clean itself. I just have to hold out long enough until my mom visits.

9. Everyone around me takes my relationships more seriously. Mostly that my relationship with Spaghettio's is getting unhealthy, to which I say, but it has Riboflavin! (Seriously, look at the can. It’s a real thing and I love to say it out loud like the nutty professor. Glavin!!!!)

10. As long as I can afford it, I can buy anything I want at anytime, because in this day and age nothing is “hard to find”. Just “expensive on eBay.”

11. To make it through a day, I usually need some sort of wake-up juice. Be it an energy drink (Monster) or fake coffee (Frappuccino) or a more untraditional method (fish slap to the face), the excitement of life doesn’t keep me awake like it used to.

12. I now have the authority to bring any special food I want to family functions. So yes, there will now always be Zebra Cakes at Rosh Hashanah.

13. I am a lot closer to my siblings now that my siblings are farther away.

14. Naps have become the absolute greatest gift that is ever possible. Both having the time to take one and then doing so. Although sometimes I don’t always have the time for naps and then I occasionally get struck by the elusive and unwanted “nap attack.” That gets embarrassing on the bus. Every. Day.

15. My mom no longer burps me. Mostly because I moved out last year.

16. I do not have a bed time. My bed time is now defined as the moment I pass out while watching re-runs on Netflix every night.

17. I’m able to try and do any new things. Also, I don’t have to try and do any new things.

18. And last, but not least, one of my favorite examples of how I know I’m an adult. I now get asked, “Do you have kids?” To which I always reply, “Why? You looking to buy?” 

Balkan Beat Box 

This post originally appeared on the Masa Israel Journey blog. 

It wasn't until I lived in Israel as a Masa Israel Journey participant that I first learned any Israeli music. I hadn't been exposed to it before, I'm sad to say, but this was something my friends were determined to change. They introduced me to their favorites. I listened to the radio and heard new music every day. I quickly learned that I was a Mizrahi fanatic – what can I say, it's just too much fun not to dance to!

I also discovered a band I could sing along with, as they were expanding into English songs. Thus began my love affair with Balkan Beat Box, a group made up of Israeli ex-pats mostly living in New York. My friends and I watched their videos, learned the lyrics, and requested their songs when we went to pubs. Many of my memories of Masa and living in Israel have to do with Balkan Beat Box, including the time I traveled to Jerusalem to see them perform. It was at Gan HaAtzmaut where I experienced my first BBB show, and it was an incredible one. I was there with hundreds of other Israelis who were all dancing, singing and relaxing – and I felt like I was home.

I had just returned to Chicago after another two-month visit to Israel this past summer when I saw that my favorite Israeli band would be coming to Chicago. More than anything, I wanted to see them again and experience that sense of familiarity that I had had in Israel. I reached out to my fellow members of the Masa Alumni Committee of Chicago and suggested that we get a group together. Perhaps Balkan Beat Box had been an integral part of someone else's Israeli musical journey; if not, they would surely become a fan after seeing them live. We decided to invite other area Masa alumni and put on an event. We met at the venue before the show to meet recent Masa returnees and share our Balkan tales over drinks.

It was incredible to experience a show in Jerusalem with friends, but seeing them perform in my hometown was a really neat experience as well. I loved seeing people who weren't familiar with the band simply enjoying the music and dancing with everyone else. The energy in the crowd was amazing; everyone danced the entire night, people grabbed their neighbors and pulled them into a circle to dance. It was a mixture of Americans and Israelis and I felt like I was home again.

Music has a way of doing that, I suppose, particularly when it brings you back to a specific time and place as Balkan Beat Box does for me. I got to relive some of my favorite Masa memories while hanging out with new Chicago-area Masa friends. I can only hope that they will return for another show soon and bring us all back together again. 

Cara Mendelsberg, Balkan Beat Box lead singer Tomer Yosef and Rachel Gutman at the event.

Spoiler alert: I’m about to reveal the meaning of life. Great, now I have your attention—read on if you want the answer.

Every so often I think about the movie City Slickers when Jack Palance’s character, the older, leathery cowboy named Curly gives Billy Crystal’s character Mitch some profound life advice.

“Do you know what the secret of life is?” Curly asks Mitch, holding up one finger.

“Your finger?” Mitch asks.

“One thing,” Curly says. “Just one thing…”

“But what is the one thing?” Mitch wants to know.

“That’s what you have to find out,” the cowboy replies.

What Curly said stuck with me since I saw that movie way back in junior high. And I’ve been trying to find that “one thing” ever since. It’s something we each have to discover for ourselves.

A while back, I heard a moving sermon by a rabbi who had faced a near-death experience. After wrestling with his own mortality and living to tell about it, the rabbi asked us what we each think our life’s purpose is. What, he asked, were we put on this earth to do?

I’ve pondered my answers to the questions posed by the rabbi, and—no big shocker—I haven’t exactly figured out all the answers just yet.

But, if we already knew the answers, how boring would that be? Life is all about the journey—continually searching for the answers, and then revising and finding new answers to what we thought we knew but realized we totally didn’t. At least I think.

You know that game show Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader? Well, in a philosophical way, the answer to that question is “no” because the adage “the older we get, the less we know” rings true.

What if we don’t narrow it down to just “one thing” as Curly said? Maybe we’re meant to find more than one thing.

Here’s one thing I do know: We’re all meant for greatness. We’re meant to fulfill multiple roles as complicated, interesting people—in our jobs, as parents, as sons and daughters, as romantic partners, as citizens of the world, as Jews, and as all around decent human beings.

For instance, here’s what I know about myself: I’m meant to honor my parents as the Torah tells me to by being the best daughter I know how to be. I’m meant to be the world’s coolest aunt to my nephews and spoil them with toys—and lots of love. I’m meant to be a friend that my friends can count on who would take their calls at 3 a.m. and talk them through a crisis, or dance to 80s music with them; and I’m meant to write it all down in blogs and columns like this one.

And when I don’t live up to some of these things, and I know sometimes I fall short, I’m meant to do a little better the next time around.

Oprah used to preach on her talk show that the one thing everyone wants is to matter. Whoever we are, whatever our race, religion, gender, age, or job, we all want to be useful, to make a contribution. That’s one of our greatest equalizers.

So as we encounter one another, from the people we love, and even the people we don’t like so much, to strangers on the street, we ought to be gentler with each other. We should keep in mind that we’re all just trying to matter, to leave our imprint on the world, to know that the world is a better place because we’re in it.

This post originally appeared on the Schusterman Foundation blog. 

Now that I work in the Jewish community, people always assume that I’ve been a “super Jew” my whole life. In reality, it took a special trip to pique my interest—and experiences thereafter—to land me where I’m standing now.

When I was a kid, my family moved around a lot until settling in exotic Buffalo, New York. That first summer in Buffalo, I spent my days with the other soon-to-be fourth graders at a JCC-partnered Jewish camp in central New York. As fun as shaving cream fights were, I was the new kid in town. Two summers were enough for me.

I attended Sunday school and became a bat mitzvah. After throwing a candy-themed party to celebrate the occasion, attending a few classmates’ b’nai mitzvot and trying Hebrew High school for a few weeks, I checked out of my Jewish involvement. I recall going to a youth group meeting, which I hated, and never returned.

My family and I continued to celebrate holidays with amazing meals, stories and traditions. While I loved this aspect of being Jewish, I didn’t consider myself to be religious or active. When I attended Arizona State University, I continued to join my AZ-based family for holiday meals, but I never even knew that Hillel existed.

It wasn’t until my later years as a college student that my mother mentioned a “free trip” to Israel. Israel? Why would I go there? Isn’t it scary, war torn, third-world? Obviously I lacked education about Israel and it was definitely not at the top of my list of places to visit.

After college, I moved to Los Angeles to pursue a career in the world of entertainment. I turned 25, and my mom continued to suggest that I go on this free Israel trip called “Birthright Israel.” I was still unsure—I worried I was not religious enough for a Jewish trip. I didn’t even have a passport and now I was going to take a 14 hour flight across the world? Then, when I realized that I would soon be ineligible because of my age, I applied.

Needless to say I had a fabulous time on the trip, falling in love with the country and having a little Israeli romance as well. I never imagined that the country could be so beautiful, with such diverse people, and that spending time with other Jews doing Jewish things could be enjoyable. I returned to LA in tears, wishing that I had never left.

Now that I was back, I told everyone I knew about my experience. I went to a Shabbat dinner with the LA Federation (which I knew of from the trip orientation). I started hosting Jewish parties–Chrismukkah (with my Catholic roommate) and Passover seders; both open to friends of all faiths. I learned to cook brisket, noodle kugel and matzo ball soup.

After a year, I quit my coveted job to participate in a Masa Israel program called Career Israel. I loved living in Israel with Jews from around the world, touring the country and getting to visit Turkey and Jordan too.

I soon found that I didn’t want to live in Israel forever, so I moved to Chicago with a few of my fellow participants from the program. After struggling to find work in the world of event planning, I took on a variety of random jobs. I wanted to meet new people in my new city, so I attended a few events put on by Birthright Israel NEXT (now called NEXT: A Division of Birthright Israel Foundation) and a year later started a fellowship with NEXT, reaching out to Birthright Israel trip returnees and planning programs for them in Chicago. The programs I ran included a challah-baking/platter-painting event, cooking classes and an outing to a Chicago Blackhawks game.

This Birthright Israel alumni network became my own personal community in Chicago. As a NEXT fellow, I had the privilege to staff a Birthright Israel trip with a Jewish United Fund/Jewish Federation (JUF) employee with whom I’m now very close. One year later, I applied for a job working in young adult engagement for JUF, and all of a sudden, engaging with 20-something Jews became my life.

Five years ago, I never would have imagined that I would be a “professional Jew.” But today I am lucky to be in that position, meeting Jews of all backgrounds and helping them connect to the community.

There are so many ways to be Jewish in Chicago. For someone like me, who often didn’t feel like I wanted to be part of anything Jewish, I realize that it’s all about finding the right fit for each individual. I can be a Jewish leader without having to fit stereotypes; I can be myself, and in return, I appreciate that everyone has their own way of living Jewishly.

When meeting with people who are not engaged in Jewish life, I try to connect them to opportunities that are meaningful based on their interests. I stay motivated because I know the work I do helps so many people in Chicago feel welcome and find a deeper connection to our Jewish community for those whose paths are as winding as mine.

Elizabeth Wyner is the Young Adult Engagement Associate at Jewish United Fund/Jewish Federation of Metropolitan Chicago (JUF).

Loving this fitness gear!

Tablets, flat screen TVs, and blenders are all great gifts. Who doesn't want a shiny cool new gadget? But the greatest gift you can get is more basic than that – it's health. I know, boring and cliché, but true. If you don't have your health, nothing else matters. 

The next time the stomach bug hits, there is one thing you will wish/pray for, and it's not a tablet. Working out will not prevent the stomach flu, of course, but we all know the benefits of exercise. So instead of a gadget that promotes laziness, get yourself a fitness present this holiday season! It's much easier to justify a new gadget purchase when it's making you healthy.

This is a billion dollar industry with a lot to choose from, so here are some gadget and equipment recommendations.

Fitness Trackers

There are several ways to track your fitness; everyone from Nike to Polar is in on the action. These various wrist devices track your movement and how many calories you burn and some even have sleep trackers. If you are trying to lose or gain weight you can also log your food, do the math, and figure out if you are burning more calories than you take in, or eating more calories than you burn.

I like to think I was ahead of the curve when I wore a tracker and wrote an article about the Go Wear Fit. It was interesting to learn that I burn more calories training others than working out myself, and that I need to sleep better. Since then, these tools have exploded in the wellness scene. Several companies by trackers for their employees and then have competitions to see who is the most active employee. I think they are great if you are not an active person. It guilts you into moving when you realize how you are more sedentary than any of the Golden Girls.

Here are the top three gadgets on the market in no particular order: 

-Fitbit
-Nike Fuel
-Jaw Bone Up

Fitness Equipment

I am sucker for fitness equipment; it fills a void in my heart that I never knew existed until I became a personal trainer in 2001. I have everything from bands to medicine balls at my house and I desperately want a Hex Squat bar and a sled. Granted I would only use the Hex bar for deadlifts, but it would be so worth it. Look at how it evenly distributes the weight, and the ergonomics … am I the only one salivating over this bar? 

For your home, however, I would recommend simple equipment that is easy to store and can be used for many different exercises. It's great to have some equipment around the house for days you cannot make it to the gym, or walk outside. And if you don't belong to a gym, you can outfit a home cheap without breaking the bank. If you have children, working out at home is a great way to be a fitness role model. My son is only two and he already tosses around a medicine ball and attempts to do pushups.

My top five favorite items for your home:

1. Resistance bands – Great for weight training, stretching, or cardio. You can place the bands around doors and do almost any exercise you could do with a machine plus more. I use my bands all the time for a full-body workout. I even take a band with me when I travel. If you want to know which types of bands to buy, email me.  

2. Soft Medicine Balls – These are soft so you do not have to worry about making too much noise slamming them on the ground, playing catch with a workout partner, or having a child run into it (they think it's fun). I use mine with all my clients. These are actually cheaper than the ones I have, and more durable. 

3. Kettle bells – This is basically a weighted ball with a handle. I hide these from my son because they are solid. You can do a ton of exercises with this, like deadlifts, shoulder press, bicep curls, and many others. For women, I would buy a 15- to 20-pound one and for men, I would buy a larger one closer to 20 or 30 ponds. I own a 20- and 30-pounder and want another 30-pound one.   

4. Stability Ball – These are the large balls some people sit on in their office or home. You can do core exercises on the ball, like pushups with your hands on the ball or even pushups with your feet on the ball and your hands on the ground. This is a great piece of equipment for pregnant women to open up their hips by simply bouncing while sitting on top of it (don't fall off). The site tells you based on your height what size ball to purchase.

5. Valaslide – This tool is like putting plastic wrap on your hands and feet. The Valaside comes with two separate little sliders that you use with your hands or feet, and are great for working the core. You can do a lot of exercises with them on the ground, standing up or on your knees. My favorite exercise with them is in a pushup position with your feet on them and you pull one leg at a time into your body and feel the burn in your abs.

With New Year's resolutions only a few weeks away, get started now on living a healthier lifestyle. Keep in mind you do not need any of these tools to get fit, but they can help make your routine a little easier. If you have a favorite gadget, send it my way at rkrit@fitwithkrit.com. 

I’m not particularly proud of it, but this is what I did for Chanukah. Strike that. This was my attempt to make Chanukah as cool as Christmas.

I happened upon a Facebook post about a couple who told their kids each year that, once a year, their toys woke up for the night to have a party. The kids eagerly anticipated seeing the party aftermath in the morning. Cue the lesson on wonderment and imagination.

"Bee would go crazy for this," I thought to myself, and the light bulb went on.

This year, despite being more than a month ahead of Christmas, Chanukah already has taken a backseat to Christmas movies, Christmas books, Christmas clothes, and Christmas events. My rational side says, “What’s the big deal? Chanukah is a minor holiday, and really, you can’t compete with Christmas (or at least, you really shouldn’t want to, you Scrooge). It’s part of American culture. Find a way to enjoy Chanukah for what it is, and let it go.”

The other side of my brain said, “Tell Bee that Chanukah is the dinosaurs’ favorite holiday, and that they wake up on each of the eight nights to have a party!”

Genius? Petty and pathetic? Perhaps both.

Reasons my idea was genius:

1. Bee was SO EXCITED for Chanukah.
2. Bee was SO EXCITED for Chanukah.
3. Bee was SO EXCITED for Chanukah.

Reasons my idea was petty and pathetic:

1. Dinosaurs have nothing to do with Chanukah, which means Bee was SO EXCITED for dinosaurs, not Chanukah, if I’m being honest with myself.
2. I get on my high horse about not feeling the need to compete with Christmas, yet the first time my child tells me he likes Christmas best of all and that it’s his favorite “season,” I’m the first one scrambling to make Chanukah cooler.
3. I dislike most things that attempt to make Chanukah more Christmas-y (like this and this). They feel inauthentic, like we’re saying to our kids, “Oh, sorry you’re Jewish and you can’t have a Christmas tree … decorate this bush instead.” The dinosaurs on Chanukah? Did nothing to enrich my son’s actual Chanukah experience.

I genuinely like Christmas, and I’m getting more and more comfortable with my son liking it, too. It’s part of his heritage and history, and frankly, it’s a ridiculous bonanza of happiness. Really, what’s not to like? I guess I’m just frustrated that the Jewish holidays, while full of meaning and rich history and tradition, don’t deliver quite the punch that their Christian counterparts deliver.

I love being Jewish, and I want my sons to feel the same way. Perhaps the way to go about this isn’t forcing T-Rex and triceratops into our Chanukah celebration, but rather modeling a happy Jewish life for them, a Jewish life that’s filled with delicious food that we cook together, pizza Shabbats with our beloved friends, giving back to our community together and holidays celebrated with precious family – including Christmas.

For the record, though, Bee’s reaction to the dinos was priceless, and we will definitely be repeating the exercise at some point next year (though maybe not for eight nights - how many places can we possibly come up with to set up 45 dinosaurs?).

I am writing this with glue on my fingers.

I know what you’re thinking – is this a complex, deep, meaningful metaphor for the meaning of life? Also, WTF?

To answer your first question, no, it is not. Sorry if that disappoints. If you want to turn it into a complex, deep, meaningful metaphor for the meaning of life, by all means, go ahead, and please let me know what you come up with. It is actually very literal, and it is also a very sticky situation. (I know, I know … but I couldn’t not say that.) And actually, it has dried a little bit so it’s slightly less gross than it sounds.

In response to your second question, the reason I have glue on my fingers is because a very smart friend told me to put glue on my fingers. Not because I’m doing an art project or anything like that. (But you know what’s fun? Mixing glue and shaving cream and painting with it. Trust me on this.) While I generally disapprove of peer pressure, I think this is a good idea my friend came up with, though she might need to buy me a new keyboard pretty soon because this can’t be good for it.

When I feel anxious, a lot of things happen. I talk too fast. My face gets red. And, I noticed recently – I scratch my head. Just a quick, innocent little scratch, only there isn’t really anything there that’s itchy. Although this might not seem like a huge deal, you ladies (and long-haired gentlemen) out there are well aware that when you touch your head too much, your hair becomes greasy and gross. And frankly, it’s not cute. I miss having cute hair and I think it misses me too. We used to have such good times together.

As anyone who’s ever tried to kick a habit knows, breaking one is a lot easier said than done. Intellectually, I know that I have a bad habit. I know that I would no longer like to have said bad habit. I know that said bad habit is really awkward and makes people think I have lice when I don’t. However, in that anxiety-ridden moment, such as when I have everything I need to make chocolate cake except the chocolate (and the cake) or even right now, at this coffee shop, when I’m trying to write this incredibly amazing blog post – it’s almost like there’s this robot dude in my arm who reaches up to my head and scratches the crap out of it without me realizing until it’s too late. And dude needs to stop, hence the glue. Even a sneaky nonexistent robot dude is not going to run sticky fingers through my hair. Even nonexistent robot dudes have their limits, you know?

Breaking a habit is hard. It’s unnerving. It causes anxiety, which really sucks if you’re like me trying to stop doing the thing you do when you get anxious. I think it’s important to focus on the end goal, though, and how glorious it will be when you don’t do whatever it is any more. After all, life is too short to have hair that is anything less than adorable. 

Mazel Tov to Brad Ausmus!
Former Jewish Major League Baseball player Brad Ausmus was tagged to replace Jim Leyland as the new manager of the Detroit Tigers. Ausmus inherits a mega lineup featuring Miguel Cabrera, Torii Hunter and ace pitchers in Justin Verlander and 2013 American League Cy Young winner Max Scherzer. The Tigers even recently acquired Jewish second baseman Ian Kinsler (talk about beshert!) Now if only Lawrence Frank could get back into a head coaching spot we'd have a Jewish coach/manager in all three major sports (Chicago Bears coach Marc Trestman is Jewish).

Mazel Tov to Craig Breslow, Ryan Lavarnway, Ryan Kalish!
Mazel tov to the Boston Red Sox for winning the World Series! Only Breslow was on the World Series roster, but I believe Lavarnway will receive a ring for his playing time during the season. Kalish did not appear this season for the BoSox due to injury. Breslow was the 24th Jewish ballplayer to play in the World Series.

Mazel Tov to Craig Breslow and Ian Kinsler!
Breslow was also this year’s recipient of the Sandy Koufax Award given to MLB’s best Jewish pitcher by TheGreatRabbino.com. Breslow was 5-2 with a 1.94 ERA. He struck out 32 batters in 52 innings. This is Breslow's third time winning the award (second in a row). Honorable mentions: Scott Feldman and Jason Marquis. Ian Kinsler won the Hank Greenberg Award for best Jewish MLB hitter; Kinsler hit .277 with 13 HRs and 31 doubles. He also compiled 15 stolen bases for a Rangers team in the thick of the playoff hunt throughout the season. Ryan Braun has won the award the last three seasons and Kevin Youkilis was the inaugural winner. Honorable mentions: Josh Satin, Nate Freiman, and Ryan Braun.

Other Mazel Tovs
On Nov. 1 the NBA saw its first matchup between two Israeli born players. Omri Casspi of the Houston Rockets took on cross state rival the Dallas Mavericks and rookie Gal Mekel. This was an amazing moment for Jewish basketball and the country of Israel.

Meanwhile, in the NFL, brothers Geoff Schwartz (Kansas City Chiefs) and Mitchell Schwartz (Cleveland Browns) met for the first time on Oct. 27. Geoff and the Chiefs were victorious. 

Just like the notion that there are two sides to every story, there are four sides to every dreidel. Over the years I have found myself associating the sides of that little dreidel (made out of recycled plastics) with memories of the past and the present along with thoughts about identity and perseverance 

Let's face it – playing dreidel is probably the closest thing to ancient kosher gambling. It takes skill and savvy, and that little kiss that you blow onto the dreidel cupped in your hands can make all the difference between a gimmel (getting all the pot) and a nun (getting nothing). I was enamored with the official game and would play it all the time in my Hebrew School days. My friends and I would have contests to see whose dreidel would spin the longest (I think my record was 45 seconds). Around fifth or sixth grade the game became pretty lame, but I was back to the dreidel circuit during my college years, though that's a whole other story.

My kids (ages 14, 11, 7) are big fans of this seasonal game of chance. Although they have mastered the art of the upside-down spin, it’s the access to parent-sanctioned candy that keeps them playing the game year after year. In fact, they will keep playing it through the winter and into the spring. I'm guessing it’s the chocolate coins that keeps them playing and not the feeling of being historically connected to our ancestors who played the game when Greek soldiers would pass by.

I think the dreidel is one of the best Jewish symbols ever. Its size and function impart valuable lessons. I identify and navigate through many different social (and social media) circles during the day. A dreidel is small enough that if I were to put it in my pocket for a day, I think it would remind me that there’s another circle that I’m intrinsically part of.

No matter how many times we spin the dreidel it will always fall down on one of four sides. The outcomes are often this way in life. Sometimes we gain everything we want and sometimes we gain nothing. Sometimes we have to compromise and give up our half of what we want and sometimes we all have to pitch in a little of what we have for the greater good. Regardless of what side out dreidel lands on, we can always pick up the dreidel – and ourselves – so that we can continue trying to win the game.

Thanksgiving is tomorrow. Phew, we got that out of the way.

I'm thankful for so much. It's been a year full of so, so much change. You know that old cliché/John Lennon lyric, "life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans?" For the first time in a while, I thought my ducks were in a row. But breakups happen, unforeseen challenges arise, so on and so on. So let's let life happen. For better, for worse, for the sake of feigning a positive attitude until things settle down a bit in my little world – I'm thankful for it all.

But that's not what I want to write about. I want to write about writing. Feel free to read a previous Oy entry about my coy, difficult, ultimately wonderful love affair with writing. An article about writing again, you say? Well, this is different. I promise you.

In the spirit of letting go of the old and creating something new, I had lofty goals for November. November is NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. Some people want to run marathons. I wanted to write a novel. Sigh, just the structure of that last sentence gives off the stench of defeat. Yeah, I didn't write a novel. But I wrote nearly 20,000 words. That's something, aye?

The concept of NaNoWriMo is perfect for the most fledgling of writers (aka, me): spill out 50,000 words from the recesses of your mind. That's it. Commit pen to paper, tablet, laptop, your recorder of choice. Editing is for later. Discerning judgment is for later.

I came to into November with a few loosely connected ideas that I wanted to shine up into a real-live story. I signed up on the site (NaNoWriMo.org), I received encouraging emails. In a word, I was pumped.

My favorite part of the process? Discussing possible plots and story ideas with my family. I hadn't laughed that hard in a long time. I uncovered my father's secret ambitions to write a spy novel...who knew? My mother's ideas for a Disney-ish fairy tale were more imaginative than anything I conjured up. I soaked it all in and as November reared its head, I sat down to write.

These emails I spoke of? Many of them consist of pep talks. Based on past and current professional experience, I'm used to writing every day, and if not every day, on a pretty consistent basis. However, committing to 1,500-plus words a day, after getting home from my communications-based 9-to-5? Call me lazy, call me whatever you want; I lasted about a week until I decided that writing a novel in a month might not be in the cards, at least not this November.

Maybe I'll train better next year. At a recent get-together, a friend brought up that her boyfriend was taking on the NaNoWriMo beast this year. I implored further: Does he have a story? What got him into it? She relayed enthusiastically that this was the first year he really decided to get serious about it. He bought a special notebook to plot out his novel ahead of time. All bases were covered. I squirmed when she told me after the first week that he inexplicably lost about 2500 words. Technology! Strangely enough, I felt a part of this community, even though I was taking a more languorous approach to novel writing. I may never get there. But the idea of it, of continually turning to my ongoing story and adding a little something new, keeps the fires of one my greatest passions alive.

My childhood friend Steph always refers to less-than-ideal, kooky life events as "writing material." Reflecting on this past year and everything that makes me grateful (and everything that makes me cringe), I've tried my best to fill it with "writing material" moments with people I love, adore and enjoy.

Happy Thanksgivukkah, everyone!

I cannot believe I am writing about this right now. I cannot believe it. As I went to bed Friday night the diehard fan in me was trying to stay positive, but I knew better than to put myself through that again after the drama of last season. And a year and a half later, we’re right back where we started with Derrick Rose. And now all we have are questions. Where do we go from here? Will Derrick Rose ever be the same again? And I’m at a loss. I’m trying to see the bigger picture here, but it’s really hard to see an alternative to taking this opportunity to blow the team up and start over.

Look at it this way – Deng and Noah are good pieces, good role players and good teammates. But they cannot be the best players on a great team. Both are injury prone as well, and with both guys likely looking at an increase in minutes with Rose out, the injury bug is bound to hit them at points this year as well. I love both players and have loved watching everything they’ve done for the Bulls, but with Rose’s future up in the air, their value for the Bulls drops significantly the longer they hang onto them. And as we’ve seen over the years, the Bulls tend to over love their role players and hang on to them far too long until their trade value has plummeted. Time to do what Bulls management has never been able to do – take the risk and have a fire sale. Now is the time.

Last year we got strung along with the hope and flat out expectation that Rose would return during the season. And that kept me watching because the Bulls overcame the adversity and played well enough that, in the event Rose did come back, they could make a real run in the playoffs. And let’s remember – last year’s team was built with weapons to win for as long as they needed without Rose.

Not the case with this year’s team. So the Bulls came right out yesterday morning and said he is lost for the year. And after two knee surgeries, will he ever be the same again? I can’t help but get glimpses of Grant Hill – a big star with a high ceiling coming out of college, co-rookie of the year, all-star – but after so many injuries and surgeries he never lived up. He had a solid career, but imagine what could have been. I fear this is the case for Rose.

You can’t help but feel bad for the guy. He does not deserve this. And after the Bulls built their whole team and long-term future around Rose, it may be time to think about moving on. So where does that start? It starts with trading their valuable assets while they still have value. That means Noah and Deng. Get value for both of them, try to trade Boozer’s contract if they can but the more likely case is they wait and amnesty him after the season is over. I’d love to keep Butler and Gibson through all of this, but if they can get good value for them, I say go for it. But what they CANNOT do is stand pat and say they will wait for Rose to return and make another run with this team next year. That will not happen and it will be a waste of another year and they will likely lose Deng for nothing in the meantime. Derrick Rose may never be the same again, as sad as this is to say. And if he is even close, he’ll need better players being developed around him anyway.

We thought this could be it – the Bulls finally a title contender for the first time since the Jordan era. But hope for that is gone. Who knows what could have been. Many picked the Bulls to win it all this year with Rose back. But would they ever have been good enough to beat Miami during the Big 3 era even with a healthy Rose? We’ll never find out now and we’ll be therefore robbed of a lot of great basketball between the two teams. But the Bulls need to be honest about who they are now. They are not contenders anymore. Their chance with this core is done. It’s time to move on. They can make some really smart moves now with the value they can get for some of their assets – and along with the Bobcats 2016 unprotected pick, the potential of Mirotic coming over, and Rose returning at all, they have a good shot at rebuilding sooner rather than later. But in the meantime, the Bulls are going to be very, very tough to watch.

The terrible, horrible, no good, very bad question came over a dinner of noodles, salad and miso soup. The question I’d dreaded ever since I’d become a parent.

“Did you hate school?”

Oof. For others, the dreaded talk is the Sex 101 chat. Been there done that. No sweat. But the school question, that’s my Achilles heel.

“I didn’t hate school. Not exactly. I had trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

And here’s where my true dilemma begins. What to say? How much? Do they really want to know? And if I tell them the truth, will they become who I was back then? Kein ahora…

I’d say I was the average student until about fifth grade. Then math became impossible. I cheated off of friends to get by. Eventually, at the most awkward developmental stage ever, (boobs and boys), I was diagnosed with a learning disability. For some reason, (while also giving me a massive sense of relief that I wasn’t a total idiot), this realization seemed to give me license to act out. Like I had been dealt an unfair deck and to right the injustice, I was going to be an asshole.

When high school came along, I was looking for and open to all kinds of trouble. It wasn’t too hard to find. It translated into detentions, in-school suspensions and spending more than a few Saturday mornings surrounded by thugs, druggies and kids on the verge of being kicked out of school. (But not The Breakfast Club types – there were no Emilio Estevezes or Judd Nelsons, unfortunately.) I didn’t fall into any of those particular groups, but I was ditching classes, not completing my work, opening up a mouth with teachers, and hanging out with “bad boys.” I was doing just enough to be considered “on the fringe.”

My parents were paying attention. Their attentiveness resulted in my leaving high school when I was 16. They found a tiny, tiny college (50 students. No joke) with an adjunct program for high school students. I was a fit for the school because I had pretty decent reading and writing skills. It was a fit for me because it gave me a small and personalized learning environment. This was a tremendous confidence boost to be accepted into a college when I was barely meeting the requirements to pass high school. So I bit. I left my friends, my family and my boyfriend behind, fingers and toes crossed that I wouldn’t be a total and utter failure.

So I ended up having a very non-traditional scholastic experience. The quick catch-up is I went to college at the age of 16. After two years of earning college credits, I took my GED, which was untimed thanks to my LD. At 18, I transferred to another small liberal arts college out east. (May it rest in peace – it was a victim of both the economy and my not sending in my alumni donation check.) I decided to stay an extra semester to take a job as a resident advisor and actually, (finally) attended a true graduation for myself. Psychology degree in my proud hand, I went to Israel for a year, got all Jewish and stuff, and then came back for my Master’s degree in Counseling.

On paper that all looks pretty good, impressive even. On paper, I can gloss over all the ugly parts. It leaves out that middle school and high school were hard and embarrassing and not fun at all. No adult in school took an interest or notice in me with the exception of my freshman dean who had a “Come to Moses” talk with me. I deeply appreciated that. I still do. But he couldn’t save me. I had to get out. And so, thankfully, I did.

But back to now. Present day. All eyes on me, excited for mom to elaborate on her “trouble.” Truly, I could tell them anything. They would never know the difference. Harvard grad! Model student! Housed the homeless! But that’s not honest. And with all my self-doubt and second guessing of myself as a mom, I do believe strongly in being truthful with my kids. So, I’m telling them. Because even though they are a product of me and being raised by me, they aren’t me. And my telling them stories about me and how I struggled won’t suddenly “poof !” them into my past life. It won’t unduly influence them into making the same choices I did or burden them with my same struggles.

And it’s also a bonus in the burbs to have a mom with a little street cred.

I’m pretty sure my family coined the term Christmukkah. We were interfaith hipsters, once we realized that the alternative, Festivus, wasn’t really for the restofus. My family began blending two faiths at a time when rumor had it that my bubbie had to pay off the cantor at her shul to marry her son to a Catholic; a time when my parents could only find one congregation in a 30-mile radius that welcomed interfaith families in practice, not just in theory.

As a result I grew up in a predominantly Christian suburb as an ambassador for the Jewish people. The experience was a sliding scale of pride and discomfort: teaching dreidel to my class when I was in second grade and the resulting underground candy gambling ring; nursing a non-Jewish high school boyfriend who got sick off gefilte fish at a family function; telling off a sixth grader who teased me for being Jewish by informing him that I got eight nights of presents when he only got one; explaining to my friends from youth group why I had a Christmas tree when they came to my house for the first time for a Chanukah party.

There were moments when I desperately wanted to fit in. Like many interfaith children, I felt like the balance my family struck that felt so right to us made me a part of no community instead of two. I was too Jewish for the gentiles – I once had the mother of a new high school boyfriend ask, “Just how Jewish IS she?” Like on a scale of one to Jewish? Probably too Jewish for you, if not your son. But I also wasn’t Jewish enough for the Jews. Even growing up in a liberal Reform Jewish community, I still had elderly women inform me that I would “really be Jewish” if I just went to the mikveh already. I found myself defensive to the point of exhaustion the entire holiday season.

At the same time, for a WASP-y town, there were plenty of people who were willing to infuse a little Judaism into an otherwise white Christmas season. My parents had a “door is always open” policy for our home that resulted in a lot of gentile friends learning about Judaism through kishke, Tam-Tam crackers, and latkes. My Girl Scout troop, which was pretty alternative to begin with seeing as it had slowly been taken over by dads by the end of elementary school, was the only one I ever heard singing Chanukah carols around town. My music teacher growing up, who maybe had a glass eye and loved wearing a “No L” pin year-round, made sure my class lit an electric menorah during the holiday sing.

It wasn’t perfect integration. Instead it was a lesson in inclusion. My Judaism and I weren’t swept under the rug or quietly tolerated. Instead I learned that what I had to offer elevated the status quo, exposed my peers to new ideas, and made our world richer as a result of my sharing it.

Now that I work professionally with Jewish teen leaders, I have the opportunity to think about what inclusion means in my programs, and also in the larger Jewish community. Signs point toward growing rates of interfaith marriage, and I have to ask myself how we are going to make blended families feel like they are enriching Jewish communal life, the same way I was invited to elevate my community by sharing my Judaism.

Rather than putting fences around the Torah and our congregations, we should be throwing open the doors to better share the richness of Jewish tradition, the warmth of the Jewish community, and the values that can shape lives. We should be giving interfaith kids the best we have to offer, and embracing them in return, so they can also feel included and empowered to choose Judaism.

For me, Chanukah isn’t about military victory or miraculous oil or latkes that are perfectly crisp on the outside. It’s about a faith so deeply rooted that there was no choice but to take on a foe that seemed ready to crush us, for the chance to rededicate the temple, and ourselves, to our people and our values. What will you dedicate yourself to during this Festival of Lights? What change will you kindle? Who will feel included and valued because of you?

This year I’m looking forward to sharing Chanukah with Thanksgiving, to reading Hershel and the Hanukkah Goblins with my littlest (gentile) cousins and making them stick their hands in pickle jars, to lighting the menorah in the glow of a (heritage, free-range) turkey rather than a Christmas tree, and most importantly, telling the family that will gather how thankful I am that we can celebrate our holidays together.

Logan Zinman works as the Regional Director of Youth Engagement for NFTY’s Chicago Area Region, developing teen leaders and strengthening congregations in the Chicagoland area. She is hoping her fame as one of this year’s Double Chai in the Chi 36 Under 36 recipients will finally get her her own reality TV show: a blend of Anthony Bourdain’s ‘No Reservations’, and that episode of ‘Oprah’ when Oprah and Gail go camping.

With each Jewish holiday, we revisit familiar stories, many of which we grew up with since our youth: Queen Esther on Purim, Moses on Passover, Judah and the Maccabees on Chanukah. And every year, we are challenged to find new meaning within the stories, in order to keep them fresh and alive for the next generation. So how can we, as parents, aunts, uncles, and friends bring to life these stories of old to our kids of today?

The story of Chanukah is filled with action and adventure, suspense, hope, sadness, and joy – all the makings of a powerful and engaging story of strength, courage, and dedication. It readily lends itself to keep any kid on the edge of his or her seat!

Credit: Erica Weisz, mrsweiszbooks.com

Here are some tricks on how you can get them there, and keep them there, wanting more:

1. Make Connections!
Help your kids make connections with the story by asking open-ended questions like: When do you feel determined like the Maccabees? How is our chanukiyah similar to the menorah the Maccabees used? How is it different?

2. Create!
Rewrite and illustrate the story from the perspective of the menorah. How did the menorah feel when it was first lit with the small amount of oil? What did it think would happen? How did it feel as each day progressed? Looking at the story from a new angle will help your kids discover a piece of the story they never noticed before.

3. Act it Out!
Start by taking a room and making a mess of it, then use your imagination. As a family, act out what it would be like, in modern times, coming home to a disaster! How would you feel seeing your favorite toy crushed, all of your clothing in mud, or broken pictures everywhere? Imagine a glimmer of hope, a small miracle. What would your miracle look like? How would you feel closer to G-d through your small miracle?

Make your Chanukah this year unique and memorable for the kids in your life by retelling and reliving the story of Chanukah together. 

My parents collect menorahs – I amass them. The difference is that they actively seek theirs, while I passively receive mine. For some reason, I seem to receive a lot of them. I suppose once you have a critical mass of any item, people assume you collect it – and suddenly, you do.

The first menorah that I could really claim as mine was a traditional bronze one. It was given to me for my bar mitzvah by my mom’s old boss at an interior design firm. When I was cleaning it one year, I thought I broke it, until I realized that it unscrews. The base, stem, and branches all detach. This makes it easy to pack when I move, I suppose, though it’s not all that huge to begin with.

I also have one of the “Tree of Life” menorahs. Well, we do, since it was a wedding present for my wife and me. In cleaning the wax off, some of the silver plating came off, which is a shame.

My older son, Noah, received a Noah’s Ark-shaped menorah as a gift from my co-workers when he was born. The giraffe is the shamash, which is clever, but the toucan is larger than the other animals, even the elephant, which is confusing. I mean, they are not to scale altogether, but if they are made to be all the same size, then what’s so special about the toucan? I have displayed the menorah but never used it. I am afraid to scrape wax off of ceramic, or put something so fragile in the sink to run hot water over it.

My grandmother gave me one when she moved. She, too, has amassed many menorahs over the years. When she moved from her house of 30-some years into a one-bedroom apartment, the grandkids each got to pick something, so I took this menorah. It has a line from the “HaNeirot HaLalu” prayer in it. The line simply means, “these candles are holy.” I had a friend over for Chanukah once, and let him light it. He said he was honored to light my grandmother’s menorah. I had never thought of it that way, but I guess he’s right.

Then there is this huge glass deal my parents gave me. It’s made of several layers of thick glass, stacked up — very arty. It’s not as hard to clean as I had feared when I first saw it. Hot water makes the wax come right off, and the candleholders are smooth on the inside. The glass itself is also pretty strong; I have yet to nick it. (It may seem odd to dwell on which menorahs are easy or hard to clean, unless you have ever had to repeatedly clean multiple menorahs over a week just so the candles stayed in.)

My wife’s favorite, however, is a painted metal one that I think looks like it’s for kids. It’s hollow, so it can hold a whole box of candles. The top comes off like a lid. I have to say I have no idea where it comes from or who gave it to us. But it’s very colorful and fun, and I can see why she likes it. After all, Chanukah is a fun holiday. This menorah makes a nice contrast with all the more formal ones, too.

There are two others that my wife has amassed— again, they came to her. I guess my menorah magnetism has rubbed off on her too. One is very traditional; if someone asked you to “draw a menorah,” you’d draw this one. The other is an Art Deco take on the usual shape.

We do end up using most of these menorahs on Chanukah. My wife and I each light one, each of the three kids lights his or her own, and my in-laws also light one when they are over. So we need at least six, and I usually go through two whole boxes of candles every year. After all, six menorahs times nine candles each (don’t forget the shamash!) can mean 36 candles on the eighth night alone, and a standard box holds “only” 44.

When I look at the veritable fireplace my dining room table has become at Chanukah in recent years, I think back to when I was single a decade ago — lighting just my own menorah. Since then, I have amassed much more than a shelf-full of menorahs. 

Somewhere along the line we got the idea that only those women can make true latkes. Who are those women? They are our mothers, mothers-in-law, grandmothers, and aunts ... all women of a certain—age. They had been making them for years with a knowing hand, all the while determined to have the best recipe around.

For many, potato pancakes have been stamped with the "Do Not Attempt" trademark and I am here to say we must stop with the madness! Potato pancakes are simple—they do not have to be the heavy and oily latkes that our ancestors used to make.

And to be quite honest, I never liked them that way. At my house we never ate latkes; they were not part of my mother's repertoire. It was my childhood best friend's grandmother who used to make potato pancakes for us all the time. My best friend dipped hers in ketchup, leaving only a nice pool of oil behind and I ate them plain with a bit of salt and pepper. I usually picked at the dry crispy potato crumbs left—a relative of the potato chip, or so I like to think.

Latkes were good, but in my eyes never great. As I got older, it was hard for me to eat these potato pancakes in restaurants and even people's homes. I could not figure out what I did not love about them. "What's not to like?" I thought. Potatoes: good; onions: good; crispy bits: good. Why was the combination of these ingredients not adding up to be the crave-tastic food I willed it to be? It was because none of them were quite done my way. I wanted light, crispy and well-seasoned bites of potato, not dense, mushy pancakes that dribbled oil down my chin when I bit into them.

It was not until a few years ago that suddenly I realized what needed to be done: I needed to create my own potato pancake, one that had a following of its own that would leave not oily smudges, but gleeful smiles. After numerous test runs and a garbage can full of potato peelings, I figured it out. It was so simple that it made me wonder why it took me so long to come up with the recipe.

The beauty of this recipe is that it is done in the food processor, not with a grater like those women used to do. Just grate all your potatoes in the handy dandy food processor and combine with the rest of the ingredients. Then throw into a pan and finish off in the oven. The pancakes basically make themselves! No flipping or greasy mess necessary. An easy and uber-crispy potato pancake that can be served as a breakfast item with delicious fried eggs for breakfast, an Hors D'oeuvres with some Nova Scotia lox on it and a sprig of dill or my personal fav—a simple bite with a refreshing Greek yogurt dip.

Get excited! Pull out your food processors! Hide the tears! Burn the apron! And be ready to smugly say to your mother/mothers-in-law/grandmas, "I did it. I made these! And they are fantastic!"

Crispy Potato and Shallot Pancakes with Greek Yogurt Dip

These super-duper easy potato pancakes require very little fuss and even less oil (your figure will thank you later). There are two key components to doing these potato pancakes correctly:

1. Make sure you squeeze out as much liquid as possible. The easiest way to do so is to wrap them in cheesecloth. I personally find the dish towel much more tedious and labor intensive.

2. When placing the potato mixture in the pan, make sure to squeeze it down as much as possible so the bottom gets really beautiful and crusty.

Crispy Potato and Shallot Pancakes

2 pounds russet potatoes, peeled and grated 3 shallots, grated (I find the shallots give a milder flavor than onions)
3 garlic cloves, minced (or grated on a microplaner)
1/4 cup seasoned bread crumbs
1/4 cup grated parmesan, plus 1 tablespoon (you can use any other cheese you please as well...it's quite versatile)
2 tablespoons freshly chopped rosemary
2 tablespoons freshly chopped dill
2 eggs, lightly beaten 2 teaspoons kosher salt 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 3 tablespoons olive oil

***the magic ingredient: a sprinkle of parmesan cheese on the top***

Preheat oven to 450 degrees

1. Insert the fine shredder attachment to your food processor and shred the potatoes and shallots.

2. Place mixture into a cheese cloth and ring out all the moisture. Make sure every last bit gets out. Dry potatoes = crispy pancakes.

3. Place the mixture in a bowl, add in 2 eggs, and sprinkle in enough bread crumbs to soak up the remaining moisture.

4. Preheat a large pan (12 inches) with the olive oil in it at medium high.

5. Place the potato mixture into the pan. Make sure you pat it down firmly and squish it down so that all the potato's surface area is covered. After about 5-10 minutes the edges started getting beautiful and brown.

6. Turn off the heat and sprinkle some Parmesan cheese right on top before putting it in the oven. The cheese gives it an even more beautiful crust and adds a little bit of saltiness. Again use what you like, cheddar and Swiss make a great pairing too, but they create a gooier pancake.

7. Place the pan the oven for 20 minutes.

8. Carefully invert the pancake onto a cutting board and cut into squares with serrated knife. You can also cut it like a pizza and present it in slices.

Herbed Greek Yogurt Dip

1/2 cup non-fat Greek yogurt
1 teaspoon lemon zest
1 teaspoon lemon juice
2 teaspoons chopped chives
1 teaspoon chopped rosemary

1. Combine all ingredients in a small bowl and enjoy. If you want to get all fancy, place a dollop on each pancake piece and garnish with chive.

For the step by step tutorial please go to www.girlandthekitchen.com

Mila Furman is a chef, blogger, writer, recipe developer, food coach, new mom, wife and all around busy bee. Born in the former USSR, she grew up in Chicago and quickly developed an affinity for the culinary arts. Her Ashkenazi roots frequently influence her kitchen creations. She graduated from one of the top culinary schools with a degree in culinary arts and a BA in Hospitality and Restaurant management. Having worked all over Chicago in a multitude of kitchens, she boasts a well-rounded recipe repertoire. Read more of her story and keep up with her many shenanigans atwww.girlandthekitchen.com.

I want to tell you a story. One of the best gifts I ever received I never actually got.

I was moving out of my parents’ house into the city and my birthday was about six weeks prior. My brother decided he wanted to get me a shower radio for my new apartment. We have always shared one because we shared a bathroom. He told me he was going to get this for me, but he never did. And I didn’t care. The thought that he wanted to get a new one for me is what truly mattered. The fact that he wanted to get me my own shower radio was the gift.

I’ve told this story countless times. Okay maybe like six or seven, but his desire to get me the gift was the best gift he could ever give me. That or beer. I really like beer.

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Adam,” (because that’s my name) “What does that have to do with a significant Chanukah nickel?” And perhaps you are also thinking, “Why not a Chanukah dime? A Chanukah quarter? A Chanukah two-dollar bill!?” Well, don’t worry about those. That’d be if we considered inflation, which we won’t. Besides, I detest inflation. It’s why I’m always popping balloons. But what that story has to do with a significant Chanukah nickel is pretty much everything I value when it comes to gifts these days.

As my life has progressed, I’ve become content with not receiving gifts to the point that I prefer it. Giving gifts on the other hand, well, I’d technically be content without that too. Both sides of figuring out the right gift are stressful. Stressful to a point that stresses me out just thinking about how much it stresses me out. Not to mention, the most difficult expression to fake is the reaction to a present. Good, bad, ugly – it’s impossible to falsify.

But, despite my slight disdain towards gifts, I still value them, and what I’ve come to value comes directly from my experience, every single year at Chanukah, with my Zaydie: the most wise and knowledgeable man to have ever existed. He also has a full head of hair and the hair gene is supposedly with your mother’s father so I’m set and oh, so thankful for that. Did you see the picture at the top of the blog? That was us over 20 years ago. Same hair today. Both of us.

Now, what I give my Zaydie for Chanukah every year instead of what some might consider an actual gift is one thing and one thing only:

A nickel. Just a nickel.

But it’s not just a nickel. It’s the most wonderful and heartfelt moment of Chanukah for me. I’ve said before that Chanukah isn't as important to me as other holidays, but every year when I get to this moment, the true meaning of my Chanukah is realized.

See, when my Zaydie was young, all he ever got for the holiday was – you guessed it – a nickel. You read the title of the blog, didn’t you? You’re such a sleuth. And you keep scrolling back up to the top of this piece. Stop it. For my Zaydie, getting a nickel back then was a huge deal. I mean, with a nickel you could buy a car and a cherry phosphate down at the local soda shop. So today, that’s all he asks for (a nickel, not a cherry phosphate). All of his grandchildren give him one and I know that makes him feel like a millionaire, and it has nothing to do with his abundance of nickels.

I have equated this into my own philosophy with gifts. I love when there is thought behind them. I know that the sentiment of “it’s the thought that counts” isn’t new by any means, but I hold this very close to my own beliefs; hence my love for the shower radio I never received. What I like is to give gifts when I want to and not because I’m expected to. It’s not fun for me giving gifts for the sake of giving gifts. I enjoy when I have the organic thought of, “this would be perfect for that special someone” and then get to give that perfection to that special someone. Also, I enjoy that it’s completely unexpected. Part of my apathy for required gift-giving is I don’t like keeping secrets. When I want to give a gift for no special reason other than the recipient is special, I don’t have to keep it a secret. Holding on to a present without saying anything for weeks is excruciating. Pretty much the same feeling I get when I wake up two minutes before my alarm goes off in the morning.

Looking back before that life progression thing, when I was a child, gifts were great. I loved them. I yearned for them. But I was a selfish, selfish child. Remember that Bar Mitzvah I had? I didn’t put a single dime into that, let alone a significant Chanukah nickel. Once I got to college, my aunts and uncles kept it simple and would give me 20 bucks as a gift for Chanukah. That was great. Perfect gift. But I have hindsight now, and it has nothing to do with butts.

I don’t need gifts anymore. Again, that’s not to say I don’t like getting or giving gifts, but I don’t need them. I’m 26-and-a-half years old. I’m almost a full-grown man. So when there is something in this world that I want, I simply get it. That kind of makes it difficult to answer what I want for my birthday or Chanukah, so the answer is inevitably nothing. If there’s something I want, I am in a fortunate position with my life to get it. Lucky for me, most of the things I want fall under the category of a McDonald’s double cheeseburger or a nap. So when I say I don’t need anything for my birthday or Chanukah, I mean it. Now that it’s in writing, maybe some people (Mom) will know I’m not kidding.

I actually made her cry once. Okay, maybe just a strong sniffle. Didn’t do it on purpose but I kept saying I didn’t want anything for my birthday and she didn’t like that. Sorry mom. But as I’ve told you time and time again, aren’t you a gift enough?

I’ll accept my ‘Child of the Year’ award now.

After sitting at a registration table for the entire duration of my work event last night, I finally stood up to say goodbye to our guests. As I walked into the rotunda where we were hosting a reception, an older gentleman approached me. I assumed he wanted to share kind words about the event. However, instead of expressing thanks, he simply told me that I was way taller than he expected. “Are you Jewish?” he asked me skeptically, with a hint of judgment in his voice. I wish I could say that I have never heard that one before.

Yes, I’m a Jewish girl. Yes, I’m 5 feet 11 inches tall. (Fun fact: My birthday is also 5/11.) Yes, these things don’t often go together and combined sound like the title of a “True Life” episode.

Ever since I was young, people have approached me about my height. I always wonder what people hope to gain when they tell someone that they are “so tall,” as if a tall person would have no idea that this was the case. Although people would rarely tell someone that their nose is huge or that they are a bit on the chubby side, for some reason, when it comes to height, the majority of people seem to have no filter. It’s as if they just discovered something extraordinary and they just have to announce it right then and there.

When I was in middle school, I was close to the height of an average-sized Jewish 20-something, which was rare amongst my peers. Still, was it really necessary for people to act as though I would fit right in to the lineup of the Chicago Bulls? Not even a little bit, yet people did.

A large portion of people I have come into contact with also love to poke fun at my height. My campers, friends, and even my mother have told me that my doppelganger is the Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man. There is some validity in their comparison; my arms flail like crazy. Even so, I have been called a tree, a giant and Yao (as in Yao Ming, the 7-foot-6-inch Chinese basketball player).

A few years ago, when I was visiting Epcot, I was walking around minding my own business when Donald Duck dressed in a festive sombrero motioned to me that I was of above average height, as if I needed to be ridiculed by a guy in a duck suit (a great one though, no disrespect to the most magical place on Earth). Couldn’t he just take a picture with me like everyone else? (Please ignore the fact that I was 20 at the time. Thanks!)

Seeing that I vocalize that my spirit animal is a giraffe, I don’t necessarily consider these comparisons and gestures a bad thing. Sometimes, everything is in good fun. However, the line between harmless teasing and taking things too far can often be a slippery slope.

I haven’t always been okay with being tall. It is understandable, as it does have its disadvantages. Everyone asks me what sport I play, which usually yields an answer of some combination of laughter and awkward hesitation. Although I’ve attempted to play almost every sport imaginable, my asthma and awkwardly long limbs have proven to be a not-so-athletic combination. With that being said, I still somehow walk faster than almost everyone I know. The struggle continues.

I’ve also hit my head in my fair share of weird places, such as American Eagle airplanes (they are just so small!), Israeli tunnels (I seriously almost gave myself a concussion in the City of David), and even chandeliers at restaurants (so, so embarrassing and still one of my favorite stories). Beyond that, I struggle to hear my friends in bars. It’s not my fault that I am higher up than the rest of the group. I could create a whole collage of pictures in which my head has been severed off yet everyone else’s remains unharmed. Anytime I am stuck in the middle seat of a cab, it looks something like this.

Israel in 2008 – That time our bus was too small

Everything from dresses, shorts, and pants run a bit short. Although I really do like heels, I barely wear them because I am self-conscious of making myself even taller. Don’t even get me started on the horrors of shoe shopping and accomplishing the ever so difficult task of finding myself a suitable, future Jewish husband over six feet tall. A girl can dream.

When the Buzzfeed article 17 Struggles of Being a Tall Girl was posted a few weeks ago, at least 10 people sent it to me. I nodded and laughed because it was ridiculously accurate, except I have no idea what “Long Tall Sally” is and I am so grateful that this is the case.

This post is not simply a list of grievances. When it comes to the jokes, the little struggles, and the bigger challenges, I have learned – over a great deal of time – to laugh and embrace it. Although I probably will never rock five-inch heels, escape the quips, and fit comfortably in an airplane seat that isn’t the bulkhead or exit row, I do try my best to feel comfortable in my own skin.

Being tall, and coming from a religion of people where this seems to be a rarity, has taught me an important lesson. Although there are many things that people can improve upon there are some things that you cannot change. Height is one of those things. Because of this, I can either choose to hate being tall and suffer or I can accept what I was I was born with. Although this might sound like the ending to a Disney Channel Original Movie (which would really be an honor, if anything I wrote was as good as any Disney movie), I have learned to at least try to be confident about my height.

It does have its advantages: I can always see at concerts, my roommates love that they never need to buy step stools because I can reach the high shelves, and although shopping has its struggles, I never have to get my pants shortened. And as for the things that aren’t the best? I’ve perfected the “sorority squat” whenever a camera is near, I have found a new appreciation for maxi dresses (and mine never get dirty from hitting the ground) and I just need to tell myself daily that if my dad was 6 feet 4 inches, I can still marry a Jewish guy that is taller than me, right? 

Some might call me a bit of a curmudgeon. I don't like change, and I'll shake my fist at you like a kvetchy Jewish grandmother and let you know what I think. I don't like self-checkout at the grocery; I won't throw out a well-worn pair of shoes until I find an absolutely perfect replacement; and I refuse to buy an electronic reading tablet.

I love new technology and praise my iPhone nearly every day for its wondrous powers and almost omniscient Siri. But, sometimes a hand-written passive aggressive note is the best medium. I come from a family of passive aggressive note-writers. When I get angry, I might shake my fist at you … or I might just write you a long letter. That'll show you!

Some people are nimble with their fists. Others make a strong show with flailing arms and a bellowing or shrill voice. I'm not good at yelling at you on the spot. I'll write you a letter after the fact and let you know what I think. I need time to collect my thoughts and wax poetic on your wrong-doings. I can never think of my counter-arguments until after the fact-hence, the passive aggressive note.

