Feeling the feels

 My dear cousin and her family used to refer to an administrator who worked at the school I attended as the ברז, the faucet because he was so quick to cry. I didn't actually cry a whole lot this week but there have been many moments that certainly made ברז moments possible.

Monday evening our older son left for Israel. He will be there for at least a year and a half for work. During his other long stays in Israel, he was either a kid in a program where he didn't have to make too many big decisions or he was in the Israeli army where most big decisions were made by others. This time our son is going as an adult.

A few months ago I asked my son if he wanted to turn to my friend Ronna to serve as his Israel Mom. Someone to give comfort when needed, someone to ask when he would need to tackle Israeli bureaucracy or occasionally provide a meal. A different kind of a young man would have told his mother to butt out. Our son got in touch with Ronna.

Ronna grew up in my father's synagogue. Our parents were deeply fond of one another. Ronna's Bubbie was the source of our excellent matza balls. Ronna is about ten years older than I am. We were always fond of one another even when I was a kid and she was pretty much an adult. Ronna and my son have never laid eyes on one another. During our last visit to Israel Ronna opened her home to me and to my husband. Within a few hours, my husband was feeling like Ronna was a beloved cousin. My husband and I are parents. We take care of people. While we were at Ronna's we were fussed over and cared for. We had both forgotten how lovely it feels to have someone fuss over you like that.  

Right after my son arrived he called. He was trying to sort out some of the things you need to sort out as soon as you land in a different country.  He sounded exactly like one might expect when a whole bunch of things need to get organized in a foreign country. A few hours later, he called again. He had just come back from dinner with Ronna and her family. My son's voice was the voice of someone who had just gotten a big dose of love. Well, it wasn't me but it was my husband who was the ברז.

Earlier on Monday the havdalah bags were presented.

The ceremony took place at the Jewish Theological Seminary. Both of my parents graduated from there. The ceremony took place in the same room where our youngest had his Brit Milah. I had been in that building so many times fr so many events large and small. Not quite a ברז moment but I was certainly feeling sentimental.

This Shabbat the daughter of dear friends is becoming a bat-mitzvah. As our community often does, friends are baking for the kiddush.

I made a massive number of meringues (ten eggwhites worth). They are studded with chunks of both white and dark chocolate. While I baked I had several ברז moments thinking about the bat-mitzvah girl. I was remembering how each of my kids babysat for her. I thought about how her parents had once babysat for our kids. I thought about how the bat-mitzvah girl's father taught each of our kids to play instruments. 

If you are wondering what I did with the yolks...

they are now dill and black pepper egg noodles that are waiting to be boiled.

The noodles will be served with

meatballs. I also made the dish known as blobbo-taters in our apartment but would be called cauliflower puree in the real world.

I also made another take on babaganouj. I had forgotten to get another can of chickpeas so I switched in a cooked potato.

I am aware that it looks ugly but it does taste good.

This week I have been putting in work on Benjy's Torah mantle. 

I had decided that the turquoise lettering needed to have yet another layer of hand stitching. I had hand stitched the letters into place with straight stitches. The I added a row of chin stitches at the very edges of the letters. this week i realized that I needed to add a row of blanket stitch at the very edge of each letter to keep things tidy.

As the lettering gets finished and additional bits of glimmer get added it is time to get the wooden form for the top of the mantle. Normally I make a mantle for an existing Torah. All I need to do is trace the existing form and give the measurements to the local lumberyard and they would cut the wood to size.  This mantle is for a Torah that is newly written I needed the measurements. 

My clients had said that they would get the wooden form sent to me. Well, that hasn't happned. I called and they gave me the name of the scribe who is organizing the writing of this Torah scroll. He suggested that I call an embroidery house that makes Torah mantles and, and tallit and tefillin bags and ark curtains and the like. I wondered if they would be willing to sell me the wooden forms, perhaps they would think of me as an competitor. I also mentioned that I don't sound like I come from their particular corner of the Jewish world and they may not be willing to speak to me. 

The scribe couldn't see what the problem was. Having in the past tried to deal with such places---as a woman as someone who is clearly not part of their community, I knew exactly what the problem was.  However, in addition to the number of the Brooklyn embroidery house, the scribe also gave me the name of a Satmar embroidery house in Monroe, New York. The lovely scribe gave me the information I needed to tell the embroidery house so they could sell me a wooden form in exactly the right size.

The next morning I called the Brooklyn embroidery house. I explained what I needed. I was told that I needed to call back in an hour to speak to  Mr. Naiman. I called back. I spoke to Mr. Naiman. I am still unsure if the line got dropped twice or if he hung up on me once or twice. He wasn't happy that he didn't get the job of creating the Torah mantle. Then Mr. Naiman put me on hold. Then he put me on hold again. His company has a really catchy jingle that plays while you are on hold. It is a jazzy Chassidic tune backed with electric piano and the lyrics are in Yiddish describing all of the various embroidered goods they offer. My Yiddish isn't great but after about ten minutes I was singing along with the jingle.  " Torah Mantlach! Tefillin bags! Ark curtains! Artistic!.. " At twenty-five minutes I realized that I was being ghosted and hung up.

Some of you reading this know a great deal about the sociology/ anthropology of the Jewish community and the relations between various segments of the Jewish community. For others of you this is a completely foreign topic.

If I can make broad generalizations I would assume that although I am in many ways foreign to the world of Chassidic Brooklyn someone from that universe would be much more likely to be willing to talk to me and sell me the wooden top for a Torah mantle than someone from the Satmar community in Monroe.

I looked up the number for the Satmar embroidery house. Within ten minutes I was giving my credit card information and was told that with the help of God the wooden form and wooden reinforcement rings would be put in the mail that afternoon.

I guess that God helped. They just arrived.  

A big bundle of anxiety is now lifted from my shoulders.

 As I type this my son has finished eating Shabbat dinner at Ronna's home and feeling full of good food and full of love. 

Soon I will boil our noodles, set our table, and open