The funny thing about passive aggressive notes is that they rarely work.

When I write a passive aggressive note, bleeding my grievances via pen to paper, I expect the recipient to tear their sleeve in shame and apologize. Usually people read such notes and they just get angrier.

I saw yesterday that RedEye Chicago and several other news sources reported on the comment explosion on Reddit.com regarding a passive aggressive door note exchange between two (likely-Chicago) neighbors regarding one of the neighbor's loud and disturbing sex noises. Why a comment explosion on Reddit.com is worthy of the attention of several news sources is worthy of a whole different conversation for another day. However, I totally get why people latched on to this story.

There are about two or three instances in my entire life in which my perfectly-crafted letters solicited the response I desired. Once such instance involved a letter I wrote to my neighbor about a year ago asking him to tone down the loud sex noises from up above.

What I've learned from years of passive aggressive note-writing:

1. Kill 'em with humor and a touch of shame (will probably work).
2. Kill 'em with kindness (might just work).
3. Kill 'em with Jewish guilt (probably won't work).

After a couple weeknights of waking up to the sounds of giggles, thrashes, moans and screams, I couldn't take it anymore. My bed shook below my neighbor and his lady friend to the rhythm of their "music." I learned during those treacherous and sleepless nights that our old, three-flat building's walls are not only paper thin, our floors are too.  I tried burying my head in my pillows, raising the volume on my TV, and even (in all my curmudgeon glory) got out my broom and gave the handle a tappidy tap and then a whackidy whack at my ceiling-only to receive giggles in return. It was time for my Sharpie and a clean piece of paper.

I crafted my passive aggressive note carefully and with some grace, unlike my counterpart featured on Reddit.com. I wish I still had the masterfully-written note; my neighbor kept it (for posterity?) after finding it tacked to his apartment door with a piece of Scotch tape.

In my note, I began by commending my neighbor for his performance. "I applaud you," I remember writing. However, I continued, noting the shoddy insulation in our walls and floors, and the noise that escapes. I politely asked that I no longer be an unwilling participant in his romps. I began with a compliment, explained the particularities of the problem, and made my demands.

The folks in the Reddit.com photo handled it all wrong. They met anger with anger. Not to mention, the girl's claims of her neighbor's attacks on her sexual expression as "slut shaming" are just a little far-fetched. I'm a self-proclaimed feminist and even I can see the holes in that argument. Sex noises are sex noises-if they're disturbing my beauty sleep, I don't care who is making them. I digress.

My neighbor's response note, Scotch taped to our door was so shocking-particularly, because it was so nice (and yes, I've saved it for posterity and have presented it to you below).

"Hi girls,

I'm really sorry about the noise.
If I had any idea how thin the floor
was I never would have bothered you. It
won't happen again (so loudly [winky face])." 

Our neighbor matched our kind/humorous tone with a cheeky "wink" at the end. I was so proud that I had achieved the impossible! I had used the power of passive aggressive note persuasion to get someone to change their ways.

Later that week, my roommate ran into our neighbor and he admitted his subsequently embarrassed girlfriend wrote the response. While I found this news disappointing, I've enjoyed sleep-time radio silence ever since our door note exchange. 

A Not Passive Aggressive Note: Fellow note-writers, visitPassiveAggressiveNotes.com. 

You would have to be hiding under a slow cooker filled with cholent to not have heard about Thanksgivukkah. If not, congratulations, you are the last to know that Chanukah and Thanksgiving are happening at the same time this year. While part of me is excited for this gratitudepalooza, I can’t help but want to send Chanukah to group therapy.

Isn’t it time she had her own identity? First it was the Chanukah bush, now it’ll be turkey beak-shaped dreidels. I know this combo is a rare occurrence that should be honored, but if I see one more menu list for the magical blending of these holidays I’m going to start throwing sweet potatoes from rooftops.

Yes, turkey menorahs are cute and there is nothing that compares to the deliciousness that is a sweet potato latke. I get that both holidays are about love and light – I just wish that Chanukah got to stand on her own.

Maybe I’m just cranky about the combo because I’m a Jew by choice. I didn’t grow up with Chanukah traditions – I’m learning how to make the holiday my own. Comparing Chanukah to Christmas makes me restless because I’m still trying to separate myself from Christmas. It’s like a really long, incredibly stressful break-up.

Just when I’m starting to get the hang of how to manage the split? We’re aligning Chanukah with Thanksgiving. It’s too much for my new Jewish heart to bear.

I need my holidays to be separate and equal. I need a Thanksgiving celebration that is full of turkey and cornbread stuffing and pumpkin pie. I also need a Chanukah Party with my mother-in-law’s latkes that she has been making forever. What I’m saying is I need a little Jewish Holiday mutual exclusivity. Surely I can’t be the only one.

As usual I am turning to my favorite kitchen friend Ina Garten to help me focus my Chanukah menu. She has a recipe for applesauce fit for whatever sort of holiday dinner you have planned this year.

Ingredients
2 large navel oranges, juice and zest of
1 lemon, juice and zest of
3 lbs granny smith apples (about 6-8 apples)
3lbs sweet red apples (about 6-8)…I used honey crisps
1/2 cup light brown sugar
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon allspice

Directions
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Place the zest and juice of the oranges and lemon in a large bowl. Peel, quarter and core the apples (reserving the peel of 2 of the red apples) and toss them in the juice. Pour the apples, reserved apple peel and juice into a nonreactive Dutch oven or enameled iron pot. Add the brown sugar, butter, cinnamon and allspice and cover the pot. Bake for 1 hour or until apples are soft. Remove and discard the apple peel. Mix with a whisk until it’s as smooth (or chunky) as you like. 

Portion of Chagall's America Windows at the Art Institute of Chicago.

If you’ve visited any water cooler frequented by Members of the Tribe lately, the subject of the first day of Chanukah landing on Thanksgiving Day for the first time since 1888—and the last time for another 70,000 years—was bound to come up.

The fact that these two beloved holidays are coinciding on Nov. 28 this year is like, well, Christmas in July. There’s something so appropriate about holidays that center around gratitude and light colliding into each other.

In honor of giving thanks and the nine lights of Chanukah (including the shamash), I give you nine reasons I’m thankful. What’s your top nine?

1) I’m thankful for…being an American Jewish woman with so many choices and the freedom to be anything I want to be, who is encouraged, not persecuted, for who I am and what I believe.

2) I’m thankful for…my mom and dad, who raised me in a home overflowing with love, who serve as models of Jewish values and love for me to emulate in my life, and who sent me to good schools, Hebrew and secular, in safe learning environments where teachers nourished my potential.

3) I’m thankful for… getting to be a member of this committed, caring, and vibrant Chicago Jewish community. And I’m thankful for being part of an organization, the Jewish United Fund/Jewish Federation of Metropolitan Chicago, which makes it easy for all of us to live generously.

4) I’m thankful for…a circle of incredible friends who know just what any given situation calls for—an ear, a hug, a philosophical discussion, a margarita, a cupcake, or a buddy to watch The Breakfast Club with for the 50th time.

5) I’m thankful for….nephews. I get to witness their amazement in doing the things adults find mundane like riding the El, wandering the cereal aisle, or watching an ant scamper across the sidewalk. And nothing raises my serotonin level more in this world than hearing one of my nephews laugh or the symphony of listening to them laugh in unison.

6) I’m thankful for…Shana. A couple months back I’d been having a bad week, and popped into Target to buy a bunch of items. When I finally reached the front of the checkout, the clerk insisted on closing her line to the other shoppers for half an hour to help me find the best deals she could for the items in my cart using every discount possible. Ultimately, she managed to save me almost $100. But she gave me so much more than money in my wallet; she gave me the gift of her kindness. I glanced at her nametag—Shana. I told Shana, who I’m fairly certain had never heard a Yiddish word before, her name means “beautiful” in Yiddish.

7) I’m thankful for…art in any form. It can inspire you, even change you. The Chagall Windows at the Art Institute. To Kill a Mockingbird. Opening weekend in a crowded movie theater watching a great movie. Listening to a song on the radio that feels like the singer wrote the lyrics just for me because it speaks so exactly to the mood I’m in at that moment.

8) I’m thankful for…finding joy in every season—even winter. Whether we’re toddlers, teens, or—ahem—a little older, let’s jump in the leaves in the fall, make snow angels in the winter, meander through the rain without an umbrella in the spring, and jump in the lake in the summertime.

9) I’m thankful for…believing in beshert, in believing that some of our steps along this crazy, yet beautiful journey in life—who we're meant to become and who we're meant to meet—are out of our hands, preordained by God, a force bigger than all of us.

According to the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs website, Veterans Day is a “celebration to honor America's veterans for their patriotism, love of country, and willingness to serve and sacrifice for the common good.” It was originally called Armistice Day because it marked the anniversary of armistice signed for World War I, which went into effect at the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month in the year 1918. This is a day we humbly offer up thanks and gratitude to this nation’s veterans.

Yes, we should post on Facebook and Twitter and all forms of social media that we salute our soldiers. Let’s use the official hashtag, #honoringvets, when we do. There is something very American about taking to the simplest and most convenient forms of technology to show our widespread support for a cause. I also don’t believe we even need to apologize for its perceived triteness.

I also happen to believe that turning to social media as the method to mark the holiday, is simply not enough. I urge us to take a moment at some point today and reflect on what it means to serve in the military. What would it mean for to leave behind family, friends and country to protect all that we hold dear? Have we ever taken the time to really think about it? Have we ever gone out of our way to thank a veteran? Have we ever marked this day in any way beyond taking a day off of work and saving 30 percent off of a great pair of shoes?

This day has been designated as an opportunity to do more than usual in order to show how much we appreciate those who have served. Many, if not all, of us have a friend or family member that has served or currently serves in the military. Let’s not miss the chance to show them we honor their commitment to keep us safe.

In this week's portion, Vayetzeh, we find one of most intriguing love stories in the Bible. Jacob lays eyes on Rachel for the first time (yes she was his first cousin; no that wasn't weird at the time), and knows that they're meant to be together. He immediately proceeds to water her flocks for her, and lets her know who he is and his relationship to her. After a month of serving in her father Laban's house, he is asked what his desired wages are. He says that he'd be willing to work seven years for the privilege of marrying her. Laban agrees to the deal, and the Torah tells us that those seven years "seemed for him but a few days because of his love for her."

As most love stories do, this one has a bit of an interesting twist. When the time comes to marry Rachel, his uncle throws a feast and ultimately tricks Jacob by having him marry Rachel's older sister, Leah (setting Leah up for a lifetime of feeling disappointed and unloved by her husband, given his passion for her sister). Laban tells Jacob that he can also have Rachel as a wife (as soon as next week!), provided Jacob agrees to work another seven years. Jacob agrees to these news terms, and a week later, Rachel becomes his second wife (with two concubines to shortly follow - quite the family unit!).

Ultimately, Jacob has to work for 14 years in order to marry Rachel (seven before marrying her, and seven after).

Granted, Biblical years and contemporary years don't always match up (Biblical lifespans were just a bit longer than ours today…), but the amount of work that Jacob was willing to do in order to "earn" the right to marry Rachel is truly incredible.

As we all know, relationships are hard work. Most of us don't necessarily think of manual labor (or shepherding) as constituting such work, but it's a meaningful metaphor for us to learn from. Jacob models for us the fact that we should be willing to work our butts off, over an extended period of time, for those we love. For some, this means investing in their relationships and deepening self-understanding, putting personal dreams on hold for the benefit of your family, and/or simply doing what needs to get done in order to put food on the table. For others, such as our military families who are often apart from their loved ones for months at a time, hard work for love takes on a similarly powerful meaning.

This Shabbat, reflect on the lengths you would go to for love. Are you being healthily selfless when called upon to be such in your relationships? Are you willing/able to put the happiness and well-being of others ahead of your own? Where do you draw the line and why? 

Dear doughnuts,

My, what a great 23 or so years it has been. We have had a great run together … and though it pains me to do this, I must send you my official farewell.

We first met when I was a young child. I liked you right away. When the other kids were spending time with brownies or cookies, you were my first love. When my friends blew out candles on a birthday cake each year, my birthday wishes were granted over one of you—one big candle stuck into a black and white swirled frosted doughnut. And my wish always came true.

As the years went on, I got to know your children, the Munchkins. They traveled to school with me in a big cardboard box with handles each time I had an event to celebrate—a birthday, Chanukah, the end of the school year. Powdered, jelly-filled, glazed, or chocolate, I loved your little ones with all my heart. Any time I brought them, I was instantly the most popular kid in the class.

And so it was through my adolescence—a happy, loving relationship. But then it began to turn sour.

In high school, the choir, the dance group, the swim team, and the sophomore class seemed to all gather together to decide on the same fundraiser: Selling a dozen Krispy Kremes for $5. How could I not support those clubs trying to earn money? So I bought your friends and brought them home. And ate one. Or two. Or two and a half. And then a half, but a few hours later.

My stomach, though, didn’t love the idea. It punished me by making me feel full yet hollow, greasy and gross.

Knowing myself and knowing my body, I knew that I could never eat just one of those perfectly glazed three-bite treats. So, later in my high school career, I promised myself that I would stop eating Krispy Kremes. And I have lived up to my word.

But others of your kind were different. Those were no big deal. Still delicious, still hit the spot. Especially your friend Entenmann that comes with the little crumbly toppings.

I wouldn’t go out of my way to buy one of you. But working in an office where people put out food in the kitchenette five feet away from my office, it has occasionally happened that I’d sneak away with a half of one of you. Or a full one. Or two. And every time, you make me feel gross. Worthless. Like I have to purchase an elliptical and a treadmill and one of those rowing machines and use them all day long in order to feel like myself again.

So, my dear doughnuts, I have made a decision today. With all of the readers of my blog as my witness, I will never again eat one of your kind. I’ve mistaken love for lust, and it just isn’t worth the pain.

You ask if there’s someone else—well … actually … there is. Ice cream doesn’t hurt me like you do. Neither do cookies, brownies, blondies, yogurt, cheesecakes, pies, chocolate-covered cashews, gelato, milkshakes, pudding, chocolate mousse cake, or red velvet Oreo truffle brownie bars. They respect me for who I am and don’t make me feel awful.

I wish we could have done this goodbye in person; but it would have been too painful. I wish you the best of luck with other people. I will always cherish our memories and I will never ever forget you.

Yours one last time,
Lia

P.S. Can you give me chocolate mousse cake’s phone number?

If you are reading this post expecting a secret recipe to drop weight fast in advance of the holidays, you are out of luck. The truth is there is no magic bullet (for weight loss) or supplement to melt a few pounds off your belly. However, you do not have to starve yourself or workout for hours on end to escape the holiday bulge.

Starting at Halloween, and continuing until Jan. 1, candy flows like ragweed (it’s a bad year for those of us with allergies). People don’t want their kids to eat 20 pounds of candy, so it’s in the office. And then the guy who lives at the end of the block, but buys candy just in case, brings in his Costco bag of M&Ms.

All this sugary goodness is too much for anyone to handle. If you are human, something will call your name and you will be powerless to avoid it. Here are some tips to eat less candy:

1. Give away, hide, or throw away leftovers.

2. Pick your favorite and have one “fun size” treat and move on.

3. Be strategic: don’t walk past the pile of chocolate when you are hungry.

4. Combat crap with cut-up fruit and veggies.

5. If you over-indulge, move on—literally. Take a quick run up the steps, burn some calories and then let it go

6. Don’t feel guilty saying “NO” to the office sugar-pusher. “I baked this from scratch, it took me eight hours,” they’ll say. Well, sugar-pusher, it’s called a bakery—open one up and sell your deliciousness there. In college there is peer pressure to drink, in the office there’s pressure to eat. And then later in life it’s pressure to take fish oil.

We all fall off the healthy wagon. Don’t worry about it; worrying only makes things worse. Yes, worrying can make you gain weight. I won’t get into the science, but if you ever watch late-night television, someone is always selling a pill to reduce your levels of cortisol. Balance your stress levels the old fashion way: exercise, meditate, read, have fun, and be better tomorrow.

Of course if tomorrow is a holiday party, you might be in trouble. Holiday parties usually mean two things: excess food and excess booze. Both are sworn enemies of skinny. Plan for the parties and you will survive. Be the person that brings the hummus plate with veggies, bakes a chicken dish, or brings fruit for dessert. Sure, people will give you a dirty look, but everyone wants to eat more veggies and fruit. I also recommend eating before you go to parties. Don’t eat a huge meal, but combine some healthy veggies with some of these things pictured below:

Picture courtesy of www.strengthguild.com

Drinking alcohol, a.k.a. liquid calories, kills a diet faster than Halloween candy. Beer is probably the worst, but wine and vodka are not far behind. Have a drink or two.

Check here for a list of a few common drinks and their caloric damage.

I promise you can still have fun and enjoy great food while following these easy suggestions. If you have any great holiday health strategies, please comment below. Have a great holiday season!

I grew up in a town that was 85 percent Jewish. Every summer I attended a camp that was 95 percent Jewish. Then I went to a college where I lived in a dorm that virtually emptied during the High Holidays. Despite these being rough estimates, I think it’s safe to say I live in the Jewish Bubble.

That is until I moved to D.C. Now, I’m sure there are plenty of Jews here, I just happen not to know any of them. The people I’ve met/befriended are from very different walks of life and, for some, I’m the first Jew they’ve ever met. Talk about a 180. I would be lying if I said living outside the bubble wasn’t weird.

A few days ago I was out with some of these new friends when one made a comment that struck me. She said her parents didn’t want her attending a certain college because they didn’t want her marrying a Jew. She immediately knew what she had said was offensive.

I think I should have been more offended, but for some reason I wasn’t. Maybe it was because for the first time I was shocked to realize how very far out of my comfort zone I was, or maybe it was because on some level I wasn’t sure I disagreed with her. Do Jewish parents want their children marrying out of the religion either? I immediately changed the topic.

But the statement lingered with me. The more I thought about it the more confused I became on how I felt about it. Maybe Jewish parents don’t want their children marrying out of the religion, but is their reasoning the same as my friend’s parents?

The Jewish Bubble doesn’t really prepare you for life outside of it. It gives you no indication about how different people are or how different their views are. I would be lying if I said living outside the bubble wasn’t weird. But, I would also be lying if I said it didn’t open my eyes.

I missed the Animorphs series the first time around. Man, in the ‘90s, you saw those book covers everywhere you went: one kid transitioning into a fly or a bear or a dolphin or some other creature. And there were always two tons of them, right? They were just a little young for me when they started coming out (or I might have been too invested in showing off that I was reading Watership Down instead), but, uh…

I’m reading them now.

I’m kind of hooked.

There are some stories that, no matter how dodgy the premise, I will always inhale. Animal transformation is one of them. When I was six, my fondest wish was to be a were-rat, thanks to a healthy diet of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Mrs. Frisby & The Rats of NIMH. My hometown used to have the best video store imaginable (RIP, Magic Video), and in addition to helping me discover obscure foreign costume dramas, I also became obsessed with the The Shaggy Dog and The Shaggy D.A., old Disney movies about a boy (and later a district attorney) who’s cursed by an ancient Egyptian ring to become a sheepdog at inconvenient times. A good werewolf story? I’m always in.

Animorphs should have been right up my alley, but nobody ever told me what they were actually about, and I was quite content at the time with the Redwall books, another talking animal series of my heart.

But let me talk for a minute about Animorphs, if I’m not repeating something you already know. The basic premise carries more than a whiff of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Five friends find a UFO crash with a dying alien inside, who gives them the power to morph into any animal they touch, in order to fight an imperialist race of parasitic aliens called Yeerks. So, kids saving the world plus paranoia about grownups plus awesome superpowers—why wouldn’t kids eat this up?

We know, however, that if that were it, no one would really care. But our heroes have problems, one of which is that you can’t stay in your morph for more than two hours. Otherwise you get stuck, and there’s no going back. (Three guesses as to whether this becomes a plot point!) Beyond the prospect of Earth being colonized by a vicious race of slug creatures, the Animorphs have human problems too. One kid lost his mother two years ago. Another deals with bullies. Another can’t figure out why her best friend won’t talk to her anymore.

The author (or many authors; it should come as no surprise that a franchise this successful and prolific has ghostwriters) does some neat characterization things too. The “girliest” character, the one who loves shopping and looking pretty, is also the battle-ready bruiser of the group; her favorite morph is an elephant. This girl could have been pigeonholed so easily as dainty, or scared, or vain. So many of my friends describe these books as “formative;” I’d much prefer that a kid’s formative experience tells her that she can be any combination of likes and qualities that she wants than that she be pigeonholed into lazy, poisonous “types” that we shouldn’t question.

Not only that, but the whole horror of the Yeerks stems from the way they replace and repress identity. If you’ve got a Yeerk slug in your brain, you’re still trapped alongside it, a bystander to what this evil being does with your body, your voice and your face. Pick your metaphor: kids (and the adults they become) understand what Yeerks are, and they remember the hardship—and the heroism—of standing up to them.

I also really like what these books do about depicting animals. It’s not Disney: animals aren’t just humans with four legs. This summer, at one of the farmer’s markets at Daley Plaza, a representative from the forest preserve brought in a rescued hawk to help educate passersby about Illinois wildlife.

“What’s his name?” I asked, then hesitated. “Her name?”

“We don’t name our animals, because wild animals aren’t people and they aren’t pets,” the ranger said. “We want kids especially to understand that animals exist independently of us and inhabit an entirely different world apart from us.”

Animorphs tackles that well, I think. Yeah, the kids are still themselves when they change, but they also have to cope with different instincts in different bodies. Other animals don’t talk to them or give them advice or form relationships with them. It’s a remarkably unsentimental and powerful statement, really. These animals are themselves, not something you try to impose on them.

I’m not that far into the series, though I’ve been warned that “the last 15 or 20 books decline significantly.” (I love that we have to disclose on a scale of dozens of books. That’s awesome.) But you see why I’m hooked—and the danger’s even greater with my midterm work piling up. Because, let’s face it: in addition to all the stuff I’ve just said, these books are fun. The stakes are high, the group dynamics are great, the kids are real—it’s just fun reading, and you don’t really need more justification than that.

That said, these big questions aren’t new, and it’s not weird to address them through a conceit like transformation. Ovid did it pretty well, and we’re still reading his Metamorphoses two thousand years later. So, reflecting on another Halloween gone by, a day that’s dedicated to letting your freak flag fly, here’s a reminder to read what you like, get what you want from it, and be who you’re supposed to be.

“The movie is never as good as the book.”

Sigh.

I’ve been hearing this for years, and as a huge fan of movies, it’s frustrating. To me, that phrase is about as cliché as “never judge a book by its cover.” Some books can be judged accurately by their covers, just as some movies honor the book on which they’re based.

With the long-awaited film adaptation of Orson Scott Card’s contemporary sci-fi classic Ender’s Game in theaters this weekend, I’m bracing to hear those words a lot. Published in the ‘80s, the book was long-considered un-filmable. It combines gravity-defying action with a coming-of-age story with elements of a political thriller – and a lot happens on a computer screen. Even though the reviews have leaned positive so far, for some, filmmaker Gavin Hood’s interpretation will never measure up to their expectations.

My friend and fellow Oy!Chicago blogger Lia perfectly sums up people's unrealistic expectations of movies adaptations of books in a blog post she wrote when fans of The Hunger Games were voicing their disappointment with certain aspects of the film. If a book were committed to film exactly as it is on the page (or even close to that way), you would be bored out of your freaking mind and hate it. I promise. And no movie is going to turn out exactly as you imagined the book to be – you didn’t direct it.

Back when I was first able to read and could enjoy a book that actually had a movie version, I held the movie accountable for most everything in the book – and I was frequently disappointed.

In third grade, for example, we read Roald Dahl’s James and the Giant Peach in class. When we discovered that the movie version would be coming out just months later, we begged for a field trip to see it and our teachers gave in. We were ecstatic! We couldn’t wait to see our favorite parts come to life. Many of us especially loved the chapter when the giant peach flies through the sky and crosses paths with the Cloud-Men, creatures who control the weather, and James and his insect friends instigate a little fight.

Nothing could temper the excitement of being in a movie theater with dozens of our classmates – except that as we watched the movie, we waited and waited only to never see any Cloud-Men. This treachery was utterly devastating to our 9-year-old imaginations, which longed to see the Cloud-Men brought to life. Why would they leave out the best part?

Nearly 20 years and hundreds of movies later, I can actually tell you why. I don’t think it would’ve been practical for Henry Selick, director of The Nightmare Before Christmas, who made this film by slowly moving solid clay figurines a millimeter at a time, to film a sequence in which a peach flies through the air and gets attacked by ghost-like Cloud-Men. Today, it definitely would have been easier to do with the help of some digital effects shots, but not in the early ‘90s.

We are lucky to live in an age when digital effects can help bridge the gap between what’s on the page and what turns up on screen. Movies are no longer as limited by what is or isn’t possible when adapting a book into a movie. This explains – visually at least – why movie versions have done books justice more often than they did before the 21st Century.

Consequently, movies and television continue to increase books’ popularity and vice-versa. The Hunger Games, Twilight, Game of Thrones – people are happy to consume their favorite story in every form possible. And everyone has their own best practices: they refuse to watch the movie if they’ve read the book or they have to read the book before seeing the movie or they never want to read a book before they see a movie – the iterations are endless.

I prefer to read books before I see movies, though time rarely affords it. As someone who has seen and read a lot, I feel like I know what qualities make up a good book versus a good movie, and I can manage my expectations. I never assume the quality of one will simply transfer to the other.

In our multimedia world, many people forget the obvious: books and movies are different forms of storytelling. Books bring us perspectives that movies can’t, while movies show us things no words can truly describe. If you can’t embrace the differences, it’s going to be hard to like anything as much as whichever you consume first.

As someone fascinated by storytelling, I love to consume the original source (usually the book) before the interpretation. What was taken out or what was added into a film version is an artistic choice, not a decision of whether to be loyal to the source or not. By taking out this part of the book, has the filmmaker made the film more concise and easy to watch or removed something essential? By adding a new scene, how does this add greater meaning to the story or does it simply distract from it? I love to decipher the artistic motivation and choices behind the discrepancies between books and films and make a determination of whether, in my opinion, the interpretation works or doesn’t.

Forgive me, I’m a story nerd. Whichever way you prefer to consume books and their movie counterparts, it doesn’t matter. But you’ll be happier the more you learn to appreciate the differences.

In honor of Halloween this year, I bring you animals in costume. Enjoy!

Aargh, I hate being a pirate!

Dying is so boring source via Reddit

Duuun dun duuun dun dun dun dun dun source via mental floss

The Great Pumpkin

It’s a pumpkin showdown! Who wore it best?

Would you like a pint of beer or some cuteness?

Super doggies source via Boo's Facebook page

Scary source via browse.deviantart

Bat cat source via 52favoritethings

Slobbery kisses $1 source via cuteoverload

Because even Halloween is a good day to wear a Bears jersey!

One of the many (many, many — some say even 72) names of God in Jewish thought is “El.” This Divine name ends up in almost as many human names. Here are some of the most popular, and some of the most interesting, followed by their meanings and their original Hebrew pronunciations (with “ch” as in “challah”):

Ariel: “God is my lion.” (AH-ree-el)
Daniel: “God is my judge.” (DAH-nee-el)
Elijah: “God is my Lord” (el-ee-YAH-hu)
Elisha: “God is my salvation” (el-ee-SHAH)
Elizabeth: “God is my oath” (el-ee-SHEV-a)
Emmauel: “God is with us” (ee-MAH-noo-el)
Ezikiel: “God will strengthen” (yih-CHEZ-kel)
Gabriel: “God is my might.” (GAHV-ree-el)
Joel: “The Lord is God” (YO-el)
Michael: “Who is like God?” (mee-CHAH-el)
Mitchell: (variant of Michael)
Nathaniel: “God gave to me.” (nah-TAH-nee-el)
Rapahel: “God is my healing” (reh-FAH-el)
Samuel: “God hears” (SHMOO-el)
Yael: “The Lord is God” (yah-EL)

And, of course:
Israel: “He who wrestles/strives with God.” (yis-RAH-el)

But even:
Ishmael: “God hears me” (yee-SHMAH-el)
Jezebel: “Not exalted.” (ee-ZEH-vel)

Some rarer ones:
Amiel: “God of my people” (ah-MEE-el)
Azrael: “God is my hope” (AHZ-rah-el)
Chaniel: “God favors me” (cha-NEE-el)
Gamaliel: “Compensation of God” (gahn-LEE-el)
Kal-El: “The voice of God”
Lemuel: “Belonging to God” (Lemuel Gulliver, in Gulliver’s Travels)
Othniel “God is my sign” (OHT-nee-el)
Petuel: “Vision of God” (peh-TOO-el)
Raziel: “God is my secret” (RAH-zee-el) [Aramaic]
Reuel: “Friend of God” (reh-OO-el)
Uriel: “God is my light” (OO-ree-el)
Uziel: “God is my strength” (OO-zee-el)

(Various angelologists list various combinations of the above-mentioned archangels, such as Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, and also these: Anael/Aniel, Ananiel, Barachiel, Cecitiel, Chamuel, Jegudiel, Jophiel, Marmoniel, Oriel, Oriphiel, Raguel, Remiel, Saraqael, Selaphiel, Simiel, Suriel, and Zadakiel.)

Not every name that ends in “-el” follows this pattern, however:
Hershel: “Deer” (HERSH-’l) [Yiddish]
Hillel: “Praised.” (HILL-el)
Rachel: “Ewe, lamb” (rah-CHA-el)

And some aren’t even Hebrew, but just happen to have an “-el” in there:
Denzel: A town in Cornwall, England
Ellen/Eleanor: variant of Helen, “sunbeam” [Greek]
Elvira: “Foreign” [German]
Gadiel: “God is my fortune” [Arabic]
Lionel: “Lion” [Latin]
Muriel: “Sparkling sea” [Irish]
Rigel: “Foot” [Arabic] [Like the Hebrew “regel.” Rigel is a star in Orion’s foot.]

Lastly, the least Jewish name with an “el” has got to be:
Noel: “Christmas” [French]

It’s my favorite time of year – the start of the NBA season. And it could not come at a better time. With the Bears stumbling into their bye week, Chicago is receiving the ultimate gift in the return of Derrick Rose, who comes back from the torn ACL he suffered in the 2012 playoffs that kept him out all of last season. I had no interest in joining the debates about whether or not Rose should have returned last season, and I just enjoyed the ride watching the undermanned Bulls surprise everyone and make an incredibly gutsy run into the playoffs.

But now Rose is back and I have been eager to watch every minute of every pre-season action to see what kind of shape he is in. Bulls fans: get ready for more player-by-player previews and predictions about the Bulls than you can handle.

First – some observations on the pre-season. Derrick Rose was bringing 110 percent in games that are normally reserved for players to just get their legs under them. But Rose came in with a huge chip on his shoulder and a lot to prove – and he more than did that. He looked incredible, and as much as people were saying he was playing all out in those meaningless games, I disagree. I still think we have yet to see the full extent of the improvement in Rose’s game.

Injuries on the rest of the roster have me troubled a bit going into the season, specifically regarding Joakim Noah and Kirk Hinrich. Both played major roles in the Bulls’ success last season and both will be keys to their success this year. Noah was shut down after only playing one pre-season game with a sore groin and Hinrich has been dealing with the aftermath of a concussion that has turned into shoulder pain.

The Bulls’ depth has taken a bit of a hit this year in my opinion, and without those two players, chances of getting past Miami and Indiana decrease significantly. Carlos Boozer looks worse than ever – and I’m not even a Boozer hater – but he hasn’t looked like an NBA starter so far this pre-season. And if they can stay healthy, I think the Bulls have the most dangerous defensive 2-3 in the league in Deng and Butler; they are going to take the bulk of the responsibility handling the opposing team’s best players.

There are a lot of new faces on the bench and a superstar returning to form – let’s go player by player and see what we hope to see from each going into the season, which tips off tonight against – you guessed it – the Miami Heat.

THE BENCH

Mike Dunleavy

The Bulls’ big off-season acquisition. Not exactly front page news but I think this was a solid pick-up. Since losing Kyle Korver two years ago, the Bulls have not had that go-to spot-up three point shooter, and now they should have that in Dunleavy. He’s 6-9, he can handle the ball and with his size he can shoot over about anyone else at his position. In the pre-season he has looked like he fits really well on this team and with Derrick back, the Bulls need to have reliable perimeter scorers for him to pass out to when he drives the lane and collapses the D. He can play a few different positions and allow the Bulls flexibility in their rotation. Rose will continue to attract attention and draw double teams and if Dunleavy can be accurate, this will be one of the Bulls’ most dangerous weapons.

Taj Gibson

The most improved player for the Bulls this pre-season. Taj took a step back last year after being one of the Bulls’ most reliable players off the bench, but he looked good in the pre-season. He put on some muscle and should provide the Bulls some nice flexibility if he can play the 5 in some rotations. He’s a great defender and shot-blocker and appears to have found his outside shot again. I still want to see him develop a better offensive post game, especially because the Bulls don’t have a player who can demand much attention in the paint on the offensive end, but if he can do that it will open things up for the perimeter players around him.

Kirk Hinrich

The big question facing Hinrich is can he stay on the court? Because if he can, this is a great back-up who can play both guard positions. He can handle the ball and run the offense and score when called upon, but pairing him with Rose at times will allow Derrick to move off the ball, something he has not been able to do as this is the first time the Bulls have really had a true point guard to back him up. But Hinrich has not proven he can play a full season. They are going to need to find a balance between limiting his minutes, keeping him healthy and being a guy who can let Rose and Butler rest during stretches.

Mike James - Good vet to have on the bench, but if we see much of him on the court, chances are we’re in big, big trouble.

Nazr Mohammed - For all of the bench players the Bulls let go in the offseason, this was actually the player I was most excited they retained. Last year Nazr didn’t play nearly enough in the early part of the season before Joakim started dealing with foot problems. And I think part of what led to Noah getting hurt was that he was playing too many minutes that Nazr could have been taking. Nazr is a solid veteran backup and can give the Bulls some solid minutes off the bench in order to help keep Jo fresh and healthy. He knows the team well, the system well, can play defense and is reliable on offense. If Coach Thibs is smart, we’ll see plenty of Big Naz early this year.

Erik Murphy - The rookie likely saw more minutes this pre-season than he will all year assuming Noah, Boozer and Gibson stay healthy. He is definitely green, and will likely spend most of the year on the bench outside of a possible appearance during a blow-out. He looks like an overweight Fred Hoiberg, and the Bulls are hoping he shoots like one too. But he is not someone the Bulls expect to get much from in the short term – he actually strikes me as a Troy Murphy-type: 6 feet 10 inches but more of a threat from behind the three-point line than he is in the paint. The Bulls see him as a guy who could spread the floor at the 4 spot, but, likely won’t have many opportunities to do so this season. Still seems soft for the NBA game.

Tony Snell - The Bulls’ other rookie may have a slightly better chance of cracking the rotation, but this is another long term project. Snell is extremely athletic and projects to be a good outside shooter, but the Bulls are stacked at the 2 and 3 positions and this appears to be a development year for him. But this pick along with Murphy shows the Bulls’ commitment to surrounding their core with great outside shooters to help support Rose’s drive and kick game – but he could also be the second coming of Eddie Robinson … yikes.

Marquis Teague - The standout of the Bulls’ summer league, Teague showed improvement in his overall maturity and ability to handle the ball and run an offense. He appears to have worked on his outside shot, but that is still far from a reliable weapon. But he is extremely fast and clearly a good student of coach Tom Thibodeau’s system. With Hinrich’s inability to stay healthy for an entire season, Teague could get some quality minutes as the backup point guard.

THE STARTERS

Carlos Boozer

The worst thing I saw this pre-season was the play of Carlos Boozer. More than ever before, he is so mentally absent on defense. And for him that is saying a lot. Boozer has the big contract, but he is the weak link in an otherwise defensively strong starting lineup. I think the Bulls will have trouble sending Boozer to the bench given his paycheck, but, I think this has to be the year that Taj Gibson becomes a starter. Now that Taj is a more reliable scorer, he solidifies what could be the most formidable starting defense in the NBA. The Bulls will be really, really difficult to score on without that big hole down low. That, and the microphones don’t pick up Boozer as clearly when he’s yelling “go get it, Jo” from the bench.

Jimmy Butler

Jimmy Buckets is primed for a break-out year. He has spent the offseason working on his offensive game, which already took a step forward last season. He is one of the best wing defenders in the game and he could get better. And now with Derrick Rose running alongside him, opportunities to score should be much easier to come by for Butler. He showed in the preseason that he has worked on his outside shot, and if he can continue to develop his ability to create his own shot, he could finally be the long sought after Pippen to Rose’s Jordan. And if the Bulls want to take the next step toward a championship, they will need Butler to be the answer at shooting guard they have long struggled to find.

Luol Deng

An important season for Deng for many reasons. Coming to the last year of his contract, Deng has been the glue of this Bulls team. He has played through numerous injuries, he has been the leader of the team on and off the court, and he has been the lock-down defender to always take on the opposing team’s best player. He has continued to develop his skills on offense, adding a reliable three point shot to his cut and slash game. But is Deng the long term answer? And will the Bulls be willing to pay what Deng will be asking for in the offseason? He will also be the subject of many trade rumors as we get closer to the deadline, and probably the most likely Bull to be shipped out given his contract situation and value as a defender. I will be sad to see Deng go, but he is their best chance to get a true low post scorer to replace Boozer.

Joakim Noah

The personification of the Bulls heart-on-their-sleeves grit. And after suffering last year from a nasty bout with plantar fasciitis, Noah came to camp in amazing shape only to injure his groin and appear in just one pre-season game. Noah was shut down and is doubtful to play in the season opener. It goes practically without saying that the Bulls will not win the East without a healthy Noah, and already dealing with an injury before the season starts raises a lot of warning flags for me as a Bulls fan. Maybe he’ll come back and everything will be fine, but, after last season’s ongoing injury issues the Bulls need to be a lot more cautious with Noah this year.

Derrick Rose

Finally. He’s back. And like I mentioned before, he looks better than ever, which is scary. He looks stronger, he still attacks the rim without abandon, and he has clearly worked on his outside shot. If Rose can add a consistent three-point shot to his already dominant game, this will be another MVP season for the Chicago native. I don’t want to get into his conditioning, should they rest him or not this season, etc. etc., but the biggest test will be late in the playoffs when Rose is double-teamed: will his supporting cast prove threatening enough to make opposing teams regret leaving them open to double Rose?

In terms of what else to watch for this season: do the Bulls make a trade before the deadline or do they stand pat? Will the starting lineup stay healthy all year? Can Rose actually return to MVP status? Will Thibs learn how to take his starters out of the game with four minutes left when the Bulls are up by 20?

My Prediction: If Noah, Butler, Deng and Rose stay healthy, this will be the year the Bulls was beat Miami and return to the NBA Finals.

Eric Burgher is the founder of the blog Sweet Home Sports.

Upon meeting someone new, when they find out I am a chef, four out of five times I am asked what I like to call the “question trifecta.”

“Where do you work?” 
“What do you like to cook?”
“What is your favorite food?”

My answer to the last one gets them every time. People expect me to give some grand answer such as roasted bone marrow and foie gras truffle terrine with sous vide rabbit. And don’t forget the Osetra Caviar with vodka crème fraiche! FALSE, sorry to disappoint, but the answer is soup. Yes, soup! Soup of almost any kind.

Think about it. Soup is the perfect meal. It is the ultimate comfort food and can be made in big batches with anything you have around. Hearty soups — hot and full of deep flavors and textures — are what I crave. Eat it alone and it’s a great lunch or pair it with a delicious salad and there you have dinner. Soup should be extremely healthy both in fat content but also clean and not full of additives. We all have to fight the urge to pick up a can of soup from the supermarket shelf. They are full of sodium and preservatives. Homemade soups taste better, are cheaper, and are better for you. About 30 min of prep time is well worth it. One large pot of soup can be made in a very short period of time and then frozen into individual portions waiting for you at a moment’s notice — an insta-meal.

Most recently, I made a soup inspired by a dinner with my sister and brother in-law. It was the first really cold day of the fall season and we wanted a hearty but healthy dinner. I made a kale and wheat berry soup with a roasted carrot and apple salad. While in Israel this past February, I picked up a bottle of silan honey (date honey), which went great with the salad. As a substitute, regular honey may be used, but I have spotted silan at grocery stores that specialize in Middle Eastern products.

Soup

1 bunch leeks (chopped)
1 bunch kale (chopped)
3 celery stalks (chopped)
2 cloves garlic (minced)
1 small yellow onion (chopped)
1 T dried basil
12 oz tomato paste
1/2 cup dried wheat berries
2 32-oz boxes Swanson Free-Range Certified Organic Chicken Broth, 99 Percent Fat Free
1 T olive oil
1 12-oz can organic low sodium cannellini beans
Kosher salt to taste

In 5-quart stock pot heat oil. Sweat leeks, garlic, and onion until translucent. Add in tomato paste stirring constantly so that sugars caramelize but do not burn about 3 minutes. Add to pot all other ingredients reserving the beans. Bring soup to a boil and let simmer for 2 hours. During the last 15 minutes of cooking add beans to pot.

Salad

2 large carrots (roasted on 375 for 20 min with 1 T olive oil, 1t silan honey, salt and pepper to taste)
1 honey crisp apple skin on (chopped)
1 small fennel bulb

Roasted Shallot Vinaigrette

8 oz roasted shallots
2 oz dijon mustard
3 oz honey
24 oz grape seed oil
2 oz red wine vinegar
Kosher salt to taste

Place all dressing ingredients in a blender and slowly drizzle in oil until completely emulsified.

Assemble salad and toss with desired amount of dressing right before serving. Should have extra dressing for use later. 

The neighborhood where my grandpa was born

Next month will mark the 75th anniversary of Kristallnacht. I learned about the vicious November Pogrom as a child growing up in Skokie, but my grandma and grandpa experienced first-hand the anxiety, humiliation and persecution inflicted upon the Jews of Germany and Austria during those horrific times. The sorrow and significance of their stories has been sealed in my conscience.

In hope of gaining a deeper understanding of their experiences, last month I decided to take a trip with my wife, Stefanie, to Berlin and Vienna, the respective homes of my grandpa and grandma. For years I had wanted to travel there and see for myself – as best I could – what these places were like for them. So we set aside some cash and booked the trip, planning to visit as many family landmarks as possible. Once we got there, we managed to visit the very buildings where my grandma and grandpa were born and lived. The journey connected us to their stories of survival.

“A Slow Boat to China”

My grandpa, Fred, was born in the borough of Tegel in Berlin. As the war began, he worked as a tailor in one of Berlin’s thriving department stores. Before Kristallnacht, a non-Jewish childhood friend in the Berlin police department tipped him off that he was on a list of Jews to be arrested and deported. Grandpa knew he had to leave quickly, but where would he go? He desperately wanted to obtain a visa to Australia – a cousin had secured safe passage there, and perhaps he would have a better chance of surviving and reassembling his life with family around. But it was not to be. Countries all over the world were closing their borders. His only available escape route led to Shanghai, China, where luckily no passport or visa was required.

He managed to get a ticket, but the slow boat to China would not embark for weeks. On Kristallnacht, he watched from an alley as Nazis searched for him in his apartment. He spent the ensuing nights sleeping alone outdoors, hiding wherever he could – even in the Berlin Zoo. Finally, at the age of 31, almost the exact same age that I am today, my grandpa left the only home he ever knew for the very foreign – and dangerous – Jewish Ghetto of Shanghai. Some 30,000 German and Austrian Jews, who were not as lucky, were arrested during Kristallnacht and imprisoned in concentration camps.

It was in Shanghai where my grandparents would meet and eventually marry.

My grandma and grandpa on their wedding day in Shanghai, China, Nov. 30, 1947

My grandma, Adele, grew up in a well-to-do Viennese family. Her father, Salomon, was a highly decorated veteran of the First World War, having fought as a cavalry officer on the Eastern front.

When I was a kid, my grandma beamed with pride when she talked about her father. He built his own business crafting specialty liqueurs. The family owned an apartment building, which still stands to this day. Salomon was a strict parent – true to his military background. But he was also a strong, spirited man and loving father who encouraged his children to study music and chaperoned my grandma’s school field trips.

Life changed after the Anschluss. On Kristallnacht, Salomon was arrested and severely beaten by Nazi-collaborating authorities. Fortunately, he always kept his veteran’s papers in his wallet, and his captors released him only out of “respect” for his gallant service to his country. As my grandma remembered, her father had not come home that night, and she anxiously waited outside their apartment building for him. When she finally saw him walking down the street toward their home, the spirited spring in his step was noticeably absent. He walked with his head down. As he came closer, she could see the matted blood on his face from the beating he suffered only hours before. Her father was forever broken and would never be the same. The very next day he obtained the family’s tickets to Shanghai, and they left with the few belongings they could carry. Members of my grandma’s extended family who stayed behind were deported to Theresienstadt and, like so many others, were never heard from again.

Axis of Remembrance

Despite these struggles, for the rest of their lives Berlin and Vienna would always be “home” to my grandparents. Ironically, for my grandpa, anything made in Germany was of the highest and best quality, of course. For my grandma, Vienna was a joyful town, filled with beautiful music, good food, and opportunity. And when I finally took in these cities for myself, I understood what all the fuss was about – even though so much has changed.

One of the most poignant experiences of the trip was the time we spent at the Jewish Museum in Berlin. The tour starts with underground hallways which lead to the main museum building. The floors of the hallways are uneven and present the visitor with three pathways called "Axes". First is the “Axis of Continuity” which is intended to be a connection of Germany’s tortured past with its present.

Continuing on, the visitor is presented with a proverbial fork in the road. If you turn one way, you are led to the “Axis of Exile,” which tells the harrowing stories of escape and survival of German-Jewish families and individuals just like my grandpa. This path leads to the “Garden of Exile.” The Garden is not a garden in the typical sense but instead is a sort of courtyard with uneven ground and concrete pillars of varying height, intended by the architect to “completely disorient the visitor” and represent “a shipwreck of history.” For me, this part of the museum harkened stories of the treacherous living conditions and trying times – disorienting no doubt – that awaited my grandparents in the Shanghai Ghetto.

When you turn the other way, you pass through the “Axis of the Holocaust.” As the museum’s website explains, “[t]he ‘Axis of the Holocaust’ is a dead end. It becomes ever narrower and darker and ends at the Holocaust Tower.” The Holocaust Tower is a single, unfurnished room with an opening in the ceiling to the outside and no heat or air-conditioning. It is a void.

Like so many Jewish children and grandchildren of Holocaust survivors, I am the product of a twist of fate, turn of luck, Providence, Divine intervention – whatever you want to call it. What if my grandpa’s childhood friend had grown up to be a Nazi? What if Salomon was not carrying his veteran’s papers that day? What if the Shanghai port was closed to Jews? Exploring the labyrinth of the museum, reading the stories of survival on one hand and murder on the other, I got chills. For my grandparents, a turn to the left, or a turn to the right, could have easily led to the Axis of the Holocaust – a dead end.

But their survival was not just about luck. I am awestruck by their emotional and physical toughness during those years.

After scraping by in the Shanghai Ghetto for just shy of ten years, my grandparents were finally allowed to emigrate to the United States – another different and strange place – where they managed to start over and raise a family of their own in Chicago.

As I made my way through the Jewish Museum in Berlin with Stefanie, I asked myself, would I have the strength to survive the way my grandparents did? The courage to uproot myself and my family? Finding myself isolated, in such strange and dangerous places, would I have the grit to start over? Would I have the determination to rebuild from scratch – at this very stage of my life?

Fortunately, for me and my generation, there is no Axis of the Holocaust or Axis of Exile. Instead, I choose to create for myself an Axis of Remembrance, to commit myself to never forget the loss and the pain and suffering that my grandma and grandpa – and so many others like them – endured only because they were Jews.

It has been years since my grandma and grandpa passed away, but walking the streets they walked, listening to the music they loved, and eating the food they enjoyed helped me understand their experiences just a little bit better. Their lives will always be an inspiration and source of strength for me – as long as I tread the path of the Axis of Remembrance.

Feed Chicago at The Gan Project. Photo credit: Bob Kusel

I love the holiday season: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Chanukah; the music, the food, the presents, the traditions. One family tradition that I hope to maintain in our home is that of giving back.

The holiday season is a time to count your blessings, and with each festive meal, each present we give and receive, each party we attend, I find that my thoughts are drawn to the people – individuals, families and kids – who are not as fortunate as we are.  There are so many people who can't afford gifts, who don't have the money for a turkey, or who have no one to celebrate with. Taking a bit of time out of the hectic holiday month to share our blessings with others makes me feel good, and I know that by doing this year after year, it will instill the importance of giving in our children for life.

In my previous life as a volunteer coordinator, I spent the weeks of Thanksgiving, Chanukah and Christmas fielding countless calls from families seeking out volunteer opportunities, only to find out that every single spot everywhere they called was full. This is a real phenomenon, because while of course there seems to be an infinite number of people in need, nonprofit organizations have limited capacity for creating meaningful opportunities. They don't want too many cooks in the kitchen if you know what I mean. So even though it's only October, I thought I would share some ideas and strategies for finding holiday season volunteer opportunities in advance, so you don't find yourself in the same pickle on Thanksgivukkah eve.

Feed Chicago at the Campus Kitchen at Northwestern University. Photo credit: Bob Kusel

The greatest challenge when it comes to volunteering is getting your foot in the door, since most of us aren't sure where to find these opportunities.  

TOV!
JUF's TOV Volunteer Network assembles a large collection of holiday-based projects in their seasonal Mitzvah Mania calendar. You can sign up directly through TOV, and there are so many options available, across Chicago and the suburbs, in a large variety of agencies.

Online Resources
Chicago Cares, All for Good, Volunteer Match, Idealist – these online resources are clearing houses for one-time and ongoing volunteer opportunities. Your mileage may vary when navigating these sites, but if you can't find a project through TOV that fits your schedule, these are other outstanding resources that may help you find a good fit. United Way and the agencies they support partner with All for Good to list volunteer opportunities, and Salvation Army uses Volunteer Match.

Google
A friendly Google search of "your neighborhood" and "volunteer" and "Thanksgiving" sounds obvious and silly, but often there are niche agencies and programs that run programs that are too small to warrant a listing for volunteers on a large-scale volunteer online database. Also, seasonal opportunities of some agencies often fill so quickly that it doesn't pay for agencies to "over-advertise" a project, since they tend to fill quickly.  

When it comes to what you should look for, really the choices are abundant, whether within the Jewish community or beyond. Options include friendly visiting with the elderly, serving a meal at a soup kitchen, offering a hand at a local shelter, working with kids with disabilities, buying holiday gifts for those who could not otherwise afford it, and so much more. 

Once you've identified agencies that are of interest, give them a call and send an email. Ask to speak with the volunteer coordinator, and don't be afraid to leave a message or two. 'Tis the season to be swamped, and those who are proactive get the volunteer spots.

Happy helping and happy holidays!!

This past weekend, I attended a Chicago Ideas Week talk entitled “Instigators: The Good Fight,” featuring speakers who see the evil and hurt in the world and take a personal stand to make it better. This included Chicago native (and fellow University of Illinois alum!) Dan Savage, the incredibly courageous and poised Elizabeth Smart, and a few other speakers who addressed the audience with eloquence and inspired the crowd with their fierce passion.

Mid-way through the event, Ronny Edry took the stage. Equipped with a sarcastic, endearing, utterly Israeli sense of humor, graphic designer Edry unfurled his story. In the face of Israel’s conflicts in the Middle East, he used his art to spark change. He started a powerful movement on the most ubiquitous of platforms – Facebook.

Edry’s message first took form on his page, “Israel Loves Iran.” What started as a single poster he shared on his Facebook wall spurred a movement of dialogue between not just Israelis and Iranians, but countless people across the Middle East. Talking about Israel Loves Iran and Edry’s latest venture, The Peace Factory, doesn’t do them justice. You’ll just have to visit to take a closer look at citizens from all over the Middle East taking to social media to spread messages of love, peace and hope of cooperation.

Edry’s message is as simple as can be: make peace viral.

Make peace viral.

As someone who’s spent the better part of the last three years managing social media accounts, I was taken incredibly aback, in the best way. Anyone remotely involved in social media strategy talks about virality. Everyone talks circles around that buzzword to end all buzzwords – engagement.

I could not have been more engaged. As the images of Iran Loves Israel, The Peace Factory and the global Peace Factory community flashed on the auditorium projector, I was mesmerized. There’s this great verb in French, bouleverser. It roughly translates, “to turn upside down.” It’s a monumental word, it encompasses a gamut of actions; it can signify being deeply moved, agitation, disruption, instigation, or a fight.

In that instant, in viewing this sort of message recast in a brand new way, that was the first word I thought of. In the best way. Seeing a message so close to my heart being portrayed in such a fresh, creative, artful way moved me in a manner that I hadn’t been in a while.

Do yourself a favor. Check out Edry’s Ted Talk. Check out the Facebook page. If I took anything away from Ronny Edry’s talk it was this: let love be a powerful, powerful weapon.

Last year, honestly, we struggled to find Jewish stories in the NBA as Omri Casspi declined and Jordan Farmar left for Turkey. Not this year! With both players back, one literally and the other mentally, it’s time to look at the top 10 stories going into this (Jewish) NBA season:

10. Raptor Drake
The rapper Drake has become the newest ambassador of the Toronto Raptors. Will this bring Mo' Money or Mo' Problems?

9. Two Former Israel League Players with a Shot
Two former Israel league players have new homes and could be crucial to championships. Roger Mason Jr. finds himself in Miami, where he hopes to solidify a confusing bench for the Heat. Meanwhile, Alan Anderson is in Brooklyn where he gives the Nets a solid threat off the bench at both guard slots. Either one could be wearing a ring at the end of the season.

8. Which Owner Gets the Ring?
This year there are several Jewish owners in the mix for a NBA Championship. Jerry Reinsdorf (Bulls) Micky Arison (Heat), Bruce Ratner (Nets), Leslie Alexander (Rockets), and Donald Sterling (Clippers). Will one of these men be getting a new ring soon?

7. Bye-Bye Stern 
Commissioner David Stern is on the way out. Besides turning the NBA into a cash cow, he developed both the NDBL and WNBA during his tenure and brought the NBA to Canada. His basketball legacy will forever to be great. What is next for Stern?

6. Shtark Tank
Mark Cuban ...what will he do next? He has had trouble finding the star to replace Dirk, but is trying. We can all expect something from Cuban this year, the question is what?

5. Frank Back with Nets
Lawrence Frank is back on the Nets' bench, although with head coach Jason Kidd ahead of him. Kidd will look to Frank for guidance, but it's a perfect opportunity for Frank if Kidd falters (and yes we assume Kidd knows that). Frank was very successful at the beginning of his head coaching career in New Jersey. He will be the mastermind behind their defensive schemes.

4. Hello Silver
On February 1, 2014 Adam Silver will take over as NBA commissioner, a job that has been held by David Stern since 1984. Silver has his work cut out for him, as Stern took a lot of negative heat even though the NBA grew tremendously during his tenure. What does Silver's regime have in store? We will soon find out.

3. Farmar Where He Belongs 
Jordan Farmar is back and back where he belongs: in a Los Angeles Lakers jersey (I am really happy I bought that jersey two years ago). He was solid in Turkey, but now, in a familiar place and healthy, Farmar finds himself ready to contribute. The Lakers will be without Kobe Bryant for a while and Dwight Howard is gone, but Farmar's main role is to relieve Steve Nash and help keep the Lakers in the thick of things.

2. Casspi Fully Back 
Omri Casspi has been at the bottom of the barrel over the last few seasons, both in a Kings and Cavs jersey. This year he joins the Houston Rockets and if preseason is any indication, Casspi fits right in. He has thus far had an outpour of scoring and his length, defense, and outside shooting will play perfectly with the drive and dish of James Harden and post-attention-double-teams of Dwight Howard. Casspi could cash in big time.

Omri Casspi

1. Welcome Gal Mekel
Gal Mekel is this year's number one story. Last year's Israeli standout for Maccabi Haifa is now in the NBA and trying to make the transition smoothly. He is the new Jew on the block and fans everywhere are just waiting to see how he develops. He is not a foreigner of the USA, however, as he played his college ball at Wichita State. Will Mekel make the Mavs? Will he play an important role? Will he develop into a star? We will be watching. 

I am pretty sure I am having some kind of a breakdown. It’s not a midlife crisis because I definitely plan on living way past 82, but it’s a crisis nonetheless. Basically, I’m losing my doo-doo.

Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t always been begging my husband to send me away to a special kind of spa resort for stay-at-home moms who are all muttering, “What was I thinking?” in various corners of a padded room, over and over again. I had a great summer with my kids. I was even able to get them to routinely do chores. The carrot was the new puppy for sure, but I credit the kids for staying with the feeding, the walking and the clearing and rinsing of the dishes well after the puppy was no longer new.

I entered fall feeling very calm, very in control – superior even. I was Super Mom! My billowing pink and white polka dot cape with an SM monogram flowed as my obedient, well-adjusted children walked behind me with gigantic “I LOVE MOM!” signs chanting “Our mom’s the best! Our mom’s the BEST!!!” But oh, how the worm has turned.

I’m not sure what happened. In my objective opinion, I had a really long run as an awesome mom. I will say that the beginning of school did not help. The first morning the kids had to go to school, no one got up. No one got up even though they were getting up happily, easily and on their very own all summer long. So, suffice to say, the first day of school began with a battle. “Good morning!” “What would you like for breakfast?” and “Take your time” turned quickly into, “Get up!” “Eat!” and “You’re going to miss the bus!”

As I shooed my kids against their will out the door and off to school, my awesome mom standing plummeted exponentially. I could feel the chill in the air. My once warm and loving children now saw me as the enemy. They forgot all about the good times: how I served them homemade chocolate chip pancakes every morning without fail, sweet-talked their daddy into a third dog after he had said “absolutely NOT!” and even let them name the teeny-tiny rat terrier “Nelly” after the rapper. And they completely forgot what an excellent Shrinky Dink tracer I was. In the good ol’ days, they used to fight over who would get my steady hand first. Now I was simply a cross to bear – up there with homework and shots.

Being a stay-at-home mom is complicated. You put on hold (or forever sometimes) your “other” life. The life you had before you surrounded yourself 24-7 with spit up, diapers, homework, boys, girls, acne, prom … the life where you got a paycheck and adult co-workers. The life where the majority of your day was spent outside of the home and when you came back, it was your sanctuary. I love my kids, but sometimes I feel terribly off balance. I berate myself for having a tornado of a house and yet others compliment my willingness to “turn over” almost every room to the kids and their cars, puzzles, Legos and art projects. When you walk into our house, it is clear that it is a home. No room goes unused. There is no untouchable item, no white carpeting.

When we decided to have a family, we wanted to minimize the redirecting around living life. I think we have done a solid job in terms of that. However, sometimes I’d like something new and perfect to stay new and perfect for longer than 30 seconds. Sometimes I yearn for a life outside of and in addition to my kids. Sometimes I think it would make me better at being a parent. My husband gets a four-star rating from the kids regularly and he seems able to embrace every learning/bonding/developmental moment that has ever existed between parent and child. I think some of that come from the balance he is able to create between work and home. (That, and he has the patience and discipline style of Gandhi.)

So I feel like I am at somewhat of a crossroads. And this is not new news. I believe most stay-at-home parents – and most working parents – come to a place of questioning at some point. “What am I doing?” and “Where do I go from here?” So, I am going to let these questions ferment for now. I am grateful for having the time and the choice to do just that. Right now I have four of the toughest bosses I have ever had: I need to remind them to thank me for a job well done and they never, ever offer me a raise. At the same time, there is no other job where I would take so much to heart. To see my kids off from the beginning of the day to the end of their night is a gift that I cherish. So maybe the cape is a little tattered. And maybe that’s OK. Because let’s face it – who’s getting a raise these days anyway? …

I’m a married man! Boy that feels good to say.

I am so happy, I cannot begin to describe how in words. Jewish weddings are indeed a wondrous occasion, filled with lots of joy, happiness, and really good food like everyone says. And for a fact, I would not have attended my own wedding if the food did not meet our collective standards; both my wife Ashley and I are well-known Chicago foodies.

Last time I wrote it was before my bachelor party and all the anticipation leading up to the big day was building. Thanks to my wife, I was counting down the days like a walking timer. Then, it came all at once, and like a blur, it was over. It was breathtaking and I couldn’t have asked for a better setting for the happiest day of my life.

Now that I have been through my own Jewish wedding, I thought I’d share just a few select words of wisdom and guidance to anyone that has not experienced a Jewish wedding, or is about to experience one of their own for the first time. As one of Ashley’s friends said of her husband in their note to us: “At one point [in the ceremony], [he] turned to me and said, ‘This is by far the most awesome wedding I’ve ever seen or been to. Way more exciting than the Christian ones.’”

What’s all the excitement about? Read on!

Tip: When invited to a Jewish wedding, get excited!

Next to a World Championship, a Jewish wedding is one of the most hyped-up events of a Jewish person’s life, and rightfully so. Did you know that tradition dictates the bride and groom trump the Bar or Bat Mitzvah on the day of their auf ruf? This holy union is so important and so holy, it literally steals the limelight from anything else going on at that time. It’s not meant to be for selfish reasons, only to recognize and validate G-d and the spiritual union of two souls into one. As you will see in the beautiful wedding ceremony, the couple establishes a house of their own and join their souls together, linking themselves to thousands of years of tradition. Pretty big deal for anyone that’s witnessing or part of it. As an observer, you need not worry about doing anything except smile, say “Mazel Tov,” and celebrate!

Tip: Thoughtfulness goes a long way.

Yes, the couple will probably get a chance to hear you thank them in person for being invited to the wedding – if they ever get a moment from the hullabaloo. Even so, a thoughtful written note in your wedding card will mean a lot, and will be cherished long after the wedding has come and gone. Also, be sure to find your way to the couple at some point during the event. They may make their rounds, but keep in mind that they are overwhelmed with joy and happiness. Dance with them during the Horah, toast them when they walk by, and sign the guestbook.

Tip: Compliment and thank parents from both sides.

You may or may not know that Jewish weddings are typically hosted by the parents of the bride, while traditionally the parents of the groom host the brunch the morning after. Lately, Jewish weddings have been accompanied by a rehearsal dinner, hosted by the parents of the groom, where they are able to welcome family and out-of-town guests and share in the wedding celebration. They choose the place, food, entertainment, and speeches. It’s now a very important part of the wedding experience, even though not everyone invited gets to attend. But whether or not you are invited to the rehearsal dinner, make sure to pay homage to the groom’s family. They will appreciate it greatly and will add to their already overflowing nachas (pride and joy).

Tip: Celebrate and Par-tay!

This is the most important tip I can give you. For the wedding couple and family, it’s tough to deal with all the pressure that comes with planning and organizing the wedding, but once the ceremony is done, it’s time to let off that steam! For the wedding attendees, it is a mitzvah (good deed) to partake in the celebration of a Jewish wedding. If you’re not a drinker, don’t worry – you can get buzzed on all the sugar from the sweet table or dance until you’re dizzy. Make sure to fast beforehand, enjoy the ceremony, give the bride lots of attention and complements during the reception, and have a good time. It’s mandatory!

And grooms - don’t forget to kiss the bride, and don’t lose the ring!

To married life! L’Chaim! 

A few days ago, I attended a beautiful baby shower for my cousin. Out of 10 grandchildren on my dad’s side, she was the first one to have a baby. The rest of us have truly enjoyed getting to reap the benefits of having a new, most adorable child to play with, spoil, and get to know.

The party was absolutely gorgeous. Everything – from the intricately designed cake to the homemade rosemary sea-salt party favors – was perfect. The party planners – my cousin’s childhood best friend and her mother – went above and beyond creating an unbelievable environment for my cousin’s special celebration.

As my cousin stood teary-eyed in front of her friends and family, she thanked her closest girlfriends who had been some of her best friends since childhood, touching on how many experiences they had shared together and how it is amazing to still be friends after all these years. As the crowd released a collective “awwww,” my mom and I exchanged glances, both thinking the same thing.

I rarely speak to my friends from elementary school and middle school who were subsequently my same friends in junior high and high school. There was never really a scandal, fight, or dramatic incident that caused a falling out and terminated our friendship; for one reason or another, toward the end of high school we began to drift apart. The “we really needed to get together” texts were sent less and less. I stopped making calls to check in and no longer posted on their Facebook walls with any regularity. As my freshmen year in college ended, it seemed clear that my childhood friendships sort of ended as well … and I was okay with that.

No pity necessary, please. Sure, on the surface it seems a bit unfortunate that the girls that saw me score my first (and only) goal in park district soccer aren’t the girls saved on my iPhone favorites list (that sadly doesn’t have the same ring as “speed dial”). And sure, if I were to #TBT a freshman year homecoming picture, it would seem out of the blue, since I only really speak to these girls if I awkwardly run into them or if it is to wish them a happy birthday on Facebook. However, as long as you have a close support system, does it really matter when your friendships began? I certainly don’t think so.

I am endlessly thankful for the people who are my closest friends. These are the people whom I can call with a problem or send a text strung together with a jumbled spaz of words to at any point in time without worrying that they’ll judge me. These are the people that I am confident will laugh at my (sometimes, but rarely) bad jokes and these are the people who are there for me (and I for them) through the triumphs and disappointments that life throws my way. These friendships developed over the course of my different life experiences. Although they began long after our preschool days, they are no less monumental.

The friends that I made at camp taught me to be comfortable in my own skin. Whether I’ve known them since we were 13 or met them while we were on camp staff, these are some of the people who know me better than anyone. From nights as campers talking until two in the morning to nights on staff where we were hopped-up on caffeine and working until, well, two in the morning, I’ve created some of my best memories at one of my favorite places with them. These are the people who I have fun doing absolutely nothing with and understand how one chord of “Iris” can make me nearly cry. Let me tell you: I truly never would have (barely) made it through my first summer not at camp without them.

Friendship reaches a deeper level when you travel with someone. I’ll never forget who I cried with when we saw the Kotel for the first time. I’ll never forget who enjoyed some of the best pizza in the world with me in Italy, who stayed in some of the funniest (and creepiest) of hostels with me so that we wouldn’t have to waste our money on hotels, and who sat at four hour dinners with me in Barcelona sipping on wine and talking about truly everything. There is something special about those who you can create memories with across the globe. It is even more exceptional that after these experiences end, the bonds that you have built make it possible for it to feel like time hasn’t passed whenever those exciting reunions happen.

I am also grateful that a good portion of the first people I met freshmen year are still my close friends; they have been there for me through everything since then. Not only are these the girls that I went to my first college party as GW student with, but they are the people who stayed with me overnight in the hospital when I had pneumonia, rushed me to the airport when my Papa was sick, and brought me medicine so many times that it would be impossible to return the favor. No matter how you slice it, college is a whirlwind of a transition and having people by your side, as you go through this transition, is something that I believe is extremely important. It is fortunate that most of the people who were by my side during that first week of that new stage of life never left it.

People sometimes joke that participating in Greek Life means that you are “paying for your friends.” However, as cheesy as it sounds, I could never put on a price on my best friends from SDT. These are the people who I have been through truthfully everything with and I am sure almost anyone who is a part of a Greek organization would agree that these networks facilitate some of the most meaningful friendships out there. Even though my best friends from this organization are across the country, life’s unexpected curveballs showed me how much we are really there for each other – no matter what. We would truly do anything for each other and it doesn’t matter that I’ve known them for five or six years, rather than 15 or 16.

It really doesn’t matter where your closest friends come from. What’s important is the realization that throughout your life, friendships can develop at any point and be meaningful. It matters that you have the people who you are there for and who are there for you. It matters that you have the people that you can laugh about nothing with for hours. It matters that you have some of your best memories with them and that you can’t help but smile when you reminisce about these times.

The author and poet Ernest Meyers once said, “Don’t just count your years, make your years count.” This quote can relate to a number of things, including friendship. As cliché as this sounds, even though my best friends are not my lifelong friends, I know that they are the friendships that will last for a lifetime.

This piece was previously posted on JewHungry.

It was the black-eyed peas. Isn’t that where all great Southern Romances start? They should. I guess that isn’t really where it started. But that is definitely when I knew my life was about to change. Those black-eyed peas made me open up my eyes a little wider; they made me take notice.

I mean come on, y’all: A man who will hand you a bowl of black-eyed peas and a slice of cornbread when the rest of the world looks at you like you’ve lost your mind? That’s a man you need to pay attention to; that is a man you should keep. If I were Scarlett O’Hara I would have required a fainting couch. Instead, I grabbed my bowl of peas, gave a wry smile and went on my lunch break.

I started working in a restaurant during graduate school because that’s what graduate acting students are supposed to do. Actors work in restaurants. I guess actors are really supposed to be waiters, but I am far too clumsy to jump in the deep end like that. Honestly, I’m as likely to fall down as I am to take another breath. Volunteering to carry a tray full of drinks would be disastrous for everyone involved. I needed to work up to something like that, so I started out in the shallow end as a host.

Being a host at a busy downtown Chicago restaurant is not as glamorous as it may sound. Aside from looking up and having Maya Angelou or some hot baseball player in my face, there wasn’t a lot to brag about. Why do people act like fools when they go out to eat? Working at that welcome desk was like working in a pressure cooker; there was always a new drama, someone was always upset and everyone was hungry. It was pretty miserable.

When I look back on that time in my life it’s pretty clear to me that I had “dropped my basket.” Why did I stand at that desk night after night organizing a dining room for $12 an hour? Oh, right, it was so I could avoid thinking about how my life was in the toilet.

I had moved to Chicago to study theatre. Exciting! I had arrived with a boyfriend and a plan. By the time I got out of school I had no boyfriend and my only plan was to not end up back in Arkansas with my parents. Everything had changed and it was not necessarily for the better. I should probably have been doing something more productive with my time than handing out menus and putting asses in chairs, but I couldn’t. I was stuck.

By the time Andy arrived I had almost given up. This was it. I would just be a host for the rest of my life. There are worse things and far worse jobs. I noticed Andy on his first day of training because I had never seen a restaurant manager smile so much. He was like a little miniature sun. He was glowing. When you’re training to be a manager in a restaurant they make you work in all of the different departments. It’s supposed to help you become acquainted with how everything works. It’s mostly just low-level torture.

His first week of training was in the kitchen. There he was behind the line in his little chef’s outfit smiling like a dang crazy person. No one has ever looked so happy standing in front of 1400 degree charcoal grills. No. One.

I was on my lunch break and was super excited because we had a new special. It was pork medallions over a bed of greens and black-eyed peas. The only trouble was I didn’t want the pork. I just wanted a huge bowl of those black-eyed peas and a slice of cornbread. It reminded me of home. I was willing to pay whatever I had to for those peas. I placed my order and waited. Then the chef came over to me.

“You want the pork special without the meat?”

“Yep, I just want the black-eyed peas.”

“Just black-eyed peas? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I’m from the South. That’s how we do. Is it a problem?”

“No.”

“Thank you.”

I waited. My order did not come up. Finally, I took matters into my own hands. I walked over to the only friendly face in the kitchen. I explained my order to Andy and the situation. I had paid for the peas, I just needed somebody to make them happen.

“You just want a bowl of black-eyed peas?”

“Yes, please.”

“Ummm, okay.”

I watched as he walked over to where the peas were kept. He took a bowl, filled it and handed it to me. I smiled and walked away.

I smiled because in that moment I knew that I had just met my husband. I know it sounds goofy, but it’s true. I knew when he handed me those black-eyed peas that it was done. There were years between this moment and our first date. Years. I was not ready to be dating someone and he was in a relationship. That was almost 10 years ago.

I am always on a quest to add meaning to what is happening in my life. How did this happen? What does that mean? I really believe that G-d is sending us messages all the time. I’m constantly trying to figure out what they are. What is G-d trying to tell me? I ended up working in that restaurant for a lot of reasons. I met wonderful people, I had amazing experiences. I learned so much about myself and about how the world works. That restaurant helped me to become a grown up. When I really think about that place, what I know for sure is that it brought me my husband. Yeah. G-d works in mysterious ways.

Our wedding anniversary is tomorrow, Oct. 17. When I think of us I always think of black-eyed peas. I know this is super Southern and might sound a little weird for to your Northern ears, but you really should try this. It’s easy and delicious. It’s my version of a Hoppin’ John.

Hoppin’ John

Ingredients

1 large yellow onion chopped (whatever kind of onion you love can be used)
3 carrots chopped
3 celery sticks chopped
2 15 oz cans of black eyed peas
1 15 oz can of whole kernel corn
2 10 oz cans of Rotel (I’m from the South, ya’ll)
10 oz frozen Lima beans thawed (you can used canned if you like)
2 cups rice (I use brown rice because Dr. Oz says so…2 bags of Uncle Ben’s 90 second rice will do the trick)
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/4 cup white wine vinegar
Salt & pepper to taste

Directions

Whisk olive oil and vinegar together in a small bowl and set aside.

Everything good starts with a fried onion, y’all. Fry the onion, celery and carrots in olive oil until tender. You don’t want these veggies to crunch and you don’t want them mushy. It’s a delicate balance. Do what’s right for you. I don’t think this takes more than five-ish minutes.

I use a lot of canned veggies because I’m always in a hurry. You can use frozen veggies if that’s your thing. The measurements aren’t hard-and-fast rules. Don’t be scared to experiment with the amounts for the stuff you’ve got. Mix your fried onion/carrot/celery goodness with the black-eyed peas and other veggies. Combine everything until you’ve got a real good distribution of all of the ingredients. Toss in the oil & vinegar mixture. Stir that around until everything is coated. Add salt and black pepper to your liking. This makes a really great vegetarian dinner or side dish. Enjoy! 

Ughhh, Adam stole my idea.

Before I read his whole introversion revelation, I was going to do an introversion revelation. So now I’ve got nothing. Goodbye.

Just kidding, I’m back – I thought of something to write about. Nobody worry. It’s under control.

When I started writing about anxiety way back when, I wasn’t exactly sure where I wanted to go with it. It’s hard to explain something to others that you’re still learning about yourself, but I wanted to try. As we know, anxiety takes many different forms and has many different causes. After reading Adam's post (you know, the one he stole from me), it occurred to me that a lot of my anxiety comes from being an introvert. Also, from people stealing my article ideas, but I digress.

Like Adam, I enjoy talking to myself and not talking to you. (And no, there will be no Oy!mance here. I am not the elusive “Adamantha.” Although maybe if he and I had known that we both hate small talk, we could’ve skipped to the huge talk and that one super awkward date we had would’ve only been slightly awkward.)

I usually pretend I’m on the phone to avoid you, and after a few “oops” moments I’ve learned to turn the ringer off before I do this so you don’t know I’m getting (and ignoring) an actual phone call during my fake phone call. It’s not that I’m anti-social – I have a lot of friends and I’m not even including my mom in that – it’s just that I really like being alone, and sometimes I’d rather talk to no one rather than to my best friend. While extroverts happily unwind after work with some friends at a bar, I’d much rather sit outside by myself with a book. To an extrovert, this may sound like self-inflicted torture, but that’s what their happy hours sound like to me.

The problem is I often feel like I’m in the minority. This might have to do with how I really am in the minority; introverts make up only about one third of the U.S. population. (It’s different in different places, interestingly enough. I’d fit right in in China, except for the whole not-knowing-Chinese thing.) And while I do have some introverted friends, I also have a whole bunch of extroverted friends who get frustrated when I don’t want to go out on Friday night because I’m too tired. “But I work more hours than you!” they’ll insist, as though their 8.5 hours of work are far more tiresome than my 8. It doesn’t matter. I’d still be tired if I worked two hours a day if those two hours were spent chitchatting with people, running around and generally being “on.” That kind of thing exhilarates extroverts, but exhausts introverts. This is why a lot of introverts have jobs in the arts. Freedom from set hours and small talk? Oh baby.

According to the amazing New York Times Bestseller Quiet by Susan Cain (highly recommended), our culture has been gradually developing an “Extrovert Ideal.” We’re increasingly expected to be vocal, outgoing, and a “people person" – and people who aren't like that should be. Children are being encouraged to play with others instead of by themselves more than ever before, as though there’s something bad or wrong with wanting to play alone. The mass opinion seems to be that there is something wrong with it – but as we’ve seen throughout history, sometimes the mass opinion isn’t the right one. What if Albert Einstein, Abraham Lincoln, J.K. Rowling or Rosa Parks – all introverts – had been told by a teacher, parent or friend to quit hanging out alone so much?

Anyway, back to my introvert anxiety. Because of culture, friends, and my own expectations of myself, I tend to feel bad whenever I engage in more introverted activities, like doing nothing. I am so great at doing nothing. And I love it very, very much. And I need it if you want me to be the upbeat, perky person you often see when I’m out in public. But after a little while of doing nothing, I start questioning everything, which is not what you’re supposed to do when you’re busy doing nothing. I wonder, what am I missing out on by doing nothing? What if something super awesome is happening out in the world and I’m missing it? It’s kind of like FOMO to the extreme. Instead of just enjoying my nothing, I get anxious because I feel like I should be doing something. In reality, the only things I should be doing are things that feel right to me, but for some reason I also want to do the things that feel right to everyone else, even though I don’t really want to do them – if that makes any sense at all. It’s like peer pressure, only it’s mostly coming from me … to me.

What it comes down to is I probably just need to tell myself to shut the eff up. You can help, if you want, by telling me to shut up if you ever see me on the street. It doesn’t matter if I’m not talking to you; my inner monologue is probably going a mile a minute and it’s probably being annoying.

In all seriousness, I think introversion needs to be redefined in our culture. Just as sensitive doesn’t describe a lowly person crying in a corner, an introvert is not a super shy person hovering under a rock at all times. We’re powerful and important, just in different ways than extroverts. Recognize it, world. And read Susan Cain’s book in the meantime.

The fact that I just ran the Chicago Marathon for charity is a lie. Don’t get me wrong – I believe in the cause and I still have every intention of hitting my goal of raising $2500 to benefit PresenTense. It’s just that the whole charity piece is really an excuse to do what I really want, which is run – run really far.

I started running almost eight years ago when I was 100 pounds overweight. Back then, I was good for about 30 seconds of slow jogging before getting winded. It wasn’t a pretty sight and I was embarrassed to be bumbling down the street all red-faced, sweaty, huffing, and puffing. I consoled myself saying that I probably looked more ridiculous sitting around all fat and doing nothing about it than I did when I was running. I would run as far as I could, walk to catch my breath and then try and run again.

Seconds turned into minutes. Minutes turned into city blocks. City blocks turned into miles. Miles turned into my first 10K race. From there I just kept running, each time trying to get a little farther and little faster. I have never won and I have never taken any awards or prize money. Each time I put on that bib, I am only competing with myself. I am only trying to beat my own personal best time or distance.

I am far from declaring myself an athlete, and I still feel the raw pain that comes with marathon training. Over 300 miles of training has physically beaten me down these last six months. I have fewer toe nails and more blisters. I have chaffed, bled, and ached everywhere. My body has rejected the abuse of my training all over itself in all sorts of uncomfortable and unimaginable ways. I assure you that it has not been glamorous. This has been no “fun run.”

Why do it then? I run because I can. I run because there was a time when I couldn’t do it or even imagine myself doing it. Now I can. Running is my Everest; it is there, and I must conquer it. Running 26.2 miles means that I can go from my home in Maryland, through DC, across the bridge into Virginia and back home again.

On Sunday, I attempted to run that distance in four hours or less. I came in just a couple minutes short at 4:02:53. Eight years ago, however, I couldn’t spend four hours on much of anything. Now I inspire myself and others to go the distance. 

In this week's portion, we begin to learn a bit about Abraham (at the time, still called Abram). When introduced, Abram is already 75 years old; granted the years might have been a calculated a bit differently back then, given that biblical characters were often cited as living very long lives. (Noah, for example, is said to have lived to the ripe old of age of 950!) This little bit of information alone leaves me with so many questions, such as:

What were Abram's first 75 years like?

Why did God wait so long to give him instructions?

After 75 years, wouldn't Abram have been such a creature of habit that he would've protested somehow when asked to leave his home?

Fortunately, we have a vast rabbinic tradition of trying to answer such questions.

For example, the Midrash helps shed some light on what Abram might have been like as a younger man, and why God might have chosen him:

Terach, Abram's father, worshipped and sold carved idols. Once when he was away, he left Abram in charge. An old man came to make a purchase. Abram asked him his age, and the man said he was between fifty and sixty years old. Abram mocked him, questioning how he could view the carvings of another man's hands, produced perhaps only a few hours ago, as his god. The man was convinced and gave up idol worship. Later that day, a woman came with a handful of choice flour as an offering to the idols. Abram took a stick and broke all the idols except the largest one, andplaced the stick in its hand. When his father returned and saw the damage, he demanded an explanation. Abram explained that when the flour offering was brought, the idols fought with one another as to which should be the recipient; and that in the end, the biggest of them took up a stick and destroyed the others. Terach was not convinced…

[Paraphrased from Genesis Rabbah 38]

For millennia, Jews have tried to fill in the gaps in our sacred texts, and to answer the questions that don't seem to have readily apparent answers. While predictably frustrating at first, this has created an incredible opportunity for creativity.  There is now a genre being referred to as "contemporary midrash" (this link shares quite a bit about BibleRaps.com, which is awesome), allowing for us today to fill in those gaps we perceive in the text.

This Shabbat, reflect on the questions you have about the Torah that are unanswered. Seek out those potential answers offered by our ancestors. If you don't find them satisfying (or even if you do), get creative and compose your own Midrash. And then share it with me! In this way, we can all engage with the Torah's narratives (even the tricky ones), and continue the millennia-old Jewish tradition of exegesis.

Wishing you a Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Dan

The first of what is sure to be many, many engagements was brought to my attention via Facebook this week. The happy couple whom I have known for some time suddenly looked different to me: older, more mature, and quite frankly brimming with a kind of happiness that I am having a hard time standing.

At 23 years old people are getting engaged? As in engaged to be married? As in married for the rest of their lives? Apparently so. I had an inkling this day was coming and I thought when it did I would be ready (and slightly older) for it. I'm not.

And that's when it really hit me. That I have six very good friends, and of those six, six have serious boyfriends. Is marriage really around the corner, on the horizon, being "discussed" within these relationships?

It's like you're in grade school when you write his last name with your first and wonder what your kids might look like, except it's now and we’re 23. The 23rd year of life just rolled around and a switch got flipped. My friends without boyfriends got them and got serious, and those who had ex-boyfriends got back together with them, and got even more serious.

Sometimes I don't feel old enough to have a degree or even to drive a car and on the complete other extreme people feel old enough to get married and commit their life to someone. I can't even commit to what I'm eating for dinner, let alone another individual. If we commit to a relationship does that mean we've already committed to everything else?

Maybe you hit 23 and it's time to move away from nights out with your girlfriends and toward nights in with your boyfriend. Or, maybe you realize that the prospect of an engagement isn't what's holding you back from a relationship but the idea that you're growing up is. Or maybe you hit 23 and realize you're just 23. 

I used to think I was shy. Turns out I’m not. Hi, my name is Adam and I’m an introvert. Now, could you please go away? It’s not that I don’t like being around people; it’s more that I don’t like people.

Okay, that’s not true. You’re alright. You came here to read this, which makes you fantastic so you should stay. See, what I crave is introversion and when I consume it, I digest the world at my best. And in my rapidly aging age, I could do well with an increased metabolism.

I used to mistake my introversion as me being shy, but this is hardly the case. Okay, maybe it’s partly the case but more accurately, it’s not my lack of desire to be social; it’s my full non-lack of undesire to always be experiencing every moment to the fullest. If that sentence is confusing just understand it’s a double negative which tends to prove positive.

What I yearn for is interactions with others that are always meaningful and not just trying to pass the time. Seriously, the idea of small talk scares the crap out of me. It’s why I wear adult diapers when I mingle. When I have exchanges with others, I find nothing more stimulating than deep, thought-provoking conversation. Being challenged mentally and exchanging true ideas and views while respecting others differing opinions is an experience that is too few and far between for most of us. Yes, I love talking about movies. Yes, I love griping about the love/hate relationship I have with the CTA. And yes, I love talking about other mindless shenanigans (title tie-in here – I’m clever), but when push comes to shove, I shove to push the conversation to places we rarely tread but often desire.

Being an introvert, sometimes I simply need time to myself. I having nothing against anyone – well, except that one person. You know who you are. But you, my attractive reader, again, you’re alright. Anyway, time with myself, when it’s by choice, are some of the greatest times of my life. I recently had the extremely rare pleasure of having a full 48 hours entirely to myself. It was incredible. I didn’t leave the apartment. I didn’t see anyone. And most importantly, I didn’t wear pants for two days straight. So what did I do in these two days you ask? Go ahead. Ask.

Well, since you asked….nothing. I did nothing. And it was glorious – marvelous even. Odd how marvelous it even was. And it was helped immensely by my fridge being chock full of Rosh Hashanah leftovers, but that was just a tiny, gargantuan perk.

When I’m a man about town (though I’m usually a man about SpaghettiOs, I like to wear headphones to deter people from interacting with me. I like my privacy while in public, so if you must know, I don’t necessarily have my headphones plugged into anything. I just want the illusion that I’m socially unavailable while out in public. Although sometimes I will plug them into an apple, just so I can show off my new Apple product. It’s called the “idont,” as in “idont want to talk to you.”

Wow. That was terrible. That was like a horrendous tweet with an even more horrendous hashtag serving as the punch line. Please excuse me while I go make a horrendous tweet with an even more horrendous hashtag serving as the punch line.

I have no good segue here.

I love mirrors. If you know me, or are around me from anywhere between now and 30 seconds from now, you will know this to be oh so true. I will always, always, stop in front of a mirror. Sometimes to give myself a hello, a compliment or a short chat. But mostly just to make silly faces and funny voices, though sometimes I like to get a little flirty with myself because those blue eyes – my God, those blue eyes.

I also enjoy talking to myself. Not in the crazy “yelling out loud on the bus” kind of way, which sometimes just happens, but more in the honest self-reflection kind of way. It all goes back to my Birthright trip and my experience at the Western Wall. I openly and truly talked to myself that day in a way in which I’ve never been able to properly replicate. Being by myself and having my alone time allows for as similar experience as possible. Sure, I also do funny voices and make silly faces, but that’s only because I find myself highly entertaining. I’m very funny – and popular. And attractive. And narcissistic.

But although I enjoy talking to myself, when I’m around people I’m not terribly acquainted with, I am terrible at initiating small talk, which usually turns out to be terrible. Hence, I prefer huge talk. With small talk, it feels very phony to me. More so that I feel like I’m forcing conversation that isn’t exhilarating for either of us. I’m not interesting to begin with, so if you make me participate in small talk, you’re liable to be pummeled with a nap attack.

Because I travel a bunch for work and I am often by myself (not by choice), this happens a lot in restaurants. I get what I like to call “All By Myself Restaurant Anxiety.” I really like talking to the waiters, waitresses, bartenders, bartendresses, bus boys and bus girltresses, but I suck at initiating conversations and conversationesses. If the server wanted to chat a moment, I’d be more than happy to strike up conversation. But when it comes down to it, I’d rather sit there naked than be the one that initiates it. I’ve been kicked out of a lot of restaurants.

What all this comes down to is I love being by myself. I do actually enjoy being social and outgoing but sometimes that introversion kicks in and then I very much enjoy hanging out with just me. If I could find a female version of me, I’d be set. I’d call her … Adamantha. Kind of just flops off the tongue there. See, it’s not that I’m socially awkward. It’s that I’m awkward socially. Fine. I’m just awkward.

Oh, and could you please not tell anyone about this blog post? I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I apprecia—just caught myself in a mirror. Excuse me.

I love working out at lunch time. I am incredibly lucky to have a gym that I can walk to and if it’s raining outside, I won’t even get wet. When I get back to the office I am pumped up and ready to take on the rest of the day – before passing out for 30 minutes on the Metra ride home. I forgo lunch with friends, coworkers, and bosses to get in a quick workout.

When my gym membership expired at the beginning of September, I had a crazy thought: What if I take a month off the gym? I can have lunch with friends, run errands, and take some time to study for my newest personal training class from the Postural Restoration Institute. I have a ridiculous amount of equipment at home, why not workout in the evening?

If you work out before or after work you have to be really dedicated. Life gets in the way real fast, especially if you have a child. I often bring my 2-year-old son to the basement to workout with me. I love it, but it can be ridiculous:

• Cones are used as hats
• Whatever equipment I’m using is quickly stolen and usually used as a neck tie
• Whenever I’m pressing a kettle bell over my head, a 30-pound ball of energy jumps on top of me (which always scares me).

The many uses of bands and cones.

Often times I wait until my son is asleep before I exercise. It’s about 8-8:30 p.m. after I pull myself away from watching some show I just can’t quit with my wife that I work out. At that hour, it’s really, really hard to stay motivated and focused. When the trainer self-talk (usually, come on Ron, you can’t be the fat trainer) gets me motivated, I finish the workout, but I’m screwed. It’s only 9:30 p.m. but my heart rate will not drop and I’ll lie in bed, jealous of my wife who’s sleeping better than our baby. Long story short, my workouts have not been the best this month.

I know some of you will not like this statement, but I lost a few pounds. It was muscle, however, which is not a good thing. A combination of not lifting as much weight and eating less is the culprit. Switching it up with more stretching and yoga-type exercises have been a nice break for my joints, but it’s not the same for me. There’s something therapeutic to running around a weight room like a deranged person.

The biggest change I’ve noticed during my hiatus is anxiety level. I don’t consider myself an anxious person, but I’ve felt really stressed. Workload, family – nothing has really changed. Am I going crazy? Why am I so anxious? And then it hit me as my wife politely asked, “Did you rejoin the gym yet?” My anti-anxiety medication is the gym! I really miss the routine.

For those of you that do not have the option to pump some iron at lunch, how do you do it?

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All this talk about Sukkot, which we just celebrated, got me thinking about dwellings and homes—especially this year.

See, I’m moving into a new apartment, but the lease hasn’t started yet. Unlike our Jewish ancestors who wandered in the desert for 40 years, I figured I’d be wandering for a little less—about two months—the gap between my residency at my old place and my new place.

I either had to track down a sukkah—stat—or figure something else out. Lucky for me, a generous friend asked me to stay with her until my new lease starts up. Just as it’s a mitzvah to invite someone into his or her sukkah, it’s a huge mitzvah to invite someone into her one-bedroom apartment for two months to camp out on her sleeper sofa.

To save space in the interim, I packed up two suitcases full of necessities, and put all my other possessions in storage with friends across the Chicago area. During my nomadic journey these last couple months, I’ve learned three valuable lessons about people:

1) People adapt.

Anyone who knows me knows I like things tidy, which you may choose to interpret as a euphemism for “compulsive.” I just like everything, literally and figuratively—I’m sure Freud would have a field day with this—neat, stable, and in its place.

Keys not in the “key spot?” Seems like a good way to lose your keys if you ask me.

Pair of shoes haphazardly strewn outside the closet? Well that’s just silly.

Bed unmade? Not on my watch. Okay, work with me on this one—I’ve read studies that making your bed is one of the easiest ways to boost happiness levels, according to Happier at Home author Gretchen Rubin.

But I quickly learned, despite my neat-freakiness tendencies, it’s impossible to have things in their place when one’s possessions are packed away in storage containers scattered across the Chicago metropolitan area. So I just stayed cool and went with it.

We humans adapt to whatever is thrown our way—and believe me, in ways a heck of a lot more dire than mine. Jews, in particular, have been forced to adapt to new situations, surroundings, and homes throughout our history.

In extreme times—such as being expelled from Spain in 1492—we adapted. And in less extreme situations—such as having a two-month gap in home rental—we adapt to that too.

2) People don’t need a lot of stuff.

I laugh every time I think of the late comedian George Carlin’s classic routine “A Place for My Stuff.” In his stream of consciousness-style act, Carlin determines that everyone’s just looking for a place to put their stuff. “…That’s all you need in life, a place for your stuff,” he says. “That’s all your house is—a place to keep your stuff. If you didn’t have so much stuff, you wouldn’t need a house. You could just walk around all the time. A house is just a pile of stuff with a cover on it…And when you leave your house, you gotta lock it up. Wouldn’t want somebody to come by and take some of your stuff. They always take the good stuff.”

As hilarious as Carlin is, I discovered we don’t need as much stuff as Carlin purported. With my stuff in storage, I’ve been living with a fraction of my possessions. And, guess what? It’s sort of liberating. After all, with less stuff, there’s less stuff to find places to put it all in. And, referring back to my earlier compulsive confession, there’s less stuff to make neat and tidy.

We live in a hyper-consumer culture, where we’re constantly bombarded with messages telling us to go out and spend money on the latest, newest, shiniest 2.0 version of everything.

But I’ll let you in on a little secret: We don’t really need all that stuff.

It turns out that fourth pair of denim “jeggings” I just had to buy is not the necessity I originally predicted. And the sun continues to rise every day even though my high school yearbook—the one with a couple very awkward pictures of me and inscriptions from similarly awkward former classmates—is packed away in a box somewhere. Finally, don’t tell John Travolta, but I indeed will survive a few weeks without my Grease DVD (please don’t judge me; I’m a woman without a home).

We need food, clothing, and shelter—and sadly many people don’t have that. We also need great family and friends. But do we need fluorescent magenta wine glasses (also in one of my storage bins somewhere)? Probably not.

3) People are really nice.

At least the people I know are. Through the Jewish grapevine, friends, family, and even mere acquaintances discovered I needed a place to stay and stepped it up immediately. We all know space is at a premium here in Chicago, and yet at least a dozen people reached out to offer me a place to hang my hat. When we read about all the bad in the world, it’s heartwarming to keep in mind that most people out there are decent, generous souls.

Around the first of the month, my time as a nomad will thankfully come to an end. I’ll hopefully be unpacking a box as you read this very column. Now, if only I could find a place for these jeggings. 

An older Jewish man is waiting for some test results at the doctor’s office. The doctor comes in and says, “I’m afraid I have some bad news and some really bad news.”

Alarmed, the old man says, “ok, tell me the really bad news first.”

“You have cancer,” says the doctor.

“Oy, that’s terrible,” says the old man. “What’s the bad news?”

“You also have Alzheimer’s.”

“Well,” the old man says, “at least I don’t have cancer!”

Yesterday, I saw the play "Old Jews Telling Jokes," which just made its Chicago premiere at the Royal George Theatre and runs through Feb. 16. In addition to a barrage of jokes (including the one above), there are a handful of monologues, and in one, a young man tells of a conversation with his father in which his father tells him that he has terminal cancer. The young man’s response is to tell a hospital joke, and the father jokes back, and two go back and forth telling jokes until they’re hysterical. The laughter follows them to a family dinner where the young man’s girlfriend chastises him, saying “some things you just don’t joke about.”

Whether it’s race, religion, gender, or tragedy – there are some things we’re told are off limits to humor. I understand the sentiment, but I’m not sure I agree. To make a joke at the expense of one of these touchy subject matters, you still have to follow the main rules of comedy – know your audience and know the context.

As I began typing an earlier portion of this blog post, a colleague – also Jewish – came into my office and asked about plans for sharing an image on social media commemorating the 75th Anniversary of Kristallnacht, or “night of the broken glass,”the biggest warning sign the Nazis would give of the impending Holocaust. He went on to tell me how earlier today he had to ask someone over the phone if they knew what Kristallnacht was. “The drug?” the person responded. I then assured him the image we should share about Kristallnacht would not be the logo from the show “Breaking Bad” (in which the main character cooks crystal meth) featuring the words “Breaking Glass.”

Perhaps to someone who watched in horror as Nazis destroyed Jewish shops and synagogues, making light of that horrible moment in Jewish history wouldn’t be acceptable. Maybe even to some without that connection. And though I was able to sweep aside the seriousness of the subject matter in favor of the perfect storm of clever wordplay, pop culture and the opportune moment, I also understood that seriousness. I knew my audience, I knew the context. Might someone have been offended? Probably.

Safe to say most Jews regard the Holocaust as off limits for humor. You won’t even find any Holocaust humor in “Old Jews Telling Jokes,” even though the show’s one artistic idea – the one thing it wants its audience to take away – is there’s always time for a joke. There’s no caveat in the little ditty they sing at the start and close of the show that includes lines about not listening to anyone who tells you otherwise. Do we, the Jews, known for our humor, have a double standard?

I learned about the Holocaust in every stage of public school and religious school. I’ve seen the movies and the plays and read the books. I’ve been to local, national and international museums; I’ve visited work camps and death camps. The only thing I don’t have is a personal connection to the tragedy. I’ve never once endured the hardship that year after year we celebrate having overcome, from Egyptian bondage to Auschwitz.

But if our ancestors, the ones who wandered in the desert for 40 years, could hear the millions of today’s kids who year after year sing “Pharaoh, Pharaoh, whoa baby, let my people go!” would they be outraged? Would the Jews of Shushan be okay with dozens of kids dressing up as Haman? Like those stories of tyranny and horror from long ago, will the Holocaust one day be treated with a sense of … humor?

I’ve always wondered why Jews are particularly adept with humor, from the Borscht Belt days and the Marx Brothers to Seinfeld, Sandler and Sandberg. How could we have endured this long if we couldn’t laugh about it? Our entire history is a story of overcoming adversity time and time again. You’ve got to have a sense of humor to endure that kind of repetitive persecution. We know too well how life can be too cruel, too unfair and too stressful, to take too seriously.

In the same monologue I mentioned earlier, the young man whose father has cancer explains that a year later, his father is dying and the son (with a new girlfriend) sits beside his death bed. “Are you comfortable?” he asks his father. “I make a decent living,” the father says.

The opposite of grief is not joy, but laughter. When we laugh, we let go. We are detached. We are present. The same is true when we make a joke, no matter the circumstances, no matter how hard it may seem to find the humor.

My quarter as a graduate student at Northwestern University just started, but I may as well have just come back to high school from summer vacation. Yesterday morning my braces came off. When I smile at you—as I’m doing a lot right now—it’s non-metallic and without a grill. You guys remember that feeling? I’m here to tell you now: it’s exactly as awesome as you remember.

The story of why I needed braces is boring, but the story of how I came to need braces is pretty good, though the squeamish may want to skip the next paragraph.

Back in my first year of college, there was this boy in our dorm that everybody loved. (He had a girlfriend, but we still all liked him.) One day I was wandering down our smooth-as-marble concrete hallways, wearing socks, when I happened to see him in another friend’s room. I thought I would execute a smooth about-face and hang out in the doorway. Instead I fell flat on my face and—well, I need a crown now, so: braces at 29.

I bet you can relate to this. I had braces from fourth grade through my junior year of high school. My orthodontist actually lived across the street from me (and yes, he always gave out sugar-free chewing gum and toothbrushes on Halloween). When it came to wacky rubber band colors and combinations, I did it all, including (natch) glow-in-the-dark. I had rubber bands, I had retainers I didn’t wear—I had my first kiss with braces. He didn’t have them, nor did any of my other high school boyfriends, but I always wondered if the getting-stuck-together thing could actually happen.

Hilariously enough, this spring, as soon as I announced that I would be getting braces again, everyone cheered me on.

“You’ll look super cute with them!”

“A lot of people our age seem to be getting braces right now.”

“You never know, I know some guys who are really into girls with braces.”

It was totally not the reaction I was expecting, but it was absolutely the reality of having them. (Well, except for finding the braces-liking dudes to date, but if anyone’s looking, I’ve still got ‘em on my bottom teeth.) That support—or really, the not-caring about this trip back to teenage-hood—made things easier when my whole mouth ached, or when I couldn’t floss without extensive maneuvering, or (to my shame) when everyone knew what I’d had for lunch.

The timing on this is great. If you’re going to reach for a neat plot point in all this, I’m in my last quarter of graduate school. Now begins the job hunt, the next steps, the trajectory out of school and back into the “real world.” I was worried about potential employers taking me seriously with braces. But now I have better problems.

Yesterday afternoon I sat in a waiting room with about 10 middle-schoolers, all of us half-watching the end of A Bug’s Life. Finally my turn came, and I sat down to try on my brand new retainer. I have to wear it whenever I’m not eating, drinking or brushing my teeth; otherwise my teeth will move. It’s clear plastic—I remember chewing through a couple of them in high school. But the best part is keeping them clean.

I clean this lovely new retainer—my next step to getting my crown—with denture cleaner. They’re quarter-sized green tablets that fizz when you drop them in water. You remember every cartoon of an old person ever, reaching for their fake teeth in a glass on their bed stand.

That’s my future until I can get my crown. I’ve gone from rubber bands to denture cleaner, all in the space of a day.

No sweat on my part, though. I’m going to look super cute doing it.

After last year’s strike-shortened season, it’s hard to believe the Blackhawks will open their 2013-2014 season tonight at the United Center. But nobody in Chicago is complaining; the Blackhawks will raise their Stanley Cup Championship banner into the UC rafters, and the quest to repeat will officially begin.

Coming off their championship season, Blackhawks management took the “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” approach into the offseason, using most of their moves to retain the cup-winning team from last season. And why not? After starting the year with a record-setting 24 games without a regulation loss streak and finishing it as Stanley Cup champions, it’s clear they did something right. But let’s not forget, much of the Blackhawks’ success came from their depth. And with the losses of Michael Frolik, Viktor Stalberg, and Dave Bolland, that depth took a hit. But the organization has proven that they can find guys to surround their core – the question will be, is this the right group of guys?

Repeating is more difficult in the NHL than any other league – the last team to do it being the ’97-’98 Red Wings. So it’s hard to go into this season with those expectations. They are not going to go 24 games without a regulation loss. They may not win their division, even with Detroit moving to the East. But this team still has a shot, because they have the most talented, dangerous duo in hockey.

To me, the ‘Hawks need to build on the forward steps they made last year, particularly from goalie Corey Crawford. Craw earned his payday after last season, but it is important to note he got a lot of help during the regular season from backup Ray Emery, who left for Philadelphia. Nikolai Khabibulin, making his return to the Blackhawks, is a bit old and will not be able to split starts in the regular season with Crawford. We are going to need to see Crawford become the consistent everyday starter that we saw many great flashes of in last year’s playoffs.

You also need to see steps forward from Bryan Bickell and Brandon Saad. Both played major roles in propelling the Blackhawks to the championship last season, and we need to see them become regular contributors this season.

Even though it is really, really tough to repeat, I think the Blackhawks have a legitimate shot. If anything, they need to worry about the hungry, improved teams around them. The Pittsburgh Penguins got a raw deal last year with the Crosby injury, the Bruins are still a major threat, the Red Wings pushed the ‘Hawks to the brink last year and, with their move to the East, could now be a potential Stanley Cup opponent, and the Blues could be their toughest division rival. The Blackhawks will need to stay healthy, particularly Kane, Toews and Crawford. I think this team will be able to score (so a healthy dose of “Chelsea Dagger”), and if they can stay on the ice, protect the goal and kill the penalty with consistency, they have a real shot.

And the way I see it, they’ll need to figure out how to share Grant Park this summer with the Bulls …

I don’t know many people who can’t find an appreciation for a toasted bagel mounded with cream cheese and covered in salty hand-cut lox. Throw on some crisp cucumbers, sweet onions, and a juicy tomato and you are set.

The problem is one bagel already has 500 calories and let’s face it – I would rather drink sawdust than eat fat-free cream cheese.

Another common problem I have with lox and bagels is that I always seem to crave it at the wrong moments, like Saturday night instead of Saturday at brunch time. I can’t go down to the local deli to satisfy my craving, especially if I’ve already invited friends over for a dinner party.

A quick fix is to take the same flavors passed down from bubbe and make them modern and elegant by serving them as an appetizer or starter. This smoked salmon crudo provides a reduced-calorie option as well. By whipping the crème fraiche, you are incorporating air and therefore able to eat more of it. The bagel is replaced by toasted pumpernickel crumbs, giving you flavor and crunch without loading you down with carbs and calories.

Smoked Salmon Crudo
Serves 2

6 oz smoked salmon
1/8 c pumpernickel bread crumbs
6 oz creme fraiche
1 t cayenne pepper
1 small apple (peeled and diced)
1 small shallot (minced)
2 T sugar
1/2 c champaign vinegar
2 cloves
Salt to taste

Place shallot, Champaign vinegar, sugar and cloves in a pot and bring to a boil. Take of off heat and pour into a bowl over the apples. Season with a pinch of salt and cool down apples immediately. Meanwhile, whip crème fraiche with cayenne pepper and salt to taste. Continue whipping until firm peaks appear. Strain apples from pickling liquid and discard cloves.

To assemble dish roll individual slices of smoked salmon. Arrange on platter alternating dollops of crème fraiche. Finally sprinkle pickled apples and pumpernickel bread crumbs over top.

Use micro mustard greens or celery leaves as an optional garnish.

Editor's note: Jamie has been fighting breast cancer since April and has been brave enough to share her reflections with Oy! You can read her previous blog entries by clicking the posts below, or you can follow all of Jamie's posts on her personal blog, J-Strong.

Gone, Gone, Gone (8/20/2013)
J-Strong: Battling breast cancer during the craziest time of my life (7/26/2013)

I have never been a religious person. I wouldn’t consider myself a very knowledgeable Jew. Sure I went to Hebrew School and Sunday School and had a Bat Mitzvah. But I really can’t say I absorbed much of what I learned now that I am old enough to really appreciate and understand my heritage. My family hardly ever celebrates a Jewish holiday on the actual holiday. I don’t keep Passover or fast on Yom Kippur. You get the picture.

There is one aspect of being Jewish that I have always enjoyed. I came home from college every year on the High Holidays and went to temple with my parents. There is something about the idea of a sweet new year, asking for forgiveness and starting fresh – a clean slate for the year to come. This I could relate to. Sure I didn’t really enjoy the services, but knowing that I could reflect and repent and start over each year is a nice feeling. It isn’t that different from the New Year celebrated around the world in which we make resolutions for things we want to change about ourselves. The added bonus is that we not only propose to change, but we also get to be forgiven for all of last year’s sins and mistakes.

The thing is, I wish I was “more Jewish.” I wish I remembered learning about all of the holidays. When I taught in the city at a school with zero Jews let alone white students, a first grade teacher asked if I would come in and tell the kids about Chanukah. I agreed. I then went home and Googled it. I didn’t feel confident enough in my knowledge of the story of Chanukah that I had to research it on the Internet. Their teacher could’ve done that!

Anyway, now that I am working at the JCC, I get to learn about the holidays all over again, and from the perspective of a four year old so it is in basic enough terms for me to understand. I can’t help seeing that a lot of the holidays are actually sad ones. We are celebrating overcoming horrible things. I can relate to this. I can’t wait to celebrate being cancer-free. Instead of looking back on it as a sad or negative time in our lives, we will celebrate that I kicked its butt!

Anway, I love it because I not only get to relearn what I lost over the years, but I get to have it fresh in my mind in little kid terms to pass it along to our currently frozen children. I remember a few years ago, going over to our friends’ house for dinner on Friday night. Their son was barely even three years old but he wanted to do Shabbat. He said all of the prayers (which sounded cuter in baby-like talk) and covered his eyes while doing so, sang the songs, and held the challah proudly in the air. It was the cutest thing I had ever seen and I couldn’t help laughing at this tiny Jew.

Who knows, maybe I did that when I was younger and just forgot because it was a tradition that didn’t stick. But all I know is fast forward to this kid being five and the tradition is still going strong. I hope to model that in our house, and when I do, I will now actually know what my kid is talking about because he or she won’t only have learned it at pre-school, he or she will have learned it from me.

Remember how I said my family barely “does” the holidays? We haven’t done a Seder since I was about four years old when my great grandpa was alive to lead it. The first time I went to Passover at Joe’s house, I was dreading the Seder. Especially this past year when there weren’t any kids coming so we had to do a “grown-up” version. But now I look at it in a positive light. At least our kids will have one grandfather who can and wants to lead a Seder and when, G-d forbid, he is gone one day, we can all carry it on.

The thing is, it isn’t just all of the recent Jewish holidays that have me reflecting. I’ve been doing it for a few months now. Interestingly enough, I both got married and started chemo two months ago. So what is it that has got me so reflective? Is it having cancer or is it being married?

I find myself far calmer in traffic, which says a lot for those of you who have been privy to my road rage. Maybe my patience is because I am learning to not always be in such a hurry. Or because you never know what is going on in the other driver’s life. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t turned into a saint on the road. I still do my fair share of speeding. I even have a plan if I get pulled over: whip off the wig and cry nausea. (Playing the cancer card is appropriate sometimes, right?)

As silly as this sounds, I even find that I have stopped posting complaints and negative comments on Facebook. Clearly I have discovered there are worse things in life to focus my energy on. I also find myself trying harder at work. Sure, last year I was consumed in wedding planning and then house hunting and eventually my diagnosis. All great excuses, but it still doesn’t mean you can’t give your all at work. But this year I walk in with a new energy and it is a desire to give 200 percent. Yes, the chemo has me pretty run-down, so I can’t do this every day. (Trust me, I’ve tried, but my co-teacher yells at me to stop picking up kids or to make sure I am eating and drinking.)

But on the days when I feel good, I want to do everything perfectly. I want to enjoy the kids rather than be annoyed with them. I want to show them new things rather than just letting them play dress up for two hours. I might not be in an elementary school classroom or using my reading specialist degree yet, but these preschool years are just as significant even if not for academic reasons. These kids are here with us more than they’re with their parents and they are so perceptive. I might not be teaching them how to read, but I am teaching them how to be little people in our sometimes cruel society. If they can learn to speak up for themselves rather than tattle, or to get their own cup of water rather than always having someone do things for them, then I think they will be ready for the real world. Or at least kindergarten.

I also wonder if wanting to be a better person is stemming from being a married lady. Married life doesn’t feel different for us, other than the name change and referring to each other as husband and wife. But marriage to me is the ultimate sign that I am without a doubt a full-fledged adult. Granted, having cancer was the biggest wake-up call, one that instantly made us grow up (as if the wedding and buying a house weren’t adult enough.)

But maybe the fact that I am somebody’s wife makes me want to care more and do more and grow more. It isn’t just me anymore. My actions kind of represent both of us now. Then again, maybe it is the cancer. Maybe if I am lucky enough to get to live this life, I want to live it better. I want to be better. Whether it is my new absorption in all things Jewish, my cancer wake up call, or my new husband, I am fortunate to have flipped a switch. I am ready for the New Year and hopefully next year, I won’t have as much to repent for.

I’ve written plenty of stories on wrestling, usually pro wrestling. In fact, I expand to boxing from time to time with stories on various boxers like Yuri Foreman and Dmitry Salita. But meet Marina Shafir – one of the toughest women I know – well – sort of know. She is a MMA fighter looking to make an impact. Below is her story. Pay attention because she is going places.

1. Tell TGR a little bit about yourself?
I was born in Sorrocca, Moldova. I have 2 older brothers, my mom is a seamstress and my dad was a mechanic. My family moved to the United States in 1993. I'm not sure if it was the synagogue or a Jewish community, but we got help getting an apartment and my parents got an English teacher.

As a kid, I was always outdoors. My mom was guaranteed to deal with knotted hair, dirt under my fingernails, and bruises EVERYWHERE. I didn't speak a lick of English but playing was universal. I started judo at the age of six. Nothing too serious, just an activity to keep me busy (plus it was the cheapest sport my family could afford at the time). I competed until I was around 19, I just fell into depression after hurting my lower back (also the traveling and competitions were not cheap, on top of getting hurt I didn't want to put my family into anymore debt). I bartended and worked at Starbucks for a while which seemed to be the perfect combination, until I decided to start training again. Aside from the training stuff, I have an urban style, an obsession with sneakers; I love to cook; I have a weird obsession with old school Kung Fu movies and mornings are my jam!

2. What was your Jewish upbringing like?
My Jewish upbringing is a bit interesting. I wasn't brought up Orthodox, but my parents raised me to respect Orthodox Jews. I went to a Jewish school from Kindergarten through third grade. My mom didn't cook Kosher, but when the holidays came around she did. She made the best matzoh ball soup and hamentashen. We lived in the same apartment complex as our rabbi, who trained me for my bat mitzvah (even got to blow the shofar), but I never had the ceremony.

3. What got you into MMA?
I got into MMA after I started doing Jujitsu. At the Jujitsu school I trained at, there was boxing, Muay Thai, grappling and wrestling. I enjoyed doing all of those things, and then someone suggested fighting, and I thought it would be fun.

4. Are you excited about the Ultimate Fighter TV Show? Do you think it will help your career?
I'm stoked for the ultimate fighter show! It's going to blow a lot of people away when they see the talent and heart these kids had on the show. I hope it helps my career! Hopefully I don't look like a doofus while I coach!

5. What can people expect from the show?
Drama. With a capital D.

6. Who are you most excited to face in the Octagon?
Hmmm, the top five women in the 145-pound division. But every fight is exciting!

7. Have you ever considered professional wrestling like WWE? Think you could handle it?
Who knows! I definitely won’t shoot WWE down! Those shows are intense! And the fans are REAL and LOYAL. The story line is always intriguing with those shows. I know the wrestlers have to take their personas home with them, I don't know if I’ll be able to handle all that..

8. What is next for Marina?
I just want to fight. I hope that's next.

Follow Marina on Twitter and Instagram @marinashafir

As an elementary teacher, I’m constantly reading, though my books of choice may have fewer words and considerably more pictures than yours. At school, the picture books live in the “E” section of the library – which stands for “everyone” (nope, not “easy!”) because that’s truly who they’re for.

Whether you’re eight or 28, picture books can be extremely powerful in ways you’d never expect. They often contain the best art, the most creative characters and the most valuable life lessons. The next time you’re wandering around your favorite bookstore or library, take a second and check out these titles.

1. Sammy Spider by Sylvia Rouss

Have you been in over your head this month, completely overwhelmed by all of the holidays? Accidentally fast on Sukkot and eat apples and honey on Yom Kippur? Don’t worry; Sammy’s got your back. The creative, colorful stories in the series teach readers the basics about the holidays while also telling engaging tales about a nice Jewish spider. You’ll never mix up your Seder with your shofar again.

2. Scaredy Squirrel by Melanie Watts

If you’ve ever seen yourself reflected in a literary character, you know how awesome that is. It’s like the author sees into the depths of your soul, grabs all the deep, meaningful stuff he or she can find and spews it back out on the pages in an artful masterpiece. For me, that moving moment occurred when I met Scaredy Squirrel. Like me, Scaredy Squirrel loves schedules, safety, sleeping and spending time alone. He dislikes surprises, stressful situations and scary things, like being at the beach without sunscreen. We’re basically the same person except I’m not a squirrel. If you’re prone to worrying even a little bit, Scaredy feels your pain – and reminds you that it will all be okay in the end.

3. Chrysanthemum by Kevin Henkes

Remember this one? Chrysanthemum is a perfectly joyous little mouse until she goes to school and a bunch of a-hole mice make fun of her name and stomp all over her happiness. Don’t underestimate the fact that they’re mice; they stomp like elephants. Even though we’re adults and know that it isn’t acceptable to be rude to someone based on something like their name or appearance, this book serves as a reminder. Words hurt. Actions hurt. Evil glances across the playground hurt. Don’t be an a-hole mouse.

4. Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst

Having a bad day? Alexander’s day is worse. Well, maybe not, but it is pretty bad. I like this book because it reminds readers that everyone has bad days – even if you live in Australia. (Sorry, Australians. I know this may come as a shock, but you are not exempt.) It also reminds us that no problem is too small or silly. Yes, “other people have real problems,” I know, but if something is bugging you and bringing you down, it is a real problem. On the flip side, this book also reminds us how even the smallest and silliest acts of kindness can totally turn someone’s day around (and make them not want to move to Australia.)

5. Leo the Late Bloomer by Robert Kraus

Poor Leo the lion. All of his friends are reading and writing, but he can hardly hold on to a book. All his friends eat nicely and neatly, but he’s always making a mess. Leo struggles and struggles and wonders if he will ever bloom into the lion he dreams of being. (Spoiler alert: he does!)

Anyone feeling a little behind in life can relate to this book. If all your friends are working their dream jobs and planning their weddings while you're getting paid by the hour and going on your 500th JDate (this month), Leo and his supportive mom and dad want you to know that it’s okay – life isn’t a race. And look on the bright side – at least you already know how to read and write and eat. Things are looking up already!

What other children’s books do you think would be valuable to read as adults? 

Everyone in a family gets a job. I’m not talking about your occupation (though hopefully you have one of those), but everyone in a family contributes in some way. Maybe you’re the one who is really good with scheduling or making people laugh or maybe you’re a great listener. In my family, aside from being sardonic and drinking all the wine, I am known as the baker.

Family baker is not an easy job. Not because my family is hard to please, but because I am. Don’t get me wrong. Baking for my family is a real joy. I long for the noises and faces that people make when they’ve tasted a dessert they love. Please tell me that I’m not the only person with a family full of noisy and opinionated eaters. Being my family’s baker is hard because I’m always trying to outdo myself.

If the kitchen has a “Golden Rule” it is this: “Thou shalt not try out a new recipe for a big family meal.” I might want to go ahead and write that on my forehead. Why? Because that’s exactly what I do almost every time I am asked to bake for my family. Trying something new, while exciting, is super duper stressful. The pressure to please is too great – so I can’t stop myself.

I was invited to bake for our family’s Yom Kippur break-the-fast. I thought long and hard about what to make. I consulted the cooking section at Barnes & Noble and scoured the Internet. See? I take the job very seriously.

I wanted to do something dairy-centered, since that’s apparently kinder to the digestive system after fasting. What I finally decided on was chocolate cream pie. Who doesn’t love pie and/or chocolate? Not anyone I want to know. You simply must try the recipe below. I know the instructions look scary, but trust me when I say it’s worth it.

Martha Stewart’s Chocolate Cream Pie 
(Adapted from Martha Stewart’s Pies & Tarts)

Ingredients:
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup cornstarch
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 1/2 cup milk
4 ounces bittersweet chocolate (preferably 61%)
4 large egg yolks
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Directions:
Whisk together sugar, cornstarch, and salt in a small bowl. Set aside.
Heat milk and chocolate in a medium saucepan over medium-high heat, whisking occasionally, until chocolate melts.

Whisk 1 cup hot milk mixture into sugar mixture until smooth. Whisk milk-sugar mixture into the remaining milk mixture in the saucepan. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until bubbling and thick, 4 to 5 minutes total (about 2 minutes after it comes to a boil).

Whisk yolks in a medium bowl until combined. Pour in milk mixture in a slow, steady stream, whisking until completely incorporated. Return mixture to saucepan. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until thick and bubbles appear in the middle, 1 to 2 minutes.

Remove from heat. Stir in vanilla. Let custard cool about 10 minutes, whisking 2 or 3 times.

Pour custard into chocolate piecrust. Press plastic wrap directly on surface of custard to prevent a skin from forming. Refrigerate until custard filling is chilled and firm, at least 4 hours or up to 1 day.

For the sweetened whipped cream topping:
1 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup confectioner’s sugar

With an electric mixer on med-high, whisk cream just until soft peaks form. Add confectioner’s sugar and whisk until stiff peaks form. Spread whipped cream over custard.

You must be asking yourself…what about the piecrust. Girl, don’t be silly. Buy yourself an Oreo piecrust at Jewel or Target or wherever it is that you shop. You’ve got better things to do with your time.

Every time I pick someone up from the airport, I get yelled at by a guy with an Orange Vest. But today, I dedicate this post to him — the unsung superhero of the airport.

I don’t have much experience with airports other than Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport (which means any time I go to any other airport, it is by definition nicer, less crowded, less busy, friendlier, and has nicer plants and better acoustics), but I assume they are similar. If you are not driving a bus, taxi, or limo, you follow a sign toward Arrivals and pull in to pick up your friend. In order for the system to work, you must pre-arrange with your passenger the exact pick-up vestibule, and then she must come outside with her bags a few minutes before you swiftly pull up to the right location, load the bags, and float away. And if you stay in the right lane near the curb longer than 45 seconds, you get Orange Vested.

“I’m sorry, my friend just had to get a drink of water … you know how those long flights are … he’ll be right out!” HONK.

“No, no, I literally just got off the phone with him, he’s coming right down the escalator.” HONK HONK.

“PLEASE don’t make me drive around the airport and back on the highway and then the tollway and up through Wisconsin and the Upper Peninsula!” ORANGE VESTED.

It’s frustrating — nobody likes being honked at, yelled at, beeped at, and waved away. Especially when you’ve come such a long way to do someone a favor.

But a few weeks ago, when I was picking up a friend from O’Hare, the Traffic Control Freak must have been out sick — and right then and there, at midnight on a Friday night, the airport became a disaster.

Cars found their favorite vestibule, pulled up to the right lane, and put the car in park. Heck, they even put on the parking brake. Seeing no man with an Orange Vest, they breathed out a sigh of relief. They got out of their cars and enjoyed the beautiful smell of jet fuel.

The cars behind them pulled up to the vestibules at which their passengers stood but could only manage to stay in the middle lane. The cars in the right lane couldn’t get back into moving traffic. The cars in the left lane crawled.

And there was I, stuck on the highway, barely moving. It might have been faster for my friend to roller skate home than to wait for me to get to Vestibule 3C.

All of a sudden — seemingly several hours later — cars began moving again. Drivers’ smiles returned. Friends were reunited. And then an instant later, the frowns were back. The yelling resumed. The no stopping zone was back. Life was back to normal.

But I smiled. I knew what happened. The unsung airport hero with the Orange Vest was back. The Dark Knight of O’Hare had returned to save the day. And all was right again in the world.

On Wednesday morning of Erev Rosh Hashanah, I found myself overwhelmed with the thought that it was the start of the Jewish New Year. Soon I would be sitting in synagogue pondering transgression, judgment and forgiveness. I felt a pit in my stomach because the notion was so final. For a moment, right there in the car, I felt like I might cry. It wasn’t a big, sobby I can’t pull myself together cry but the quiet, mournful, single tear down my check cry.

The notion that another year was about to end was looming, and I wasn’t ready for it. The year 5773 had come and gone way too fast. I wished I had more time.

Then my mind wandered to another thought that time, as we think of it and know it, might not really exist. Einstein even questioned the very idea of absolute time (a universal clock). Some science has even suggested that time is relative to gravity and other forces of the universe, and what we think of as "time" is really a matter of perception and relativity. At least this is what I gathered from reading his biography over the summer.

Though the actual existence of time is in question, what I have found to be real is the moment. We can't change the past because it has already happened. We can't impact the future directly because the future has not happened yet. The only thing we can change is the present. The very moment that is pressing up against us right now is the only one that we can influence.

This put me at peace for the rest of the day, until I found myself at services in the evening. One of the first prayers in the machzor (High Holiday prayer book) used the name Yom HaZikaron. It means the “Day of Remembrance” because we have a lot to remember on the day, looking back on the previous year. The name put me at unease all over again because I wondered if I might be forgotten. I had the horrible feeling that I might not have done anything memorable this past year, and what if God forgot me? Is that even possible?

My answer came in thinking through the word Teshuvah. It is often translated as “repentance” but it comes from the Hebrew word for “return.” I was beginning to discover that, for me, Rosh Hashanah was not about an accounting of my deeds from the previous year – the court trial metaphor that I had heard in Hebrew school years ago. It was about remembering to return to living in the moment.

You see, the Torah teaches us that God created the world in a moment. In fact, the Rabbis believed that Rosh Hashanah is the very moment God did this. Yes it took six days to complete the world, but each part was created the moment God uttered the words to make it so. Whether taken literally or as a metaphor, the lesson remains the same. As humans created in God’s image, we have the power to seize every moment and create.

Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is a gift. That is why they call it the present. May you find clarity for what you desire to create most in each moment of this coming year. L’Shana Tova!

Our tradition describes Yom Kippur as “Shabbat Shabbaton” – the “ultimate Shabbat.”

Given our usual association of Shabbat with rejoicing (whether by eating great food, relaxing with our families, being intimate in the bedroom, etc.), it seems odd that we’d compare a day like Yom Kippur, where we specifically avoid comforts, to Shabbat.

On Yom Kippur, we’re not meant to wear leather shoes or other animal products, we’re not meant to eat or drink, to have sexual relations, to bathe, or to put on deodorant, perfume or lipstick. All in all, that makes it a bit challenging to rejoice and treat Yom Kippur like it’s the ultimate Shabbat, and this year, even more so, as Yom Kippur falls on Saturday.

In Hebrew, Yom Kippur is called “Yom HaKippurim.” One of my rabbis once pointed out that the construct of the name is particularly interesting, as if read quickly, one might hear it as “Yom K’Purim” – which literally translates to “a day like Purim.” We’re meant to be joyous on the holiday of Purim. What are the implications of suggesting that Yom Kippur is meant to be joyous like Purim, despite us denying ourselves our traditional comforts?

Can we come to view Yom Kippur as a celebration of having been fortunate enough to live/survive the past year? Can we view it as a day of joy given that our tradition makes clear that the power is in our hands to apologize for our wrongdoings and to recommit ourselves to being better people? And can we see it as an opportunity for rejoicing given that our shortcomings are lifted off our shoulders and are embodied by the community?

Yom Kippur, and everything it stands for, provides myriad opportunities for us to express our joy and gratitude – just as on Shabbat, we're meant to rejoice (oneg Shabbat). While we may practice self-denial in some ways, the fact that we even have those things to deny ourselves is cause for great celebration, as it’s a reminder as to how blessed we are.

This Yom Kippur, find a way to appreciate and find joy in the holiday. Make your Yom HaKippurim just a bit more like Yom K’Purim. Have the ultimate Shabbat experience. Come be part of community. And may we all be sealed in the Book of Life.

I remember when I was in junior high; there was one “big boned” kid. Now, experts use terms like epidemic, pre-diabetic, and obesity to describe what’s happening to kids today. A mixture of video games, social media and Flaming Hot Cheetos are making overweight the norm.

Fighting childhood obesity starts simple: feed your children healthy foods and be active with them. My sister-in-law calls healthy food “grow food” and I love that idea. The biggest thing is to get your children eating vegetables at a young age and continue that trend. Fruit should be an easy sell; it’s sweet so most children have no problem eating it. Fruit can be a dessert. There is no parenting or nutritional guide that says, “Kids need sugary snacks.”

The sky-rocketing rate of diabetes should scare you into making your kids eat healthy. You do not have to become a secret food agent and sneak kale into milkshakes but here are some easy cooking tips:

• Place veggies in any egg/omelet you make
• Keep placing veggies on their plate
• Cut up sweet potatoes, carrots, zucchini and use them in tacos
• Macaroni and cheese, a staple, is easy to add peas to
• Have them help you make an individual pizza and lay out veggies

King of the zucchini!

Fruits are even easier to add to meals. We have to give my two-year-old fruit at the end of the meal and not earlier, or he will only eat the fruit. Almost every meal ends with some fruit for us..With the increasingly high price of fruit, I often buy frozen berries. When the fresh fruit I buy is close to its last leg, I blend it up and then freeze it in ice cube trays or make my own popsicles. I have given popsicles to guests, and they love them! I usually add a little Greek yogurt and water to add protein and cut down on the sweetness. Last week I took all my frozen fruit ice cubes and added a few cups of lemonade, and made an icy fruit punch. My guests drank up the punch and thought it was “fancy.” In general, kids will portion themselves and stop eating when they are full. I’ve noticed with fruit and sweets that it’s best to watch their eating size.

Another food many children skip is protein. I often hear clients tell me their kids love carbs. Since it is essential for brain development and muscle growth, keep protein on the plate. I am lucky; my toddler loves meat and even fish. With all foods, it’s about exposure. Keep cooking or ordering lean meats. The most popular meal in my house is lamb burgers and sweet potato fries (you can make them in your toaster oven by cutting up potato strips thin, place a little olive oil on top and bake for 15-20 minutes). I know people are allergic to everything from strawberries to raw carrots, and especially nuts. If your child is not allergic to nuts and tree nuts, those are great snack foods. If you have a toddler, break the nuts in half or quarter so they don’t choke.

The last area I want to touch on is what my mom called “the idiot box.” I am guilty of turning on the television and letting my son veg out while I do something. I want to shower, or make dinner and my wife is not around, I might throw on some Dora and get to work. However, we go to the park a few times a week, sometimes a few times in one day.

Out of gas again?! Gotta push this puppy to the station.

Getting your child active does not have to involve expensive gym classes – it starts with parents. Lead by example and your child will follow. Take your kids on walks, bike rides, and parks. My son has an obsession with birds, so he will literally run around our house or a park chasing birds (I’m hoping this is somewhat normal). Whether it’s your backyard, the neighborhood, or your house, create a space for them to move around. Let your child see that exercise is part of your life. I work out in front of Henry all the time. He usually jumps right in tries to do whatever I’m doing. I have to stop using bands and kettlebells around him for obvious reasons. Somehow bands always end up around his neck.

Now that I have gotten that off my chest, how do you keep your kids healthy? Send me your favorite recipe, exercise, activity, etc. …

Now that summer has officially ended (even if the A.C. is still pumping) we can try and move on and embrace the fall season. And I believe that for every season you need something new – a new bag, a new man or maybe just a new attitude. So, while the magazines are telling you about all those things you need to be wearing, like those ridiculous calfskin Fendi lace up boots, I'm going to tell you the five things you actually need and more importantly can probably afford.

1. A big smile
Since moving to a new city about a month ago, I decided to wipe the puss off my face and start smiling at people more. The reality is I need to make some new friends and that doesn't really happen when you look like you’re taking a mug shot. If you're really lucky and live in a city where you have all the friends you need well then stop reading now. If you're the other large majority where you find your friends dwindling after college maybe it's time to make some news ones. Start flashing your pearly whites and see who you meet.

2. Something from your Alma Mater
It's football season. Represent.

3. Something for Y-0-U 
Summer shenanigans are over and it's hard not to be a little depressed. Who doesn't love fruity umbrella drinks and sunglass tans? I know I do. I also know that if winter is anything like it was last year it is going to be very long and chilly. So this fall if your indulgence is those calfskins boots go for it. If it's an entire box of cookies and a Friends marathon, go for that too.

4. A new routine
And no I don't mean adding in a gym work out after you get home from work. But, doing the same thing every day gets beyond boring. It's too easy to settle into and on top of that routines can be fun-suckers. Try a different route home from work, or if you’re really adventurous, venture into a new neighborhood on the weekend.

5. A trip to see your friends
I know I need one. And I know that's easier said than done, but if all your friends live on the same continent it's time to plan your own welcome week-style reunion. (So maybe you forgo the calfskin boots.) It's always fun to see your friend who lives in a different city, but how many times a year do all your friends get together? Maybe zero to negative one. Even if it's just a long weekend it's time to forget about work and responsibilities for five minutes and remember the good old days when that never existed, because these are the only people that can make that happen.

Mel Brooks is the greatest man I’ve never met. And I’ve not met a lot of people. Almost a few dozen I think.

You see, I’ve always loved movies—and comedy. And if there’s one thing Mel Brooks does well, it’s comedy movies. Growing up, I became obsessed with Mel Brooks. To a point that maybe it wasn’t healthy. When I was younger, I once watched Spaceballs 13 times in six days. Yeah, that happened. I’m a bit ashamed, but at the same time, I’m a little proud. Oh, to be young, carefree and 24 again.

Mel Brooks truly has had more influence on me than he will ever know. But you’ll know, oh, yes you’ll know, because you’re going to keep reading because you’re probably my mom reading this. Hi Mom.

My writing is often heavily inspired by the works of famous funnymen and women, but Mel Brooks is a huge influence, more so than most. A simple, yet hilarious joke in History of the World: Part 1 had a huge impact on me in college. There is adult language so please be advised.

I love this joke. So much so that it inspired me to write what ended up being my first full-length play, a parody of Oedipus Rex, appropriately titled, Mother F*****: The Story of Oedipus. See what I did there?

I’m not usually that vulgar, as my previous posts would suggest, but it can’t be denied that Mel Brooks has had his fair share of adult-themed guffaws. But he’s also had many Jewish-themed guffaws, and that’s what I want to share with you today. These are some of my favorite Jewish moments from what I have dubbed, “The Illustrious Twelve.” That being the 12 movies Mel Brooks had a big hand in directing, writing, producing or starring in.

It’s true that not all his films have outright Jewish moments, but you can always feel the influence. And while these are not necessarily my overall favorite Mel Brooks moments, (I absolutely love every time he breaks the fourth wall. In fact, in my own writing, I like to destroy it.) these are my favorite Mel Brooks Jewish-inspired humor-filled moments … part 1.

Blazing Saddles

The Indian Chief: Mel Brooks played three roles in this movie: Gov. William J. LePetomaine (who I dressed up as for Halloween one year), a random aviator in the criminals line (blink and you’ll miss it), and the Indian Chief. The great part here, that all goyim probably had go straight over their heads, is that the foreign language they are speaking is … Yiddish. Heh heh.

Lili Von Shtupp: Oh Mel Brooks, you sly dog. Subtly putting that innuendo into the sultry character played to perfection by Madeline Kahn. If you are unaware of what the joke is here, I would highly suggest you look it up what shtupp means in Yiddish. Enjoy the song “I’m Tired” where if you listen closely, you can spot Mel Brooks in his fourth role as the voice of one of the soldiers. I sure can spot ‘em.

Spaceballs

Princess Vespa: This isn’t so much a moment as the whole character. We have here a Princess from the planet Druidia. So what does that mean our hero’s, Lone Star and Barf are stuck with? That’s right, just what they needed: a Druish Princess. I apologize for the clip, but I could only find it in Lego form. Tee hee.

The Schwartz: Oh there is quite a lot going on here. The obvious is that instead of The Force, we get The Schwartz! The not so obvious is the joke involves the line “I see your Schwartz is as big as mine!” Oh Mel Brooks, you sly dog – again.

High Anxiety

The Disguised Jewish Couple: I won’t even get into the fact that the movie is titled High Anxiety. No, the part that stands out for me is when Mel Brooks and Madeline Kahn need to get through airport security without being recognized and disguise themselves as an old, obnoxious Jewish couple. I know it’s not precisely Jewish, but go with me here. I love how Brooks is essentially channeling the 2000-year-old man. The accent is brilliant and I love every moment of this scene. While it’s never actually stated, I’ve decided to call them Harry and Ethel, because I’m the one writing this so I can do that.

Robin Hood: Men In Tights

Rabbi Tuckman: Pretty much the most Jewish character we can get, we have here Mel Brooks playing a variation on Friar Tuck from the original story. He performs circumcisions for “Half-Off,” his payos are attached to his hat, and there’s my favorite line about Robin of Locksley and Maid Marion of Baghel and how, “You know, you two were made for each other. I mean, what a combination. Locksley and Bahgel! It can't miss!” Rabbi Tuckman is great.

History of the World: Part 1

Moses: Wonder what the other five were.

And then there was this.

Josephus avoiding death: Josephus, played by Gregory Hines, is trying not to get thrown to the lions, and to do so, he pretends he’s a Jew. The soldier then pulls his pants open and Josephus responds with, “He missed.”

The Spanish Inquisition: Felt I should throw this in here, more or less for Jackie Mason, the slot machine and the bubble that shouts “Oy!” among so much more. And the song is just oh so catchy. Let’s begin!

And finally, of course, Jews in Space:

So there you have it, my favorite Mel Brooks Jewish-inspired humor-filled moments … part 1! Just like History of the World, there’s probably not going to be a part 2. But hey, what can ya do? But now I want to hear from you! I know I didn’t touch upon every single Mel Brooks Jewish joke so I must have missed some of your own personal favorites. Let me know what I missed and even what your own overall favorite Mel Brooks moments are. I always love to hear what others think. Thanks for reading and may the Schwartz be with you.

I have a wallet full of “frequent diner” cards. These are the cards that get hole-punched or rubber-stamped each time I eat at a certain restaurant. After a dozen or so purchased meals, I get a meal or entree for free.

According to the restaurant, I “earned” this free meal with my loyalty. But how did I “earn” it? Did I work for it, toil for it? Or did I just have lunch a lot at the place near my office?

So here is my idea. The next time I “earn” something for nothing like this, I will give it to someone who actually has nothing.

I’d like to call this the Infrequent Diner Program. Because it’s for people who most likely do not dine in restaurants with any frequency.

When I give money to a homeless person, I give a dollar. But lunch downtown is $6 at least, even at a fast food place. This card, which cost me nothing, can get someone a full meal.

And do I need this card as incentive to go back to the restaurant? Probably not— I would go anyway to a place that is nearby, decent, and reasonable, especially if it has outdoor seating (my office has no window).

Do I even need to get a free meal in the first place? Well, I just bought 10 meals there, so probably not.

I don’t agree with people who say: “I don’t give to the homeless because they will only spend it on drugs.” But even those people cannot argue with the Infrequent Diner Program; the cards can only be redeemed at the restaurants that offered them—for food.

Joining the Infrequent Diner Program costs you nothing, and gets someone who really needs it a decent meal. The restaurant is out nothing, either, as they were planning on giving you that free meal anyway.

You can even join the Infrequent Diner Program with your co-workers or roommates. Just tack the card to the break room bulletin board. When someone goes out to lunch, they take the card along, get it punched, and put it back. Whoever gets the last punch gives the full card to a homeless person on the way back, and then tacks the new card to the board.

I can imagine a bulletin board full of cards from all sorts of restaurants you might never otherwise try. Instead of having the old “I dunno, where do you want to go?” conversation, you would go to the board, see what cards there are, and grab one from a place that looked interesting or convenient.

So that’s the Infrequent Diner Program. Please use the comments below to say that you will join, or to add other ways to expand or improve on the idea. Thanks, and bon appetit!

For the first time in nine seasons, the Chicago Bears will enter the year without Coach Lovie Smith on the sidelines. We’ll have to learn how new coach Marc Trestman will show his emotional range during games compared to coach Smith, whose expressions varied anywhere from pursed-lips disappointment, to pursed-lips elation.

But it wasn’t only the coach that changed. The Bears only retained one offensive lineman from last year – Roberto Garza – and have added tight end Martellus Bennett to their receiving core. They are without future Hall-of-Famer Brian Urlacher in the middle of their linebacking core, and Devin Hester has returned to his most natural role – returning punts and kickoffs. And while there is probably equal cause for optimism as there is for skepticism, there are mostly four questions to be answered entering this season.

1. Will the offensive line be an improvement over last year?
One thing we know for sure – it will be different. And perhaps it is sad that the most exciting thing about the new line is that J’Marcus Webb and Gabe Carimi are not going to be on it. But when you set the bar so low, it’s easy to see an improvement. And anything is an improvement over what we’ve been subjected to. Kyle Long and Jordan Mills have given us reason to look up, even if it’s just seeing two young promising names on the right side of the line. Jermon Bushrod and Matt Slauson are an upgrade on the left side – at least, in theory. But with a new offense and so many new faces on the line, will it lead to improvement – and more importantly, will we see it in Week 1? This is a much improved O-line, which was priority 1A in the offseason, and we got exactly what we asked for. And while they may take a few weeks to get into rhythm together, I do believe the upgrade will show if they can all stay healthy and keep Jay Cutler off his backside more often than he has gotten used to in recent years.

2. Will the aging defense start to decline?
My short answer is no. Not yet. I still think this unit has a year, maybe two left in it. And no matter how old they are, Lance Briggs, Charles Tillman and Julius Peppers on one side of the ball together will make for one hell of a defense. To me, it’ll be the new faces. D.J Williams, despite not playing a minute of the pre-season, has been slated the starter at MLB over rookie Jon Bostic. And Williams will be on a short leash because from what I’ve seen so far, Bostic is ready to go. I think we will see a major step forward from second-year man Shea McClellin, and I think Isaiah Frey will step right in for the injured Kelvin Hayden and be an impact player. At least to start the year, I see no major weak joints in this aging Bears defense.

3. Can Matt Forte stay healthy and get into the end-zone?
A huge factor in the success or failure of the pass game will depend on Forte. If he can be a serious threat to not only open it up for a big run, but get in the end-zone, it will give the Bears a lot more flexibility in their pass game. He has to stay healthy, too. Michael Bush is a great back up, but if Forte gets hurt and Bush becomes the starter, it’ll greatly limit their game plan. Forte looked great in the pre-season game against Oakland. And he appears to be a major part of the Bears plan in the pass game as well. But it should not be overlooked given all of the attention on Cutler. Forte needs to have a big year if the Bears want to return to the playoffs. And I think he will have his best as a Bear.

4. Will this finally be the system that fits Jay Cutler?
All signs point to “yes.” Trestman comes to town with an incredible reputation for getting the best out of quarterbacks. He brings a west coast offense that has worked for Cutler before. And now Cutler will have more weapons, with a healthy Alshon Jeffrey and aforementioned off-season acquisition Martellus Bennett at tight end. Earl Bennett still appears to be a question mark in terms of staying healthy and having an impact, but Brandon Marshall will again be an exclamation point. And while most expect either fireworks or disaster from Cutler, I fall somewhere in the middle. There will be flashes of great, there will be ugly moments. He’ll make amazing plays and he’ll throw terrible interceptions. I don’t think Cutler’s numbers will be overwhelming like many are predicting, but I still think this will be his best as a Bear. It has to be. Or else the Bears are back in an all too familiar spot: searching for a quarterback.

So without a moment of football played yet – here are my predictions for the Bears this season. While the Bears appear improved on paper, there will be growing pains. And with a more difficult schedule this year and an improved NFC North, it won’t be a walk to the playoffs even with their improved roster and coaching staff. Records don’t say it all – just look at last season. Off to a 7-1 start and then missing the playoffs. I predict the Bears will finish 10-6 again this season. But they will end up with a wild card spot, with a very good shot at making a run in the playoffs. But this is football and anything can happen, so let’s bear down and enjoy the ride.

Ready for a fresh start? We Jews are lucky to get a chance to start over every fall as the shofar sounds a wakeup call in each of our lives.

Back by popular demand—at least according to my relatives—is my second annual guide (check to see how you did in 5773) to a sweeter new year.

L’shana tovah umetuka!

1. Speaking of sweet, catch more flies with honey. The Russian Jewish proverb whispered to me by my mother throughout my life and passed down from her mother and her mother’s mother applies to everyone we encounter in life. We make a choice in the way we approach people, both the primary players in our world and the strangers we meet just making cameo appearances, like the checkout clerk at Target or the man selling StreetWise on the corner.

2. Find out where you come from. Investigate your roots. Talk to your grandparents and parents about your family history. Google your genealogy. What did your great-grandpa do for a living back in the old country? What shtetl did your ancestors live in? You don’t have to appear on Lisa Kudrow’s TV show "Who Do You Think You Are" to find out who you are. 

3. Tell the people in your life what they mean to you.Jewish author Bruce Feiler explains that it took being stricken with cancer (he is now in remission) for him to tell his loved ones how important they are to him. Why must it take a near-death experience or dramatic roadblock for us to take stock of our friends and family? Drop a note or have lunch with the people you care about and tell them what they mean to you.

4. Take FDR’s words to heart. Fear can be a good thing. Don’t let fear stop you from doing the things you want to do. They never seem as scary after you do them.

5. Be and do Jewish in whatever way speaks to you. Whether it’s davening, honoring Shabbat, traveling to Israel, reading Isaac Bashevis Singer, watching a Samberg/Sandler flick, or all of the above, find your own Jewish path.  

6. Live generously. Be generous with your time, money, forgiveness, smiles, and hugs.

7. Remember that this too shall pass. I was having a tough time recently, and then I read that the Connecticut man who lost his family in a home invasion is expecting a baby with his new wife. Even in the most extreme cases, human beings possess resilient spirits. You never know what incredible things are waiting for you just around the bend.

8. Take a hike. Or a run, or a stroll, or a bike ride, or kickboxing, or the stairs. Just move.

9. Sing more—even if you’re off key. Okay, so you’re not exactly Pavarotti, Aretha, or Rihanna. Don’t worry—Simon Cowell can’t hear you in your car or shower.

10. Get inspired. By the Torah, a TED talk, Shakespeare, volunteer work, or even a conversation with a friend.

11. Eat Nutella. It’s just that good. And, it’s kind of like going to Europe.

12. Spend time with people who get you. And less time with people who don’t. Life’s short. `Nuf said.

13. Flex the other side of your brain.If you’re an accountant or teacher by day, take up watercolor, improv comedy, or hula hooping by night. Stretch the limits of who you are and open yourself up to new experiences.

14. Reach out during the holidays and on Shabbat. Having an apples and honey tasting? Gathering people for Shabbat dinner Friday night? Or hosting a meal in your sukkah? Invite that friend of a friend you heard just lost her job or that new family with the triplet toddlers who just moved in down the block. You’ll make someone’s day and maybe make an unexpected friend too.

15. Hang out by the lake. Whether you’re swimming in it, jogging along it, or sipping an umbrella drink on a hammock near it, take in its beauty and vastness. Notice how small you are compared to it. Sort of puts life in proper perspective.

16. Be less green. And I’m not referring to the environment. Remove jealousy from your emotional suitcase. It’s unproductive and you never know what challenges someone else is going through.

17. Give yourself a break. So many people try to excel and make everyone around them happy all the time whether that means making the honor roll, saying yes to a work project you know you don’t have time for, or going out on a date that you’d rather not go out on. But you know what? Sometimes it’s okay to take a day off from perfection. I give you permission.

18. Be present. Stop texting, tweeting, looking back in hindsight, and planning for the future every once in a while—and just be.

The big 3-0 is looming ever close. I only have a month and a half left in my 20s. Sad. I’m handling it the best way I know how— running away to a foreign country for the big day. I figure that if I have to enter this next decade of my life, I can do it in gluttonous style. I’ll be drinking good wine, eating gelato, pasta and pizza in beautiful northern Italy! Five pound weight gain and turning 30 here I come!

So with such an auspicious birthday close to the horizon, I thought it was apropos to revisit one of my old blog posts, “My bucket list” and see what accomplishments I can tick of the list and a few new ones.

So let’s see…

Swim with the sharks? Nope.

Perfect my Spanish? Not really.

Write a historical fiction book? Definitely not.

Live in a city other than Chicago for a year? Almost. Jason got offered a job in Honolulu with his old company, but we ended up turning it down. So – no.

Become a bigger risk taker professionally? Yes! I can tick-off one item on my bucket list. While I’m really enjoying my new job, it definitely required a serious amount of risk taking to leave my old job. And this new job has been full of wonderful opportunities to grow and take charge of my work and career.

Two articles this morning really caught my attention for very different reasons. The first I’m sure many of you have read by now was about “The 9 Nanas.” A group of fabulous ladies who have been pooling resources for three plus decades to secretly help people in need in their community. These do-gooders didn’t even tell their husbands about their secret work! They started at 4 a.m. each morning while everyone else was sleeping and only got “caught” in the act of helping when one husband noticed some large withdrawals from the family bank account. Today, the nine nanas have contributed nearly $900,000 to making a difference in their own community. They continue to help unsuspecting individuals while retaining their anonymity— that is till today when they went viral. You can read the full story here.

With so much negative in the news these days, it’s always nice to hear about the good. These women prove that selfless individuals do exist and that everyone can make a difference, especially when we pool our resources and come together as a community. Sounds familiar … JUF … the power of collective giving … ?

The second article was simply a list of islands I’ve never heard of before that I now want to visit. If you share my travel bug, you might be excited about this list.

So in honor of turning 30, I’m inspired to add two more items to my bucket list. Visit a remote island and complete a secret project that helps someone in need. Now if only I can get item No. 11: bake a delicious cake and eating the whole thing myself without feeling guilt.

See you on the other side of 20-30 something! 

If anyone’s happy that Miley Cyrus has claimed every headline on the Internet this past week, it’s Ben Affleck. Affleck’s casting as Bruce Wayne/Batman in the forthcoming Man of Steel sequel tentatively titled Batman vs. Superman was the dominant form of our collective social media ire for the entire weekend. Then Hannah Montana twerking with Teddy Bears and depicting sex acts with a foam finger happened.

I’ll admit: there’s plenty of need for public discourse regarding Cyrus’ performance and more than what’s needed on Affleck’s casting. Personally, however, I’d rather talk about the latter – because I am a nerd. Also, I am a Jewish nerd, and as we near Rosh Hashanah, I find myself inclined to defend the heck out of Batfleck.

When news of Affleck’s casting as Bruce Wayne broke, word spread fast and the early reaction was exceedingly poor. It appeared as if most people had suffered societal amnesia. Scott Beggs on Film School Rejects put it best:

Try to picture this: it’s ten years from now, and Ben Affleck has shaken off the hatred he earned for signing up to play a superhero by carefully choosing his acting and directing projects. In a rebound of public opinion, he’s delivered several trenchant performances — fulfilling the potential he showed back in the 90s — and crafted several prestigious films that prove his salt as a storyteller. With that, welcome to 2013, ‘Daredevil’ haters. It’s good to have you here.

Are Affleck and JLo still together? How long do you think we’ll be in Iraq for? And gosh, this band Coldplay is really catching on.

The real question is where is this Affleck hate coming from? Less than six months ago he was the toast of Hollywood, winning a Best Picture Oscar for Argo while the masses cried out against his snub of a Best Director nomination. He has worked tirelessly since 2006 to get to this point, refusing action and romance roles and gravitating toward dramas and thrillers, not to mention launching his feature directing career, which resulted in three excellent movies in three attempts (Gone Baby Gone, The Town and Argo). Gone, baby, gone were the disastrous years of 2003 and 2004 when he starred in Daredevil, Paycheck, Jersey Girl, Surviving Christmas and yes, the national punch line, Gigli. Gone was the pretty boy image of Armageddon and Pearl Harbor. Gone were the Kevin Smith days and attempts at lesser comedy.

Except not, apparently. The news of Affleck becoming the fifth actor to portray Batman on the big screen immediately snapped everyone back to the Daredevil days. I get the thought process: Affleck was once a superhero, it turned out badly, ergo, Affleck should never play a superhero ever again, let alone Batman, coolest of superheroes. That said, I find this logic … faulty.

First of all, if you’re still sore about Daredevil, get over it. Daredevil was not going to be a great superhero movie independent of Affleck. Daredevil was bad because it was Daredevil (and because Colin Farrell played a bald dude who throws knives), not because of Ben Affleck. Also, it has a 45% on Rotten Tomatoes, meaning, on average, 45 people out of 100 liked the movie on the whole.

Second, I know fans are particularly sensitive to who gets cast in superhero films and we especially don’t like it when someone who played one superhero plays another. But for every Halle Berry playing Storm and Catwoman, there’s a Chris Evans who played the Human Torch and went on to become Captain America. It’s about the film and its vision, not the actor and his or her reputation. Heath Ledger as the Joker? The star of A Knight’s Tale, 10 Things I Hate About You and Brokeback Mountain? The Internet was not happy in July 2006 with a heartthrob type being cast as a legendary villain. You tell me how that went.

I personally feel intrigued by the casting thanks to what Batman vs. Superman director Zack Snyder had to say about Affleck’s casting, which should give you a sense of his vision:

"(Ben) has the acting chops to create a layered portrayal of a man who is older and wiser than Clark Kent and bears the scars of a seasoned crimefighter, but retain the charm that the world sees in billionaire Bruce Wayne."

Let’s play the “what if” game for a moment. Let’s pretend the 1997 film Batman & Robin didn’t exist, and news broke that Snyder had cast George Clooney as Batman in Batman vs. Superman. Replace “Ben” in Snyder’s quote with “George.” What do you think the dominate reaction would be? Inspired? Brilliant?

Affleck has reinvented himself and few in the public spotlight can do that and succeed. Hate to mention it again, but look at Miley Cyrus. Image and perception are tough to improve; the response to Affleck’s casting proves as much. Even for those of us far, far removed from Hollywood, reinventing one’s self takes a lot of reflection and even more courage. People will say things and they won’t easily – if ever – forget you used to be a certain way. Affleck was clearly unhappy with his career choices. He did something about it. And to think of it, reinvention is something Bruce Wayne knows a little bit about.

On Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we are called to return to ourselves. We are called to think about the person we’ve been and the things we’ve done. We take on the challenge of self-reflection in order to renew ourselves and our sense of purpose, to redefine who we are and who we want to be. And we ask others (and one particular Other) to look beyond what we’ve done and to support us in this new year as we try to be the best version of ourselves.

You don’t have to like the Affleck casting. Maybe you’ve never liked him period, and now he’s been cast in a movie you think you’ll like. You have every right to be skeptical from now until July 17, 2015; who’s to say a Batman vs. Superman movie will even work? But Affleck’s past won’t have anything to do with it. No one, not even a public figure, wants to be criticized for their past mistakes, especially when they’ve done so much to move beyond them.

Forgive Daredevil. Forgive the hotshot astronaut playing with animal crackers on Liv Tyler’s belly. Forgive whatever Gigli was about. Forgive yourself, and forgive your closest people for their past wrongs. Then move on with an open mind and open heart – and go become Batman.

There's no Oy! without you.

Libby, my co-founding editor, and I wrote those words on the About Oy! page over five years ago, in April 2008, when we first launched Oy!Chicago. (I guess technically, there's no Oy! without yo!, but I digress). It was so exciting to see this vision come to life: an online space for Jewish conversation among Chicago 20- and 30-somethings—a place where Jews my own age could say what was on their minds, share their life experiences and engage with one another.

Since then, many things have changed in the world, in our community and at Oy!Chicago. From my perspective, one of the greatest and most rewarding parts of all of this has been watching as our bloggers have taken on new challenges and careers, traveled to amazing places, gotten married, started families and so much more. How cool is it that we have this all documented through Oy!? Many of our bloggers have been with us from the beginning, others have moved on, and lots new faces have joined our team. I have had the privilege of working with three incredibly talented co-editors—Libby, Cheryl and now Steven. Over the years we have had a total of 50 regular contributors, plus countless guest bloggers—that is a community in and of itself!—and reached more than 250,000 unique visitors.

Through all the changes and redesigns and new writers, one thing has remained constant: There is no Oy! without you. Without your input, comments and participation, Oy! is just oy….

Last night, our team of bloggers got together to reflect on how we're doing and to brainstorm what comes next for Oy! as we move into the new year. I left the meeting feeling inspired and reinvigorated—we've got some great stuff coming up on the horizon.

It also inspired me to write to all of you—Oy! readers, friends of Oy! readers, Oy! bloggers past and present—to ask you what you think.

What is your relationship with Oy!?
What would you like to see on Oy!—what would get you commenting and sharing more?
What stops you from commenting on posts?
Do you want to get together for more events?
What else?

Please tell us by commenting below, answering our short survey or emailing me privately at Stefanie@oychicago.com. Seriously, tell us what you think—I promise, we'll listen.

And lastly, I want to invite you to contribute to Oy!, as a guest blogger or a regular monthly contributor. We are always looking for new bloggers to join the Oy! team—you don't have to be a professional writer or a professional Jew, just a Jew-ish Chicagoan who has something to say and brings a unique perspective. All our bloggers are volunteers, but they get great exposure, an opportunity to write about what they love and the chance to be part of our awesome team.

And remember, there's no Oy! without yo(u).

I’ve never been a fan of the first day of school. I’ve never been a fan of the first day of anything, really, be it camp, a job, college classes, online classes, or even classes I’m teaching. It’s not all bad, though – I do love the scent of brand new school supplies and being the center of attention for a few fleeting moments as my mom forces me to pose for awkward first day photos. (And it doesn’t matter that we’re in different states. Thanks a lot, Skype.)

Speaking of my mom, she’ll never let me forget that day when I came home from school (I think it was in third grade), threw my backpack across the room in a dramatic act of nine-year-old rebellion, collapsed in a heap on the floor and proclaimed that I hated school and was never going back.

Anyone who knows me realizes how laughable this is, considering I am and always have been school’s number one fan. If I could join some kind of cheerleading squad and do cartwheels celebrating school, I would. But I would not do them for the first day. I would do an anti-cartwheel, in fact. I’m not entirely sure what that would look like, but it would not be pleasant.

While a lot of people get excited being in new environments and meeting a bunch of new people all at once, I get fairly terrified. Not necessarily of the actual environments or people, but of what could be coming next in regards to them. That day in third grade, for example, I was seated next to this gross boy who picked his nose all day long and stuck his snot along the side of his desk, almost like he was leaving a trail in case he got lost coming back from the water fountain or something. His desk was next to my desk. I was not thrilled. And so my brain went, “Emergency! What if you’re stuck sitting by him ALL YEAR? What if you accidentally touch his snot and get some kind of snot-related infection and DIE? What if all the other kids think it’s YOUR snot and don’t talk to you EVER AGAIN?”

I’d make myself so nervous about the future of the snot (and the future of everything else) that I’d wreck the day and come home horribly freaked out by things that had not actually happened yet, and probably never would.

Now that I’m older and wiser and know that I get like this when in new situations, I’m able to spot the warning signs and get a grip before things spiral out of control. Still, even as the teacher, there are always what-ifs that freak me out. Luckily, they’re not usually snot-related anymore (now I control the seating chart [insert evil laugh here]) and now, I’m motivated to deal with them. Setting my concerns aside and consciously deciding to wait to worry about them if/when they ever actually happen makes me a good role model for my students and a far less annoying person for my mother to deal with at the end of the day.

If you ever find yourself getting bogged down by a gross person (or a scary boss, terrible selection of food, ginormous textbook, man-eating syllabus, etc.) on your first day of something, try to take it with a grain of salt. Sometimes things appear like they could be a little scary. Sometimes they actually are scary (I think we all know that ginormous textbooks aren’t messing around), but a lot of the time they’re no big deal. By focusing so much on Snot Kid (who only sat by me for that first week, thank goodness), I missed a lot of opportunities to notice amazing things about third grade. But don’t worry – I was still doing cartwheels for it by the end of the year.

In my mind, the words circle in a constant loop as I look out onto the river, look across at the Marina City towers. Everything is calm, save for the butterflies in my stomach. Every change is a leap of faith, big or small. You trust you’ll land on your feet. You take stock in your competence, your strengths. Deal with your weaknesses later. It’s time for a change.

Hands folded in my lap, I sit on my balcony and try my best to be brave, to adopt my mantra. It’s the night before starting my new job. For one reason or another, transitions aren’t my strong suit. I’m not good at navigating the in-between. I’m neurotic, what can I say. I have shpilkes, that’s for certain.  

I’m always anticipating the end or the beginning of things. Often I’ll try and picture the future as a map … plot out the points, delineate a new path or two, but as we all know, that’s all for naught.

Thinking about the days ahead, I feel a bit frenzied when I consider entering a new work environment, the lone new staffer. I consider navigating the sea of undefined expectations and wonder if I made the right choice, to leave a job that suited me as well as it did, for a job that is more out on a limb for me,  but I have faith will be satisfying, challenging and fulfilling.

I shake my head, shake the feeling. I remember a few years ago, sitting on my bed in Grenoble, France, recalling a time when I felt very much the same. I’d just moved across the ocean; some would argue without thinking it all the way through.

Thinking about finding new friends, jumping through bureaucratic hoops, working in a school environment, which I hadn’t done before … the totality of what I took on by myself seemed overwhelming those first few weeks. I remember, clear as day, a point where I didn’t feel scared anymore. Sitting on my cheerful white and yellow polka dot comforter, holding myself together. “Be brave.” It was the only resonating thought. I didn’t have a choice. And so I was.  For me, it’s all about energy and patience. Taking time to learn about others, alternating taking the lead and going with the flow.

Moving toward the Jewish New Year, there’s so much “new” to think about: new family members, new jobs, new things to celebrate, new tasks to take on. It’s a good time to realign and regroup.

Last year was a busy one. It was a whirlwind of adjusting to city living, a reverse commute, trying to make time for this that and the other. So basically, nothing too out of the ordinary. I look forward to taking advantage of the extra time I have in my day to refocus, to tackle some things I haven’t been brave enough to tackle in the past; to invest some stock in the power of positive thinking and hope for the best; do something that takes me out on a limb; do something that makes me nervous.

Here’s to a sweet new year, and here’s to figuring it all out along the way.

Who needs Hebrew school when you have cable?

1. There’s Yiddish 101 on The Nanny…

-Where is Miss Fine anyway?
-Oh, she's upstairs getting "farpitzed".
-What does that mean?
-You know, dressed.
-I thought that was "farblandzhet".
-No sir, that means 'confused'.
-No man, that's "farcached".
-Then what's "vershimmelt"?
-...I think that's her uncle.

A classic show that also offered lessons in Jewish cuisine…

And even Jewish dating.

2. Glee has a few good lessons on Jewish dating, too…

As well as Jewish music.

3. For Jewish history, we can rely on accurate modern retellings by our Friends…

4. And by everyone’s favorite talking babies…

Full video

5. To master the intricacies of Jewish geography, there’s Girls…

Full video

6. And Will & Grace…

Full video

7. And Rhoda…

Full video

8. Whose parent show, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, also deserves a mention for tackling anti-Semitism on 1970s network TV…

9. And while we’re on a more serious note, Grey’s Anatomy’s Dr. Cristina Yang-Rubenstein’s Judaism may seem like just a punch line…

But she actually teaches the Seattle Grace gang about sitting shiva in a pretty moving scene:

Full video

10. On the lighter (and maybe less sensitive) side, Raising Hope serves up an entire Judaism primer in this 2-minute musical number:

And inspires viewers to “Rock the Torah” in this one:

Full video

11. Need a little more guidance? Sex and the City will help you talk the talk…

Full video

Full video

And walk the walk.

12. Weeds will help even the youngest learners understand scripture…

13. And if all else fails, just remember…

During my first week of college freshman year, I received a plethora of campus maps, activity and club lists, some guidance on picking courses, condoms and a rape whistle. For four years, I dutifully carried the whistle on my key ring.

At 18, I entered into a then-unknown world in which drinking in excess was the norm, and a woman’s safety was up for grabs. During one of my first nights of the university’s “Welcome Week,” which was essentially a week of ongoing partying with campus-sanctioned events sprinkled in, I witnessed a girl passed out unconscious on the front lawn of a rumbling, party-filled house with no one to speak for her. I called an ambulance and they arrived with haste, thankfully. That same night, I found myself repeatedly calling and checking in on my new friend, as she had wandered off drunkenly with a guy she’d just met.

I did not always make the perfect/safe choices I could have during my time as an undergrad. However, as a young girl on campus, I often feared for my safety at night. Call it Jewish paranoia or call it good sense, I spent a lot of time managing and negotiating travel after dark. Whether I needed to get home late from a night of studying at the library, or wanted safe passage after a night out with friends, maintaining my safety was a chore. I developed a mixed routine of calling a late-night safe cab, making friends walk me home or talking on the phone with friends or family until I got to my apartment. After dark, a college campus becomes a silent war zone for women; much of the same can be said for women living in urban areas such as Chicago.

I am no stranger to living in an urban environment, nor am I a timid resident. I prefer urban environments and always have. During college, I studied abroad and traveled around Europe with little hesitation. I’ve lived in Chicago, proper, for several years after college. However, I’ve had numerous moments in the past several years in which my heart has leapt into my throat with fear or panic from sketchy encounters.

In a recent RedEye opinion article entitled, “Take women’s safety seriously,” contributor Niki Fritz examines women’s safety on public transportation in Chicago and her feelings around the lack thereof. Fritz recalls a ride on the “L” in which she witnesses a nearby passenger touching himself in her presence.

“Panicked, I jumped off the train five stations before my stop,” Fritz said. “I felt violated and scared—but also kind of initiated to the ‘big city.’ This was what my mother warned me about; this was part of being a woman in Chicago.

“As Chicago comedian Ever Mainard explains in a memorable joke,” Fritz added, “every woman has that moment on the ‘L,’ walking home or waiting for a bus when they see someone suspicious and think, ‘Welp… this is it. This is my rape.’”

Similarly, while I was abroad, I took a spring break trip with a friend through France and Spain. One night, after our late arrival in Nice, we settled into our dilapidated French hotel and scoured the nearby area for a restaurant. We were surprised to find that parts of Nice—a well-known, luxury resort destination—had some rough neighborhoods. We found a small, empty bistro near our hotel and sat down for a tired dinner. In the middle of eating, my friend alerted me to the strange man outside of our restaurant window, touching himself while we ate. To this day, I will always remember Nice’s glittering pebble beaches, its beautiful buildings, and the man who joined us for dinner without an invitation. That sense of “violation” that Fritz describes is still palpable.

Just last week, I walked through my neighborhood alone in the early evening to pick up some take-out. A suspicious-looking man crossed my path and seemed to be walking to an apartment building. I passed him and turned back to look and noticed he’d changed directions and was now walking behind me. I began envisioning his attack and my demise. I sped up to walk close behind a couple strolling down the street. I thought to myself, “They’ll hear me when I scream.”

Embarrassed, I recalled the story to a friend the next day, and she shrugged and said she’d had similar moments. She said intuition is a powerful thing, and it’s worth following. I was both comforted and disturbed to learn I wasn’t crazy.

I’ve had many discussions with female friends, in which we negotiate which neighborhoods are safe to walk late at night, which “L” stops can be ridden alone after dark, and when it’s time to call a cab. Each of us, it seems, sets artificial time deadlines in which we won’t roam freely alone in the city at night.

Women are in a constant dialogue with each other, themselves, and their environment about how to keep themselves safe. Unfortunately, much of the public discourse surrounding rape and violence against women is not directed at helping women, but rather blaming them. If we’re not blaming women, we’re reminding them to be gatekeepers for men’s behavior or to avoid men who can’t control themselves.

“I also felt this creeping kind of shame,” Fritz said. “Despite knowing that some dude jacking off on the train had nothing to do with me, I kept asking myself what I did wrong. Should my neckline have been higher? Should I have had a male chaperone? Should I make sure I’m dead bolted into my studio before dusk?”

Similarly, I button myself up, clutch my cell phone, my keys (a weapon) or pepper spray, walking briskly with hope and an appearance of purpose.

Fritz laments bits of advice warning women to keep their eyes open or refrain from taking public transportation alone at night. I agree with her. Authorities (and our loving parents) are advising women to avoid danger. However, this advice fails to address the bigger problem at hand: We continue to live in a society in which it’s OK for women to be afraid.

As Fritz said, “Instead of asking women to ‘protect themselves,’ we need to end rape culture: the mentality that makes women’s bodies public property, things to be commented on, touched and violated in public.”

While we can “blow the whistle” on individual cases witnessed at “L” stations and on street corners, a bigger discussion needs to take place. This discussions needs to take place early in schools; women and men need to be taught early and often (much like Chicago voters) about what it takes to make society safe for women.

I wish my university had handed both my female and male classmates that whistle freshman year with instructions to raise some hell. 

My first summer at camp in 1999

There are few, if any, things that I adore more than summer camp. If you have read any of my previous posts, you know this as I am pretty confident that I mention it in at least 95 percent of my pieces. This summer, I had to deal with the (almost) always inevitable summer that any camp-obsessed person dreads more than the summer ending---the first summer spent not at overnight camp.

Most of my friends said their goodbyes to the days of making friendship bracelets, lunches filled with crazy dress up and singing in the dining hall, and those cliché yet perfect nights under the starry sky sometime between our high school years and the summer that they "needed" to get their first internship (you know, in order to be successful and have a career and all that jazz). However, I stuck it out for the long haul: eight years as a camper and six years on staff.

Unfortunately, one aspect of initiating yourself into the real world and the work force is the absence of a summer break. Unless you are really smart and decided to be a teacher or another profession that gives you summer break, being a working person means summer now lacks something that has always been there for me in the past: two or more months spent in a euphoric bubble separate from the real world.

Starting pretty much the day that summer 2012 ended, I really thought that the majority of the following summer would be spent in hysterics. Dramatic? Most definitely. True? Shockingly not as much as I anticipated. This summer had its high points and low points. Chicago in the summer is wonderful (as I had heard), but there were of course times when I missed my summer home. Organizing spreadsheets and expense reports does not compare to planning programs for campers. Eating some sort of lame makeshift salad at my desk doesn't even come close to eating camp’s famous grilled cheese and tomato soup in the dining hall. And even worse, when it rains in the real world, there is no rainy day schedule.

There were many FOMO (fear of missing out) moments, but in the end, I made it. Here are my tips for all camp-obsessed individuals on how to survive your first summer in the real world (or at least how I managed to do it):

Change into casual clothes the second you get home from work
Is one of the many highlights of the season of summer being able to live in Nike shorts/leggings and white v-neck t-shirts? Of course. So, the second you get home from your place of work, change into casual attire. Thank me later.

Go to as many concerts and cool events as possible
This is helpful because then you can think to yourself “but if I was at camp, how would I be able to see [insert band/artist that you have seen multiple times, but you continue to use as justification to why your summer is “still unreal”].” It kind of, sort of, mostly works, sometimes. At least it did for the "Legends of Summer Tour".

Travel
I had my first summer weekend in NYC and fit in a road trip to Cape Cod. Try to take solace in seeing new places during the summertime.

Immediately exit any location that deems it appropriate to play camp songs on repeat
If you are as lucky as I am, your place of work will somehow, seemingly have every camp song on loop playing in your communal space every day. I swear if I had a dollar for every time I went to go to grab a yogurt and heard “Wonderwall” fading into “Drift Away” it would constitute as a pretty generous summer bonus.

Make sure to watch your favorite camp movies often
It is hard to not feel infinitely better as Beth does roll call for “David…Ben Gurion?” at Camp Firewood or as Lars congratulates Mr. Simms for being the fattest kid in camp. This truly always makes me smile.

Visit camp
Visiting three times in the span of 10 weeks may have been excessive, but I'm over it. With all this being said, I hope that this summer ritual doesn't become a trend, but if it does, I guess it's time to channel Destiny's Child and "keep on surviving".

Editor's note: Jamie was brave enough to share her story of learning she had breast cancer with Oy! last month. You can read that story here and follow all of Jamie's posts on her blog, J-Strong.

It happened. As much as I knew it was coming, it still seemed unexpected and definitely unwelcome. Sunday brought LOTS of shedding, enough to the point of buying a lint brush. I still thought I’d have a few days, but when I woke up Monday morning to a pillow full of hair and a tingling scalp, I guess I knew it was time. Luckily, my wig fitting appointment was scheduled for that afternoon.

The thing is, I thought we would just be picking it up to be proactive. I got in the shower with my phone playing music on shuffle per usual. I washed everywhere else there was to wash until I could no longer avoid getting my head wet. The second the water hit, my hair started falling into the tub in clumps. As fast as the clumps were gathering, so were the tears streaming. I’m not just talking a calm cry; I’m talking a full-blown, uncontrollable meltdown.

What made the sobbing pick up pace was when I stopped to breathe and realized what song was playing in the background. It was the same song that came on the radio the night I received my diagnosis. It is the song that has had the ability to make me crumble every time I’ve heard it since that day. But the thing is, I love the song! I haven’t removed it from my phone; I don’t skip to the next song when it comes on.

I am a firm believer that everyone needs a good cry once in a while and that it solves nothing to bottle everything up. The fact that I barely cried in the early weeks of learning I have breast cancer was so unlike me. I am an incredibly emotional person. I cry watching commercials, I cry in job interviews … you name it – appropriate or not – I’ve cried. The fact that I wasn’t letting it all out was beyond me. I’m not sure if I was trying to be strong; it’s one thing to put on a brave face in front of others, but I wasn’t even letting myself cry when I was alone. It was strange.

That is why, subconsciously, I think I let “Gone, Gone, Gone” by Phillip Phillips stay on my playlist. I think I wanted it there to force the tears out. The day after my diagnosis, my husband and I went to see Phillip Phillips perform as part of my birthday present. Lucky for me, a concert is a great environment to let it all out with nobody noticing – not even Joe. But you better believe that when that song came on I bawled my eyes out.

Don’t take me the wrong way. It isn’t even about the lyrics. I know I am going to be around for a long time to come. Nobody needs to worry about loving me long after I’m gone, gone, gone. But that night driving home from teaching dance (and answering the doctor’s phone call in the bathroom before proceeding to teach the rest of the class), when you get in the car and such a song comes on and you know you’re headed home to tell your fiancé at the time and parents that you have cancer … well, it’s certainly a song that will move you to tears.

So anyway, standing in the shower exactly four months to the day I was diagnosed, the same frickin’ song playing, I let go. I can’t even keep count of how many people have told me it will grow back. I know that it will, but that doesn’t make it suck any less. When you stand there with the water beating down on you and watch it all fall out and physically feel it doing so, it sucks. Nobody wants to be bald. I couldn’t even look in the mirror.

Now I am definitely exaggerating. For what was falling out, I told my mom it was 75 percent of my hair. I still had plenty, but it was starting to come out from the roots on top and it was devastating. I lied around watching TV for a little bit (my new guilty pleasure Devious Maids distracted me for a while). I finally had enough of feeling sorry for myself and decided since we had time to kill before my wig appointment, I would get dressed, throw on my Cubs hat and head to the mall for a bit. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the energy to get much shopping done. We went to McDonald’s and even a large Diet Coke didn’t taste good to me. That never happens.

The appointment wasn’t so bad. Before we even got started, the women insisted on seeing pictures and hearing about the wedding. Without hesitation, we kept talking as she cut what was left of my hair and shaved the rest. I had a G.I. Jane moment and didn’t even mind how I looked. It was not nearly as bad as I had anticipated. I felt like a bad ass and I still even felt pretty. Not enough to the point to walk around proudly with a bald head, but still.

Prepping the wig was a different story. It was such a process. They put it on your head wet so it starts to mold and they start cutting and shaping. I couldn’t remember where my hair had parted or where my bangs started and how long they were. I was not at all helpful in making the wig look like me. I was getting anxious because once it was ready and I would take it off and try putting it on, it wasn’t in the right place. I was frustrated from trying too hard. I know I will begin to get used to it, but for now, I just feel like I am wearing a wig and therefore when I look in the mirror, that is what I see. At least I have found a new accessory to shop for. Bring on the hats.

Before you start preparing your favorite chicken soup, brisket with all the trimmings and other standard Rosh Hashanah fare you might want to check the calendar. It is still SUMMER and still hot!

Yep, the holidays are early this year and while I really do know that technically the holidays are exactly on time, but due to some quirky issues of the Jewish calendar, they are falling during the summer and the heat will be on.

Jewish holidays are usually the time the time when we remember family and past holidays. One way we do that is through food. We make family favorite recipes and the flavors and smells take us back in time. We recall family members and the good times we had with them. I love that about food and that is probably one of the reason I love my job. I can conjure up memories just by cooking recipes. This year, I cannot imagine a hot bowl of chicken soup and heavy brisket with potatoes. It is just too much with Midwest summer heat and I am looking forward lighter, brighter flavors.

This year will be different. I am going to create some new traditions. I am looking to the farmer’s markets and the weather to guide me to a delicious and flavor packed holiday season.

The High Holidays could not come at a better time for produce. The stalls will be overflowing with eggplants of all colors and sizes, tomatoes with flashy names, and colors to match like Purple Cherokee, Green Zebra, and Hillbilly. I can’t wait for the plums. They come in shades of purple, green, gold, and burgundy with floral sweet-tart flavor and luscious texture.

YES! The holidays are early and the food will be amazing and the memories lasting.

New Year and New Age Borscht

This vegetarian and healthy chilled borscht utilizes seasonal summer produce. The stock is a quick do-ahead flavorful vegetable stock that is loaded with flavor and bright-gorgeous ruby color. The veggies are healthy, crunchy, and delicious. This soup is a perfect way to start the new year and celebrate the season.

The stock can be made up to 5 days before serving and can be stored, covered, in the refrigerator.

For the stock

1 pound beets, peeled and grated
6 celery ribs, chopped
¼ cup chopped fresh dill
2 red onions, chopped
1 bay leaf
2 medium carrots, chopped
2 cloves
1 cinnamon stick
Several parsley stems
Several basil leaves
8 cups water

1. Place all of the ingredients in a large saucepan or stock pot and bring to a simmer. Cook, uncovered for 45 minutes. Turn off the heat and allow to steep for 30 minutes.

2. Strain out the solids, pressing on them to get all of the liquid, and discard. Adjust seasoning with salt and pepper. Chill the stock.

For the soup

2 pounds mixed beets, (red, candy stripe and golden-all easily found at most farmer’s markets and produce driven markets)
2 cups stemmed and finely chopped Tuscan kale
1/2 cup best quality extra virgin olive oil, divided
2 cups chiffonade-sliced red cabbage (cut into very thin ribbons)
1 cup thinly sliced celery
2 apples (your favorite variety), cored and cut into very thin julienne
1/8 teaspoon celery seed
2 large ripe tomatoes (go crazy here and use colorful heirloom tomatoes!), cut into dice
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
Kosher salt and freshly cracked pepper
Suggested garnishes: pomegranate arils (seeds), celery leaves, fresh basil leaves

Preheat oven to 350

1. Drizzle oil on the beets and wrap each beet in foil. Roast the beets in the preheated oven until tender and a fork can easily pierce the beets.

2. Cool the beets and then peel off the skins. Cut the beets into small dice. (the beets can be stored for up to 3 days before serving)

3. Before serving: Place all of the ingredients for the soup in a large mixing bowl. Season with salt and pepper and toss with olive oil and lemon juice.

4. To serve: mound the soup ingredients in the center of each soup bowl and pour the chilled stock around the mound. Garnish with Pomegranate Arils and celery leaves.

Slow Braised Chile Spiced Lamb Shoulder with Apple-Beet “Butter”

When the heat is on and summer is still in full swing, I crave big, bold flavors. This tender, mouth-watering lamb is just the ticket to usher in the holidays. The lamb practically cooks itself while you sit back, relax, and prepare for the holidays. The whole dish can be made up to three days before serving. The lamb can be braised either in the oven or in a slow cooker.

Serves 8

1 3-pound boneless lamb shoulder
Olive oil for browning
1 large red onion, sliced
2 medium carrots, chopped
2 celery ribs, chopped
¼ cup water
4 ancho chilies, stemmed and seeded (ancho chilies are not spicy or hot! They are earthy and fruity, with flavor similar to a peppery raisin or plum)
6 garlic cloves
2 tablespoons brown sugar
2 teaspoons cumin powder
1 tablespoon sweet smoked paprika
2 teaspoons coriander powder
¼ cup best quality extra virgin olive oil
1 bottle fruit red wine
2 cups chicken stock
Bouquet garni of fresh parsley stems, thyme stems, rosemary sprig
Kosher salt and freshly cracked pepper

1. Place a large sauté pan, lightly coated with olive oil, over medium high heat. Pat dry the lamb should and season with salt and pepper. Brown the shoulder on all sides until dark and caramelized (about 5-7 minutes per side). Transfer the lamb to a rack and cool.

2. Add the onion, carrot and celery to the same pan (you may need a bit more oil) and sauté until browned. Be sure to season the vegetables with salt and pepper.

3. Heat the water in a small saucepan with the ancho chilies until the water comes to a simmer. Turn off the alt sit for about 15 minutes.

4. Puree the chilies and water with garlic, brown sugar and spices in a blender until they form a loose paste.

5. Place the lamb shoulder and vegetables in a casserole or Dutch oven. Rub and coat the lamb with the chili paste and stir any extra paste into the vegetables. Allow the lamb to marinate in the paste for at least 2 hours at room temperature or overnight.

6. Preheat the oven to 325 or slow cooker to HIGH.

7. Add the wine and chicken stock the roasting pan and cover with foil or lid , Braise the lamb for 2 ½ hours. Uncover and continue roasting, adding additional stock or water to prevent scorching and occasionally spooning juices over the lamb, for an additional 2 hours until the lamb is tender and very dark brown, or place the lamb, vegetables, wine and chicken stock into the insert for the slow cooker and cook for 5 hours until a fork can inserted can be pulled out easily.

8. Transfer the lamb to a cutting board and allow to rest. Strain the roasting pan, discarding the solids. Skim off the fat and reduce the liquid to a glaze. Adjust seasoning with salt and pepper.

9. Cut the lamb into 2-inch chunks and pile onto a platter. Dollop with Beet-Apple Butter (see next recipe) and serve.

Apple-Beet "Butter"

This “butter” is a gorgeous and flavor packed thick puree that dresses up braised meats, poultry, and fish.

1 pound red beets, scrubbed and trimmed
1½ cups apple cider
¼ cup honey
2 tablespoons grated orange zest
Kosher salt and freshly cracked pepper
Preheat oven to 350

1. Drizzle the beets with olive oil and wrap the beets, individually, in foil. Roast until very tender and a fork can easily pierce the beets (about 1 hour).

2. Cool, and then peel the skin off. Using the largest holes of a four-side grater or the medium shredding disk of a food processor, shred the beets.

3. Place the shredded beets in a heavy saucepan with the apple cider, honey and orange zest. Simmer gently over low heat, stirring often, until very thick, about 30 to 40 minutes (or longer, depending on how thick you want it). Let cool. Adjust seasoning with salt and pepper.

Sweet Corny Cakes

Hold the potatoes! Yeah, I know, Meat and Potatoes. But we live in the Midwest and it is corn season. Take advantage of local sweet corn and serve these do-ahead cakes with the braised lamb. The cakes will sop up all the juices and are the perfect vehicle for the tender meat.

Purchase the best tasting sweet corn from a local farmer’s market. The corn will be picked fresh and within hours of appearing at the market. I urge you to make the corn cakes the day you purchase the corn. The sweet sugars in the corn begin to convert to starch immediately after picking. For the best flavor, buy local and cook fast!

3 cups corn kernels (from about 6 ears of corn)
1½ cups all-purpose flour
1 cup cornmeal
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ cup water
2 large eggs
1 medium red pepper, cut into small dice
½ cup chopped flat leaf parsley
2 teaspoons chopped jalapeno (optional)
1 teaspoon kosher salt
½ teaspoon freshly cracked pepper

1. Puree 1 cup of the corn kernels in a food processor or blender. Combine the pureed corn with all if the juices with the corn kernels and set aside.

2. Whisk the dry ingredients together in a large mixing bowl. Add the water, eggs and corn mixture. Stir to combine but do not over-mix. Add the peppers, parsley, and salt and pepper.

3. Heat a large sauté pan or griddle, lightly coated with olive oil, over medium heat.

4. Add about 2 tablespoons of the batter to the pan per cake. When browned on 1 side (about 3 minutes), gently flip, and continue cooking on the other side. Transfer the cakes to a parchment lined baking sheet.

5. The cakes can be reheated before serving in a 300 degree oven until hot and can be stored, covered, in the refrigerator for up to 3 days before serving.

Easier than Pie-Plum Galette

Rustic tarts are the way to go for summer desserts. They are delicious and do not take tons of time to put together or bake and you can take advantage of the seasons best produce.
For many home cooks, a pie crust is the final frontier. Pie and tart dough just frightens them. The thought of rolling out a crust and fitting it into a pan without tearing it is enough to make die-hard cooks—well, it is enough to make them purchase a store bought crust, even if they know it won’t taste good!

Fear not! This crust is supple, tender, homemade and easy as pie. C’mon people, gather your rolling pins and fearlessly roll that dough. You can do it!

The secret to a supple and easy to work with dough is the addition of an egg yolk. The yolk makes this dough very forgiving and manageable.

1½ cups unbleached all-purpose flour
2 tsp. granulated sugar
½ teaspoon fine sea salt
11 tablespoons very cold, non-hydrogenated shortening (I use Earth Balance)
1 large egg yolk
3 tablespoons ice cold water

1. Combine the flour, sugar, and salt in a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment (or if mixing by hand, in a medium bowl). Cut the shortening into 1/2-inch cubes and add them to the flour. On low speed, mix the butter and flour until the flour is no longer white and holds together when you clump it with your fingers, 1 to 2 minutes. If there are still lumps of butter larger than the size of peas, break them up with your fingers. Run a spatula along the bottom of the bowl to loosen anything stuck to the bowl. (If mixing by hand, mix with a pastry cutter or two forks until the butter is mixed into the flour as above).

2. In a small bowl, mix the egg yolk and water and add them to the flour mixture. On low speed, mix until the dough just comes together, about 15 seconds; the dough will be somewhat soft. (If mixing by hand, add the yolk mixture to the flour and mix gently with a fork until the liquid is well distributed. The dough will still look crumbly and dry.

3. Dump the dough onto a clean counter and work it with the heel of your hand, pushing and smearing it away from you and gathering it up with a bench scraper and repeating until the dough comes together and is supple). Turn the dough out onto a sheet of plastic wrap, press it into a flat disk, wrap it in the plastic, and let it rest in the refrigerator for 15 to 20 minutes (or up to four days) before rolling it out.

4. Position a rack in the center of the oven and heat the oven to 350°F. Line a heavy-duty rimmed baking sheet with parchment. Remove the dough from the refrigerator; if the dough is very firm, let it sit at room temperature until it is pliable enough to roll. On a floured surface, roll the dough into a round that’s about 13 to 14 inches in diameter. It’s all right if the edges are a little ragged. If you can’t get a roughly round shape, trim the dough so that it’s a rough circle and roll the trimmed scraps back into the dough. Transfer the dough round to the baking sheet and put it in the refrigerator while you prepare the filling.

For the filling

2 pounds ripe plums, pitted (I prefer Stanley Prune plums for their shape and amazing flavor)
½ cup sugar + 2 tablespoons granulated sugar
2 teaspoons lemon juice
¼ cup cornstarch
2 tablespoons apricot preserves
Preheat oven to 350

1. Cut then plums into halves lengthwise. Toss all the ingredients, except the apricot preserves, together. Arrange the plums on the rolled out galette dough, leaving a 3 inch border around the edges.

2. Start at one side draw the dough toward the center, leaving the center open so the plums show. Keep gathering and adding pleats to the dough. It is ok if the galette looks rustic!

3. Sprinkle the sugar all around the dough (this makes the galette sparkly).

4. Bake for about 45-55 minutes or until the fruit is bubbly and the dough is golden brown. Brush the galette with the apricot preserves and allow to cool before serving.

Sometimes it’s cold, I’m stressed, I’m sleepy, I’m sore, and I’m hungry – and all I want is a little comfort from my mom.

Luckily for me, I have the best mother in the world – one who recognizes that sometimes comfort comes in the form of food in small, frozen packages.

I call them Estee Meals, but I might as well call them “a taste of home.”

When my brother and I moved into our own apartments, my mom, Estee, found herself cooking for only herself and my dad. She began freezing the leftovers in small plastic food containers – and so as not to cause any surprises, my mom labeled each container with the date and the contents. “8/2/13: Chicken, broccoli, couscous.” If my dad came home late from a synagogue board meeting and wanted to heat up a quick dinner, his so-called “Estee Meals” were there waiting for him to microwave.

I love to bake, but my cooking skills have yet to be fully developed. My mom recognized this, together with my hectic schedule and long commute to work, and decided to set aside a few of my favorite meals and put my name on them. I can keep these ready-to-go kosher meals in my freezer and heat up one of these meals wherever I am.

These meals save me time: I can go to the grocery store one less time, or I can run out the door without having to throw together a sandwich. They save me the stress of trying to figure out how I’m going to get protein into my stomach this week. They save me from some major headaches.

Living on my own, having a big-girl job, and being a real “adult” is nice – but we all have those days where all we want is a hot meal from our mother. These Estee Meals remind me that even though I am an independent person in a swanky high-rise apartment, I am still somebody’s daughter. Somebody still cares for me and worries about me when I cross the street or cross the country. Even at age 26, I am still my mother’s baby.

Should I “grow up” and start making my own meals of broccoli, turkey, and orzo? I will. I promise. Soon. But I’m not totally ready to give up the comfort of a frozen lunch from my mom.

My mom always says that the reason her cooking is so good is that it’s “made with love.” Of course – every parent cooks with love for their children. But now, as a young adult trying to make it on her own, I find myself warmed up on the inside every time I heat up a lunch that originated in my mom’s kitchen.

As Rosh Hashanah approaches, many of us 20-somethings turn our thoughts to family, homemade meals, and tradition – and I look forward to sharing High Holiday meals with my family. But weeks after the holidays, when my mom’s “Friday Night Chicken” and matzah ball soup become a distant memory, I am sure that I will have several plastic containers of leftovers in my apartment freezer that I can open and re-heat, and I’ll be comforted by my mom’s cooking. 

Somewhere in the world a mother is ordering a child to “Stand up straight!” Is it that easy? Can you simply stand up or sit up straight to fix your posture?

Yes, you need to be aware of your positioning if you really want to fix it. Along with exercises and stretches, you can improve your posture. The picture below details great seated posture, and you can read the accompanying article here.

Step 1: Listen to your grandmother

I slouch. It happens, and because I’m a trainer, I am lucky enough to have every single coworker point out when I slouch. I welcome that feedback. It helps me to realize I need to sit up or maybe just stand for a few minutes. If you stay in one position too long, that’s not good, especially if it’s sitting. You want to avoid rounding your shoulders and bringing your head forward. If you work at a desk like most of us do, chances are this picture happens to you:

Grandmother Guide:

- Place a mirror on your monitor to catch when you slouch
- Stand up throughout the day
- Switch your positioning
- Walk, get water, see a coworker/client
- Buddy up, have a coworker tell you when you’re slouching

A lot of people are moving toward standing desks. Standing is better than sitting, but if you’ve ever worked retail or taught, you quickly learn that standing too much can lead to an assortment of other issues. I like the sit-stand desks best, where you can vary the height of your desk throughout the day.

Step 2: Exercise

Walking is a great exercise that generally does not hurt your posture. Now this is not millennial walking, also known as “walking while texting” (WWT). If you wear dress shoes or heels to work, I recommend bringing a pair of walking shoes with you. My coworkers make fun of me because I have a few dress shoes in the office and commute to work in florescent yellow gym shoes (I shop for comfort).

There are simple exercises you can do in the office or almost anywhere to ease tension and improve your posture if you are healthy enough to exercise:

1) Belly breathe. Sit up straight, place your hands on your belly, inhale deeply though your nose, feel the air fill your diaphragm, hold for a few seconds and exhale through your mouth.

2) Shoulder rolls. With your arms at your side, lift your shoulders up, back and down, and then in the opposite direction. I usually do 20 rolls in both directions.

3) Wall press. Lean against a wall, facing away from wall, with your feet shoulder width apart, place the back of your arms against the wall and press toward the ceiling.

4) Wall clocks. I think it will be easier to watch this video. 

5) Push up holds. Hold yourself in a pushup position and hold yourself up for 20 to 45 seconds without letting your head, back or hips sway. If this hurts your wrists, you can perform the exercise on your forearms.

6) Hip lifts. Lie on your back, knees bent on the ground, lift up hips and slowly lower. I do this exercise 15 to 20 times.

If you are really interested in improving your posture I recommend doing these exercises every other day. There are many other postural exercises. Pilates is a great way of strengthening your core and improving your alignment. If you have access to a class or one on one session, try it out and let me know what you think.

Step 3: Stretching

The fitness world loves to debate stretching. Some view it as a waste of time, arguing that increased flexibility leads to injury. In my opinion, it depends on the individual and the type of stretching. Below, I’ve listed a handful of stretches I like to do often. If you experience any discomfort, stop the stretch immediately.

- Hip stretch (I do not use my hand when I do this stretch)
- Door stretch. Place your arms at a 90-degree angle against a door opening, bring one foot forward and lean toward that foot.
- Hamstring doorway stretch
- Calf Stretch

Do you have a favorite adjustable desk, exercise or stretch? Send it my way, and don’t forget to stand/sit up straight! 

I know how a calendar works, but I’m still having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that Rosh Hashanah is just around the corner. It feels like someone hit the fast-forward button when we weren’t looking. I’ll forgo my panic about time slipping through my fingers and try to focus on something seasonally appropriate.

I should probably be getting a little introspective. Maybe I should think about how to change and grow and improve in the New Year. I’m definitely thinking about that stuff for myself, but I’m also thinking about how the idea of renewal could apply to my dinner plate.

What I’m talking about here is a refreshing of the holiday dinner menu. Think about it. How can we really get renewed and refreshed if the menu never changes? I’m not suggesting a Rosh Hashanah taco night, though that could be fun. Did I just hear someone faint? I’m not talking about total menu anarchy, but would a little change hurt anyone? What if a delicious surprise appeared next to your brisket this year?

Don’t get me wrong. There are food traditions that go with the holidays that I treasure. I love apples and honey and if brisket had a mouth I would kiss it. The list goes on and on. I just wouldn’t be mad if we got brave, threw a wrench into the holiday menu machine and watched as something new popped out. Fried Chicken, perhaps?

Maybe it’s just my family who keeps strict holiday menu rules? I doubt it. In the spirit of the holidays, I have a challenge for us. Let’s bring something new to the table. Maybe that means a Rosh Hashanah fish boil or maybe it means something a little more personal. My plan is to bring a surprise side dish to dinner and see if anyone other than my mother-in-law notices. I’ll probably bring a little taste of summer, like this Panzanella Salad that I am currently obsessed with.

Martha Stewart’s Italian Panzanella
(Adapted from Everyday Food Magazine)

1/4 cup red-wine vinegar
1/4 cup olive oil
Coarse salt and ground pepper
2 cans (15.5 ounces each) cannellini beans, rinsed and drained
3 cups large cubes country bread (5 to 6 ounces)
1 pound plum tomatoes, cut into small pieces
1 English cucumber, thinly sliced crosswise
1/4 medium red onion, very thinly sliced
4 ounces Parmesan cheese grated
1/4 cup fresh basil leaves, torn

In a small bowl, whisk together vinegar and oil; season with salt and pepper.
In a separate large bowl combine beans, bread, tomatoes, cucumber, onion, and cheese, then cover and refrigerate for at least 2 hours. Just before serving, stir in basil.

I have written about running a few times before (The Last Run Down the Lake, Runner's high and 4:23:12) because running has changed my life. It has become more than a hobby and piece of my identity. For me, being a runner is about taking steps to get farther and faster in life. The blood, sweat and tears I put into the sport push me to accomplish more in my day-to-day life. However, this fall I will be running not just to change my life, but the lives of others. 

I am running the Chicago Marathon on Oct. 13 to benefit an amazing organization called PresenTense. That is 26.2 miles through the streets of my kind of town, sweet home Chicago! PresenTense is where community and entrepreneurship meet. It is a global enterprise equipping passionate people to address communal challenges in the present tense. They have a presence in 10 cities across the U.S., Israel and Russia, including my former home, Chicago, and my current home, Washington, D.C.

I want to also add that throughout my training, though I am not an official team member, I will be thinking of my friends on Team JUF that are out there running to raise money and awareness for the Jewish United Fund/Jewish Federation of Metropolitan Chicago. JUF is one of the largest not-for-profit social welfare institutions in Illinois and the central address of Chicago's Jewish community. I plan to donate to Team JUF (and I hope you will too).

As far as PresenTense goes, while working at The Jewish Federation of Greater Washington, I coordinated the launch of the DC PresenTense Fellowship in 2012 and I train new fellows as a PresenTense Social Start Trainer. I have experienced firsthand how PresenTense programs empower individuals with new ideas for social change to make a difference in their local communities. PresenTense invests in people: innovators, entrepreneurs, community leaders, educators, and thinkers. They support and are supported by hundreds of volunteers and community members around the world, and they rely on donations to make those investments possible.

Over 400 innovators with ventures that benefit their local communities have been a part of a PresenTense fellowship.For example, Jill Zenoff of The Gan Project was a PresenTense fellow in 2012, providing a source for sustainable agriculture in Chicago. Elizabeth Weingarten from Washington, D.C. launched Tribelle in 2013 to help female Israeli artisans gain access to a broader market for selling their jewelry. Other projects have involved improving religious school education and sending underprivileged communities used sports equipment for school athletic programs, just to name a few.

When you visit www.100reasonstowin.com/marathon you can find a place to donate and learn more about helping to spread awareness for my race and other ways to help the organization.

I don’t know if you heard, but apparently a royal baby was born in England recently. How fitting that in this week’s portion, Shoftim, Moses provides the framework for the Israelites appointing a king over themselves (the one whom God chooses of course) should they choose to do so once having conquered the Promised Land.

We learn that the Israelite king may not have too many horses, wives, silver or gold, and that he must have a copy of the Torah nearby at all times, which he must make a habit of studying regularly. Eventually, this allowance resulted in the coronations of our ancient kings, including Saul, David, Solomon, etc.

Ultimately, we learn that even though an allowance was created for instituting a monarchy, God was not thrilled that the Israelite nation decided that it desired a king. Hundreds of years later, in response to the prophet Samuel asking God whether or not to appoint a king per the wishes of the Israelite nation, God responds: “Listen to the voice of the people in all that they say to you; for they have not rejected you, but they have rejected Me, that I should not be king over them.” [1 Samuel 8:7]

God is upset that the Israelite nation feels to need to have a human king, given that God’s own kingship should have been sufficient.

I struggle with the adoration and attention being given to the British royal family. Aside from the fact that America was founded as a reaction to the policies (and arguably the existence) of the British monarchy, monarchies inherently suggest that simply based on birth, some human beings are inherently better and worth more than others. This runs directly counter to the principle enshrined in the U.S. Declaration of Independence that “all men are created equal.”  Granted, while at the time of the Declaration that statement did not include women or minorities, it has (thankfully) since evolved.

The royal wedding cost British taxpayers tens of millions of dollars.

Our contemporary understanding (informed by the Western liberal tradition) of what it is to be a human being and which truths we hold to be self-evident, coupled with our tradition’s emphatic statement that human kings are not pleasing to the Divine, should dissuade us from glamorizing an institution whose very existence runs counter to the spiritual ethos of both.

This week, consider making a contribution to HIAS or the Ellis Island Foundation in honor of the new royal baby.

This Shabbat, reflect on the Divine spark that resides within every human being, regardless of what family she or he is born into.

I know that for many 20- and 30-somethings, it seems like everywhere you look, people are having babies. Pregnant women are swarming Chicago’s streets, and you can’t glance through your Facebook newsfeed without seeing a new baby (or five). Long before I had a baby of my own, when a friend would have a child, I would pop over to a baby boutique and get a cute outfit, a blanket or a stuffed animal as a gift, or if I was really on top of my game, I’d check out their registry and get the new parents something they needed.

Now that I've had a child of my own, I realize those are all viable options for supporting new parents and welcoming new babies. But what no one tells you – the gift giver – is that there is another list of great gift ideas, a secret list of things that newbie moms pine for, but more often than not, don’t have the courage to pipe up and ask their friends for.

You can’t register for these gifts, but if you could, I’m sure these would all have been at the top of my list. So, Oy!sters, I’m going to clue you in to the secret wishes of new moms, so that the next time you have a friend or colleague welcome a new baby, you can win the MVP award by offering the family one of these:

1. A home-cooked meal… or any meal that they didn’t have to cook themselves. 
For the first few weeks of Colin’s life, I was proud of myself if I could manage to microwave and eat an entire veggie burger without some distraction. Cooking didn’t truly resume in our house for an embarrassing number of months, and that meant that too often I ate over-processed foods or spent far more than I’d care to admit on take-out. I had several friends who were thoughtful enough to bring food along when they came to meet C, and it was the sweetest thing I could have ever hoped for. Whether it was a casserole, a chicken dinner or a box of Chewy bars, it was all thoroughly appreciated.

If you like to cook, make something simple that freezes well. If you don’t, pick up sandwiches or even some snack food that is healthy and easily consumed one-handed, since it’s rare for brand new moms to have both hands free. If you’re out of town, send a gift card to a fabulous local restaurant that you know delivers. Bring a large enough amount for dinner for two – either her hubby will eat the other half, or she’ll have leftovers for the next day as well. If you want to go the extra mile, take the lead and establish an account on a site to help coordinate meal delivery (like Take Them a Meal or Care Calendar) and spread the word to all of the couple’s friends via email or Facebook.

2. A hot shower without the baby watching/a blaring monitor. 
Visiting a new mom and meeting the new peanut is always fun. Seeing and snuggling a new baby and catching up with a new mom pal is wonderful. The only thing that could make the visit better?

If baby is sleeping when you get there, mention you would happily watch/hold him or her for as long as she needs to take a relaxing hot bath or shower. Mention, of course, that you’re not saying this because she looks filthy, but because most of her showers are rushed and she has to be attuned to the baby’s needs. Send her off and let her know you’ll give three loud knocks to the bathroom door if there is an emergency, but otherwise, she should enjoy the time to relax with baby safely cared for in the next room.

3. An hour or two of free babysitting/mommy’s helper-ing from a trusted friend. 
There is nothing like an extra set of hands when you need them. While some moms are comfortable leaving their kiddo with a sitter or trusted friend right away, others are more wary, even with the most trusted of friends. Offer to watch their baby while they run an errand or two, or while they take a much-needed break for dinner with their spouse or a mani-pedi. If they aren't ready to leave the babe behind, let them know that you are available as an extra set of hands, whether it is for a trip to Jewel, a visit to Buy Buy Baby or her post-partum follow up visit at the OB’s office (you’ll hang in the waiting room with her tiny bundle of joy, of course).  If she doesn't want either of these things, you can even offer to run her errands for her – just grab her grocery list and credit card and voila – best helper ever.

4. A cleaning lady. 
This one is tricky because of course, a cleaning lady doesn't come cheap. I spent the first eight months of Colin’s life making pathetic attempts to keep up with the housework. I couldn't keep up with the never-ending laundry pile, the bathrooms were a fright and our floors were in constant need of a good sweep and mop. What I would have killed for (ok, maybe not killed for) was someone to come in and just do it. Finally, we gave in and hired someone to come every six weeks for a deep cleaning, but in the early days, I would have loved it if our group of friends had chipped in and gotten us a visit from a cleaning person. Or offered to clean. Or to watch the baby while I cleaned so I didn't waste precious nap time cleaning instead of resting.

5. A dog walker. Or dog sitter. Or dog entertainer.
Getting out of the house with a baby involves quite the learning curve for new moms.  Add a leash with a hyped-up puppy at the end of it, and the first few weeks were truly just tough.  We had a dog walker for the first couple weeks to help with the mid-day walk, but the most amazing thing one of my friends did to help was to take our dog out for a few play dates to give her some much-needed exercise that our short strolls around the block weren't adequately covering. Eventually, she started taking Kenzie for slumber parties every now and then so we could have a bit of rest from the walking and the pup got a huge dose of love and affection.

While this is not remotely the same, I can only imagine that if I were writing about a second child instead of a first, this would read “someone to take my older child(ren) for a fun adventure that is extra special for the big sibling(s).”  Since I have no expertise in that department, I will just say that if my dog could notice the decrease in attention with a new baby, I’m sure that older siblings need that extra special time even more!

6. A beautiful picture of their child not taken with an iPhone. 
I was so sad looking back at our photos from the first two months of Colin’s life to realize that 95 percent of them were blurry, grainy, poorly focused shots that my groggy self had carelessly snapped.  If you have any photo skills, bring your camera along when you visit a new baby, and if mom approves, take some cute photos of the little one that you can send along later via email. Oh, and while I would never insist that mom stays in the picture, offer to take one of them together that you promise to share with no one but her, in case she hasn't been able to take many pictures of herself with the baby.

New and expectant mamas – if you covet any of the following things and are afraid to ask, I wrote this to give you an out.  Just casually share this link and maybe your friends will catch the hint and surprise you with one of the incredibly helpful things listed. And gift givers, congrats on becoming the best. friend. ever.

The following is an excerpt from a piece first published on The Quaker, an online literary journal. Oy!Chicago has the permission of the author to republish it. To read the piece in its entirety, follow the link at the bottom of the post.

I watched my grandmother take her last breath. It was a Thursday night.

Bubbe—as we had come to call her, once she got past the point at which all Jewish grandmothers decide to give in to their age and allow their grandchildren to call them by this Yiddish term of endearment—had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer just two months before. Bubbe, by then, had come to represent trips to Florida, hunts in the flea markets, and shelves of chatchke—the Yiddish word for useless stuff that manifested at Bubbe’s house as china figurines. She also made the fluffiest matzo balls this side of the Dead Sea. By that point, she always called us her “sweet girls,” all four of us bearing different combinations of our mother’s features. I’ve never seen a pair of cheek bones rise higher at the sight of me than when I walked through the door to find Bubbe at the sink, shaking the gold bracelets on her wrist, jingling like chimes, prepping some sort of meal to “put meat on our bones.”

She had always told me I was a good Kfesser, the Yiddish word for eater, and my love for food and cooking grew with every lesson she taught me. She also told me what a Kvetch—a complainer—I could be, so I stayed mindful of my humility and my blessings.

I sat in a hospice room on that Thursday night surrounded by my sisters—Abbee, 23, Rachel, 25, Jackie, 27. I’m 21 now, and as a frightened 18-year-old, I endured my first real loss that night. I know it was a Thursday because the weekend before had been my senior prom, and that Saturday was the last time my grandmother ever saw me. Thinking back on that afternoon, I realize she could not have passed away with a better final memory of me. My makeup perfect, my hair all done up in blonde curls. This was the way she had always liked me to look. When I look at photographs of her around my age, she exudes the glamour of the 1940s.

I had chattered nervously to her as she smiled, taking me in. I had kissed her forehead and rushed home to put on my emerald green dress and her favorite ring. She lent me her emerald ring. I cherish it, but haven’t worn it since. I’m not materialistic, truly. I’d rather spend an entire day outside in the dirt and leaves, rolling around with my horses in muck boots and a worn flannel jacket, but sometimes pieces of jewelry can hold more memories and moments than any scrapbook or failing human mind.

In the hospice room, a few of my cousins—a whole generation older than my sisters and I—lined the wall with their parents, my mom’s brothers and their wives, while my mother held her hand.

Mom had been the one to drive Bubbe all over the state for second opinions and alternative treatments. Mom had been the one praying, begging for her life, and Mom had been the one who spent the time, cherished each moment, and savored each meal and meeting just in case it would be the last. After her divorce from my father, I don’t think my mom ever took for granted even the briefest second she spent with someone she loved, in fear that it would all be over in the next minute. My mother is the strongest woman I know, and I think she’d say the same about her own mother, my Bubbe.

We had been watching her a few hours before she took her final breath. The rain fell onto the asphalt outside where the rest of Skokie, Illinois had fallen into a normal night’s sleep. The nurse told us we should take a walk outside. She said usually, mothers wait until their children have left the room to pass on. We all agreed, however, that, if we were talking about Bubbe, she’d want an audience, so we settled into our positions around the room.

She had spent most of my mother’s childhood playing hostess, and she had made the perfect 1950s housewife. She never left the house without her hair and makeup exactly perfect; she even vacuumed the floor in a dress and heels each morning. She had always had her hair “done,” and she had her eye makeup tattooed onto her face, the only exception she accepted to our religion’s taboos. Bubbe had my grandfather build a bar in the basement, separate entrance included, so her friends could drink cocktails and play billiards without interruption from the children. They were jitterbug champions in the ‘40s. They entertained every chance they could, and we were sure she relished the attention.

As we gave her our most focused attention in the hospice room, her breathing became shallow, and we waited, and watched. For a few moments, her breathing sped up, her chest rose, back arched as she struggled to breathe in short, airless gasps. We simply watched, and I can’t be sure now what we might have been watching for.

Why is it that family members rush home when they hear a loved one is about to die? Is it to say a final good-bye? Is it to witness God entering the room? Is it to sneak a possible peek at what it’s like to be gone, really gone?

When the doctors had first diagnosed Bubbe, my mom’s brothers, Bruce and Steve, teamed up to convince my mother to put her in the hospital full time. My mother had just moved her parents back to Chicago from Florida, and she didn’t want to put them through another residential adjustment. She bought them a spacious, first floor condo to compensate my grandmother’s inexperience with apartment living. She had lived in a house since the day she left her rigid mother’s apartment when she married, and she wasn’t willing to give up her own domain. Watching her pace back and forth from her bedroom to the kitchen in their apartment was hard for my mother. Her mom already was a domestic goddess stuck in a cramped quarters, so throwing her into what she would have seen as a prison cell would strip her of her final peace. After Steve and Bruce lost that fight, they withdrew all monetary and emotional support, and left my mother to carry the burden. As a result, their late presence—along with that of their children who followed the tug of their parents’ purse strings—was profoundly unwelcome. We had been there every day after school, had witnessed every doctor appointment, and watched her struggle to make it through every difficult day. We wanted to cherish our last moments with her, alone. They, however, had arrived mostly to ease their consciences. My grandparents were modest people, they didn’t leave behind any real money, but my mother made sure my sisters and I would receive Bubbe’s most meaningful relics.

I watched her chest rise again, deeply this time as she took in a louder breath, like a short gust of wind entering the car window when opened on the highway. Her chest fell, and I watched it there, waiting for it to rise again. She looked no different, if perhaps more peaceful even than before, but her chest didn’t rise. I waited, I didn’t blink for fear I’d miss it. All I felt around me was everyone else’s breath stop; they were waiting too, watching. For a few moments, the room became uncomfortably quiet. My mother broke the silence with a cracking sob and my sisters and I fell beside her—a heap of weeping women had just seen their fierce leader fall.

Continue reading on The Quaker.

Chicago might be questionable in the winter, but when it comes to summertime it is hands down one of the best cities in the country.

Encouraging this strong opinion is the abundance of awesome farmers markets. Almost every neighborhood has its own special twist. With my crazy chef schedule I find myself wandering the city while most people are sitting at a desk. One of my favorite things to do on those off hours is to stumble into the Green City Market. I get way too excited over the wide variety of perfectly ripe seasonal fruit and vegetables and end up with too many on my hands.

A great solution to savor the summer harvest, besides pickling and making jams, is to make soups. I love making zucchini soup. It utilizes all my fresh and local purchases and I find it is a great summer soup. I make it in big batches and freeze it to enjoy in the winter time as well. It is full of nutrients, low in cost, and virtually fat free.

Before I moved out into the big bad city, I was lucky enough to have a small garden at my parents’ house. I found zucchini to be a great crop for the amateur farmer. It involves low maintenance and grows great in Chicago’s summer climate. The herbs in the soup are also easy and fun to grow at home. I took an old wine barrel that was cut in half, and made it a small herb garden separate from my vegetable garden. I actually found a few of the herbs like mint and rosemary to not only last well into the fall, but they also came back the following summer on their own.

There are so many variations to this soup. I like to take advantage of the farmers’ knowledge to really get a feel for what is in season as the summer months go on. In August, besides zucchini, you can find in-season bell peppers, corn, broccoli, cabbage, beans, pears, peaches, berries, grapes and more. The same technique can be used, but bell peppers and a few pears can be substituted for zucchini and maybe leave the dill and basil out and instead add thyme and a small amount of mint. If it is 90 degrees out I may even serve this soup chilled with a few cucumber balls as a garnish.

Zucchini Soup

Ingredients

1 T grapeseed oil
3 large onions chopped
6 garlic cloves roughly chopped
6-8 med zucchini with skin, ends trimmed cut into chunks
1 T each fresh parsley, dill, and basil chopped
7 c chicken broth
salt/pepper to taste

Preparation

Heat oil over medium heat in a large pot. Add onions and garlic. Sauté until translucent about 5-7 min
Add zucchini sauté 3-5 min. Add herbs sauté an additional 2-3 min
Add broth, bring to a boil, and let simmer 25 min covered
Blend until smooth. (you can transfer to a blender or I like to do it directly in the pot with an emersion blender
Season with salt and pepper

I finally made a choice. I’m happy to share with all that after a lot of thought and consideration, I am officially a JUF layperson and a member of a brand new committee with a super long name, The Back from Birthright Israel Committee.

This brand new JUF committee is tasked with connecting Birthright Israel trip alumni living in the Chicagoland area to each other professionally, through Jewish life and culture, volunteerism, and philanthropy.

It might sound a bit vague, but since we are new, part of what we will be doing over this first year is figuring out our exact mission, our goals for moving forward and our place in the Jewish community. We’ve also only had one meeting so far and that was in a bar (my kind of committee) and it was more of a get-to-know-you than a let’s-get-down-to-business kind of affair.

We do know that will be throwing an awesome party just for Birthright alumni at some point in the next year along with hosting holiday events and volunteer projects. We are also tasked with helping with trip recruitments and making sure that the next crop of Birthright participants have the same amazing experiences that we all did on our own trips.
Speaking of our trips, joining this committee has really brought my Jewish communal experience full circle. If I had never gone on Birthright in 2006 and not had such an amazing and fantastic experience, I never would have come home, rethought my life, quit my PR job and spent five years in the Communications department at JUF. It feels fitting to be volunteering for a cause that initially spurred my whole interest in the Jewish communal world. Funny how things work out like that.

Our first official meeting is next week, so I’ll have more to share in my next blog post. You can be sure I’ll keep you updated on our work as we move forward, and encourage you to attend our events and parties.

In the meantime, if you are a recent (or even not so recent) Birthright alum looking to get involved in the Jewish community in a larger capacity now that you are home from Israel and don’t know where to start, have I got the person for you! You’ve probably heard of her: Elizabeth “JUF” Wyner. You can reach out to her at elizabethwyner@juf.org or go friend her on Facebook to follow her posts.

As JUF’s Young Adult Engagement Associate, and the brain trust behind this new committee, Elizabeth spends her days (and nights) engaging and following up with Birthright participants upon their return home. She’s an expert at this stuff and can help anyone find their right fit. Frankly, she’s the reason why I joined this committee. So give it a shot, reach out to her, come to one of our programs—what do you have to lose?

The mess whirls around me, taunting me,
Subtlety grating on my every nerve
I have nowhere to look or step
Thinking is virtually impossible
Except for the incessant downtrodden and angry assaults on my greater incapacity to do anything.
I sink further and further into desperation; feeble attempts to clear the air achieve dismal results, and then
She arrives.
Quietly, without the awareness that she is a lifesaver, she comes.
I apologize for the mess, she shrugs (ah, that feels good)
and gets to work.

Her decisions astound me; 
without my formal housecleaning training, my attempts to clean are trial and error, small in their efficiency
I marvel at her decision to put a towel under the dish rack. Hot water for dishes! I kvell. Of course.
And at once, I become Powerful. Rich. In control.
Life slows down to a pleasurable pace as I watch her work. Life is good, my body reminds my mind, and my eyes relax in their sockets.
The air is clear, I breathe in clean, disgust does not follow me at every step, annoyance has left me behind at every corner.
And I know that every success I have after that, particularly that day, will be be in part to this humble, barely English speaking, young woman, who has cleared my mind, lifted my spirits, and reminded me of the exaltedness of my condition of existence.
The glory of a clean home. And for only $10 an hour, what a bargain, what a mitzvah.

Trying to understand this deeper, I muse: Perhaps that is what we are meant to be in this world.
Us, the small, seemingly insignificant souls compared to the vast greatness of the universe, the heavens and angels and Infinite Wisdom that towers over us, the thousands of years of perspiring humanity upon whose shoulders we ride

Yet we, the present day cleaning women, doing the microscopic things that are the ultimate gateway towards colossal change,
giving Gd the ability to breathe more deeply (so to speak), clearing the air, reorganizing the world so He shines through.

Tiny and almost invisible, yet ultimately monumental, must be the contribution of our scrubbing in this world.

As I stood watching the headliner at the Taste of Chicago a few weeks ago, I suddenly realized something was horribly wrong.

The band was great, but – my feet were tired. My back was aching. I was hot and shvitzing; the music was loud and I could barely see the stage; the gosh-darn kids behind me were tossing around a beach ball that could hit me and my friends at any moment and make us spill our drinks.

I was about to tell them to pipe down and get off my lawn when it hit me—I’ve become old.

I don’t know when it happened, but somehow I have recently turned into a boring adult. Gone are the days of PARTY PARTY PARTYYY when I could stand outside for hours in any weather, unfazed, rocking out until my ears were ringing and my throat was hoarse, all in the name of the “experience.”

No, sir, not anymore – I surveyed my closest friends and the verdict is in: these days, when it’s 100 percent humidity outside, all we want to experience is air conditioning.

But alas, despite the undeniable appeal of planting myself on a rocking chair in my living room for the rest of the summer with a Frank Sinatra record and a stack of knitting, I decided that moment at the Taste that I couldn’t give in to my inner grandma just yet. Surely, I thought, there must be a way to partake in these “young folks” events without being curmudgeonly.

And so, just in time for Chicago’s biggest music festival, after weeks of careful research (and even a successful test run at Pitchfork last weekend), I bring you: Jessica’s 10 Tips for Having Fun at Music Festivals (Without Wondering if it’s Socially Acceptable to Take a Napping Break).

Read on, fellow grandparents at heart, and then get this party started! (But please, be a dear and keep it down – Bubbe’s resting.)

1. Dress for success.

I’m not saying show up in orthopedics and compression stockings (though, hey, I won’t judge), but maybe leave the 5-inch wedges and strappy bikini tops at home this time. Tom’s or Converse sneakers are great trendy-but-durable options. Wear something you’ll be comfortable in for several hours, and be prepared for rapid weather changes. This means loose-fitting, breathable fabrics, flat shoes, a hat, and a lightweight poncho in your bag.

Another tip you might not have considered in college: don’t wear anything you wouldn’t want your boss to see you in. Not only is it possible you could run into coworkers at the event, but also, note that by entering festival grounds you typically give permission for your photo to be used in promotional and media materials. You might not want to show up on the cover of RedEye in your booty shorts. (Or maybe you do – I’m just saying.)

2. Carry a small pharmacy with you.

Us old folks have ailments, and it’s hard to get your groove on when you have a migraine or can’t quite digest that spicy vendor food like you used to. It’s a good idea to bring small, single-use packages of any common OTC medications you use frequently, like Advil or Tums. Other necessities: water (you’re allowed to bring in two sealed bottles), sunscreen (reapply, reapply, reapply – nothing says “prematurely aging” like wrinkles from too much sun!), hand sanitizer and of course, earplugs.

3. Make a plan.

Confer with your festival buddies and make a plan of attack for who you want to see, and when and where to meet up if you go separate ways. It will be much easier to have this all laid out in advance than to try and figure it out on the fly when you’re surrounded by a gazillion people and have to yell in each other’s ears to talk (if this isn't already the norm for you). Related: Make sure your cell phone has a full battery before you head out.

4. You don’t have to see ALL THE BANDS!!

This one is key – and for me at least, was the hardest to wrap my mind around. But when I realized that just because I paid for a three-day pass doesn’t mean I have to see every single band that is playing in order to get my money’s worth, my whole world changed. It’s seriously revolutionary: you can actually have more fun if you do less. Focus on the artists you really want to see, and save your (let’s face it, limited) energy for them. If you’re already pooped out by the time your favorite band comes on at 9 p.m. … what did you really accomplish?

5. You don’t have to go to the ALL THE AFTER PARTIES!!

See above. We’re old now. We can only handle so many hours of partying per day. I mean, if you get invited to some truly amazing after-party and you want to live it up all night long, go for it, but then do yourself a favor and maybe skip the first couple acts the next day? You will have more fun if you’re well-rested. (It’s true – Bubbe knows best.)

6. You don’t have to power through RAIN OR SHINE!!

PHOTO SOURCE: VH1.COM

The lesson I’m getting at here is really all about the concept of sunk costs. The beauty of being an old fogey is you don’t have to prove how “hardcore” you are anymore. There’s no reason to power on through lightning and hail just to “get your money’s worth.” If you are having a miserable time, and there’s an option of not having a miserable time by leaving, choose that option! It will be liberating. Also, the Apple store will not replace your iPhone because it “got wet.”

7. You don’t have to drink ALL THE BEER!!

See No. 2 – our bodies aren’t the machines they once were. It’s not as easy as it used to be to stand outside in the heat all day throwing back the brewskies. The trick is to avoid dehydration, not induce it (remember, beer dehydrates you). Also, you can have beer next weekend when you’re not surrounded by sweaty people in 80-degree weather. Keep in mind that unlike when you went to a music festival in college – this time, you are over 21! (Lots over!) You can drink beer any time you want, you cool adult, you. So take it easy.

That said – you DO have to drink ALL THE WATER!! If the refill lines are too long, just suck it up and buy a new bottle. You have a job now. You can afford it.

8. Bring a towel or blanket, and plan to camp out if you want to get a good view.

You won’t want to push through the throngs of teeny-boppers vying for a spot. (I know this is hard to accept, but … you are no longer a teeny-bopper.)

9. Or, shift your expectations and don’t bother trying to get a good view.

SOURCE: Z1035.COM

Be happy with having ample breathing room in the back. Take it from Patrick Swayze – this is your dance space, and that’s their dance space.

10. Embrace your inner old person and just go with the flow!

Don’t be embarrassed if the words, “I want to leave early to beat the crowds” tumble out of your mouth, or even if you decide to just skip the whole shebang this year. It’s better to take care of yourself and tend to your needs than to “power through” and spend the whole time kvetching. And after all – isn’t doing whatever you want the best part about being a grown-up, anyway?

I have a confession to make: I flunked yoga in college. I know. Yoga. As in the one-credit easy-A class college seniors across America take during their last semester to keep their GPAs up and stress levels down.

Not that I blame my yoga teacher for this, but it was 99.7 percent his fault. I was a delightful student, thank you very much. I did a somewhat decent downward dog on a fairly regular basis. My plank was relatively straight and plank-like. But Mr. Cheeseman (actual name) had to be all, “excuse me, you only held your plank for 29.9 seconds instead of 30. You wiggled your pinky finger. You exhaled instead of inhaled. Twice.”

You know what, Cheeseman? One, it is creepy that you noticed the intricacies of my breathing when there were about a hundred people in the class. Two, you should have been thrilled that I even showed up and was rarely hung over, even though class was on Friday mornings. I also once had the opportunity to leave during meditation when I opened my eyes and saw Token Hot Yoga Guy sneaking out. He winked at me, a sign which I interpreted as an invitation to join him in The Great Yoga Rebellion of 2011, but I DIDN’T. So really, I should’ve gotten an “A+,” not a series of disappointed looks and a “strong recommendation” to do some extra credit. Not that I’m still bitter, but I’m not a fan, Cheeseman. You wrecked yoga and also cheese. You don’t deserve to be named after something so amazing.

So, after college I decided to take a little yoga break. I turned to other venues: spin class! But no, spin class was not going to work out. I somehow managed to fall off the stationary bike, earning a bruise that took up basically my entire leg and earned me the prestigious title of “The Only Person I’ve Ever Seen Fall Off That Thing in my 20 Years of Teaching Spinning.”

I did not return to spin class.

Luckily, I recently discovered a form of exercise that, like yoga, allows me to stretch out, relax, and enjoy some nice deep breathing. Unlike yoga, in Feldenkreis class it doesn’t matter if you do the movements correctly; you can do them however you want. Of course, you probably shouldn’t start doing cartwheels when the teacher asks you to move your head back and forth. And sometimes, I move my head back and forth for 29.5 seconds instead of the recommended 30 just because I can. I am such a rebel.

Feldenkreis was created by Moshe Feldenkreis, an Israeli physicist, in the 1950s. The exercise aims to improve functioning by increasing awareness through movement. The method believes that by noticing what you’re doing, you can change the way you move in order to use less energy, prevent injury, and experience a stronger mind-body connection.

I like the Feldenkreis method because it isn’t so focused on the end result. If you are one of the lucky ones who can touch your toes, a hearty Mazel Tov to you, but the Feldenkreis method wants you to stop and think about the journey both you and your body take during the process of trying to touch your toes. What happens in your shoulders when you try to touch your toes? In your neck? Does your breathing change? How can you make this movement less work for yourself? It’s fascinating that a lot of movements you think involve only a few specific body parts actually involve many more. And it’s truly amazing what you discover about how you do things when you simply stop to notice what you’re doing.

The classes are relaxing, rejuvenating, and I always leave feeling awesome (as opposed to majorly crabby and/or in need of major medical attention … silly spin class). There are dozens of certified instructors throughout the city, but if you’re able to go to Chicago Athletic Clubs, Gerry offers classes throughout the week in Lakeview, Lincoln Park and Evanston. He is a lovely man who will notice you’re breathing the exact right amount (no creepiness here) and will also not ruin cheese. Enjoy!

Last week I was at Dodgers Stadium for the first time. While I think my wife is starting to take a liking to my hobby of traveling the country to see baseball stadiums, we found ourselves in an awkward situation. At Dodgers Stadium, which is in Los Angeles—the second-largest Jewish community in the United States—we could not find kosher food.

Although I’m told the stadium does offer kosher alternatives, how is it possible that the Minnesota Twins can have a kosher cart but not the Dodgers? Luckily, the night we were there was Jewish Heritage Night, and there was a kosher stand where my wife could get her hotdog, but it left me puzzled.

My biggest issue with Judaism, across the denominational spectrum, is the inaccessibility of our religion. And kashrut, at Dodgers Staidum and other places, is in many ways the perfect example.

Since arriving in the Twin Cities, I have struggled with kashrut. I came from New Rochelle, N.Y. where there were three kosher restaurants, two kosher ice cream shops, a kosher grocery store and a kosher bakery all within a one-block radius of my apartment. Minnesota struggles to have any kosher restaurants; even Chicago, in my mind, does not meet the realistic needs and desires for kosher food.

Kashrut, like many other Jewish staples, has turned into a business. Most restaurants  cannot afford a full-salaried mashgiach (someone who watches over kosher food) or an expensive Te’udah (kosher certificate). When they do take these steps, they tend to jack up their prices to cover those costs, which adds to the already- rising prices of kosher meat or cheese. Eating kosher out costs families far too much.

Instead of being stringent on the laws of kashrut, should we not be stringent on making kosher food accessible? How can we as rabbis ask people to shell out money for the food regardless of quality? How can we ask people to live a modern secular and Jewish life when the choice is so often one or the other? Our hang-up is clearly that our food and utensils are being handled by the “other,” or someone less strict. And our fears have made it extremely difficult to encourage new Jews to take on this important mitzvah. It does not make much sense.

What I think does make sense is asking rabbis (I am perfectly fine that this decision is made in the Orthodox community) to find ways to hechsher (stamp of kosher approval) more establishments.

First, I would start small at ice cream shops and bakeries to help Jews in all areas keep kosher. Here in Minnesota, many of the Breadsmiths are kosher. Getting chains to sign on would be a major accomplishment. There are already ice cream parlors such as Menchies that carry a Te’udah (which is not accepted by all) and others receiving a Conservative certification from MSPKosher.com. How great would it be if Dairy Queen stores carried some sort of national label like Crumbs Cupcakes do? Try to convince Falafel Maoz in New York and other chains that can easily be kosher to carry a symbol and have local rabbis help in the checking of the operations.

Another approach is to offer a kosher menu in a not fully kosher establishment. This would be easier in chain restaurants or vegetarian establishment; like a local deli here in Minnesota called Cecils that carries kosher meat. There are obviously problems with this model, but there is also a lot of potential. We shun ideas like this because it is not what we have done. At the same time, very few people agree on the complexities of any Te’udah. Some people only recognize Orthodox supervision, some say Glatt Kosher or Cholov Yisroel, and there are issues like being open on Shabbat and the reputation of the Rabbi giving the supervision.

The fact is all of this discourages people from keeping kosher on any level and makes Judaism inaccessible. We need to stop pretending the biggest issue is the salt on the meat or which plant the food comes from and understand that our inability to offer an accessible option is the biggest barrier.

This post previously ran on JewishJournal.com, and some additional edits have been made.

Self-consciously, I sip some water and glance hopefully across the table. Nervous as can be, I rattle off carefully reasoned responses to a myriad of questions. Sitting in a job interview, what more can you do? The interviewer then surprises me with a question I haven’t heard in quite some time. He takes a breath in and inquires, “So, why do you like to write?”

Simple enough question. My resume is full of odds-and-ends writing gigs, volunteer and professional. For a question so brief, it felt oddly personal. I took a beat, perhaps a few, and started, admittedly less polished than before, “Um,” I looked up, hoping for a little inspiration. “It’s just...it’s a forever thing. It’s just something I’ve always loved to do. It’s my passion....I’ve always loved writing.”

My short, staccato, nearly childlike answers probably weren’t the most articulate I’ve spoken in an interview. However, they spoke volumes about me; not just the business-casual clad person sitting in the chair, but the real me (to be delightfully melodramatic).

It’s the sort of question that reminds me how I first proclaimed to my teacher in third grade that yes, I would be a writer. I think back to junior high and high school where I honed my passion; to different writing opportunities in college and beyond. I’ve been enthralled with it all, from creating five-paragraph essays to writing news features.

Also, a conversation from a few years back comes to mind. I was in the midst of the post-collegiate job search and reached out to a former teacher, more to catch up than anything. He said something to me so simple yet so incredibly powerful. I was chatting about some jobs on the horizon, this and that. He patiently listened to me ramble on, but eventually stopped me short. He looked right at me and said nonchalantly, “Ok. These things all sound fine, but...you’re a writer.”

I doubt he realized that what he said mean the world to me. Like I said, I’ve always loved to write. But being a writer, embodying the noun rather than performing the verb, isn’t often how I would describe myself. He said it without a shred of doubt. “You’re a writer.” And from that day forward, I strived to feel that way. I strive to be a writer.

What he said was just a small thing, a bit of pithy prose. But it encouraged me, encouraged me to find faith in myself. That it doesn’t matter how good (or not so good) my writing is. All that matters is that I continue to write.

“Good, good,” the interviewer speaks up, snapping me back to reality. I continue; I delineate my writing experience, my other work endeavors. The rest of the chat goes swimmingly, peppered with other thoughtful questions and standard interview fare. I leave the office with my mind racing, still thinking of that question. I love to write for so many reasons. The answers all seem to stem from my earliest memories: I adore words. I’m enamored with metaphor and how language can be transformed so subtly. I’m entranced that with just a simple sentence, I can share what I think, feel, know and want to learn. It’s love. Pure and simple.

Editor’s note: My dear friend Jamie bravely shared her story on a friend’s blog (Mommy's two cents) yesterday and the response was overwhelming. Her strength, love and positivity throughout what has surely been both the happiest and most difficult period of her life has touched so many people already and should serve as an inspiration to us all. As soon as I read her words, I knew I just had to share her story with the Oy! community. If Jamie’s story touches you, please show your support by following the link at the end of this post to learn how you can help and spread the word.
~Stef

Photo by Jeremy Lawson Photography

April was supposed to be our month. We both celebrate birthdays in April. We’d been on our house search and our goal was to buy something by April—plenty of time to close and move in before the wedding. Well, April was our month alright, just not remotely how we imagined.

April 1 - I get the weirdest, most skin-crawly sensation in my boob. I couldn’t describe it.
April 2 - It just isn’t sitting well with me, so I make a doctor’s appointment.
April 3 - Joe’s birthday. Some birthday, poor guy. I go to the doc, she tells me I am not crazy; probably a cyst, and I need to get a mammogram and ultrasound. Whoa. (Because work, tutoring, babysitting, teaching dance, planning a wedding and looking for a house weren’t enough to deal with…) THEN, a new house pops up on our search, so we cancel the birthday dinner, go to see it and put an offer in on the spot.
April 4 - We didn’t get the house. We did have the highest offer, but they went with the cash. Can’t blame them!
April 5 - Mammogram and ultrasound. Mammogram doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as the stories I’ve heard, by the way.
April 6 - Hair and make-up trials and some shopping for the wedding, birthday dinner, then out for drinks! Fun-filled day and night in the city keeping me distracted.
April 7 - I actually have no idea…
April 8 - Get the call at the end of my lunch break. The mammogram is suspicious; I need to get a biopsy immediately. Get home that night, letting everything sink in, and see that a house we LOVED but was too expensive lowered its list price.
April 9 - Go for biopsy in the morning, go back to look at the house at night. Put in an offer.
April 10 - Lots of waiting; waiting to hear about the offer, and for biopsy results. WE GOT THE HOUSE!
April 11 - MY BIRTHDAY! We may have lost the house on Joe’s birthday, but a week later, something to celebrate!
April 12 - Still waiting. Ten minutes into teaching my Poms class, the phone rings. I heard nothing else the doctor said besides the “C” word. I knew in my gut all along. I got off the phone and taught the rest of class. Poor girls, I just threw choreography at them without taking a minute to breath. Got in the car, and “Gone, Gone, Gone” by Phillip Phillips comes on the radio. There it is—the eruption of tears the whole way home. I have breast cancer. I just bought a house. I have breast cancer. I just turned 29. I have breast cancer. I’m getting married in three months. WTF.

The next month, nothing changed. Not because I was in denial, but because life goes on. The only way to not break down and overanalyze and feel sorry for myself was to just keep going. Keep going to work every day, keep planning a wedding, keep tutoring and babysitting and teaching dance and going to wedding showers, with lots of doctors appointments in between.

It didn’t matter what any of those doctors told me, my mind was made up. I had to make my decision pretending there wasn’t a wedding in three months, because at the end of the day, my health and my future are more important than not being 100 percent perfect on our wedding day. There is too much life ahead of me to have to wonder if the cancer would ever come back.

I needed peace of mind, and to get that, I needed to have a double mastectomy. Even without getting the genetic testing results back (which I now have learned are negative, sigh of relief), my mind was made up and I told the doctors to schedule the surgery for as soon as possible, but to try and make sure I could be at my shower on May 11.

Success—surgery scheduled for May 13. Well for anyone thinking I was living in la-la land, don’t worry. I woke up on May 12 and it hit me like a truck. I finally broke. I think I got out a month’s worth of tears—my first time crying since finding out exactly a month earlier. I had been so strong and so positive. Strong—I didn’t know I had it in me, but positive is just who I am.

When everyone who cares about you hears such devastating news, they have no idea how to react. They take their cues from you. So out came that inner strength, because if I crumbled, so would everyone around me. I didn’t want to fall apart, so I certainly didn’t want everyone else to. Telling people was the hardest part. Nobody wants to blindside their friends and family left and right. It is emotionally exhausting, but I am a very open person, and I wanted to share. Even the most private people want to share, like Angelina Jolie. She made her announcement the morning after my surgery.

So, I am four weeks and one day post surgery and I feel great. The love and support in my life got me through and will continue to get me through. I feel so loved and blessed and everyone’s kind words and wishes and prayers and gifts were beyond appreciated. It is amazing how quickly someone can bounce back from such a major surgery.

I owe the initial part of my recovery to my motivation to stand up in a wedding just 12 days after surgery. One of my best girl friends was marrying one of my best guy friends. How could I NOT be there? Well, for anyone who knows me, they know my friends mean the world to me, so I was determined to be there. I must have been running on adrenaline, because I made it. I made it through the entire day and night. I stood for the entire ceremony and I danced the entire night—even with one of my drains still in, successfully pinned into a pocket sewn into my dress. I was surrounded by at least a dozen of my closest friends and I was celebrating the love of two of them. I may have taken a five-hour nap the next day, but it was all worth it.

Jamie and Joe at their friends’ wedding 12 days after surgery

I finally got that second drain out and probably took a half-hour shower. Two weeks of sponge baths SUCK! Then I started driving. We closed on our house and are officially moved in. I can’t go back to work yet because I can’t lift or reach. I am somebody who is incapable of slowing down, though, so I probably do too much all day long and end up with the most swollen armpits you have ever seen—stupid lymph nodes.

Speaking of lymph nodes, this isn’t the end of the road for me. I have to have chemo, followed by radiation. Now if you know me, you can guess what about chemo kept me up at night. Nope, it wasn’t my hair. It was babies. The thought of losing my fertility left my in tears for a week each and every night, literally crying myself to sleep.

The week had passed between getting my pathology results and seeing the oncologist. It didn’t matter what he said. He could only advise me, right? I was adamant about being able to retrieve eggs before starting treatment. I interrupted him about five minutes in and exploded, saying, “I don’t even care about my wedding, I just need to be able to have babies.” He asked when the wedding was, took out a calendar and counted … he not only told me I could wait until after the eggs, he told me to have a normal, perfect wedding and we would start treatment the week after. He was completely comfortable with this because the tumor was out, so at this point, chemo is preventative. I don’t think I have ever been more relieved in my entire life. Talk about making so many adult decisions all at one time though…

Almost immediately, I began giving myself fertility injections twice a day for ten days. I was then watched like a hawk until the timing was just right for them to retrieve the eggs, mix them with Joe’s swimmers and create embryos. Good thing I watched so many episodes of Giuliana and Bill. So my surgery was planned around my shower, right? Well the egg retrieval was planned around my bachelorette party. Do I have compassionate doctors or what?

It is going to be a long road, but by the time 2014 rolls in, I can look behind me and say that it is behind me. I know I wrote all of this using the word “I.” But I couldn’t have come this far without a great deal of support from so many people, but there are two in particular.

My mom has been at every single appointment with her pad of paper to take notes, asking all of the questions I never even thought to ask. She had to wash my hair and give me sponge baths all while I was a pain in the ass because I didn’t feel clean enough.

My husband is my emotional rock. When I wrote that I cried myself to sleep—it was in his arms while he wiped away my tears. We both found our inner strength from all of this bad mixed in with all of the good we have. The house and the wedding have been the most positive distractions to get us through and they more than outweigh the negative. Even before my diagnosis and surgery, we felt so much genuine love from everyone in our lives, and it has only grown. A year ago he asked me to marry him. I knew he was a keeper then, but these past few months have more than proven that I was right. He already knew what he was getting into—dealing with me the rest of his life. But what we have been facing is so much more than just your average anxiety-ridden, anal retentive girl. I am so lucky to have him by my side.

It wasn’t until now that I finally decided to make things fully public. The egg retrieval was June 25 and I am happy to say that Joe and I are the proud parents of six frozen embryos. We have options down the road but whether I carry these or a surrogate does, we know we will have babies of our own someday soon. Let’s see, did anything else significant happen since then?

Ohhhhhhhhh, that’s right… WE GOT MARRIED! On July 20, Joe and I tied the knot. If I had to describe our wedding day in one word, that word would be PERFECT. We had an amazing time surrounded by 261 of our nearest and dearest and never left the dance floor. The band was amazing, the photographer and videographers captured every moment and we can’t wait to see the pics and videos. Our planner helped the evening flow without any hiccups—unless you count my bustle. After about five times spent in the hallway trying to fix it, I said screw it, I want to spend my wedding on the dance floor, so I just held my dress until some friends had great alternate suggestions so that I could dance with two hands.

And I didn’t just dance—I shooped. If you know me, you know that Salt and Pepa’s “Shoop” is pretty much my jam. When I saw it on our band’s song list, I told them they not only had to play it, but they had to bring me up on stage. At first I think they were just humoring me, but they let me fly. (Check out the video from Evolution Films) I mean, talk about soaking up every minute of your wedding! I went the entire day and night without even thinking of the word cancer. The wedding was everything we dreamed of and then some. It was our blue wedding.

Speaking of blue, I did miss a step. The night before leaving for my bachelorette party, I got an unexpected email from some of my friends. It read as follows:

Our dear friend, Jamie:

We all wanted to let you know that we couldn't be more dazzled by you, and the way you've been handling everything that's been thrown at you with such poise and courage. You are so loved by each and every one of us, and we wanted to remind you that we're all there for you. For all that you’re going through, and all that’s to come.

Mr. Robinson came up with a brilliant way to do just that. Something that reminds us of your strength, and how much you mean to all of us. We made and have been wearing “J-Strong” bracelets to show our support, and wanted to share what “J-Strong” means to us:

“J-Strong” is Jamie, who is handling all of this with remarkable strength and grace, choosing to face her situation head-on instead of wallowing in self-pity wondering why. And “J-Strong” is Joe, who has truly been an unwavering support system for Jamie. Together they’re facing their future with bravery and optimism.

Jamie emulates positivity, spirit and grace. “J-Strong” is the way our friends and families are linked together in support and love for our strongest (and best!) friend in the world.

“J-Strong” stands for being UNITED and always TOGETHER – near or far.

Fighting through any challenges with laughter, strength and love. “J-Strong” demonstrates what we all know about you, and the band of support through this journey. We love you from coast to coast.

Attached you’ll find a picture collage of all of us, representing you. We will be printing this out as a poster for you to keep (no pressure to hang it in your new house). But the collage is just a beginning, and only captures a handful of folks – so as we continue to pass out the bands, people can send us pictures sporting “J-Strong,” and ultimately adding on to what we've created so far.

From: Andy, Julie & Noah, Scott & Melissa, Carter, Bill & Guiliana, Jeremy, Allyson, Cooper & Roxy, Caitlin & Jeff, Stacy & Josh, Stefie, Mike & Bialy, Dan, Elana & Ari, Josh, Adam, Melissa & Benson – and all of our extensions of family and friends – we love you and are inspired by you.

From the bottom of our hearts. You (and Joe) truly are the best thing.

Talk about goosebumps. And tears. Lots of tears. I was so touched and at SUCH a loss for words. Since receiving that email, the bracelets have begun to circulate more and more. Every time I walk into a room and see the bracelets on everyone, it is incredibly surreal to think, wow, they’re wearing that for me. I already felt so loved and so supported, but these J-Strong bands took that love and support to a new level. Joe, our wedding party, and several guests sported their bands on Saturday, and mine was pinned to my bouquet-- one of my many “something blues.”

So anyway, as I wake up today to a newsfeed filled with #jstrong, I feel the love even more. Today I start my journey with chemo. It is not one I am looking forward to beginning, but rather one I am looking forward to ending. It came way too soon (that’s what she said), but hopefully it will go by just as quickly. The honeymoon is over and it is back to reality. I am so glad that we have our frozen babies and our perfect wedding to remind us how lucky we are and how much worse life can be. Here goes nothing...

Click here to learn more about how you can support Jamie and Joe and get your own "J-Strong" band.

At an Ina Garten book signing

Summer makes me lazy. I spend most of my time trying to tear myself away from Princesses of Long Island. I’m never very successful. I can’t help myself. I love that show and everything that follows it on Bravo. But my laziness doesn’t end at the edge of my couch: it extends right into the kitchen.

Thinking about having to turn on my oven or even imagining an open flame on my stove-top makes me break out into a sweat. I’m not a fan of the heat and sweating is my least favorite thing. Admitting this out loud makes me sound like one of the Princesses! Perhaps they need a gay friend?

All of this laziness makes the summer complicated for me. What my aversion to sweat really means is that I’ve been eating a lot of takeout. A lot. It’s not pretty. I finally hit a wall last night when the thought of eating my 400th bowl of Kung Pao Chicken made my stomach dance. Instead of switching up my favorite Chinese order, I decided that it was time to work through my slothiness and hit my cookbook collection for inspiration. The challenge? Make something that isn’t a sandwich that doesn’t require heat of any kind or make me sweat.

Unsure if this heatless challenge were possible, I turned to the Barefoot Contessa. I randomly met Ina Garten a few months ago at a book signing. Well, that is if you consider someone signing your book in silence a meeting. Nevertheless, I decided that my favorite Jewess would save me.

I thumbed through her most recent cookbook Foolproof in the hopes of finding something sweat-free, healthy and dinner worthy. I passed recipes for cosmos and other delicious looking drinks. I paused for a moment weighing the nutritional value of lemon juice, Cointreau liqueur, cranberry juice and vodka. I finally turned the page and discovered Ina’s Easy Gazpacho recipe. You guys! It’s so good! It’s easy, sweat free and it pairs well with my couch. I hope you like it as much as I do.

Ina Garten’s Easy Gazpacho
(Adapted from Barefoot Contessa Foolproof: Recipes You Can Trust, by Ina Garten)

2 (28 ounce) cans whole peeled tomatoes, drained
4 scallions
¼ seedless cucumber, unpeeled and seeds removed
1 large red onion
6 garlic cloves
½ cup red wine vinegar
½ cup olive oil, plus extra for drizzling
½ teaspoon celery salt
¼ teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 ½ cups tomato juice
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

Cut the tomatoes, scallions, cucumber, and onion in large pieces and place them in a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Add the garlic and pulse until the soup is coarsely puréed. Place it in a large bowl and whisk in the vinegar, olive oil, celery salt, red pepper flakes, tomato paste, tomato juice, 1 tablespoon salt, and 1½ teaspoons pepper. 

I was out to dinner on Monday evening when the bolded headlines of "Ryan Braun Suspended for the Remainder of the 2013 Season" flashed across the screens lining the restaurant. As a Chicago Cubs fan, it is always a bit of a relief when a scandal surrounds one of your greatest rival teams, even when the Brewers (even more so than the Cubs) need a greater miracle than the story of Chanukah to turn their seasons around. However, as an avid baseball fan in general and a young Jew, this headline is far from ideal.

For anyone who isn't familiar with this story, Braun, who is the left fielder to the Milwaukee Brewers, has been considered a star in Major League Baseball for the past few years. Listed amongst the 50 greatest current players according to Sporting News, he won Most Valuable Player in the National League in 2011, which is also when accusations of Braun using performance enhancing drugs began. Additionally, Braun, who is nicknamed the "Hebrew Hammer," was born to a Jewish father and Catholic mother. He has publically voiced that he considers himself a Jew and even a role model to Jewish children. This past Monday, the scandal that began in 2011 was brought back to the forefront of sports news when Braun was suspended without pay for the remainder of the season, due to the confirmed use of performance-enhancing drugs.

In the article "Ryan Braun's Jewish Disgrace" (sidenote: I would've probably chosen a different title because this doesn't really help our case), the writers explains, "we all cheered when Braun was on top of the baseball world. He is a poster boy, along with Shawn Green, Kevin Youkilis, and Ian Kinsler, of a Jewish baseball renaissance over the past decade or so. Indeed, it's arguably been the greatest time for Jewish Major Leaguers since the period between the 1930s and the mid-1950s, when Hank Greenberg, Harry Danning, Al Rosen, and Sid Gordon starred on the diamond."

It is disappointing as a Jewish sports fan. It is disappointing as a fan of Jews in sports. It is, quite frankly, disappointing as a sports fan and as a human being.

Although the number of incidents surrounding performance enhancing drugs are countless in Major League Baseball, the second I saw this news, I knew it was inevitable that people would make this an issue of religion and anti-Semitism rather than what is: an issue of character, morals and judgment.

The next morning at the Simon Wiesenthal Center's Midwest Office where I work, one of the members of our young leadership group forwarded me an article from the Huffington Post and wrote, "This country has its share of some really sick people." The piece outlined a slew of the top ten most anti-Semitic tweets about the incident. From saying that his ancestors taught him well to comparing him to Bernie Madoff to characterizing him with Jewish stereotypes such as being horrible at sports, being sneaky, cheating, etc., these tweets were a crystal-clear display of some sort of anti-Semitism being expressed on the Internet.

After reading the article, I was disgusted, but unfortunately very far from surprised. Upon further research (okay it wasn't that fancy, I just typed "Ryan Braun Jew(ish)" into the Twitter search bar), I found countless Tweets that used racial slurs, inserted "#Jew" after quite offensive remarks, and blatantly expressed anti-Semitic views such as "Ryan Braun is a Jew…what do you expect."

Then, I saw a Tweet that said something along the lines of how Jews were "too sensitive," which was as, if not more, disheartening than the offensive Tweets.

I know not every Jewish joke or pun is meant to be anti-Semitic. The thousands of people on Twitter and Facebook who posted that he was "Jew-cing" (spoiler alert: if your so-called pun is trending, it's not that original) probably didn't have the same intentions as, for example, the Hitler parody account (I can't even believe I have to refer to it as that because it's revolting that it even exists) that unsurprisingly mentioned the incident. It is hard to find the divide between blatant anti-Semitism and people just acknowledging a fact (he is Jewish), but with that being said, the reaction to apparent anti-Semitism is far from an overreaction.

The Simon Wiesenthal Center's mission, amongst many essential undertakings, is to combat anti-Semitism. With an incident such as this at the forefront of news media, it makes me grateful that I work for an organization that strives to teach tolerance on a global scale. Unfortunately, about every week (if not more), some issue that is filled with hate is brought to my attention, usually forwarded to me from an Op-Ed from someone from Wiesenthal or a press release from the center. It is mindboggling how in the 21st Century these problems of our past are still so apparent.

I have heard the anecdote that "business is good right now" for organizations such as the one that I work for—I think I work in one of the only professions where this is the opposite of what you want to hear. When I see American young adults, probably close to my own age, expressing hatred that is assumingly backed by a lack of education as well as intolerance and prejudice, I am thrilled at the greater good that the work I do ultimately goes toward. Whether I am planning a fundraising event, working on spreading educational programming throughout Chicago, or even organizing an expense report, it is going towards a great goal. The reality is, as sad as it is to say, anti-Semitism is alive and well and I truly hope in years to come that the demand for posts such as these will fade away. Until then, I'm back to work.

There’s no better setting for an existential crisis than IKEA. This one starts and ends with a TIDAFORS EDSKEN dark gray sofa.

I’ve been wanting a new couch for a long while now. Mine owes me no more favors: it’s comfortable and long enough for a tall person to stretch out on, but it was a Craigslist find in 2007 and now it eats people, so it’s time to upgrade. 

My friend Krista is moving into a one-bedroom apartment, and needs a lot of big furniture. I found the TIDAFORS when we hit up the Schaumberg store in June. I fell in love. It has everything I need from a sofa: it accommodates my height, its armrests are great neck rests and its cushions haven’t been destroyed by untold hours of sitting, lounging and afternoon napping.

A new couch is a big investment, but this weekend I was ready. I’m famously bad at outfitting my living space, yet the nesting event horizon has now been crossed. I might be in school, but I’m not in an undergrad tenement anymore. I want a new couch – I deserve a new couch! I just turned 29; I’m allowed to get nice furniture. (IKEA still qualifies as nice furniture to me.)

Krista had rented a ZipCar, so we had to be mindful of time, but thanks to our June expedition, we pretty much knew what we wanted. We gave ourselves about 90 minutes to work our way through the stock floor, pulling what we needed from Aisle 36, Bin 12, ad infinitum and wheeling our oversized flat-packed items back to the checkouts and beyond.

One problem arose, neither anticipated nor investigated: The TIDAFORS EDSKEN dark gray sofa was not in stock.

Three more TIDAFORS EDSKEN dark gray sofas would be arriving on Monday, and five more would arrive on Friday, if we wanted to come back.

Anyone who has been to IKEA knows that around hour five of the endeavor is when all those artfully organized showrooms and useful-yet-inexplicable implements and inane Scandinavian nonsense words tip over from thrill into madness. Could I come back? Could I bear to haul up to Schaumberg again? Would it even be worth it, if I don’t know where I’ll be living in January?

That last part is the actual crisis. I graduate from Northwestern University’s masters program in journalism in December. I came to Chicago in 2002, as a first-year at the University of Chicago, and have lived here ever since, save for an ill-advised post-college foray into the San Francisco Bay Area and the requisite crash-and-burn afterward in Ohio.

I love Chicago. I love it in my marrow. This city gets me, and I mesh with it like I don’t with other places. I’ve gotten so much better about taking advantage of it, learning how to swing dance and commuting by bike and developing opinions about improv. In these months at Medill, I’ve gone into neighborhoods I’d never seen before, and never would have seen: Albany Park, Little Village, Noble Square, Portage Park. Just recently I spent an hour or so at Buckingham Fountain (the hour was 8 to 9 a.m.), and got completely, joyously soaked with my classmates when the spout shot up and blew our way.

I still feel like I just got here. But I graduate in December, and I don’t know where my work will take me.

In some ways, I admit this is exciting. There is something tantalizing about fresh starts and new cities. Many of my classmates are coming to Chicago cold, and they get to enjoy it for the first time. There really is something to that.

It still hurts my heart to think about, though. And this was my feeling as we raced through IKEA. Patrons of IKEA are arriving. They’re settling in. They’re nesting. You don’t buy a new couch if you’re just going to leave soon. CRÏSIS.

It seemed like a sign, not to come home with that TIDAFORS. I did brood about it on the drive back, and that evening too. Maybe my Craigslist couch could do for another few months. Maybe it’s better just to wait.

I’ll tell you something, though, that I didn’t realize prior to this trip. The difference between paying for delivery from the Schaumberg store and paying for delivery online is only $40. And if there’s one thing this city has taught me, it’s that, in the end, putting off nice things only means you’ve denied yourself something pleasant when you didn’t have to.

We didn’t succeed with the TIDAFORS, but something else came home with me: a wall clock (PUGG, I think). Yesterday I hung it on my dining room wall, which has been empty since I moved to this apartment in 2010. Maybe it’s ticking down the time until I leave, but it’s also reminding me to stay in the moment. December may be coming, but I don’t have to pull up anchor yet.

Remember those hilarious MADTv skits with the ‘STORM WATCH’ anchors? While the world was still adapting to the 24-hour news cycle, a comedy skit put news into perspective by interrupting their program with ‘updates’ on this massively scary storm, which was really just a loud booming voice proclaiming, “STORM WATCH!!” while the panicked anchors tried not to lose it.

How about awaiting a verdict in a controversial, nationally recognized trial? I followed the trial of George Zimmerman closely and anxiously awaited for the jury’s ruling after two days of intense deliberations. I believe HLN called it “Jury Watch.”

Or, what about the more recent “Royal Baby Watch,” which culminated today in the birth of William and Kate’s baby boy. The whole world was hanging on the every word of every newscaster perched outside St. Mary’s hospital in London the baby was to be delivered. You can imagine the excitement and anticipation.

That’s how I feel right now. Wedding Watch, 5773. It’s on, it’s been on, and it will continue to be on until the day before my wedding. So, I bring you the first of three “Wedding Watch 5773” installments. Here we go!

In two months and six days (or as my wonderful fiancée Ashley loves to point out – 68 days to go!) I’ll be “tying the knot,” and I have been on Wedding Watch 2013 for quite some time now. Since our engagement last Sep. 15, the wedding has unfolded from a mere thought into reality. Planning is a complex, tedious and arduous task to undertake and I have to commend my fiancée and her mother for putting all the time and effort into creating this elaborate and exquisite wedding.

After countless hours, the bulk of the planning is done. Invitations have gone out and the fabulous food tastings have been completed for both the cake and the reception. The rings have been chosen and inscribed with the Hebrew words, “Ani l’dodi v’dodi li” or “I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine,” an inscription my parents had on their wedding bands.

From the outside (and inside, I guess), every logistic seems to be coming together and in order, yet I can still sense Ashley’s stress and anxiety as she continues to meet with the wedding planner, discuss options with her mother, choose photos for the rehearsal dinner montage, and brainstorm honeymoon destinations. In the last 18 months, both of my siblings have gotten hitched, along with Ashley’s sister, which makes this Wedding Watch really extend all the way back even before our engagement. We had a great time and a wonderful turnout at our engagement party, and Ashley’s shower was a huge hit. We got lots of great goodies, some of which we have already put to good use. I should know, I busted out the ice cream maker the second we got it!

Speaking of wedding invitations, Ashley and I invited over 300 people to our wedding. Insane, right? I mean, Ashley and I were okay with eloping, really … (our parents would’ve killed us though) … oh well, it’s too late now. Seriously, though, I am so excited to share this amazing milestone with so many wonderful friends and family. Our family has been very blessed with bubbling personalities, ambitious careers and exciting milestones like these to share. It’s amazing to witness how people can come together and share in a special occasion; it really makes you feel like you’re on top of the world with a whole new outlook on the future, starting a whole new phase in life with such a supportive circle around us.

Let’s also not forget that I need to look my absolute best on that day, so that leaves the tux shirt and beer belly out. For the last two months I’ve been making sure I keep my face (and rest of my body) in good shape. I have had tons of support, including great outlets for exercise. Most notable are my frequent bike rides along the lakefront to and from beach volleyball games and visiting my dad to go shag some golf balls out in the park. Ashley’s wedding planning also gives me a chance to spend quality time with Rebbe, the cockapoo wonder dog that has dramatically changed both of our lives. (He’s one and a half now!)

It has not been easy to maintain, believe me, but I remain persistent and committed. I’ve been tracking my food intake (yes, everything—even the sugar-free Werther’s candies to curb my sweet tooth) and exercise output with a free online app, and I’ve hooked up with a trainer to train as often as my schedule allows. But I think the biggest lifestyle change in preparation for the wedding has been the late-night snacking. Anyone that knows me knows I love two things: sweets and staying up late. A 10 p.m. bedtime and 6:45 a.m. wakeup call are, shall we say, a bit of a stretch for a natural insomniac. But some calisthenics, tug-of-war with the puppy and a loaded protein shake for breakfast have really turned my opinion of early mornings around.

It’s amazing to think that I am on my way to being 30 and approaching the best shape of my life, and now I have many reasons to continue to work hard to stay in shape. I know that Ashley is doing the same to make that wedding dress feel lucky she’s wearing it. Either way, I am awaiting that day when I see the most beautiful bride walk down the aisle, in her gorgeous wedding dress that I have not yet seen, to begin our married life together.

Well, that’s enough kvetching for now, I’ll be back next month to preview more exciting stories and experiences to share about the wonderful world of wedding waiting (say that five times fast!). I still have my vows to write, my bachelor party, and of course, discussions about the honeymoon destination. I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life: 68 days and counting!

L’Chaim! 

Lia at her Northwestern University graduation in 2009 

A little more than four years ago — on June 20, 2009 — I wore a purple cap and gown, walked across the stage, and received my diploma from the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University.

I have officially been out of college longer than I was in it. As I began thinking about this fact a few weeks ago, I came across my senior column that I wrote for the Daily Northwestern, published June 15, 2009. Here’s what I wrote:

Workaholics Anonymous

In a college quarter with no classes, I seemed to do a lot of learning. Thanks to a few AP credits, I was able to complete school at the end of Winter Quarter.

Students always joke about what college would be like without professors and midterms, and I got to live it firsthand. I spent 12 weeks doing interesting things I wish I hadn’t waited until senior year to do.

Throughout college, I’ve taken some great courses. But sometimes we get so wrapped up in the lectures and the grades that we forget about the other learning opportunities that this school and this city have to offer.

It took me four years to discover how nice it is to read a book at Norbucks [the Starbucks at our student center] — for fun. It took me four years to convince myself that you can exercise more effectively at Blomquist [one of the NU gyms] if you’re listening to music — not highlighting in a course pack. After four years, I learned the benefits of walking along the Lakefill, getting paid for participating in Kellogg [School of Management] studies and going to Cubs games with my brother.

I started going on “adventures” into Chicago, searching the web of vibrant neighborhoods for the best brunch restaurants, ice cream stores and cheap shopping areas.

At Northwestern, I majored in journalism and minored in Hebrew Studies. I’ve studied economics, cosmology, marketing, drawing, statistics and comparative politics. Over the past four years, though, I’ve also been lucky to be able to study late-night milkshakes at Kafein [coffee shop in Evanston], Century 12 Evanston Theatre, volunteer trips, the Purple Line, the third floor of Norris [student center] and 30-hour dance parties [NU’s Dance Marathon].

Now, we graduate college, but did we do enough? Did we meet enough people? Did we spend enough time exploring the exciting, new and different places surrounding us?

It may have taken me four years in college to learn the importance of those things; but it won’t take me four years to figure it out in the “real world.”

Whether we’re going to an international grad school or taking a job here in Chicago, it might be good to occasionally try to act like we’re taking a quarter off.

We should study hard for the LSAT, but stay on the beach for an extra hour before we do. We should prepare presentations for our clients, but then invite our freshman-year roommates for coffee. We should be excited about our first paychecks, but we should not be afraid to spend part of them on something we’ve never done before.

I hope to live my life like Spring Quarter 2009, staying on my toes and supplementing work with culture and excitement.

So next year, seniors, any time we have a free Sunday — even if the weather disagrees — let’s go on an adventure, exploring something new.

-Lia Lehrer, Medill senior

Page of the Daily Northwestern from June 15, 2009 where Lia’s article appeared 

Until I found this article in my parents’ basement a few weeks ago, I had completely forgotten that I wrote it. But somehow, I think I had it in the back of my mind this whole time. Somewhere, a little mini 2009 Lia has been whispering to me: Go. Do. Explore.

In the past four years, I’ve had two great jobs (at North Suburban Synagogue Beth El and now at Temple Jeremiah), finished my first year of grad school (at Spertus Institute for Jewish Learning and Leadership), lived in an amazing neighborhood, made a lot of new friends, and have been to a dozens of summer street festivals. I’ve seen Broadway plays and improv shows, tried new restaurants and discovered my favorite local coffee shops. I’ve traveled to new places around the country and around the world. So far, it’s been a blast — and there are so many more places to explore, people to meet, and things I want to do.

So, Lia of the past: As I graduate from my “senior year of life,” thank you for reminding me to keep going out there, visiting new places, and exploring the unknown. Here’s hoping that all of you, dear friends, will join me on these adventures for many years to come.

Who doesn’t want to feel better, sleep better, and look leaner? We all do, and these are the promises of many diets.

The current popular diet is the Paleo diet. This diet recommends you eat the food cavemen ate, back when there was no means of processing food. The foods you can chow on are:

• Meats (unprocessed, containing no nitrates, sulfates, or MSG)
• Vegetables
• Fruits
• Olive oil, clarified butter
• Tree nuts

There are a few limitations in the fruit and vegetables categories such as white potatoes are a “no” but sweet potatoes are a “yes.” There are countless websites and blogs that discuss what to eat and what not to eat. Here are a few items you should not eat on this diet:

• Dairy
• Legumes
• Grains
• Gluten
• Soy
• Sugar

There are hundreds of other diets, out there and even more miracle pills to help lose weight. Pills scare me more than the diets. Anyone remember Fen Phen? It was touted as a wonder drug, then people died and the FDA pulled it from the market. And this happens all the time. There is no wonder pill or magic diet to drop weight. Using a very scientific approach, the problem is three fold:

1. Start tomorrow syndrome
2. Lost all the weight? Party time!
3. Quitting

People who say they are going to start on Monday, start tomorrow, etc. … never end up starting the diet or pig out until they start the diet. How many times have you been next to a friend with a doughnut (or insert any sweet treat) and said, “Tomorrow no more cookies.” Tomorrow never comes, and if it does come, they cut out sugary treats for weeks, maybe longer and one day they it turns to party time.

Food parties happen all the time.

You hit your weight goal, it’s your birthday, anniversary, Thursday… people regress. It’s normal to eat a treat. The trick is limiting how often and the size of that treat. Food addicts especially have trouble controlling their portion in the face of trigger foods; salty or sugary foods trigger your body to want to eat more.

And people quit on diets for numerous reasons, the number one reason being they did not lose enough weight in the first two weeks. That’s right, if people don’t look a cover model after two weeks, they want to quit. That’s why I say, DON’T DIET.

You heard me. Do not diet. Unless you have a doctor working with you for health reasons, dieting sucks. It usually does not work. Weight Watchers is great because it’s not a diet, it’s a lifestyle. Eat a cookie; just don’t eat the whole box. Weight Watchers tracks your food and tells you, “hey, you ate too much crap today, eat less tomorrow.” I am over simplifying, but the majority of us can lose weight and feel better with small changes:

• Pack trail mix, fruit and veggies with you
• Carry around a water bottle (and use it)
• Take the grapes off the vine and in bowl (my wife makes fun of me for this but it makes healthy snacking much easier)
• If you struggle with diet, hire a dietician
• See a doctor if you have gastrointestinal issues
• Start cooking or cook one more meal a week
• Buy more fruits and vegetables at the store

If you are struggling to lose weight, the easiest thing you can do is log your food. Spend two weeks writing down everything you eat. That usually leads to great self-discovery. Remember, one doughnut every now and then is ok, but just because you live near Do Right, Donut Vault, Dunkin Donuts, Firecakes…does not mean a new flavor a day. Eat smart.

We’re all still holding on to the Blackhawks’ amazing Stanley Cup run. You can’t walk down the street a day in the city without seeing someone in a Blackhawks Stanley Cup Championship T-shirt or hat. The Chicago sports wire is littered with stories about Derrick Rose and his ongoing recovery, as well as the Bears new-look offense and the future of Jay Cutler.

And all the while, two professional baseball teams who call Chicago home are midway through their seasons. And it is really hard to care. Both teams sit under .500 and at or near the bottom of their respective divisions. Neither team appears to be gearing up for a second-half playoff run, so, what has caught our attention on the North and South sides so far this season? Let’s take a look.

Chicago Cubs – 42-51

The Good: The Cubs have been very clear that they are not playing for this season, or even next (or next, or next…). Their plans are long term, and most of the players theoretically included in that plan are not even on the major league squad yet. So the good for the Cubs has nothing to do with the players on the team, but rather what the front office is doing. They unloaded Carlos Marmol (which might be the move of the year), and Matt Garza and Alfonso Soriano have both played well enough to lift their trade stock as high as the Cubs could have hoped. They drafted Kris Bryant with the second overall pick, and have signed a long term deal with Anthony Rizzo. They have a young starting pitcher and possible future ace in Travis Wood, who was selected to the All-Star team after an impressive first half, even though it isn’t shown in his record due to the Cubs’ wretched bullpen and lack of run support. And Starlin Castro, who started the season playing well below expectation, has been playing extremely well over the last month, batting over .300.

The Bad: Everything else. The Cubs’ bullpen has been atrocious. They lead the NL in “Blown Saves” with 19, and their offense has the third-worst On-Base Percentage. And in spite of Castro’s recent surge, the overall offensive production from he and Rizzo have been extremely disappointing. They often struggle to score runs, and outside of Rizzo, Castro and Soriano, have yet to find consistent starters at any other position.

The Outlook: Don’t expect the results to be much different in the second half of the season. It will be worth noting the continued progress of Rizzo, Castro and Wood – as well as what the Cubs do leading up to the trade deadline. And although I doubt they bring guys like Solar or Baez up this season, they would be worth watching should the Cubs give them a shot in the majors toward the end of the season. Otherwise, do your best to keep your eyes on the front office, and off the field.

Chicago White Sox – 37-55

The Good: Chris Sale and Josh Phlegey have given you something to cheer about. And Adam Dunn appears to have found his power again. But none of those things have added up to wins. The good seems to end there on the South Side. See: The Bad.

The Bad: Jake Peavy getting injured was a huge hit not only to the team this season, but to their chances of getting good trade value for him. The White Sox are at the bottom of the league in “Runs Scored” and second to last in OBP. The have also committed the third-most errors in the American League, and are second worst in “Wins.” And what may be worst of all, they have made no attempt to improve the roster to make a second-half run.

The Outlook: Unlike the Cubs, the Sox don’t appear to have a long-term plan. Instead of gutting the team and building from the bottom, the appear to want to stand pat, adding little pieces here and there over the last few seasons in hopes that improvement will just come. But they have a roster full of players too good to bench, but not valuable enough to trade for quality prospects. Their manager decided not to sign in extension, and has seemed uninterested in managing this team (and who could blame him?). They don’t appear to be developing their future in the minors and don’t appear to be looking to trade for players to help them improve in the short term. The White Sox have mostly stayed in contention in recent years, but, it is coming up on almost 10 years since their World Series and it might be time to take a page out of the Cubs’ book for once and start thinking about their future.

Dear Mom,

I hate camp the beds are so hard I can’t sleep the cabins r moldy the food is crap stale pasta and moldy salad there are bats in the showers and if I don’t where shower shoes I get warts I love u and if u love me you’ll rescue me from hell soon

Love BJ :’(

This was the first letter I ever received from sleep-away camp. After one day. Did I freak out? Did I demand a conference call with the director—wait, no—the founder of camp? Did I insist on a refund plus $500 for future therapy sessions to address the psychological harm that the rabid flying bats in attack mode leering at my naked child in the shower have surely caused? And dammit, I had just gotten my kid to eat salad! The moldy lettuce thing could cause quite a setback. No. No, I did not do any of these things. (However, I admit to some level of disappointment with my son’s letter: the massive run-on sentence, absence of punctuation and the misspelling of the word “wear”…)

I do not remember my first day of sleep-away camp. I do remember my last. I was sobbing as “Uncle Fuzz” soulfully strummed the guitar with his eyes closed and head raised toward the stars and sky singing “The Cats in the Cradle” as we had our final campfire of the summer. And I remember the middle part of camp: staying up late gossiping about the cute boys; polar bearing into the freezing lake; riding horses; seeing a snake and nearly peeing myself; laughing so hard in my cabin after a major overload of sugar from someone’s cleverly hidden stash of candy that I did pee myself; a skunk smell at night that I not only got used to, but grew fond of, and the friends. Friends I remained pen pals with for years.

Did I have a crappy first day at sleep-away camp? Like I said—don’t remember, don’t know. Probably. My son and I share a very high expectation for things and are easily disappointed when they aren’t exactly what we want them to be. And after all, camp is not school or work—it’s not a have-to. It’s a want-to.

And so, when my kid went to sleep away camp, he—and I—was expecting a lot. For my kid to give up any amount of his summer lounging time and leave us (and probably more importantly to him, his new puppy) is hard. His saying goodbye to the creature comforts of home (which mainly translates into having his phone, a TV and a toilet he doesn’t fear sitting on, as well as his friends and homemade Mickey Mouse pancakes for breakfast every morning) is tough stuff. He’s a kid, so he’s thinking this camp better be really, really good.

As for me, after all the research, cash and my personal reassurances, I’m thinking this camp better be better than good. This camp better be GREAT! But come ‘on! It’s the first day. And although I did cringe reading about the wart-juice infested shower floor, (I even absent-mindedly touched my feet where plantar warts had once lived thanks to the YMCA pool showers) I’m not panicking—yet.

I believe myself to be a well-intended parent with activity sign-ups for my kids, and I always consult my kids ahead of time when the idea is mine. Admittedly, some of the choices I initiate fare better than others. Signing up my Play-Doh-throwing child for ceramics? Good choice. (Great choice actually—we’ve found he’s gifted with clay.) Signing up the palest child in the world for an all-day outdoor sports camp in which he spent 99.9 percent of the time in the sun and/or on a black concrete slab? Bad, bad choice. I had a tomato for a son that summer. But I’ve learned to celebrate the hits and forgive the misses because how else are my kids supposed to figure out what they might love if I don’t give them the encouragement, opportunity and space to explore it?

So, I see this first day of camp S.O.S. letter as a test, a test for us both. Do I want my kid to have the best two weeks ever? Of course I do. Did I feel a sad, sinking sensation in my heart when I first read the letter? Yes I did. Was there an itty-bitty part of me that wondered, just for a moment, if my minivan that is on it’s very last legs of existence, could make a frantic, pedal-to-the-metal drive up to rescue my kid from his suffering of cardboard mattresses, bad food, bats and looming foot warts? Yup. But it was just for a moment. Because he’ll be OK. Even if he ends up coming home with more war stories than triumphs, he’ll have survived. And so will have I. And anyways, the kid has his rabies shot.

When I worked in sales we lived by the motto to “act as if” you were the level above your pay-grade. If you were a sales rep, “act as if” you were an assistant manager; if you were an assistant manager, “act as if” you were a branch manager; and so on. It’s an idea that has stuck with me to this day.

As we muddle our way through the entry to mid-level professional world, it is tough to know exactly what we are supposed to do in order to move up. Many careers don’t have a clear path outlined for us and fewer still have the directions spelled out to get down the path. Many of us want to advance, take on more responsibility and receive the perks and benefits that go along with it. The challenge is how to figure out the finesse and nuances of climbing that ladder.

This is where “act as if” comes in. Who are the professionals that have proven their success at the level above you? By the way, no matter how successful you think they might or might not be, they had to have gotten at least something right to earn the right to be at that level. What is it exactly that they got right? Notice everything about them, by the way. How do they dress for work? How early do they start working and how late do they finish? With whom in and out of the company or organization are they spending most of their time?

Now that you have identified some role models, ask yourself, how can I change my day to day working style to “act as if” you are already at their level? What are the important projects and tasks that are the key to my future success? What would I be doing differently if today I were promoted to that next level?

Of course, if you are completely unsure on how to get started with all of this, it is completely fine to reach out for help. Author and entrepreneur Jason Seiden suggests that this is how you “Make Your Own Breaks” in his book How to Self Destruct, Making the Least of What's Left of Your Career.

Look up that role model of yours in the company directory. Shoot them an e-mail, call them or just ask next time you bump into each other in the elevator. Tell this person you admire the work they’re doing and would love to learn more about how they have found success at the organization. Offer to buy a cup of coffee sometime so that you can pick their brain. People love free coffee and giving their opinion, so it will be hard for your role model to say no.

This week’s portion, Devarim, kicks off the last of the Five Books of Moses.

Most of the book is Moses’s final speech to the Israelites before they enter the Promised Land, in which he recaps their travels, battles and the various miracles they witnessed.

One of the most interesting parts of this portion is Moses’s use of language. In particular, he frames his storytelling as: “I did this, and then you (collectively) did that.” What’s strange about his choice of language is that the men he’s addressing were not alive for a good chunk of his historical accounting, and if any of them were, they were under age 20 at the time any of the reported events took place. And yet, he chooses to address the collective as having been present, and as having been responsible for the victories and defeats the nation faced along the way.

I imagine that while the new Israelite generation might have appreciated being lumped in with their parents when their parents did things right, I also have to imagine that they struggled when they were chastised and lumped in with their parents when it came to their parents’ shortcomings.

Can any of us honestly say that we’d be comfortable being held accountable for the faults of our parents?

Why would Moses lump the current generation in with the past one?

Frankly, we shouldn’t be surprised, given the other instances we’ve found of such grouping in the Torah. For example, we should remember that God (as portrayed in the Torah) isn’t always happy and smiling, and is willing to hold children accountable for the sins of their parents:

“You shall not bow down to them [idols] or serve them; for I am a jealous God, punishing the children of those that hate me unto the third and fourth generation.” [paraphrase of Exodus 20:4].

So too, we’re reminded that the Exodus from Egypt did not happen just to/for our ancestors:

“And you shall tell your son on that day: It is because of that which God did for me when I went out from Egypt.” [paraphrase of Exodus 13:8] (sound familiar from Passover?)

We’re meant to view ourselves as having gone out of Egypt and experiencing what our ancestors did, and so too, we’re potentially held accountable for the actions of those who came before us. What gives?

What are the benefits of a collective, cross-generational identity?

Do you think the way we currently act in our lives and communities would be different if we envisioned ourselves as part of a collective — spanning generations — rather than as individuals?

Much has been written about us being part of “Generation Me.” Perhaps for those who came before us, who experienced struggles different (and arguably greater) than our own due to being Jewish, the collective identity piece was a bit stronger…

This week, reflect on your identity and how you view your relationship to others.

Meditate on “kol Yisrael arevim ze la’zeh” – “all Jews are responsible for one another.” Does this concept resonate with you? Why or why not?

Commit to living a life that your children, and theirs after them, will be inspired by; leave a legacy they are anxious to inherit, and a narrative they willingly and joyously adopt as their own.

Shabbat shalom.

Sometimes I say "I just graduated" or "I recently started working," and now that it's a little over a year later, "just" and "recently" gotta go, and frankly it kind of sucks.

Now I know that transitioning from the greatest four years of your life to the probably not-so-great beginning working years of your life was NO EASY FEAT. And I put that in caps because I think sometimes people underestimate the drastic lifestyle overhaul. The wounds of a recent graduate are raw, but now ours are just scars. As we get older and fully immerse ourselves in the working world, college gets further and further away. Like anything in the past, the small details become increasingly difficult to remember and we are no longer the new meat in the office, but just an average employee where there’s little distinction if we’ve been out of college for two years or for 10.

I've survived the first year, but what next? The answer is both simple and difficult. We know, we knowww that we're working for the rest of our God-given days (until we retire or abscond with a billionaire), but what's next has to be more than that. After freshman year comes sophomore year and after junior year comes senior year, but what's after year one in the real world? Are years two and three repeats of year one? I cannot tell you how much I despise change; it was even stressful when my room was painted a new color. I know—like c'mon Gabi.

The irony of it is that after year one, I am welcoming change with open arms. Sometimes I think I get so focused in a routine that I am missing out on life! Okay, that's dramatic but in a weird, toned-down kind of way it's partially true. As I ride the train to work everyday I see the same people, sitting in the same seats, reading the same papers. Usually I think these people are my heroes because I just don't know how they do it year in and year out, but sometimes there's this little part of me that worries that life actually might pass me by while I'm sitting in the same seat reading the same paper.

I am seriously cheesing out right but get over it, cheese is delicious.

Sometimes it's good to take mom's tacky, clichéd advice and dive head first into something new and unexpected. Deep breath—I’m moving to a new city where I know no one, to start a new school I know nothing about. If I learned anything from my first year out of college besides how to fix the copy machine and mail an overweight package, it's that change doesn't have to be the awful new room color I thought it was.

I rewrote the title of this post more than two dozen times. The one that you see, that’s actually the first one I wrote which is actually rather fitting. See, I had a revelation recently. Well, not so much a revelation as I had a bit more free time on my hands one weekend with nothing to do, hence I was a little bored, and therefore may have been thinking too much after having noticed my Super Nintendo on the ground and subsequently thought about the fact that some of the best aspects of my life have always been the exact same yet are always changing. That and I like long run-on sentences.

In regards to that first thought, it struck me how Super Nintendo and video games in general have always made me exquisitely happy. However, why I love video games currently has a much deeper and significant meaning. I used to like them because they were fun. Now, in addition to fun, I appreciate them for their stories, game play and often incredible voice acting. It’s slightly trivial but lends itself to a bigger idea that the wonderful constants in my life are consistently changing. It’s like the title! Oh, I get it now!

What I like about the constants in my life is that as I’ve become a little older and a little wiser, what’s important to me has developed superior reasons and validation. Simply put, I can explain what I like and why I like it much more eloquently. I mean, there are the obvious constants in my life that are easy to explain. I enjoy eating every day. I take delight in sleeping every night. I always look forward to my weekly shower. Haha. I’m just kidding—it’s monthly. But the fundamental reasoning behind what I love is ever-changing while the core stays the same. Let me give you the perfect example.

SpaghettiOs. Love ‘em. Always have, always will. But only with meatballs, gosh darn it! Back in the day, I loved them because they were a simple meal. Not too flashy in appearance, not too bold in flavor. It wasn’t claiming to be anything more than what it was. Os of spaghetti. Balls of meat. I should probably put meat in quotes. Eh, not gonna happen. The point is, SpaghettiOs, to me, were near perfection. As an adult, I realize how wrong I was. SpaghettiOs are perfection. But as an adult (actually, should probably put that in quotes), yes, I still eat SpaghettiOs and also yes, still with meatballs.

Now I eat them because, well, it’s a cheap, easy meal to make and to be perfectly honest, a can doesn’t have too many calories but does have a lot of injected nutrition. Like 20 percent of my suggested daily riboflavin, my favorite of all the flavins. So yes, that’s my fake “adult” reason why I still enjoy SpaghettiOs, because they are sort of healthy. I know the sodium is through the roof—shuddap! But SpaghettiOs have always been a staple for me. I’m fully aware I’m technically an “adult,” I do have to pay a utility bill after all, but sometimes I refuse to fully accept it. (The being an “adult,” not the bill.) However, that little change in thought about the most consistently delectable meal I know of is a way of letting my “adult” needs get along with my childlike wants. Also, for the record, the fact that I just over analyzed SpaghettiOs and how they showcase a fundamental part of who I am might negate the part where I said I’m an “adult.” I’m quite fine with that.

I’m also quite fine with my Jewishnessicity. You catch that smooth transition there? The way I view what it means to me to be Jewish and how I view religion as a whole is one of the most provocative and fascinating aspects of who I am. The constant here is that I will never be anything but Jewish. That’s a given. While that constant is here and will always be here, what it means to me being Jewish and staying Jewish is different day in and day out. I have created my own solid foundation on what I define as being Jewish. I’m not going to delve too far into it but I’ll simply say that some of my thoughts and actions are different, foreign and exactly in line with everything one would hopefully, in my opinion, come to expect from a Jew. I’m entirely different and entirely the same. I’m still working out exactly what that means despite always knowing exactly what it means.

The thing that inspired me to write this, to talk about this, to relay this minor yet major thought that means oh so much to me is something so simple and so complicated that I had to come up with a silly albeit honest title to describe it. Remember the title? A few months back, I wrote about how the thing that inspires me to write can be anything, everything and always the same thing. I didn’t know it at the time but I was referring to all I just wrote.

Throughout my life, I’ve grown as a person, both physically and mentally. I understand more now than I have ever before and graciously I have this same thought every single day. The world changes. I change with it. The world stays the same. I stay the same with it. Whether 5, 10, or even 20 years ago, what calmed me, what I enjoyed in this world, what I cared about, who and what inspired me, is somehow the exact same today. It may not come in the exact same package but the contents, when viewed closely, are so familiar I start to not even recognize them. What I hold most dear to my heart and my being, what keeps me going, what keeps me who I am fundamentally, at my core, is always the same and at the same time is ever changing, evolving, perfecting. A constant change in consistency.

Earlier this year, Israel passed a milestone-there are now more Jews in Israel than anywhere else, even the US.

The other main pockets of Jewish life are Russia and the rest of its former satellite states, Europe (especially France), and South America (especially Argentina). And no one is surprised to hear of the Jewish presence in the rest of the English-speaking world— Canada, Australia, etc.

Of course, there are still Jews living in Arabic lands, as we are a Middle Eastern people from way (or more accurately, waaaaaaay) back. The American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee— JDC or "The Joint" for short— operates in 70-some countries, including Morocco, Tunisia, and Egypt. And it's no longer news, of course, that there is a Jewish community in Ethiopia.

But that doesn't mean that there still aren't even more Jewish communities tucked away in places you might never expect. I began learning about them years ago when I came across Kulanu (Hebrew for "all of us"), an organization that reaches out to remote Jewish communities worldwide. The article was about their contact with a spontaneously converted Jewish community in …

Uganda. Yes, the same place the British offered us instead of Israel. And the same place Israeli commandos rescued that hijacked plane full of Jews. In 1919, one of the local Ugandan leaders found a Bible left by a Christian missionary. He read it and did what it said to do— convert to Judaism. His name was Semei Kakungulu, and he called his followers the Abayudaya. Some know them from their distinctive music— imagine the Jewish prayers set to the music of Paul Simon's Graceland album. Here is their version of "Lecha Dodi." Other countries in Africa with Jewish communities include Ghana and Mozambique.

There are three countries in Asia with remarkable Jewish populations of their own. The world became aware of the one in Mumbai, sadly, after it was attacked by terrorists in 2008. Several cities in India are home to active Jewish communities.

As the South-Asian summarizes: "The earliest Jews came to India two thousand years ago, escaping persecution in Galilee. Some came after the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE. Sephardic Jews came to India from European nations such as Holland and Spain. The 16th and 17th century migrations created settlements of Jews from Persia, Afghanistan, and central Asia in northern India and Kashmir. In the 17th and 18th centuries, Jewish settlers came from the Middle East and North Africa. Jews settled in different areas: Kashmir in the north, Cochin in the south, Calcutta in the east and Mumbai (then "Bombay") in the west."

There is also a small but active Jewish community in Obama's old stomping ground, Indonesia… and two sizeable Jewish communities in China. One is fairly ancient, and it is centered in the town of Kaifeng (pronounced "kai-fung.") The other is more recent, comprised of Jews who fled the Nazis to Shanghai and their descendants. There are a few folks who refer to this community, naturally, as "Shang-Chai."

But the story of the Jews fleeing persecution is an old one. Jews during the Inquisition supported Columbus, and certainly followed the conquistadors to the so-called New World, landing in South America, especially Peru, in Mexico, and in the US Southwest. According to the book The Jewish Connection, a Spanish-Jewish sailor named Sergio Rodriguez pulled Columbus' landing craft ashore, thus becoming the first European to set foot on New World soil (unless you count the Viking theory).

The Inquisition Jews were outwardly Christian while maintaining Jewish practice in private (sometimes literally "going underground," as they performed Jewish rituals in basements and caves to avoid detection). These forcibly converted Jews were insultingly called "morranos" ("pigs") by the Spanish, but took the name Conversos for themselves. Centuries later, many formally re-adopted their ancestors' Jewish ways, saying things like, "My grandmother used to light two candles in the basement every Friday night, but I never knew why until now."

Whether fleeing persecution or poverty, we Jews have made our way into nearly every country on Earth, adopting some of the local ways and adapting others. We have at once been able to fit in and to stand apart, which has helped us survive as both people and as a people for thousands of years. The variety of Jewish experience is far beyond what most of us grew up knowing. That we have endured in so many remote locales, and under such harsh conditions, is amazing, but given our track record, perhaps not all that surprising.

Recently, I came across an article arguing the effectiveness of fast food chains listing caloric value next to their menu items. They proposed the idea of instead, listing an effective exercise and recommended length of time to burn off the calories. The author thought that this would help consumers to make the healthier choice. For example one slice of cheese pizza coming in at 285 calories will cost you 50 minutes of jogging. Don’t even think about pairing your pizza with a light beer—that will cost you an extra 30 minutes of bowling.

So there you are at one of your favorite pizza restaurants (Cross-town rivalry… I am going to have to go with Lou Malnati’s) deciding what you want on your pizza, and you end up eating a plain garden salad because the menu says it will only cost you a short yoga class instead of a lengthy jog. When did our dinner start coming with a choice of exercise instead of a choice of side? By educating ourselves on what goes into our favorite pizzeria’s slice, we can make a delicious slice of pizza at home instead of having to eat yet another salad.

One of my family’s favorite meals on a busy summer weekend is grilled pizza. It is fast, easy, delicious and can be made super healthy. In college, I had a nutrition professor who claimed that pizza in moderation can be a very healthy meal when done correctly because it has the ability to be a completely balanced one (it contains grains, vegetables, protein and some healthy fat).

The key is to pick fresh tasty ingredients so that you do not have to pile on cheese and fatty meats. The version below is only one of many favorites. By grilling the pizza dough, you can get it super thin and crispy so that you can pile on the veggies and lean proteins.

Whole Grain Pizza with Goat Cheese and Sautéed Vegetables 
Serves 4

Ingredients

-Crust-
I cheated and bought the whole grain dough from Whole Foods that can be found at the pizza counter … hey, pizza is supposed to be fast and easy, right?

-Sauce-
1 (8 oz) can whole San Marzano tomatoes
1 small yellow onion- sliced
5 cloves garlic
2 bay leaves
1 tsp. agave nectar
1 tsp. olive oil
Kosher salt and pepper to taste

-Toppings-
1 tsp. olive oil
5 oz soft ripened goat cheese (I like Lincoln Log from Zingerman’s)
¼ cup shredded parmesan cheese
½ cup baby arugula
½ cup wild mushrooms, chopped
5 stalks asparagus, cut in ½ inch pieces
¼ red pepper, chopped
¼ yellow pepper, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 shallot, sliced thin
Kosher salt and pepper to taste

Preparation

-Sauce-
Sauté onion and garlic in olive oil. Once browned add in tomatoes, agave, and bay. Simmer for about 10 min. Season with salt and pepper. Take out bay leaves and blend all ingredients until smooth. Sauce can be made ahead of time and frozen for later use.

-Vegetables-
Heat 1 tsp. olive oil and lightly brown garlic and shallots. Add in mushrooms, asparagus, and peppers. Lightly sauté vegetables to start the cooking process and release some of the liquids so that the crust does not become soggy. They should be tender when removed from the pan. Remember they will still cook a little on the grill.

-Dough-
Heat grill on high. Roll out dough as thin as you can get it. Brush olive oil on one side and place oiled side down on grill. Pop any bubbles with a fork if they appear during cooking process. When lightly browned, turn grill to medium heat and flip dough over. Immediately start laying your ingredients down. I started with my sauce then scattered all my vegetables including raw arugula around entire pizza. I finished my pizza with the goat cheese and a scattering of parmesan cheese. Pizza is done once crust is crispy and cheese is melted. This process should be done with the grill top open the entire time.

Go ahead and indulge yourself in a beer there is room for it now.

I am a 20-something male who has no children, and I watch animated movies.

I would normally preface such a statement by outwardly saying that this is something I’m not ashamed to admit it, but I felt no need to blanket it with any kind of qualifier because I know I’m not alone. Animated/family films are great for all ages, and I bet you love them too.

Some of the best movies being made today come from Pixar, Disney, DreamWorks and others. They are visually arresting, exciting, hilarious and can even move you to tears (I get weepy just thinking of the Carl and Ellie flashback montage in Up—and let’s not even go into WALL*E). Other genres’ track records as far as critical praise and audience approval simply don’t compare.

We’re in animated/family film prime time this holiday weekend. We got Pixar’s Monsters University a couple weeks back; this weekend we have the sequel to the 2010 smash hit Despicable Me (which has come out swinging at the box office so far), and in two weeks’ time, DreamWorks presents its super-snail racing flick Turbo. There’s plenty for families (and everyone!) to see right now.

Yet the likelihood is I won’t be seeing any of these films until they’re available for home viewing in four or five months. Caveat to my second paragraph: as brazen as I am in my love for this genre, the practice and observance of this is another story. Going to the movies is not unlike amusement park rides: you either need to be tall enough (read: old enough) to ride this ride, or you have to be accompanied by someone under so many inches.

Seeing a kid-flick on a date can be cute, or if you go with friends you take solace in each other’s child-like excitement, but by yourself—you can’t paint it any other way but awkward. I’ve only done this when I’ve needed to review a family movie for a website—but even though I know that’s why I’m there, I’m still a grown man sitting by himself in a theater with small children.

Let’s pretend we live in a non-profiling society where no one bats an eyelash at that. It’s still cruddy to be an adult seeing a family film in a theater. Unless you can go at 9 p.m. or later, you’re in for 90 minutes of tiny voices blurting at the screen or worse—tiny feet kicking the back of your seat.

So, I much prefer to watch kid movies in private, which, now that I’ve typed that, doesn’t sound any better. But regardless, I think there’s more to watching animated movies on my couch than simply avoiding the unpleasantness or social taboo of seeing them at the theater. If you’re a Millennial, or if you were born after the invention of the VCR, you might know what I’m talking about.

Kids born in the ‘80s were the first wave to be entertained by instant home entertainment. Our parents could pop in a VHS tape and we would sit silently for an hour and a half, riveted at the animated journey unfolding before us. We all can name the movies we watched over and over again as kids; it was not possible for the generations before us to form that kind of attachment to animated films.

Earlier this year, Disney and Netflix struck a deal that put a number of Mouse House titles into Netflix’s Instant catalogue. I was excited to experience some of these films again as an adult, and took 64 minutes of my day to watch Dumbo, which I hadn’t seen since I was probably four at the oldest.

My first revelation in watching it as an adult was that parts of the film are intensely scary for a small child, like when Dumbo’s water pail gets spiked and he has drunken hallucinations (yup, go back and watch it). The second was that I was blown away by the rushes of emotion as I encountered parts of the film that I had forgotten. Watching Mrs. Jumbo unwrap her adorable baby elephant as delivered by Mr. Stork and the way she snuggles him, even when the other nasty elephant ladies laugh at his ears, felt especially poignant. Something about this scene moved me as a child, and in journeying back to Dumbo, I rediscovered it. Reflecting on this, I realized nostalgia is not just remembering something fondly—it’s when a potent dose of sensory memory triggers a past emotional state of being that is, in a word, overcoming.

Disney in general was really the only studio aiming films at young kids in the ‘80s, and as such they’ve cornered the market on our childhood nostalgia. Disney World and Disneyland are paragons of providing family entertainment, but the way parents enjoy these attractions will change shape in the next 5-10 years. We will take a lot of pleasure in sharing what we loved as kids with our children. We will understand their affection for the animated films of their generation and their unconditional love of the characters.

It also helps that the movies kids are watching today are good at entertaining parents as well. They’re insanely clever, involve insanely talented animation artists and they focus on universal family values that never lose their significance. Most of all, they put a premium on good storytelling in a way other genres don’t.

A lot of the family films we see today are no different than those of previous generations boiled down to their essence (stories of fitting in, finding one’s purpose, etc.) and repacked with breathtaking CGI. The same heart and value-based ideals that guided the golden age of Disney is being infused into movies as commercial as Kung Fu Panda and Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. In essence, these common threads make animated films timeless no matter the obvious signs of time period or age.

So minus some facial hair and a college degree, there’s not much difference in four-year-old me sitting five feet from the television watching Lady & The Tramp, staring up at the tiny box TV in awe, and 20-something me curled up on the couch streaming Brave on Netflix. We both want the comfort of a story where good triumphs over evil, and to be transported somewhere we can only find in our imagination.

I’ve been on a lot of dates in my life. A lot. And like most people who go on dates, I would really like to find someone I can truly connect with, as this would save a heck of a lot of time, energy and JDate money.

I get my hopes up every time, even for the guys I know won’t work out from the get-go because they use military time when they’re not in the military or say “sweet” when they’re not talking about candy. Not that I’m picky or anything. I just want people to talk normally, that’s all.

I tend to convince myself that each date is the last date I will ever go on, and if it isn’t amazing I am that much closer to being doomed to a life of Chinese takeout and probably cats. I often fail to remember how Chinese takeout is amazing and not shameful at all, and I would choose a dog or a monkey or a plant or really any other kind of pet over a cat. Plus, each date is never the last date; thanks to the fine folks who plan Jewish young adult events and run dating sites, there are always more. Thanks, fine folks. Feel free to get more awesome people.

Most of the dates I go on aren’t terrible. Yes, there was that one guy who, on date two, casually mentioned he was married and he and his wife enjoy “hanging out” with other women and would I want to meet her sometime? And there was the guy who basically said “I love you” on the first date (and not in the precious Ted-Mosby-and-Robin back in the day kind of way).

But other than that, everything has been pretty ho-hum. We go. We chat. We eat and/or drink something. We look at the clock. (Okay, that’s usually just me. Sorry. But guys should stop taking me to places with clocks—and being boring.) We try really hard to avoid awkward silence. We (just me again) do the Check Dance. We leave. We (me) stop for fro-yo on the way home to make ourselves feel better about life. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

It’s fortunate that I’ve gotten pretty good at the aforementioned Check Dance over the years so I’m able to spend my hard-earned money on frozen yogurt instead of on these silly people. No offense, lovely men I’ve gone on dates with: you’re generally a nice bunch, just not right for me. I’m sure you’re frustrated, too, going on a date with a girl who is eager to ditch you for frozen yogurt.

I think average dates are actually more disappointing than terrible dates, because at least with terrible dates you know there’s no way it’s going to happen, ever, even if he’s the last five-eight-or-taller-nice-Jewish-boy left on Earth. But average dates leave you wondering—was it truly average, or was it just an off day for him/you/the world? Could he/she become above average with a little training? Oftentimes you realize that if you’re asking these questions, you already know the answer.

Sometimes my anxiety is all, “if this person likes you, you need to like this person. Where do you think you live, in a vast, free-flowing, cascading pool of nice, tall-ish, not-too-nerdy-but-not-too-douche-y Jewish boys who are having Scrabble tournaments to determine who gets the distinct honor of being with you? No, that is not where you live. So like the average dude, darn it!”

Luckily, I also have a very functional, rational brain, and it usually chimes in with a little “hi, let’s be calm now. You haven’t lost anything by not liking this person, as you did not have anything to lose here. There will be more dates. Somehow, as improbable as it seems, there are always more dates. Now go simmer down and have a cookie.”

That is the important thing to remember, folks. Not necessarily the “simmer down and have a cookie” thing, though that is pretty solid advice if you ask me. Cookies make everything better, as do rainbow sprinkles and, yes, fro-yo. But really, average dates are not making or breaking anything. You’re fine. Nothing’s changing. And in this day and age, you just need to be glad if he/she isn’t married or a serial killer. Little victories, my friend. The big one will come eventually. I hope.

My favorite place in Chicago? That’s an easy question to answer. It sits squarely in the center of downtown, presided over by two (not so) imposing lions. The Art Institute has a firm grip on my heart and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Very early on, I figured out I had no artistic ability whatsoever. Can’t draw, can’t paint, none of that. But even as a little one, I looked very forward to the special days peppered throughout elementary and middle school known as “Art in Action.” As a fourth grader, I remember looking at pictures by someone who I later came to recognize as Andrew Wyeth, but at that age simply wondering what the figures in his paintings were reaching for in the fields. I loved the look of portraits, of distinguished men and women wearing expressions that seemed thoughtful and grown up. I remember the swirls and twirls of Van Gogh paintings as they were revealed to us in front of the classroom, pictures lying in the sill of the chalkboard, wondering what it would be like to travel to a place that could possibly inspire that interpretation of the sky.

While growing up, I thought art was about drawing and I resigned myself to the “not naturally talented” camp. But in eighth grade I learned the beginnings of art history from my oh-so hippie art teacher and it sparked a curiosity that remains with me today.

I so clearly remember sitting at a drafting table, my feet clad in Sketchers dangling beneath me, learning about Caravaggio and chiaroscuro. In high school, I made it my mission to commit all of the French Impressionists to memory, from Monet to Degas and all in between. I loved all the French painters; I would scan my European history books and look for paintings by the famed Delacroix, for the beautiful lines of the fabled Ingres.

In high school, both my love for the French language and for all things art history grew. With occasional trips to the Art Institute with my family, I only grew more curious as to how someone could complete an entire painting solely with dots (Sunday at La Grande Jatte), the meaning of Mona Lisa’s smile, how artists grew up and became to inhabit their notoriety.

Like I said, my love for French and art blossomed pretty simultaneously and my moments of “Frashley” only cultivated that fascination further. Living in Provence, we learned about light, how form and content overlap and influence one another and most importantly, patience. Patience to look at a painting for a half an hour and parse out what it is getting at, patience with studying an artist’s lifetime and being able to pick out nuance from each decade of their work.

When I moved to downtown Chicago, I knew right away that a membership to the Art Institute was in the cards. After all, I tried to make it to as many free days as I could over the years. Wouldn’t it be nice to sort of always go for free? I thought it would make a nice Chanukah present, but truth is, I couldn’t wait that long. It’s one of the few places that calm my frenetic nerves, one of the places I feel I can truly take my time.

I love to go and look at the Chagall windows. Talk about one of my favorite things in the city. I have a soft spot for Chagall, naturally. The stained glass windows are located in a funny corner of the museum, sort of hidden. But just looking at the blues and the yellows … it’s a chance to take a minute away from busy Chicago and busy life around me and think about turn of the century Vitebsk, Chagall’s home town.

Looking at Chagall’s creations turns my thoughts to Judaism, often. Through his craft, he gives insight into what it was to be Jewish at that time; through his sketches, he imparts a fanciful depiction of a time and place in Eastern Europe and later France that feels faraway yet close. Something about how he expressed himself transports me to a different frame of mind. I particularly love the paintings of floating figures—figures in love. He made his mark as a Jewish artist through metaphor and with care, which makes him one of my favorites to visit at my most favorite of places.

I often think about passion, about my short stint in France and how I can bring what I learned there over here. The Art Institute indulges my artsy-fartsy moments and encourages me to keep on dreaming, no matter where I’m at in the world of the world. 

I remember stopping at my dad’s parents’ house once before I left for summer camp in high school to say goodbye. Naively expecting a quick hug and kiss, I ended up sitting in their den, listening to stories for a few hours. What to some might have seemed like a longer goodbye than necessary ended up propelling me to become more consciously thankful for the memories that they take the time to share with me.

My all-time favorite story is how my grandparents met. Actually, how both sets of my grandparents met: in the same ice cream parlor in Chicago’s Albany Park neighborhood in 1947.

Interestingly, I spent a sufficient amount of time in high school tutoring students through a community service program in that area. I was actually a bit shocked when my mom told me that both of my grandmothers grew up near Lawrence Avenue, which was now lined with linen shops, markets, dollar stores, wholesale vendors, and a few stores that looked as if they were about to close instantaneously rather than the cute, picturesque locations from all of my grandparents’ stories.

My grandparents each lived in apartments, like most of the Jewish families, and spent their time at the neighborhood hangouts such as the drugstore “Glicks,” the local deli, and the movie theater where they spent many of their weekend evenings called “The Terminal.” Both of my grandmothers reminisce on how they would walk everywhere, so much so that they would notice if there was even one difference in the display windows.

After the war, the dynamic of the neighborhood immediately began to change. The girls would stand outside synagogue, dressed up, waiting for the men to walk out. The area got much busier and people were always hanging out outside and mingling with “soon to be” friends.

“Times are different now,” my nana tells me, “It’s nostalgia.”

The place that undoubtedly holds the most nostalgia for all of my grandparents was Rudich’s, the infamous ice cream parlor that brought them together.

“None of us were fat. We didn’t care about calories; no one did in those days,” my grandma tells me.

Described as fun place, the ultimate neighborhood hangout, and more, this was “their place.”

--

Mae and Irwin

My grandma Mae leaned back in her bright turquoise booth in the center of the shop as she scooped a large bite of her cheesecake with chocolate ice cream with a silver spoon. Large windows that extended from about two feet above the ground lined the perimeter of the Central Park side of the shop, exposing the bright July sunlight that reflected against the parlor. As she indulged in this daily dessert, her friend Adele nudged her from across the table. Milt and his friend Irwin, whom Mae had never met before, had just strolled into the store. They lingered by the ice cream counter filled with taps of soda water and other carbonated concoctions as employees carefully scooped handmade ice cream from neatly stored cartons behind the counter into large cones and shiny metal cups. Young men and women home for college or still in high school sat on the stools of the soda counter eating hot fudge sundaes or drinking malts and floats.

The boys gazed into the sit-down area of the restaurant where one row of booths lined each wall and two rows or booths resided in the center, separated by a wooden barrier. Irwin and Milt sauntered across the brightly dyed tile floor towards the booth of girls. Mae crossed her fingers, hoping that Irwin rather than Milt would sit down beside her in the booth fit for four. Milt seemed to take a stronger liking to Mae than she did to him and the last thing she wanted was to hurt his feelings. To her disappointment, Milt slid into the seat as Irwin placed himself diagonal from her.

The foursome chatted until their server came over to take the boys order: one banana split each. Mae never ordered banana splits, only her cheesecake with one scoop of chocolate ice cream, unless it was nighttime, in which case she would stick to sodas and sundaes. The group sat and talked about their day as they ate their dessert. Mae mentioned that she would be attending University of Illinois-Champaign and learned that Irwin currently studied at the same university.

“Could I please drive you both home?” Irwin asked, once it got late. He had borrowed his father’s Kaiser. The girls agreed and followed the men into the back seat of the automobile.

Almost instantaneously, Irwin started driving and pulled up to Mae’s apartment. She asked how he knew she lived there and Irwin ignored the question. My grandmother always believed that he must have “noticed her” around the neighborhood. It wasn’t until they married two years later in 1950 that my grandpa, Irwin, confessed that he looked at my grandmother’s wallet that was sitting on the table. Joking that he is a nosy person, my grandma explained that he had asked to see some of the pictures in her wallet and while doing so, he saw her identification card and the rest is history.

--

Nannette and Conrad

One summer day, my nana saw a handsome gentleman standing with a friend of his across the shop. She asked who he was and was taken aback when she heard his name.

“Conrad Sterling, that’s a name like in the movies,” she said. “I don’t think we were talking, but he also noticed me. She learned that he was the ROTC Colonel of the City, an extremely high honor. She immediately asked to be fixed up with Conrad and they began to date soon after.

“The neighborhood had a lot of sentimental value,” she said, thinking back to the day that she first saw Conrad. Beyond Rudich’s, where she can still recall the countless flavors and toppings offered and the shop, the streets were filled with record shops. She remembers going with Conrad and hearing Dorris Day’s “It’s Magic,” a record that he later bought her.

The streets were different than in the suburbs; there were always people walking around. My papa, Conrad, worked at a men’s shop on Lawrence Avenue called A.J. Hahn, where the men would all sport the clothing sold at the store, just like models. After work, the couple would pick up ice cream, go to the theater, or take the elevated line, otherwise known as the El, downtown to their favorite Chinese restaurant that served rolls, or to watch a famous blind pianist perform.

---

The two couples met one another in the 1980s, when my parents were dating. Sometime soon after, they realized the connection of their interwoven pasts.

Times changed, the couples moved, and the neighborhood began to change. None of them were nearby when Rudich’s closed. When they would visit Albany Park, it was difficult to see the neighborhood’s intense changes.

“I think the most disturbing thing was the first time we drove through the West Side and saw that all the temples had changed into churches. That was very hard to see,” my nana told me.

My grandparents tell me now that they believe that the neighborhood became “not as nice” as crime began and new factions of people began to move in. Although my grandfather knows some Christian families who have lived there since the early 1900s, this seems to be a rare instance.

About every 10 years since they moved away, my dad’s parents take a drive through their old neighborhood. My grandma, Mae, is still upset when she thinks about the first time they went back and drove down Lawrence Avenue screaming, “where’s The Terminal?” after noticing it’s absence. She says it looks very different from the genteel neighborhood that she grew up in, which bothers her, although she realizes it is progress. What was once was a country-like neighborhood with vacant lots has gradually been built up since the end of the Korean War.

“Things are entitled to change,” she admitted, “but it doesn’t look like the neighborhood I grew up in. Still, Rudich’s was a fun place. It was a fun place after school. It was a fun place on a summer evening to go eat and then walk down Lawrence Avenue,” Mae said. “It was an ideal place to live and I wish that kind of nice place for my grandchildren.

To that I say, don’t we all, Grandma? In the meantime, I am searching for my version of Rudich’s… 

Cawker City, Kan. claims the world’s biggest ball of twine. Kenosha, Wisc. is home to an actual cheese castle. And in Leicester, Vt., you’ll spot a statue of a giant gorilla holding a Volkswagen Beetle.

Only in America.

My grandmother, who immigrated to the States from Russia as a little girl, once told me that before she came to this country, she had envisioned America as a land paved with gold. Not sure these quirky landmarks are quite what she had in mind, but I’m sure if she’d lived to see the Beetle-wielding gorilla, it would have made her smile.

So many of our grandparents sought to find a better life in the United States where they could live freely and practice Judaism without fear of persecution. And that’s just what they found.

Now, I’m no Pollyanna. I recognize that the United States has a truckload of problems, but I thank God every day that I get to call America my hometown, where I am free to live as a Jewish American.

Today, 350 years after the first Jews settled in America, we encounter Jewish language, culture, food, humor, and sensibility at every turn.

The very words that have greeted generations of immigrants, like my grandma, to the shores of this country, displayed on the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty, were written by the Sephardic Jewish American poet Emma Lazarus. “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”

It was composer Irving Berlin, a Belarussian Jewish immigrant, who wrote the iconic American song, “God Bless America.”

And the list goes on and on.

From sea to shining sea, Jews have helped shape this country of hope and promise.

Our ubiquity was front and center at the Scripps National Spelling Bee in May, when Arvind Mahankali, a Queens, N.Y. Indian-American eighth grader, won the bee after spelling correctly the word “knaidel,”—the Yiddish term for matzoh ball. He may as well have spelled “apple pie” because there’s something so American about an Indian-American boy spelling a Yiddish word—and correctly! (Or at least according to Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary, the spelling is correct.)

As we celebrate our country’s birthday this month, let’s also celebrate living Jewishly in the USA. Let’s hit the road and take a tour of five American cities, some a bit off the beaten path, where you’ll encounter both tourist hot spots and lesser-known Jewish destinations.

1. Charleston, South Carolina
If you’re in the area, swing by Fort Sumter, a sea fort located in Charleston Harbor, S.C., best known as the site upon which the shots initiating the American Civil War were fired, launching the Battle of Fort Sumter in 1861.

While you’re in Charleston, visit Congregation Kahal Kadosh Beth Elohim, the fourth-oldest Jewish synagogue in the continental United States, founded in 1749.

2. Seattle, Washington
If you make your way to the Pacific Northwest, Pike’s Place Market in Seattle is a must-see. This farmers market, also home to the first-ever Starbucks, serves up produce, cheese, flowers and, of course, fish (famously tossed by the fishmongers) all year round.

While Pike’s Place is well known, most people don’t know that the market has a rich relationship with Seattle’s large Sephardic community, as many of the early peddlers and fishmongers transferred their skills from Greece and Turkey to the Seattle market.

Fun fact: Just outside the University of Washington, the city boasts the only kosher Einstein Bros. Bagels in the country.

3. Jackson, Mississippi
Visit African-American civil rights activist Medgar Evers’ home. Evers, who was assassinated in 1963, fought to overturn segregation at the University of Miss.

Then, drop by the Museum of Southern Jewish Experience, founded by Macy B. Hart. Growing up in Winona, Miss., Hart was a member of the only Jewish family in town. Early on Sunday mornings, his father would drive Hart and his siblings 160 miles to the nearest Hebrew School. When Hart grew up, he created his Museum located in Jackson. For more than two decades, the museum—which later expanded into the Goldring Woldenberg Institute of Southern Jewish Life—has documented and preserved the historical legacy of Southern Jews.

4. Los Angeles, California
While in La La Land, stroll down the Hollywood Walk of Fame to gaze at the stars—including oh so many Jewish members of the tribe in Hollywood.

Then, head for a bite at The Milky Way, the kosher dairy restaurant run by movie mogul Steven Spielberg’s mother, Leah Adler, a lovable ball of energy.

5. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Philadelphia’s Independence Hall is home to the Liberty Bell, one of the most iconic symbols of our American freedom. The famed bell, which would alert citizens and politicians of announcements, originally cracked when first rung after its arrival to the city.

Just across Independence Mall, visit the new National Museum of American Jewish History, which offers experiences that explore and celebrate the history of Jews in America. The museum strives to connect Jews more closely to their heritage and inspire people of all backgrounds with an appreciation of the American Jewish experience.

Visit chasingdreamsbaseball.tumblr.com to learn how to contribute memorabilia to an upcoming baseball exhibition at the museum.

Happy birthday, America!

I was born with a full head of hair. My mop of curls grew before I learned to talk. The curls waved out during my elementary school years and then sprang back into action when I was in junior high. It should have been no surprise that my curls would return with a vengeance, as I grew up in a household of curly-haired Jews. However, I was not prepared for the curly evolution my mop took when I hit my early teens.

My older and wiser curly-haired sister showed me the fro way with hair gels, shampoos, and other curly hair miracle products. In the years that followed, I spent—and continue to spend—endless time, money and energy worrying about my Jewfro.

After laughing over a recent BuzzFeed.com roundup article about curly hair problems entitled, "31 Problems Only People With Curly Hair Will Understand," I was inspired to share my own curly hair wisdom. Summer is a particularly trying season for those sporting the Jewfro, so I thought I'd offer a completely unscientific guide on how to deal with your curly-hair woes.

Classifying the Jewfro

Chances are, dear readers, if you're a Member of the Tribe (MOT), you likely have unruly curly hair like I do. Let's all come out of the Jewish hair closet together, once and for all, and admit that we have Member of the Tribe Hair (MOTH), also known by its pejorative name, the "Jewfro."

While many associate Jewfros with males, both men and women can have variations on the Jewfro. Brad Greenberg, a writer for JewishJournal.com, quoted blogger Eugene Rubin about the various personas to which the Jewfro can be attributed: 

"Like snowflakes, Jewfros have endless variations," Rubin said. "[They] can be grouped roughly: 'The Traditionalist' (Gabe 'Mr. Kotter' Kaplan, James Caan, Elliott Gould), 'The Fat-n-Funny' (the newly trim Seth Rogen, Jonah Hill), 'The California Blonde' (Art Garfunkel, Victor Garber), 'The Rebel' (Howard Stern, Larry Fine), 'The Intelligentsia' (Albert Einstein and, what the heck, Albert Brooks, whose real name is Albert Einstein), 'The Goyfro' (Nick Jonas, John McEnroe), 'The Pube' (Gene Wilder), 'The Rockfro' (Bob Dylan, Adam Duritz, Marc Bolan), and, of course 'The Sistafro' (Barbra Streisand, Bette Midler, Rhea Pearlman)."

Many Jewish ladies with "Sistafro" hairdos try to mask or tame their MOTH identities with serums, gels, mousses, ceramic straighteners, and even chemical treatments. But, let's face it—Jews are meant to curl. It's easy to identify a female with undercover MOTH because her seemingly perfect, straight hair has some detectible flaws: Her hair is frizzing, fluffing, or puffing at the roots; her hair waves in the center of the back of her head or at the ends; the hair framing her face waves out when she shvitzes. Without fail, a good shvitz will give away your MOTH. For more Jewfro references, see this Tumblr. Jewfro page.

Battling the Jewfro

Some of my earliest childhood memories entail watching my mom painstakingly trying to tame her Jewfro. From blow dryers and large rollers, to excessive hood-wearing in all sorts of weather, my mom always had a fight with her fro. I'd watch her sitting in front of the mirror, rolling her wet hair into large, plastic rollers to straighten out her Jewfro. She'd sleep in these monstrous curlers, despite great discomfort. (It might seem illogical to straighten curly hair with curlers, but large curlers actually straighten out hair rather than curling it.)

During a brief period in the 1980s, everyone wanted curls, and my curly-haired mother and sisters enhanced their already curly heads with chemical perm treatments. I was too young at the time, and never experienced the perm firsthand.

However, once my 13-year-old curls kicked in, I discovered just how difficult it was to control them, and even more difficult to straighten them. Soon, I began experimenting with night-time rollers, hair dryers, and excessive hood wearing. Gel was my only answer, and to this day, it often still is.

Shaming the Jewfro

Mothers, grandmothers, and friends might all tell you, "your hair looks better straight," propelling you to spend hundreds on straighteners and products. Even television personalities, such as Patti Stanger of The Millionaire Matchmaker, equate straight hair with beauty. On her show, Stanger instructs potential matches for her millionaires to straighten those curls. In her book, Become Your Own Matchmaker, 8 Easy Steps for Attracting Your Perfect Mate, she echoes those sentiments.

"Men appreciate hair they can run their fingers through," Stanger said in her book. "...they don't want to get them snagged in scraggly, frizzy, pubic-looking bird's nests. The era of the perm is over, ladies.

"Wavy hair is fine, but a hair ball is definitely not a man magnet," she added. "The money you spend straightening and conditioning your hair might be the best, most profitable investment you'll ever make."

While straight hair is admittedly neater, sleeker and less wild-looking, it's worth questioning whether our mothers, grandmothers, friends (and even Patti) are measuring beauty standards against a majority non-Jewish, white population. While beauty ads sprinkle in features of women with curly hair, those women are often women of color. Perhaps, in the Jewish population's ongoing desire to assimilate, we have a fear of looking too "ethnic." Members of the Jewish community joke about their Jewfros, but they might be less comfortable with the underlying ethnic or racial associations with the hairstyle than they're willing to admit.

Taming the Jewfro

This is what happens to curly hair in one humid summer evening when two hours have passed.

(Disclaimer: These tips are only for the ladies. Boys, I don't know how to advise you on your manfros.)

While we can aspire to shiny, glossy, straight hair during the winter months, we still have nine, humid Chicago months with which to contend. Summer is a particularly challenging season for taming our MOTH.

Embrace your MOTH! It's natural, it's wild, it kind of looks like bedroom hair…unless it's bad bedroom hair. And that brings me to some curly hair dos and don'ts.

1. DON'T sleep on wet, product-less curly hair overnight and expect it to look normal when you wake up. If you do, and it looks as if your strands did battle while you slept…
DO dampen your hair with your hands at your sink or a spray bottle in the morning, apply some product and scrunch away to re-shape it.

2. DON'T cut your hair so short it that it looks like a bowl when it dries.
DO question your hair stylist before she begins cutting and ask her whether she's familiar with how curly hair dries. Show your stylist your hair dry before heading over to the wash attendant so she can get a sense of how your hair falls naturally. Share with your stylist how your hair reacts during various weather conditions and how much it tends to shrink up after drying. Finally, expect your hair to shrink more during hot, summer months. Thus, if you get a short cut, it will look shorter during the summer.

3. DON'T touch your hair once it has achieved an ideal shape and puffiness level. Don't let your friends or loved ones touch it either. The more you touch your curly hair, the more wild it will get. In the words of my curly-haired coworker, "Don't touch it. Just don't touch it ever."

4. DO shape and scrunch your hair after applying product to wet hair. Continue to scrunch your hair as it progresses through its long drying process if needed. If it begins to frizz, stop scrunching it. Don't over-use this tip. It's best to leave your hair alone while it dries. *See my scrunch twice/style twice tip below.

5. DON'T exit a pool or lake after a summer swim and put your curly hair up into a rubber band. It will tangle, knot and be all around disgusting.
DO treat your hair like you've just had a shower. Run a wide-tooth comb through your wet hair, and scrunch it (without product) to achieve a semblance of normal curly hair when it dries.

6. DON'T expect a top-notch straightening job if you're attempting to straighten your hair in a room or environment that makes you shvitz. Inevitably, the waves and curls won't fully go away. If they do, the shvitz will bring them back.
DO place a small towel around your neck (Rocky-style) while using a hot straightener or hair dryer. This will minimize neck shvitz caused by the hot utensils from affecting your locks. If the curls just won't straighten, throw in your towel and re-wet your hair for curly styling.
DON'T, however, try the reverse. If you started your styling mission thinking you'd wear your hair curly and applied gel, do not try straightening gel-filled hair. It will make your straightener sticky and you won't achieve a desired style.

7. DON'T get bangs if you have naturally curly hair. Just, don't.

8. DON'T expect your curly hair to maintain its volume, shape or texture throughout a given evening. It will morph hourly (or even by the minute), depending on its stage of drying from your shower, the humidity in the air, the amount of product you used, and when you had your last hair cut.

DO accept the things you cannot change and change the things you cannot accept. Carry extra product in your purse, or make hair spray your BFF.

9. DON'T, and I mean DO NOT, put a brush through those curls—ever—unless you want 1990s-esque pouf. You can use a comb while your hair is wet. After product is applied and your hair has dried, don't even think about it.
DON'T apply product to your hair, let it dry and then think you're done.
DO comb wet hair, apply product, scrunch your hair, let it dry (completely or almost completely) and scrunch the heck out of it one more time. This second major scrunch will rid your hair of a crunchy or unnatural texture. *Scrunch twice; style twice.

10. DON'T give up if your curly hair seems to have frizzed beyond repair.
DO, in a pinch, wet your hair slightly and scrunch it. If you have mousse on hand, it's a great tool for dry hair. Apply mousse generously into the palms of your hands and work it/scrunch it through your hair.

Products: Everyone curly haired person has their own regime for managing their unruly tufts. I encourage you to explore gels, creams, mousses, heat-protecting sprays and creams, hair sprays, and more. While hair stylists might encourage you to use expensive products, they're not necessarily better than shelf brands you find at your local pharmacy.

Tools: I've had many a debate with curly-haired friends about diffusers rather than regular hair dryers. I think diffusers scrunch my hair too much. Depending on the texture of your hair, diffusers might give your hair the boost it needs while it dries.

Stylists: My friend swears by the Ouidad-certified hair cut. She received a Ouidad cut, which incorporates trademarked curly hair cutting and styling techniques.

Oy! readers, I encourage you to share your curly-hair tips below! 

Clark Street in Wrigleyville after the Blackhawks' Cup-clinching victory.

The Boston Bruins’ Milan Lucic had just scored at the 12:11 mark of the third period, a goal that seemed to be the backbreaker that would send us to a Game 7. I hope you didn’t blink.

With less than two minutes left, Jonathan Toews made an incredible pass to Bryan Bickell to tie the game. Suddenly hope was restored. We would make it to overtime for the fourth time this series, and the Blackhawks had already won two of the previous three overtime games. I hope you didn’t blink.

Seventeen seconds later, Dave Bolland made history in what had already been an historic season for the Blackhawks. They were less than a minute away from their second cup in four years. In 17 seconds, they went from heartbreaking loss, to Stanley Cup glory. I really hope you didn’t blink.

The Blackhawks started and finished this strike-shortened season in record-breaking fashion. They came out of the gate going 24 consecutive games without a regulation loss, and ended with the record for the shortest span between game-tying and Stanley Cup-clinching goals, as well as the latest cup-clinching goal in regulation. And to make it even sweeter, which team had previously held both of those playoff records? The Boston Bruins.

And how appropriate that the game-winning goal was made by Dave Bolland, with only his third of the playoffs. All year the Blackhawks were defined by their depth. All four lines were a threat to score. Corey Crawford answered all his critics who questioned whether or not he could be an everyday goaltender, and now he’s a Stanley Cup champion. Jonathan Toews and Patrick Kane, who both went through their share of slumps in the playoffs, came up big in the final two games. And to think, only a month ago, this was the same team that was down 3-1 to the Red Wings and on the brink of elimination. But from that point, the Blackhawks went on to win 11 of their final 14 playoff games.

It was an incredible end to an incredible season. And for all of us Chicago sports fans—really soak this one in. The Cubs and White Sox are both in the middle of miserable seasons and long-term rebuilds. The Bulls are still awaiting the return of their star, all while still figuring out how to surround him with the right guys to make them true contenders. The Bears are about to enter a new coaching regime with their fourth offensive coordinator in the Jay Cutler era and an aging defense playing for the first time in this decade without Brian Urlacher. Since the Bulls’ last title in 1998, Chicago’s major sports teams have only been world champions three times, two thanks to the Blackhawks. So let’s celebrate this one all summer long. The Stanley Cup is back in Chicago. 

Eric Burgher runs the Chicago sports blog Sweet Home Sports.

It is high summer now and the heat is on. This delicious dish is quick, easy and needs only one pot.

My favorite artichoke dish is a perfect summer side dish or salad. The artichokes are braised in fruity olive oil, white wine and lots of lemon. I add a small spicy chili to braising liquid to add a bit of kick to the dish.

This Provencal vegetable stew is delicious hot or cold. We serve it over chicken schnitzel and allow the rich braising liquid to moisten crispy schnitzels. YUM!

Artichokes Barigoule (Artichokes stewed in olive oil and white wine)

1 lemon, zested and juiced + 4 thin slices lemon
 
4 medium artichokes
½ cup best quality extra-virgin olive oil
10 white button mushrooms

6 cloves garlic, smashed
2 medium carrots, cut into 3" pieces
½ cup dry white wine
1 small spicy chili pepper, sliced thinly (optional)
¼ cup pitted and chopped Kalamata olives
¼ cup flat-leaf parsley leaves
½ cup torn basil leaves
Good sized pinch of piment d'Espelette* or hot paprika

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

1. Combine lemon juice and 6 cups water in a large bowl. Cut away tough outer leaves on the artichoke's base until you reach inner yellow leaves. Using a serrated knife, cut the artichoke in half lengthwise. Using a peeler or sharp knife, remove green outer layer from stem and base. Trim off bottom ½" of stem. Use a spoon to scoop out fuzzy choke from center of artichoke. Transfer to lemon water. Repeat with remaining artichokes.

2. Drain the artichokes. Heat a large sauté pan with the olive oil over medium-high heat. Add artichokes cut side down, with mushrooms, garlic, and carrots. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables begin to brown, about 8–10 minutes. Add the lemon slices and wine, Reduce wine by half, about 3-4 minutes. Add enough water to just cover vegetables; bring to a boil.

3. Reduce heat to medium-low; simmer until vegetables are tender, 12-15 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Using tongs, transfer artichokes, carrots, and mushrooms to a bowl. Increase the heat and reduce the braising liquid to ⅓ cup, about 8-10 minutes. Add back the artichokes, mushrooms, carrots, and olives; heat through. Garnish with lemon zest, parsley, basil and paprika.

Serve the barigoule hot with chicken, fish or beef, or serve cold.

*Espelette pepper is a variety of chili pepper that was originally grown in Mexico, transplanted to the Basque region of France and cultivated there. The peppers are harvested in October, dried and made into ground or pureed pepper. The peppers are not really spicy, but are fruity and very flavorful. Piment d’Espelette can be easily found online or in gourmet stores.

My famous last words: “I will not move back to Highland Park.”

That’s what I told my wife when we were looking for a house. I grew up in Highland Park and though I loved elementary and middle school, high school I could’ve done without. I think that can be said for many people. Instead, I had a suburbs crush on Glenview.

When I was in college, I lifeguarded in Glenview for two summers. I loved it. The lifeguards were all from Glenview and Northbrook and they were amazing people. I also liked the short commute to the city, waterparks, and convenience of the Glen. We rented a home there for two years. I liked living there but there were two crucial things missing: community and a backyard.

We met two neighbors in two years. Our son loved running around the 20 feet of yard we had, but like dogs, boys like space to run around. Oddly, it’s usually in a circle.

We decided Glenview and Northbrook would be the two places we would look. We found nothing. The one place in Glenview we liked went under contract the day we saw it. It was time to expand our search. We still wanted to be in the northern burbs, and thought okay, Highland Park and Deerfield might work.

We have the most friends in Highland Park and my best friend just moved there, so HP was growing on me. Every time we looked at houses there, my angst turned into comfort. I know—it was shocking to me as well.

After a few failed offers, and one bad inspection, we found a great house a mile from where I grew up, close to downtown, and within walking distance of a park. The real-estate stars lined up and we agreed on a price and moved in May 31.

The old owner showed up at our closing and left us a nice note and bottle of wine in the house. She was very sweet and told us we would love the neighborhood.

We had not even moved in, yet already neighbors were stopping by! So far everyone has been super nice and in the first few weeks we’ve received bottles of wine, coffee cake, and one neighbor knew the way to my heart—fresh spices! Nothing beats fresh basil.

The house fit another criterion—a huge backyard. The backyard is perfect for running in circles, chasing birds and even staring at deer! Our first week there, a huge deer was in our backyard. I ran outside (but kept a safe distance) with my almost 2-year-old son. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped. He pointed his little finger out and said, “Cow. Hi cow. Moo.” I told him it was a big deer, and he agreed, but when it walked away he waved, “By COW!”

So to my friends and readers out there, let me know if you have any favorite spots in Highland Park. We of course love Michael’s and Frost (low calorie gelato).

A few weeks ago, I got to pretend like I was 90.

Temple Jeremiah – the suburban synagogue where I serve as the Membership and Communications Director – hosted a lovely “90+ Luncheon,” a special event for our congregants age 90 and older.

More than two dozen men and women in their 90s gathered with their guests for an afternoon of quiche, fruit, cookies, and coffee. Our rabbi thanked them for their years of service and dedication to our temple, and our cantor entertained them with her top 10 songs from the 1930s and 1940s. The luncheon attendees swayed and sang along to the music, remembering the songs from their adolescence.

As the luncheon’s designated photographer, I was excited to attend this event and get serenaded by songs written more than a half century before I was born (two of which I had actually heard of!). But while I looked through my lens, photographing what would soon become a memory for all of us, I pictured myself sitting on the other side of the camera, age 90, in 64 years.

In the year 2076, when I enter my ninth decade, I sure hope that Cantor Amy is still around to sing songs from my glory days.

What would we sing? Here’s the event I’m picturing:

We walk through a beaded curtain and enter a room decorated with Disney movie posters. As we sit in our inflatable chairs with bean bag pillows, we nibble on Twizzlers and Fruit by the Foot. Lunch is a frozen Kid Cuisine, with Dippin’ Dots for dessert (the “ice cream of the future” had to be resurrected after being out of business for 40 years). We pull out our old iPhones (they still work if you blow on them) to look at old photos we took of ourselves with extended arms. (Not surprisingly, young people of the future have evolved to have extra-long left arms to facilitate these “selfie” photos.)

And then we lean back, a bit uncomfortably and loudly in our inflatable chairs, and listen to the show. Well, really just “watch” the show. We’ve all lost our hearing after listening to too much iPod music.

The set list:

“Wannabe” – Spice Girls
“Baby” – Justin Bieber
“Baby One More Time” – Britney Spears
TV Medley: Themes from “Fresh Prince of Bel Air,” “Full House,” and “Sesame Street”
“Since U Been Gone” – Kelly Clarkson (we elders in the room slowly rise to our feet for this crowd-pleaser)
“We Are Young” – FUN (we chuckle at the irony)
“MMMBop” – Hanson
“I Want it That Way” – Backstreet Boys (this song has become the anthem of the older generation to complain about how we would like things to be)
“Tik Tok” – Ke$ha (it turns out that with inflation, she had to change her name to Ke$$$ha
“I Gotta Feeling” – Black Eyed Peas (64 years into the future, the “mazel tov” section of this song is still being played at bar mitzvahs)
At the end of the afternoon, we get a surprise visit from Celine Deon (amazingly still alive) with a performance of “My Heart Will Go On,” where we all get to pretend to be Rose at the end of Titanic.

It will be a wonderful afternoon.

So I hope you will all join me for this celebration, 64 years from now, that is sure to have all of our wheelchairs spinning and our canes tapping to the tunes of rock stars before they became drug addicts or politicians.

Ravinia lawn

Living in Chicago can feel like a real burden at times. I find that I am always working to defend us to my friends and family from around the country. We have the Cubs (let’s not go there), hot dogs without ketchup and a pretty serious winter. I have a hard time when it comes to defending the state of baseball in this city and I try to keep my mouth shut when it comes to the ketchup on hot dogs debate. Surprisingly, winter is the only one of these situations that I am confident has a solution. There is nothing about winter in Chicago that cannot be solved by summer in Chicago.

Summer in Chicago is magic. Cabin fever gives way to summer hysteria and suddenly we’re all outside. It’s funny how quickly you forget the pain of all that snow and ice. When the gorgeous weather finally visits us, we’re all so excited that we forget everything about wet frozen feet and heavy winter coats. Those winter nightmares are further erased the moment you find yourself at an outdoor festival.

Chances are that you will find yourself watching a movie in Millennium Park or enjoying a concert at Ravinia. Both of these activities and dozens like them mean that you’ll also be piecing together a potluck with friends.

Fear not! I am here to rescue you from being forced to purchase another plastic box of potato salad from the Jewel on the corner. Not that there’s anything wrong with that potato salad, it’s perfectly delicious—I just think it might be time to step up your picnic game. Show off! Become the picnic maven you’ve always wanted to be.

I’ve got three super easy to make suggestions for your next trip to the beach, Ravinia concert or whatever picnic situation you might find yourself in this summer. You’ll look like a genius and you won’t have to break a sweat.

1. Lemon Icebox Pie
This is a really delicious summer pie that you’ll need to plan ahead for. It needs a night in the fridge.

INGREDIENTS
1 (8oz) tub of Cool Whip
1 (14oz) can of Sweetened Condensed Milk
½ cup of Lemon Juice

DIRECTIONS
Mix everything together until smooth and then pour into a store bought graham cracker pie crust. Refrigerate over-night.

2. Fruit Dip
This fruit dip is pretty spectacular. I love it with fresh strawberries, but it would taste great with an empty spoon.

INGREDIENTS
1 (8oz) package of cream cheese softened
1 (15 oz) jar marshmallow cream

DIRECTIONS
Blend cream cheese and marshmallow cream with a hand mixer until combined.

3. Poor Man’s Sangria
Everybody needs a little summer drink. You’re going to read this and make a face, but I promise you it’s yummy.

INGREDIENTS
1 bottle of wine (any variety will do)
1 (2L) bottle of Coke

DIRECTIONS
Mix these two together and enjoy. You can really play with the flavors here. You could do a white wine with an orange soda. Maybe a Cherry Coke with a Cabernet? It’s a matter of personal taste. This is a game of mix and match. Enjoy! 

“She’s darker than you.” the girl said to me. She was twisting her blond hair and chewing on it while her blue eyes darted between me and my daughter. Fray was attempting cartwheels with great enthusiasm and seemed not to hear. “And what’s with her hair?” the girl blurted out loudly. “Do you wash it? Why is it so crazy?” I regarded Fray’s afro as a few other parents gave me sympathetic looks and rolled their eyes at the kid’s perceived impudence. Only hours before, the afro had been a collection of neat little braids. The current hairdo was the result of my tediously unbraiding, washing, conditioning and combing my daughter’s hair amid dramatic protests and screams of agony (despite the plug of a sizable lollipop and Doc McStuffins on TV).

Braids are unquestionably easier as a style, but they also turn on you. After about 3 weeks, your kid ends up looking like what one might imagine medusa looks like after a night of bingeing tequila. So, the time had come to undo. But I know saying a temporary goodbye to the braids is a risk – the risk of the unkempt afro. It is a well-known affliction that is commonly faced by the white mother of a brown child. If you don’t get it right, someone’s going to tell you about yourself and plus the afro involves constant maintenance. Half a second of leaning back in a chair basically dents it. And my daughter hates when I fuss over her hair. “Poofing” we call it. And “re-poofing.” And “re-poofing the re-poof.” It’s all equally unwelcomed.

So when my daughter’s afro – pulled back neatly with a neon orange headband – was called into question, I wasn’t surprised. However, I was confident that today, today it looked pretty damn good. “Her hair’s not crazy. It’s an afro.” I said. The girl regarded my daughter’s hair again, squinting critically. Then she walked up and stuffed her hands deep into the fluff of Fray’s hair. “Feels weird…”

Shocked, I looked at Fray. She seemed a little big-eyed and slightly confused by the impromptu scalp massage, but she didn’t move away or appear uncomfortable. But I felt uncomfortable. “Fray? Is that OK? Do you mind her touching your hair? If you do, you can say, ‘please don’t do that…’” The girl pulled her hands away quickly. Fray resumed cartwheeling (they were round-offs honestly) and shortly after, my boys tumbled out of their gymnastics lesson demanding snack money for the vending machines.

At dinner I shared what had happened earlier in the day. “That’s racist!” my husband declared. The boys agreed. “Racist? How is a girl touching Fray’s hair racist?” I asked. “She said Fray was darker than you!” my middle son yelled. I thought for a minute. “But she is…”

“There are just some things you don’t say.” My husband huffed.

“But why not? Are we pretending she’s not darker than us? How is it different than people pointing out how fair and blond Phoenix is in comparison to all of us? That’s a difference. Are people not allowed to say that?”

“Well, what about pointing out that someone is fat? Is that OK? It’s a fact right, but we don’t say it.”

I thought for a minute. “Are we saying being darker-skinned is akin to being fat? Is it a pejorative? A bad thing?”

Forks scraped the dinner plates. No one said anything. Finally they all admitted that no, no it wasn’t. No of course not! “Annice,” my husband began, “You were the one who brought it up to us. Why was it remarkable if on some level it didn’t upset you?” It had become clear by the end of dinner that the actions and words of this little girl had unnerved us. Touché husband, touché.

When I was in my mid-20s, I was hanging out with a group of teenagers around a BBQ. I honestly don’t remember how the conversation looped the way it did, but somehow it came out that I was Jewish. Two of the boys, who happened to be brothers, looked at me. “Jewish? You’re Jewish? Where are your horns?” I laughed while poking tentatively at meaty stuff on the grill. But when I looked up, two very inquisitive faces were awaiting my answer. “Uh… Jews don’t have horns...”

They went on to tell me that I was the first Jewish person they had ever met. They were from a small, homogenous town where everyone was just like them. Was it a dumb question? Was it anti-Semitic? At the time I didn’t think about that. I was just so surprised that I simply answered. Over the years I have come to appreciate that long-ago conversation for a variety of reasons. Had I never “revealed” myself, had the kids internalized their unchallenged thoughts and beliefs, had I reacted defensively to them by storming off telling them to, “Cook your own G-d damn burgers because I’m a vegetarian anyway!” then they would have continued to believe in Jew-horns and likely been looking for my swishing tail as I stormed off with indignant rage and offense.

Now back to my daughter and the sassy hair-grabbing girl at gymnastics. In retrospect, I think I did the best I could in the moment. I educated the kid – introduced the term “afro” into her vocabulary at least – and made sure my daughter felt empowered to tell said child to back off if she wanted her to. I also think/hope Fray felt confident about how her hair looked – how she looked – despite being under the radar of the critical eyes of others. Because the reality is, being brown-skinned is novel where we live. And when people are different, people are curious about it.

How can we address curiosity without feeling exploited on behalf of ourselves, our children and our cultures? I think it’s true that we build bridges to understanding and appreciating differences by learning from others and from sharing our perspectives. Can we do that if questions about afros and accents and horns are off limits? I don’t think so. So, to that impish little girl, I say a thank you. You got me thinking.

Let’s take a moment to pay homage to the almighty To Do List. It is the quintessential organizational mechanism in the How-to-Get-#$%^-Done tool kit. I know people that live and die by the list. You know them too. They get a high from checking off the boxes; they add things to the list they just completed so they can have the thrill and satisfaction of crossing them off. These people are very organized, and God bless them because they are accomplishing a lot of important work.

Then there are the rest of us. You, me and Charlie in sales who have every good intention of getting it all done, but staring down that list brings us more hopelessness than happiness. The To Do List is overwhelming for our brain types. Where can we start? How will we ever finish? Oh wait, here’s an e-mail, I’ll just respond to that now and get to this list later. Oh no, now it’s 4:45pm and I still have a lot on my list. Better put some work into figuring out what needs to be done tomorrow—it’s a vicious cycle.

For us, the challenge of the To Do List is that we end up writing a long list of 15-20 tasks that need to get done that day. If we are lucky, we manage to at least start most of those tasks. At the end of the day, the result is that we have started (and rarely finished) 15-20 important tasks.

“Tell me about what you got done today,” our supervisor asks. “Well I started this, worked on this, and got very close to finishing this,” seems to be all we can say for ourselves. It’s an awesome way to show how we are not follow through material, a.k.a. ready for advancement.

To that end, I offer a simpler tool for the more easily distracted, slightly less organized among us. I use it myself and have recommended it to coaching clients as a way to jump start productivity. Most importantly, it ensures that on a daily basis, I get the most important things done. Here’s how it works:

Every day (either the night before or first thing in the morning) I write out my To Do List. This is my 15-20 items that I want to accomplish that day. After that, I put a star next to three and only three items. The starred items represent the three most important items to complete that day. They are not to dos, they are must dos. These three items bring the most serious consequences should they not be completed by the end of the day. If I do nothing else that day, I commit to doing those three items. Anything else on the list is considered a bonus.

That’s my productivity secret, and it works. I figure that the majority of professionals are writing a good long list of things to do for the day. Most of those individuals are putting in a good amount of effort to starting those items, but how many can really say they ever fully complete even a fraction of the list? With that in mind, I figure if I can complete three tasks each day that means I will complete 21 items by the end of the week. That’s 84 items each month. The point is, that three completed tasks a day adds up to a heck of a lot of deliverables by the end of the month.

“Tell me about what you got done today,” your supervisor asks. “Well I completed the Turner Report, managed to get those follow up e-mails out from the Fletcher meeting, and I made a point to Tweet about our new product launch next week.” Your supervisor makes a mental note that you have started to show some real progress and responds, “Keep up the good work, and I’m looking forward to hearing what you accomplish tomorrow.”

Photo credit: Foundation for Jewish Camp

July 1 will mark 15 years since I first began summer camp and, cheesily enough, started friendships that are 15 years old. It's one of those milestones like the anniversary of your bat mitzvah (which I obviously have no clue about), or the date that you and your boyfriend made it official (which I obviously just don't have). My immediate thought to the 15 year mark was, “I'm old enough to be friends with these people for 15 years and actually remember it?” Oy.

If you're an average Jew from the burbs like I am, chances are your parents said peace out during the summer and sent you away for two glorious months ("glorious months" applying both to the camper and the parents). Camp and summer became forever interchangeable synonyms; you can't have one without the other. Childhood summers were marked by a love of rainy day activities, string bracelets that reached to the elbows, a fierce color war, and refusing to get into the lake until at least mid-July when it had properly warmed up.

Now that we’re all grown up and the notion of a summer break or any break for that matter seems ages ago, how does summer measure up? Sure we can no longer say we kissed our summer crush behind the hockey rink, but can summer still be wet hot? Lazy Susans are replaced by summer Fridays, while getting inappropriately drunk at the local camp bar (as an of-age counselor only, of course) has turned into getting inappropriately drunk for large portions of the weekend and in some cases the week.

Maybe summer isn't the season it used to be, but now that everyone shares the same indoor, 9-5, computer screen fate, maybe it’s okay. I love camp probably more than then the average lifer, but that cheer has been chanted. It's time to move on to patio drinking and the age of the Ray-Bans and boat shoes.

Why not embrace the summer we have instead of wishing for the one we used to? Unless you're Peter Panning it, which I have seriously considered, loosen your tie, untuck your shirt, and bask in the possibilities of the second best season of the year. (Football season wins every time.)

It took a lot of convincing for me to write this. Of course that’s what happens when I try motivating myself to motivate myself. But in all honesty, for one reason or another, I’ve been finding myself much more motivated recently, mostly because I stopped looking for myself when I wasn’t motivated. Also, I get highly motivated to find myself when I’m around mirrors because, well, it’s way easier to find myself then, so there’s a lot going into this. Truth be told, I’ve been trying to better myself recently due in large part to a higher level of motivation. Not only a higher level of motivation, but also a stronger and longer sustained motivation than I can ever recall.

It’s actually been almost 20 minutes now. Oh, I’m not talking about the motivation thing. After that first paragraph, I took 20 minutes to get to this one. I was having trouble motivating myself to motivate myself to write an article about how good I’ve been getting with motivating myself to motivate myself. Moving on.

When I motivate myself, (you sick of that word yet?) I actually get a true sense of accomplishment. I wrote a blog previously about how I am a self-proclaimed productive procrastinator. I’m never one to waste any time when I can help it. Therefore, I’m trying to listen to more music, exercise more (see: at all), and generally increase my knowledge and experience of the world. This brings me back to my never-ending struggle with my favorite love/hate relationship.

Sleep. Sleep takes time away from me but I love taking the time to sleep. One of the toughest constant needs for motivation in my life is getting out of the bed in the morning. Not because I’m lazy, but more because I’m just so gosh darn comfy and snuggly first thing in the morning. Also, I’m lazy. But when I don’t get out of bed and more or less waste time, I often wish I hadn’t done that.

I don’t want to use the word regret because I regret every time I use the word regret, so I won’t use it here. Not being able to get out of bed is ironic for me considering, as I’ve said, I have quite the disdain for sleep, purely based on the fact that I find sleep to be a waste of time. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, I’ll sleep when I’m dead. The problem lies in the fact that when I’m sleepy, my motivation to do anything goes straight out the window, which is amazing because my bedroom has no windows.

It seems my motivation needs a lot of motivation to be motivated. Part of what I’ve actually done to better myself is joining a gym and getting a personal trainer. Just doing that took some motivation and it’s astounding how tough it was to motivate myself to hire someone to motivate me.

Part of my drive is my constant want to always be improving myself and make sure there’s room for me to grow—hence why my apartment has such tall ceilings. I want to always be able to motivate myself to be a better, more knowledgeable and well-rounded me. Notice I didn’t say more attractive me, as that’s impossible. I can’t be any more attractive than I already am. I mean, you’ve seen my bio pic. I look perfect. Needless to say, I take a lot of selfies. Even when I’m around people, I ask them to take selfies of me. Who better to take selfies than someone else?

But let’s end this whole shindig on a more philosophical note.

I have often heard that a great way to motivate myself is to live everyday like it’s my last. But my take on it is that I find it’s a lot more exciting to live everyday like it’s my first. That allows for new discoveries and adventures. Discoveries and adventures I can now expand upon at a later date. Treating it like it’s my last day could make me be spontaneous and care free, sure, but then I couldn’t invest myself. The idea of living everyday like it’s my first makes it so I look forward to new places and ideas that could potentially become new interests, hobbies and passions. It makes it so I become like a newborn baby and simply enjoy the wonder of the world around me. Also I put my mouth on a lot of stuff, just to see how it tastes. And besides, I really can’t live everyday like it’s my last. I’ve got a lot of things to do tomorrow. I’m booked. However, I will stand by the idea that whatever you can do today, do not put it off until tomorrow. You might not get a second chance. So when it comes down to it, I suppose the most appropriate phrase for me is this:

I live everyday like it’s Thursday…but I still put my mouth on everything.

You might be wondering what the most Jewish movie of the summer is this year. Is it the annual Woody Allen flick (Blue Jasmine)? Is it Grown Ups 2 (thanks again, Adam Sandler…)? No, it's Man of Steel.

If you don't know what's Jewish about Superman, first, shame on you, and second, I apologize for that, I didn't mean it (mostly). Please allow me to explain.

The piece that you should already be at least vaguely aware of is that Superman was created by two nice Jewish boys, Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, sons of Jewish immigrants who met when they were in high school in Cleveland circa 1930. It is widely asserted that their upbringing and Jewish roots had influences on their creation of the Superman character.

Like his creators, Superman is very much an immigrant (coming from another planet and all), and unlike many of the heroes that followed him in the comic world, he is one of few who makes an effort to assimilate, donning the "disguise" of Clark Kent. In a way, he's almost desperate to fit in, and that was a significant element of American Jewish life at the time.

Many have pointed out that Superman's story of immigration—which involves his parents packing him into a tiny space vessel to save him from destruction and sending him to Earth—directly reflects the story of baby Moses in the basket, who as we all know, grew to become a prophet to the Jewish people and led them to the most crucial points of their destiny.

Speaking of prophets, Superman is the last son of Krypton and a member of the House of El. "El," of course, is Hebrew for "God," and Superman's Kryptonian name is Kal-El, which when written in Hebrew resembles the words for "voice of God." Many prophet and angel names end in "El," (Gabriel, Ezekiel, Uriel, etc.) and in many ways the Superman character is a prophet or angel to the people of Earth.

As it applies to the creation of the character, all this is theory, but we do know that Siegel has openly stated that the biblical character Samson was an influence on Superman. Samson boasted incredible strength and only one physical weakness: his hair was his Kryptonite.

But regardless of how directly influential Judaism was on Superman's creation, our tradition—especially the stories—definitely laid the foundation for the world's first great comic book hero.

On the other hand, there's the somewhat troubling connection of Superman being translated to Ubermensch, the term coined by Friedrich Nietzsche and adopted by Adolf Hitler and the Nazis: a perfect man who transcends society, religion and morality and is beyond moral codes. The character was obviously born at a time when there was enough awareness of the Nazi Party, so one has to consider Siegel and Shuster didn't do this coincidentally. Yet we know Superman to be a hero who holds himself to moral codes; in a sense, he chooses not to be the Ubermensch in doing so. The Yiddish word mensch, meaning someone of great character and integrity, therefore seems more fitting. The most logical explanation for this irony is that Superman actually received his name when he was depicted as a villain bent on world domination in a short story featured in a fanzine Siegel published in 1933. The character was likely meant to vilify Hitler if anything.

Of course, Man of Steel is just the latest in a long line of Superman iterations. The character has evolved well beyond the intentions of Siegel and Shuster, so whatever makes it Jewish at this point is nothing more than coincidence.

Well, kinda. It all goes back to Superman's all-important origin—baby Moses in the spaceship. This story is what informs the soul of the character, and there's no question that's where "Man of Steel" wishes to go when you consider Christopher Nolan (The Dark Knight Trilogy) oversaw the project and the formation of the story and brought along The Dark Knight writer David S. Goyer for the script.

This film draws out Superman's (Henry Cavill) origin substantially, showing not only scenes of Clark Kent living in Smallville, Kan., but also in Alaska, hiding from his powers. We know he will ultimately be called to the Fortress of Solitude by his birth father (Russell Crowe) and be faced with the choice to become Superman, fulfilling his destiny and serving as a lasting beacon of hope for humanity.

If that's even remotely close to the film's plot, then this "new" Superman is even more like Moses than Siegel and Shuster ever imagined him.

When Moses saw a taskmaster beating a slave, he killed the taskmaster, enraged by the injustice. Fearing for his life, he fled Egypt and lived as a shepherd in Midian for 40 years. Finally, he was called by the burning bush and heard the voice of God calling him into action and his destiny.

When Superman dons the red cape and the emblazoned "S" (which as the "Man of Steel" trailer tells us is a Kryptonian symbol for "hope"), he agrees to hold himself to a higher moral code and take on great responsibility, much as Moses chose to act as a prophet of God and assume a leadership role in leading the Israelites to their hope—the land of Israel.

So while plenty of issues of Superman comics have made it clear that the Man of Steel was a Methodist, he wasn't exactly born that way, so to speak. But even if you're of the camp that creators don't intentionally bury certain references and influences into their work, you have to marvel at the universality of the themes and ideas buried in the stories of our tradition thousands of years ago.

Man of Steel is in theaters this Friday, June 14.

(Addition sources: Aish, Wikipedia [citations verified]) 

There are as few words as loaded as the word “feminist.” And few as misunderstood. Many people who are feminists in actuality rebuff the label due to misperceptions about this word. So I thought I’d share why I am a feminist, in hopes that others more easily and comfortably identify themselves as one.

I am a feminist because I think that my daughter is just as good as my sons, and that they all deserve to be treated equally by society and the law.

I am a feminist because I think that my mother is just as good as my father, and deserves to be paid as well if she does the same work.

I am a feminist because I think my grandmothers are just as good as my grandfathers were, but never got the chances they had.

I am a feminist because my wife is just as good as I am. In fact, she is much better than I am at a whole lot of things.

I am a feminist because my sister is a pediatrician. And a mother of five.

I am a feminist because women are smart, capable people, and it is a huge waste of human capital to not allow them to contribute fully to any and every field of human endeavor.

I am a feminist because when women become athletes, authors, or astronauts, then sports, stories, and space become better, fairer, and just plain more interesting.

I am a feminist because there is nothing in feminism that is anti-man or anti-male. True feminism also wants to liberate men from having to be the competitive, emotionless, violent G.I. Joes society seems to want us to be. Feminism wants men to feel free to cry at a funeral, dance at a wedding, seek medical attention, or smell a flower, and not worry about seeming weak.

I am a feminist because I agree that women should vote, run for office, and become congresspeople and senators and cabinet members and justices and presidents. I agree that women should be considered equally with men when applying for jobs.

I am a feminist because I agree that parenthood is important and that no one’s job should be in jeopardy because they become a parent, or want to be a good one. I agree that nursing is good for babies and that no mother should be punished for it.

I am a feminist because I disagree that childcare, eldercare, healthcare, reproductive self-determination, harassment, abuse, assault, domestic violence, rape, or any form of cancer is a “woman’s issue”— as if men have no responsibility for their cause or impact from their effect.

I am a feminist because so many people I admire— people I know and people I only know about— are women. They already are many of the positive things people say men should be: strong, brave, assertive, determined, learned, accomplished. And they are many of the things men really should also be: caring, nurturing, collaborative, insightful, warm, open.

I am a feminist because I believe women are just as good as men, and deserve to be treated that way. That’s all feminism means, all it has ever meant. And if you believe this to be true, you are a feminist, too.

Growing up in Chicago, I have become accustomed to giving into my body’s seasonal cravings. In the winter I want “stick-to-your-ribs” food, while as soon as the weather becomes warm, all I crave is to sit outside with a bowl of fruit. Considering Chicago’s weather is not all that reliable, our bodies can be confused with what they crave.

These are not the best eating habits. After going to culinary school in the Napa Valley and working as a chef in Chicago for the past five years, I learned how to take my cravings and transform them into something both healthy and tasty. I have figured out how to keep a balanced, low-calorie, high-vitamin and mineral diet and while still enjoying a hot hardy meal in the winter and a refreshing meal in the summer.

While there is always that time to give in to your cravings, why not challenge yourself to eat healthy most of the time?

Healthy doesn’t have to mean bland. Learning alternative foods and forms of flavor besides fat and sugar will get you through the entire year, beach-body ready. My personal go-to flavor enhancers are aromatics such as garlic, herbs, and spice. Of course it is dependent on what you are making. Fresh seasonal vegetables are another easy flavor insertion.

As summer begins to settle in, we’re bound to have a random 50-degree day in the middle of an 80-degree week, but that’s probably not the best time to dive into a large serving of hearty winter foods like spaghetti and meatballs. Here is a guilt-free version featuring zucchini “noodles” so that you can suppress your craving and still hit the beach the next day. You won’t trick someone into thinking zucchini is their favorite Italian pasta, but these “noodles” are just as delicious and will get you through your pasta craving.

Zucchini “Noodles” and Bison Meatballs in Spicy Marinara 
Serves 4

Ingredients

-“Noodles”-
6 zucchini
2 tbsp. salt
1 tbsp. olive oil

-Meatballs-
1lb. ground lean bison
1/8-1/4 cup olive oil
1/2 cup whole wheat bread crumbs
1 tsp. black pepper
1 tbsp. fresh oregano
1 tbsp. fresh basil
1 tbsp. dried fennel seed
2 tbsp. fresh parsley
1/2 medium onion - small dice
3 large cloves garlic-minced

-Marinara Sauce-
1 (28 oz.) can crushed San Marzano tomatoes
1 (8 oz.) can tomato paste
1 (12 oz) can tomato sauce
1/2 cup olive oil
1 medium onion - small dice
1/4 cup garlic-minced
2 tbsp. fresh basil-torn
1 tbsp. kosher salt
1 tsp. agave nectar
1 tsp. ground black pepper
1 tsp. oregano
1 tsp. crushed red pepper flakes or to taste
2 bay leaves

Preparation

-Meatballs-
Heat olive oil over medium-high heat and add onions and garlic. Sauté approximately 10 minutes, or until translucent. In a large mixing bowl, add in all ingredients (including onions & garlic) and mix thoroughly.
Scoop out and form into approximately golf-ball sized balls and place into hot skillet. Sear all sides of meatball until golden brown. Once browned place meatballs into simmering sauce for approximately 10 minutes to finish cooking.

-Marinara Sauce-
Heat olive oil over medium-high heat and add onions and garlic. Sauté approximately 8 minutes or until translucent. Transfer onions and garlic to a sauce pot and add all other ingredients. Cook over low heat for approximately 1 hour. Add in meatballs and cook over low for about 15 minutes or as needed.

-“Noodles”-
Peel zucchini and form shape by either using a spiral mandolin or a julienne peeler. Once all of the zucchini has been made into the noodle shape place in a colander over the sink and salt, to release water. Let them sit for 10 minutes. When ready to serve rinse salt off of zucchini and place into hot pan with olive oil. Sautee the zucchini for approximately 3 minutes or until tender.

Note: Bison is a great alternative to not only beef but any lean protein such as chicken or turkey. It is extremely tasty, almost identical to beef, but has fewer calories, fat and cholesterol then beef, chicken or turkey. With any ground meat it is important to make sure your butcher is not adding in extra fat. Bison, like beef, can be eaten medium rare.

It was too big. I knew it the moment I saw it, as she dropped it off, bringing it through the heavy front door of my apartment building.

"I didn't realize it was partially broken," she apologized, gesturing to the slight incision in the plastic seat.

She had given me something before, something equally used, appearing as if it had been rolled around in the mud for a while and then hastily cleaned.

I waved her off and thanked her for the exchange, bringing the protruding item into my home, making it through my front door without too much banging, and setting it down on the floor as my daughter slept.

I was already smiling, imagining her face when she woke up.

When I was younger, I recall my mother mentioning about someone's generosity that he would "give the shirt off his own back". That, and the expression "throwing money out the window" always created a confusing visual image for me as I tried to understand what these expressions could possibly mean. What purpose could such actions serve? My childish mind wondered.

I understand them now, as I inevitably have been taught all lessons of my life much later on than when the misunderstandings occurred.

What it means to give to a child; what it means to save a certain amount of money, set it aside in a dresser drawer, lying there in its powerful potential form until there's enough to purchase a Fischer Price bike; red, purple, and yellow, much too big, slightly used, but perfect, and wait for your daughter to wake up, with that smile of amazement and shock making it all worth it.

The pleasure of giving the shirt off your own back. 

I don’t believe much in serendipity but sometimes when situations knock you right in the face, it’s hard to deny them.

This morning on my walk into work, I received an email from my vet wishing our dog Toby a “happy birthday.” Now before you go accusing me of being a terrible pet parent and not knowing my dog’s special day, let me preface this by saying Toby is a rescue dog. We’ve always considered his “birthday” to be the day he found his forever home with us, which is not until June 26. And we are actually planning a big puppy party for him, but I digress…

I mentioned the news to my boyfriend and we agreed to make sure Toby got a yummy dinner and extra love tonight. End of story...or so I thought. Then I got to work and did what I always do every day, I signed on to my computer, checked my email and logged on to Facebook and the other social media pages I run for my job. You know the top right-hand section on Facebook designated to alerting you about friends’ birthdays? Well, there with a tiny little picture of his head was a message that today would have been my dog Trevor’s birthday (I had made him a Facebook page years ago to experiment for work). Cue the face smack. I had never made this connection!

I’ve written about Trevor (and his adventures) in the past for Oy!Chicago, and while he lived with my parents most of the time, he often spent weeks at a time living with me and my boyfriend when they were traveling.

[A Thanksgiving story, Adventures in Trevor sitting]

Trevor was truly the greatest dog. He had so much personality packed into his tiny body. He loved nothing more than to play hours of fetch. Literally, the dog never got tired. He also loved nothing more than to snuggle beside you for a good cuddle. He was smart. Really smart. And he had serious anxiety issues. Have you ever had a smart dog that also has anxiety? We’ve had two now. And they always want to know what is going on at all times and they want to be perpetually by your side. Truly man’s best friend-types.

In March of 2012, my parents took a trip and didn’t leave Trevor behind with me. On the plane ride over, Trevor’s collar got caught on his kennel bag (that was since recalled for causing similar tragedies) and he choked to death. Due to all that aforementioned anxiety, he had been sedated for the trip, so he didn’t make a sound. Fortunately, because he was asleep he also didn’t feel any pain.

It was devastating. I still try not to think about what it must have been like for my parents on the rest of that plane ride, but I can tell you that finding out the news right after they landed was one of the hardest events of my life (it still is) and I’ve experienced tragedy.

It took a lot of grieving, but what helped me most was the decision we made last June to rescue our own shelter dog. We needed to find a way to celebrate Trevor’s life by helping another dog and we ended up with our perfect puppy, Toby!

And now I know that Toby and Trevor share the same special day! And since we don’t know Toby’s true age, they potentially could have even been born on the exact same day of the exact same year! Mind blown. What a twist of fate!

Now I’m not saying that I think Toby is somehow the reincarnate of Trevor. But truly, what are the chances that these two special dogs would have been born on the same day?!

I just started reading Life of Pi, which touches on themes of spirituality, God and the natural twists of life. It suddenly seems fitting that I’m reading about a guy who finds God in the strangest of places, while stranded on a raft with a lion named Richard Parker.

Maybe I did today a little too.

And now moving forward when we celebrate Toby’s birthday, we can think about Trevor too and this wonderful connection they share that’s even greater than what we ever originally intended. 

Bravo

Okay, I’ll admit it. Much to my husband’s dismay and horror, I watch a lot of reality shows. Give me any housewife, house buyer, house seller, house decorator, matchmaker, newlywed—you name it, I’ll watch it.

I won’t try to justify this behavior, but I will say that for me, TV is an escape, a little getaway from everyday life, and I don’t really like to escape to dark and violent places all that often. So, for an hour, if I can get a glimpse into someone’s glamorous, ridiculous, diamond-studded and overly dramatic life, then why not?

When I first saw the commercial previewing the new Bravo series Princesses: Long Island, a show about Jewish 20-something girls from Long Island who live rather comfortably at home with their parents until a nice Jewish boy asks them to marry him, I was admittedly both intrigued and frightened. And while I’m not usually one to write about such things, or openly admit that I watch them, I guess this time I had something to say.

Last night, after returning from a weekend trip to New York where I actually spent one afternoon visiting with friends on Long Island, I hesitantly watched the first episode—apparently along with 1.2 million other people. I’m not going to get into the details of the show, but let’s just say that so far it doesn’t portray us Jewish 20-something women—or anyone from Long Island for that matter— in the best of lights. And having just stepped off the plane from my visit and based on the lives of my friends from Long Island, I know the stereotypes this show perpetuates are definitely not reality. I read a review in People Magazine that suggests some of the behaviors on the show are so over the top, one has to think these girls are in on it all, playing it up for the camera. I like to think this is the case—for all of our sakes.

So I'm not going to tell you about the out-of-control pool party, or the girl who asks to be carried out of the nail salon after her pedicure, or the girl who lies to her modern Orthodox friend, telling her the hot dog she's eating is kosher when it isn't, or the fact that these girls seem to be proudly portraying skewed caricatures. Instead, I’d like to focus on what I’d like to see featured on a reality TV show about young Jewish women—because in my reality, we are pretty great.

Let’s start just by looking at our female Oy! bloggers. We’ve got a magazine editor, the creator of a non-profit organization for cancer survivors, a chef, amazing mommies, non-profit professionals, authors, writers and so much more. There are female rabbis doing amazing things and making amazing strides—what about a show about that? The lives of young Jews today are so rich and diverse—let’s follow women as they navigate JDates, start a business, succeed in their careers, figure out how to fit Jewish traditions and values into their modern lives.

I guess all I’m saying is young Jewish women (hopefully including the “princesses” featured on the show) and young women in general, are doing way more interesting stuff than shopping and waiting around for a nice boy to marry us, so maybe, just maybe, we should highlight that reality. What do you say, Bravo? 

A few years back I interviewed then-NCAA basketball newbie Jake Cohen. As the NCAA tournament came around and Davidson University was about to shock the world (which they unfortunately didn't), my phone blew up with friends texting about Cohen's heritage. Cohen played great for the second year in a row and gained major attention. So the obvious question is, will he go in this year's NBA draft?

Davidson coach Seth Greenberg responded to our tweet and believes Cohen could go in the second round but will definitely be invited to a camp. We decided we needed to hear from Cohen before the big day. He graciously agreed to another interview, this time about the tough tournament loss and his exciting future.

1. Two years in a row you suffered two tough NCAA tournament losses (I had Davidson winning both) is there anything you took away from those games?
I learned how fickle basketball can be. We beat Marquette for 39 minutes. They beat us for one and won the game. That's how it goes sometimes.

2. What was the highlight of your college career?
Winning back-to-back conference championships. The elation we got to experience, as a team, when the clock hit all zeroes was incredible. And we got to feel that twice.

3. Throughout the first round my phone blew up with friends asking me if you were Jewish. Do you get extra attention on the court due to your Jewish heritage?
On the court? No. Not at all. Off the court? Yes, a bit. I've gotten some pretty cool letters and fan mail from some younger Jewish kids that don't have too many role models in the basketball world. It was special to get those kinds of things. There are also a good amount of NBA executives and scouts and such that are Jewish, and they all take pride that they have a Jewish hooper at their workout.

4. We spoke to Coach Seth Greenberg who says you are a potential second round pick. How do you see your chances of getting drafted?
It's going to be an uphill challenge. There are a ton of good players out there and only 60 spots. But I'm confident that if I perform well in the upcoming NBA workouts that I have that I will give myself a good shot.

5. If you are not drafted (which we seriously hope you are) will you try to play for a NBA team this summer?
Yes. My agent and I are pretty confident that regardless of how the draft goes, a team will want me to play either in Vegas or Orlando in one of the summer leagues.

6. Are you open to playing oversees? Have you or your agent reached out to anyone in Israel?
Absolutely. I loved my experience playing in Israel a few summers ago. If the NBA doesn't work out, I would love to go back and play in Europe. I think a lot of the teams in Israel are interested in me, but they are waiting to see what happens with the NBA first.

7. What is the best part of your game and something you need to work on?
I think the best part of my game is my versatility. I can shoot the three and also post up and score inside. I also think I do a good job of making my teammates around me better with good passing and screens and the like. I think I need to work on my rebounding aggressively, not just making sure my guy doesn't get it, but attacking the ball on the glass.

8. How has the NBA pre-draft training/process been going?
It's been great. Hectic, but great. I just got back from a week in LA working out with my agent's trainers and fellow college seniors that have signed with Wasserman. The next three weeks have about six NBA workouts scheduled, so I'll really be racking up the frequent flier miles. When it gets too crazy, I try to put things in perspective and recognize how many people would want the opportunity to do what I'm doing.

9. In a dream scenario which team would you like to play for? Would linking up with Stephan Curry be a possibility?
Playing with Stephen would be fantastic. If that happened, I think the Davidson community might explode with excitement. Who knows what is going to happen, all I'm hoping for is one team to like me enough to make an investment in me. 

Masada, Israel

The other day, a friend brought up something a little out of the ordinary about her brother’s Birthright trip. Just prior to her brother’s group climbing Masada, there was an opportunity for the group participants to place a Skype call with all of their parents at home, who were awaiting their virtual arrival at a predetermined meeting place.

Imagine ... waking up at 3 a.m. or so in the morning Israel time, saying hi to Mom, Dad and whoever felt like joining in, and then proceeding to climb a mountain, oh, just a few millennia old with incredible religious significance.

Let me tell you, the story made me feel as old as Masada (not quite). That being said, I’m not really here to judge; it’s just so much different than my experience a few short years ago. Two-year-olds have iPads now. It’s a funny world out there.

Way back in 2008 when I went on a Shorashim Birthright trip to Israel, I couldn’t even imagine communication like that taking place. Hopping off the plane, I was handed a standard cell phone I’d ordered in advance before leaving Chicago. Smart phone? It was more akin to a car phone (remember those?) in size and in functionality. But that didn’t matter. I saw this form of communication merely as a lifeline should I get stranded in the wilderness of Israel—getting lost is one of my specialties. Even in a big tour group, you never know what can happen. Always be prepared.

Now I admit I can be sort of a travel Luddite. In my visits to Israel, France and other countries or cities in Europe and the U.S., I’ve been the last person to take out my camera. I’m the last person to post something travel/vacation related on Facebook. Am I too busy contemplating my experience? Am I lazy? I think the answer falls somewhere squarely in between. Coming back from a myriad of trips, I’m astounded at how boring the pictures are that I actually made the effort to take: mostly of scenery and mostly out of focus. Or some weird sign that I liked, or some poster of food I thought looked strange.

But a group Skype session with everyone back home in the midst of a 10-day trip? Something about that seems after my time, a little beyond my grasp. It’s instances like this, or when I hear that kids are writing posts for their trip’s Birthright blog during the duration of the trip, that make me feel the depth of the disconnect between my mid-20s self and current college kids.

I took a few New Media classes in college, and a generation of “digital natives” was often discussed. It’s common knowledge that 20-somethings are relatively computer savvy in comparison to their parents and older generations, but this sort of revolution in which all life events are inherently social is incredibly new and very interesting. The era of constant connection, even while taking part in a very active experience thousands of miles away, speaks to me, a humble observer and someone whose job it is to blog and edit all day long.

For one thing...how incredibly savvy! I think it’s seriously smart for a non-profit to show and not tell when it comes to an unreal experience such as Taglit Birthright trips. It’s quite an accomplishment to capture the spirit of the trip while it is happening, through blog posts and other methods of social media engagement. Social media engagement … perhaps that’s too strong a term; it’s jargon, buzz-word speech. But being able to tap into that social market in an honest, authentic way is interesting to think about. Maybe it’s a little much. But it’s certainly an interesting avenue to take.

So, would I Skype with parents on an international trip while right in action (aka just before I’m about to climb a mountain at 3 in the morning)? The thought never would have crossed my mind. But as the world of social media evolves and technology keeps advancing at breakneck speed, I’m interested to see how traveling and travel writing evolves as well. Here’s to feeling old at age 26—but trying my best to keep up with the times. 

This is a letter to my future twin step-daughters, age 9, and my three nephews, ages 8, 5, and 2.

Dear Kids,

Thank you for being you.

Thank you for making me happier every time you smile, sneeze, laugh, dance, tell me a joke with no punch line, and find magic in the mundane things I take for granted like a train, the produce aisle of the grocery store, or even dirt.

Take a moment each day to appreciate all the blessings in your life. Before you get out of bed every morning, say “Modeh Ani”—I give thanks—thanking God for protection. Give thanks for the sun coming up each and every day. And give thanks for the clouds forming the shape of a unicorn, monkey, a penguin, or anything else you see up there.

Give thanks for being raised by people who love you more than anything and who only want the best things for you in life. And yes, be thankful for your brothers and sisters too, who you’ll appreciate more one day. When your baby brother pesters you by trying to play with you and your friends, he’s really telling you he loves you and how much he wants to be like you. Be thankful you have a sibling to share so many of life’s experiences with, but know that you’re special and different from anyone else in the world, even your siblings.

Try to learn something new each day. Whether it’s memorizing those multiplication tables, learning to tell time, or discovering heroes like Abraham Lincoln and Golda Meir, you will never forget so many of the lessons you learned in your early years.

I hope you’ll always appreciate how lucky you are to be members of the tribe, who know it’s how we treat each other that’s core—and that all the rest is commentary. Members of a tribe who value family, community, Torah, education, and deed. Members of a tribe of funny people, who recognize that with all we’ve been through, we have to laugh. And, of course, members of a tribe who make really good latkes, kugel, and mandelbread that you guys can never get enough of.

There are times when you’ll be sad. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make you never shed a tear of pain, but we know that’s impossible. Just remember when you’re down that, as the saying goes, “this too shall pass,” and the sun will shine again. Even when life isn’t perfect, try to put it in perspective and realize there’s always someone who has it worse than you. And, it’s the hard times that allow us to grow the most and become more compassionate, empathetic, fuller people.

Fear can be a good thing. Don’t let fear stop you from doing the things you want to do. They won’t seem as scary after you do them.

Stick up for other people. If you see another kid being teased, be nice to her. If you were in her shoes, you’d want her to stick up for you too.

Be generous with your time, money, forgiveness, smiles, and hugs.

Make Shabbat special.

Enjoy the simple pleasures of being a kid now. Look up at the sky every day, build sand castles, don’t get out of the pool until your fingers turn to prunes, eat ice cream, sing loud in the car, dance like nobody’s watching, read stories with happy endings about animals that talk, and laugh a lot every day. And, never stop doing any of those things, even when you’re all grown up.

Love with all your heart.

When you go out into the world, make your unique mark in the way only amazing YOU can. You have the freedom to be anything you want to be. Practice tikkun olam in whatever way is meaningful to you, and help piece back together our broken world. There’s a lot of repair left to do.

Don’t forget to say “I love you” often to the people you love most—and please know we love you back.

Love,

(Aunt) Cindy

I’ve always been a little anxious. In preschool, I was the kid who stood by the wall, scared of the toys, the other kids, and life in general. Today, I am much less afraid of toys (which is great, because in an ironic twist of fate I ended up teaching pre-school for a year) but my overall anxious disposition remains. I am the living, breathing, slightly taller and way less famous Mindy Kaling, often wondering “is everyone hanging out without me?” (Spoiler alert: they totally are.)

Glamour Magazine published an article in 2010 citing anxiety as “the new young women’s health crisis,” claiming more people – women in particular – are experiencing it now more than ever before due to several modern factors. While I don’t really see it as a “crisis,” I am concerned that we’re letting common misconceptions – rather than actual human experience – define this multi-faceted term for us.

Anxious women are often portrayed in the media like Liz Lemon when she doesn’t get her special sandwich: crazy. Frantic. Ravenous. Running through the airport like a hot mess trying to eat the replacement sandwich and get the guy at the same time. Naturally, this does not end well.

While I think most people can relate to this experience, (don’t we all have at least one ill-fated running-through-the-airport-eating-while-trying-to-fall-in-love story? I think yes) being anxious is less about the actions and more about the thought process. At the end of a day like that, most people walk away from the experience with a glum “aw man, I didn’t get the guy and I ate the sandwich waaay too fast. Oh well, I wonder what my friends are doing tonight” kind of attitude, but an anxious person might be more like “I didn’t get the guy and I ate the sandwich too fast and I’m never going to meet a guy or eat a delicious sandwich ever again EVER. My friends are totally hanging out without me, my apartment is a glorified box, and nothing is ever going to work out for me. Also, my effing bangs are never going to grow back into real hair. All is lost. Dramatic sigh.”

This is what my daily life felt like up until recently when I decided it was Time To Get a Grip and Get It the Heck Together Already. I have capitalized this so you understand that it was a Very Important Decision.

I want you to know that anxiety is not a bad thing. It’s just a thing. Some would even argue it is a beneficial thing. I want to blog about how anxiety has contributed to my life in order to reopen the dialogue about real issues that a lot of people face. If we lessen the threat of stigma and judgment, people might be more open to sharing their experiences and be less embarrassed about their schtick, whatever it might be, knowing that it isn’t their fault and they’re not alone. After all, no one asks to be anxious – or depressed – or lactose intolerant, allergic to strawberries, etc etc. We all just take what we get and try to make the best of it. And that’s what I’m doing. 

Every so often, I go on a Thought Catalog reading binge to confirm everything I feel about post-grad/early 20s life. After skimming about 20 entries while trying to fall asleep the other night, I found a great entry, one that I was disappointed that I didn’t think of first. It was entitled "5 Things I Assumed I'd Have A Year After Graduating College."

Two weekends ago was the one year anniversary of my college graduation. What is exceedingly weird to me is that it doesn’t even feel like it’s been three months let alone a whole year since I graduated and left Washington DC for a new chapter of my life in Chicago. I am not sure if I should feel good about this or if it should lead me to have some sort of “what am I doing with my life?!?!” freak out, but the truth of the matter is that the past year has been surreal. Not surreal in the sense that life has been so amazing that I can’t believe it is happening, but more so that it doesn’t feel like much has happened. In reality, the events of the past year have been fairly momentous: I moved twice, started a new job, and had some memorable times in between. Nevertheless, as the author of this great piece explained, there are so many things that I thought would be the case right now. However, many of these things are so far from a reality.

1. The feeling of being older: I don’t even believe myself when I tell people I’m 23. When did I stop being 21? I don’t think it is fair and/or believable. Even with the responsibility of a daily job, the ability to do so many things on my own, and the privilege of living downtown, I can still barely believe that I am in this stage of my life.

2. All my friends from different area codes, living in the same area code: I will be the first one to say that this was a naïve hope. Of course, I always knew that my best friends from school would stay out east for the most part and just because I wanted to return to Chicago, this didn’t mean that everyone else felt the same way. Nevertheless, I had the slightest bit of hope that most of the people I liked from all the various experiences I have had up until graduation would somehow end up in the same city and it would be wonderful. All I can say is at least I have an excuse to travel now!

3. More opportunities to write: When I was nine years old, my Nana read something I wrote and told me I should be a journalist. Needless to say, I ended up writing for every school newspaper until I went to college, majored in journalism, and the rest is history. Except for the fact that I am not writing nearly as much as I imagined I would be. I would trade a features assignment for an excel spreadsheet any day.

4. Knowing what I am doing with my life: Honestly, I can muster up an answer as good as the next person during job interviews or when a distant relative begins to pester me about my life goals, but truthfully, I really have no idea what I want to do with my life. When it comes down to it, I love to write, I like to organize things, and I spend way too much time brainstorming feasible ways to return to Israel. The rest of my interests and/or goals fall into a gray area that lacks clarity and is filled with confusion.

5. The ability to be decisive: I am the least decisive person ever. It took me hours alone to even think of what my fifth assumption for this blog post should be. Though it’s great to be easygoing about things, the ability to actually make decisions in a reasonable amount of time seems like a pretty integral part of being a functioning adult. There’s always next year…

I’ve been thinking a lot about my BFF Gwyneth Paltrow. Our friendship is imaginary, of course, but that doesn’t make it any less important—at least not to me.

Ol’ girl is in clear need of a BFF. You’d have to be hiding under a rock somewhere or not have access to a computer to not understand why. One minute she’s the most beautiful woman in the world, but then the next she’s saying something as punch-worthy as, "I would rather die than let my kid eat Cup-a-Soup."

Besties offer a tough love not often found in every day relationships and that’s exactly what I’m here to do.

Gwynnie? It’s time for a little real talk. Take a seat.

First? We can’t have you in a meme listing the 25 most annoying things you’ve said in the last three minutes. It just can’t happen again. I know that you can’t, “pretend to be somebody who makes $25,000 a year,” but you could show the tinniest bit of compassion. Maybe you could accidentally be seen in a Wal-Mart on Long Island looking for a new compost bin? Even better, you could offer something on that cute little blog of yours that anyone who is making $25,000 a year has actually heard of or could afford. Oh, I know! How about a free $25 gift card from Target? That’d do the trick.

Second? You’re the most beautiful woman in the world, we get it. Your skin is flawless, your hair is perfect and you weigh about 12 pounds. What if you went in the opposite direction of all of that and made a movie where you are a frightful mess? Think less Shallow Hal and more Monster. We want some Charlize-style horror. No fat suits, just you as the ugly terror we know you can be. Come on. Lose a little of that control and show us your dark side.

Finally? You’re Jewish. You even claim to be the “Original Jewish Mother” with the way you force little Apple and baby Moses to eat. Could we get a nod to Jewish Cooking in the next cookbook for the love of Hashem? A kugel? Your Bubbe must have made a meal or seven for you. What did she make? Your favorite sugar-free Hamantaschen? Homemade jam? Can we get something like that? Pretty please?

Speaking of your cookbooks, they really are fantastic. They offer a lot of interesting dishes. You’ve got everything from roasted chicken to vegan cookies. Awesome, I know, but some of the ingredients listed look more like a scavenger hunt in Dean & Deluca than actual food.

I think it’s time you slum it a little and cook something out of a can. I’ve got a recipe for a cheap chopped salad that uses canned vegetables that I’m sure you’ll love. I’ll attach the recipe for you. It’s the perfect thing to go with your Blue Cheese Dressing.

GP, please know that I love and adore you. These are just a few ideas to help you through this troubling time. I’m here whenever you need a shoulder to cry on or a trashy meal made from a box.

My “slumming it” Chopped Salad:

INGREDIENTS
1 can black beans (or bean of your choice)
1 can whole kernel corn
1 can diced tomatoes
1 small (4 oz) tub of blue cheese crumbles
1 small onion chopped
2 cups of chopped walnuts
1 (6 oz) bag of baby spinach
1 (6 oz) bag of hearts of romaine

DIRECTIONS
There are no rules with this salad. You can pick whatever leafy greens or canned veggies you love the most and mix them together. I prefer to chop my greens because I like to be able to shovel the salad right into my mouth. Open the cans of tomatoes, corn and beans. Wash these veggies and let them drain in a colander in the sink. Toss these with your lettuce once they’ve drained. Add in your cheese, chopped onion and walnuts. Mix everything together well and you’re set.

Gwyneth Paltrow’s Blue Cheese Salad Dressing:
(Adapted from My Father’s Daughter by Gwyneth Paltrow)

INGREDIENTS
1/3 cup sour cream
1/3 cup Vegenaise
1/2 cup crumbled Gorgonzola cheese (use the picante or mountain kind, not the dulce)
1/3 cup cold water
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon red wine vinegar
1 large shallot, peeled and thinly sliced
Big pinch coarse salt
A few fresh grinds black pepper

DIRECTIONS
Stir everything together in a small bowl until mixed well. Drizzle over your favorite salad.

Boy, do I love recess.

No, not Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups (I love those too), I’m talking about those glorious moments, suspended in time, when school, stress and life seem to fade away, replaced with pure joy, energy and happiness. Schoolchildren burst from every seam of the school’s daunting brick overlay, pouring out like a crashing tide, instantly filling the playground with screams of joy.

Don’t you remember what your recess experience was like? The swing sets, kickball, relay races, socializing by the monkey bars. It was freedom. An escape. A glorious moment suspended in time.

At least that’s how recess felt to me when I was in fourth grade. It was one the best times to be a kid, plain and simple. You’re turning double digits for the first time. The world never seems more bright and shining than it does through a 10-year-old’s eyes, and that’s the way we should all see the world.

Recess has its athletic, social and emotional purposes. Kids need to get out and get exercise every day in order to promote a healthy lifestyle. But unlike P.E., which has a certified teacher and athletic instructor, recess has a mind of its own. In fact, I feel it’s its own class.

What? Are you serious?

To many of us educators, recess is perceived as a way to “let the kids vent some steam and get that energy out of their system,” so they can come back into the classroom focused and ready to learn. Some educators would even go as far as to vehemently disagree with my statement that recess is a class, one as important and necessary as any of the general studies subjects.

I didn’t even believe it at first. One of my professors at Loyola University required our class to read a book titled, The Politics of a Sixth-Grade Lunch. It mostly centers on a sixth grade teacher’s dilemma arranging his students for their in-class lunch, but many of the lessons taught about children’s interactions and developments regarding lunchtime were also expressed and analyzed for recess.

I thought to myself, “What kind of teacher would waste precious prep and planning time by spending it concerning themselves about lunch and recess?” As we discussed the book in class, I began to understand why recess was vital, and why budding educators like myself must fight to keep recess ‘alive.’

In my mind, recess can either have a ‘living’ effect on a child or a ‘deadening’ effect. In terms of ‘living,’ recess can be a time confidence and self-esteem building experiences. I’ve witnessed shy and withdrawn children in the classroom succeed during recess. I see children that normally do nothing except worry about themselves suddenly picking up other children that have fallen on the playground who are hurt. These are moments not to be missed by teachers, yet many are too preoccupied with their lesson plans and planning to spend the effort observing and reflecting on recess in the same manner.

There is the other side of the coin as well. When I see a child voluntarily sitting out of recess—the one or two times they are allowed outside to play and be free—I know that there are other forces at work on a playground besides children playing games and getting exercise. There are recess hierarchies and boundaries—sometimes ones that stretch across cultural and racial lines—that can really hurt and diminish a child’s perception of recess and of his peers, though it does build vital communication skills.

Recess can have a similar effect on an educator. I’ve seen teachers exasperated over the games the children choose or the methods students use to alienate, exclude or discriminate against other students. I see them huddled by the door, whispering and complaining to each other about what to do. They have practically no solution to rectify this, other than interceding and ending the game or punishing the children responsible. The children end up frustrated, hurt and ultimately disinterested in continuing to play.

So what can we do to promote recess and elevate it to the level of attention and respect it deserves? There are many educators developing fun and amazing recess interaction strategies that promote more interpersonal interactions with students of all levels of intelligence without the air of competition. I used to think that playing games that had no winner or loser were a waste of time and no fun to play, but after attending a few educator workshops and seminars focused on this aspect of education, I learned that with an open mind and a positive (and somewhat assertive) attitude, these types of games could (and would) catch on like wildfire. Parents at home need to be supportive of a positive, developmentally beneficial recess period and even be prepared to fight for its existence should it be threatened.

I have loved recess all my life. I still love recess. I will always enjoy recess, whether it’s supervising, organizing or even participating every once in a while. After all, teachers are in school, too, aren’t they? If my children are having recess—you’ll know where to find me! 

I could say what happened was purposeful. That it was a social experiment. A protest against the system. I could say I was joining the legions of folks like Ben Affleck who said he will live on $1.50 a day for five days to bring attention to folks living below the poverty level via the Live Below the Line campaign. And I think I could pull that off as the truth because I think you would believe me. But I am going to tell you the real truth because until this happened to me and my family, I only understood some of the work I do from a privileged distance. I had compassion but no experience.

This truth, (as many truths are), is embarrassing. It exposes me and my lifelong struggle with organization. One husband, two dogs and four kids later, I have gotten better, but at the same time life has gotten more complicated. And I’m not nearly perfect yet.

The day started like any other Friday. When I saw the bright yellow cardstock notice written in Spanish from (FILL IN THE BLANK) GAS, I didn’t pay much attention. I grabbed the rest of the mail and began sorting. Junk. Junk. Bill. Junk. Thank you note. Junk. And then I was back to the yellow cardstock.

I did take Spanish for a few years but I am pretty limited. If you want to say “let’s go to the beach!” or “I love swimming!” I’m your go-to gal. But I couldn’t translate “AVISO DE DESCONEXION DEL SERVICIO DE GAS NATURAL” I flipped the notice over to reveal, “NOTICE OF NATURAL GAS SERVICE DISCONNECTION. Natural gas was shut off on 4-26-13. Call us at…” etc.

I sat back confused. Then I got a bad, sinking feeling in my stomach. I shakily dialed the provided number while I located in a massive pile of mail an unopened letter from the gas company marked “URGENT” in red.

I feel the need to explain how this had all come to be. About three months ago, in an effort to make things more simple, (the irony is not lost on me) I switched to what I thought was auto pay for our gas bill. In actuality, I had only signed up for paperless billing, which turned out to be a huge pain. You need to enter all kinds of billing and account information, which when I went to pay the bill, I could no longer locate due to the aforementioned difficulty I have keeping track of important things. In addition, I currently have 148 unread emails. Things like “Gas customer connection” in the subject line don’t stand out as a thrilling read. So, long story short, three months went by and…

When I called customer service to pay the bill and schedule a day to restore service, the representative said the next available appointment was Thursday. That was six days from now. I was incensed that they couldn’t come out sooner and was told I could contact a supervisor early Monday morning.

That left me plenty of time to muster up the courage to tell my husband and to discover the relationship between gas and the heating of the shower and bath water. I showered at my neighbors’ and cooked breakfast on camping burners in my driveway. (Yup. The husband came around to seeing it as slightly humorous – albeit also incredibly embarrassing—and made chocolate chip pancakes and hash browns 5 feet from our back door our first sans stovetop morning.)

Sunday my parents brought over dinner to avoid another meal cooked on the blacktop. As we all sat around chatting, laughing, redirecting the poo talk for another time, I tried to forget my humiliation and put to the back of my mind the anxiety I had been feeling in anticipation of anyone outside of my inner circle finding out we’d been cut off due to non-payment. I pictured the pathetic looks, the whispers, the rumors of impending foreclosure of our home, the teasing of my kids… the list went on and on.

Maybe we’ll get lucky and this will all be over sooner than Thursday, or maybe we will continue to cook in our electric oven, take five-second cold showers and utilize the convenience of kind friends washing machines and dryers. But in the midst of all the chaos, I realize for us, this is just a temporary inconvenience. For others, for many others, this is daily life—waking up with a sense of shame, the stigma of poverty and impossible choices. My situation wasn’t financial, it was organizational. But there are many families having to make choices between food and shelter, heat and water. Many won’t have my same story and most won’t have my relatively easy solution.

I have thought about, talked about and worked at changing the system for many years, but I have never personally had to swallow it. It's left a bitter taste in my mouth and a sad feeling of shame realizing how far I've strayed from something I truly thought I was in the thick of. But it has also given me a renewed determination and dedication to continue to remind myself every day—tikkun olam.

We are a nation with a gut. The US is one of the fattest countries in the world. We eat too much, sit too much, and exercise too little.

Source: World Health Organization

If you have accepted your spare tire like most Americans, you get to look forward to an increased risk of: 

• Heart Disease
• Cancer
• Prejudice

It’s sad but true: companies avoid hiring overweight people. Airlines are now requiring some people to purchase two tickets. Samoa Air went one step further and charges people based on their weight.

THE #1 EXCUSE: People do not have time to exercise.

I understand. If you have a time-consuming job, stay home with your children, work two jobs, are in school, etc. it’s hard to find the time for fitness. And of course with an intense television schedule it’s hard to find the time and motivation (yes, that was sarcastic).

You might not be able to get to the gym, but you can stand up, stretch, breathe deeply and sit back down! Recently there has been a plethora of articles on how sitting wreaks havoc on our bodies. I like the info graphic called Sitting is Killing You. More and more people are buying standing desks, or sit stand desks, or even treadmill desks!

Courtesy: OceanPointe Distributors Corp. Import - Export

MY RECOMMENDATION: Fit in fitness wherever and whenever you can.

You do not need a fancy desk to incorporate fitness into your office routine. I have been working on a video series with exercises you can do at your desk/office. If you cannot get away from the desk/computer/television, fit a few of these exercises in throughout the day. Check out Suite Series Part II below. If you can repeat the simple circuit three times throughout the day, that will be a great start. The industry standard line: Before starting this or any other exercise program, be sure to check with your doctor.

I know some people have trouble standing or cannot stand at all. There are a number of exercises you can do seated as well:

• Wrist circles, clockwise and counter clockwise;
• Knee lifts, simply lift your foot a few inches off the ground;
• Shoulder rolls, lift your shoulders up, back and down; and
• Belly breathe, fill your stomach up with air and slowly exhale.

There are a lot of desk exercises on the web. If you have a favorite, please send it my way. rkrit@fitwithkrit.com

This year, May 20 was the most significant May 20 I had since the May 20 that was 13 years ago. For you see, on this May 20, it was exactly 13 years since my Bar Mitzvah, or as I have been saying, the Bar Mitzvah of my Bar Mitzvah. I should make that the title of this post.

What’s that? I already did? I’m so smart.

In most people’s lives (mine included) birthdays happen but once a year and yet every year, but the opportunity to celebrate and acknowledge the Bar Mitzvah of my Bar Mitzvah only comes once in a lifetime. So this year, celebrating my birthday took a back seat. Okay, maybe just shotgun—I still like my birthday after all.

To be honest, celebrating my birthday seems silly since I had very little to do with my actual birth. I did however, have everything to do with my actual Bar Mitzvah. For my birth, I just showed up. For my Bar Mitzvah, I had to show up, chant Hebrew, dance the Macarena and make a 13-year-old ass out of myself. Given in those years I was always making an ass out of myself; for whatever reason I used to go around all the time yelling, “Hee haw!” Don’t ask why. And then later in high school I played Bottom in a Midsummer’s Night Dream and that obviously didn’t help the image. I still belt out a “Hee haw!” when the mood strikes.

In the 13 years since my Bar Mitzvah, quite a bit has happened. The first black President was elected to office, Gangnam Style replaced the Macarena as the most hated Bar Mitzvah song, and one of the most amazing ideas ever, the cotton gin, was invented. Seriously, if you haven’t had this gin that is made from cotton, do yourself a favor and try it now. It is, in a word, spectacular and in two words, spectacularly spectacular. Yes, this entire paragraph was just for that one terrible joke.

But the one thing that has truly happened in that time is that I have become a man. This was supposed to happen at 13, but when I became a Bar Mitzvah, they didn’t make me start paying for my own health insurance. I didn’t start doing that until last week. Now I truly am a man and I’m freaking out.

So now I have to associate myself with concepts like adulthood, manhood and Robin Hood. Well, maybe not so much Robin Hood, but the other two are far too prevalent in my life to ignore. Well, maybe not so much manhood either, as I still eat Spaghetti-Os every other meal. But adulthood! Yes, adulthood. That’s one I can’t turn away from. I am an adult. I even have a beard to prove it.

I say this because I had always felt that I started legitimately retaining memories once I hit my Bar Mitzvah. Yes, hit my Bar Mitzvah. We got into a fight and I don’t wanna talk about it. Pre-13, my memories are few and far between at best, but once I hit that glorious day 13 years ago (again, still don’t wanna talk about it) I seem to have started taking my experiences and learning from them to allow myself to grow much more as a person.

Despite my constant attempts at the contrary, I am an adult. Maturity wise, not so much, but age and life wise, I unfortunately can’t deny it. I have learned pretty much every significant life thing in the past 13 years. And the fact that I call them “life things” shows how truly significant they are. Sure, there are things that have always and will always be with me, but most of my truly significant life experiences and understandings have manifested a lot more recently. I’ve always felt my Bar Mitzvah was a catalyst of sorts; I wonder if now, in celebrating the Bar Mitzvah of my Bar Mitzvah, if I may be approaching another catalyst of sorts. I suppose only time will tell, of sorts.

So even after getting to what I was trying to say with this piece, I’m still not entirely sure what I was trying to say with this piece. Truth be told, I came up with the title and went from there, neglecting to truly ground everything that followed in some sort of meaningful coherency. If nothing else, I hope you enjoyed the picture of me with my actual Bar Mitzvah shirt from way back when.

It was May 20, 2000. That’s when.

Having said that, thank you for reading. Check back with me in 13 years, when I’ll be celebrating the Bar Mitzvah of my Bar Mitzvah of my Bar Mitzvah!

The message came over Facebook late Monday night. “I just heard from his cousin. Josh took his own life last night. I am in shock. So sad.”

Josh was a good friend from college. After we graduated, I moved to Chicago, and he moved back home to Ohio. Over time, we lost touch. Sadly, the last time I remembered seeing Josh was 12 years ago, when we drove to Toledo for his brother’s funeral.

Now I found myself sitting at Josh’s funeral with more questions than answers. How does this happen? How could his mother, his sister, his wife, be forced to deal with so much pain? Could I have done anything to stop this? The priest shared some thoughtful insight:

“We have three choices when faced with a tragedy like this. We can be angry with God. We can choose to shut Him out of our lives and refuse to have anything more. I can understand why someone might feel that much anger from this. Second, we can protect God. We can say ‘God needed him’ or ‘he has gone to a better place.’ From my perspective, God does not need protecting, but some will take that perspective. But, we also have a third choice. We can do what we are all doing right now. We can come together, join hands and walk into this mystery side by side.”

It was the most compassionate thing that could have been said. He helped to make sense of what was happening and acknowledged that no one was claiming to know the answers. We simply chose to come together for this service as one and acknowledge the oneness of something more important than each of us individually.

Josh was a lover of music, and because music was such a part of who he was, his cousin looked to music to help everyone cope. She arranged to have two fellow musicians perform the song “Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen. All week long, nobody had known what to say. There really was nothing that could be said. She wanted to give us a word. Hallelujah means “praise God.” That weekend, it was the word we needed most. Hallelujah!

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.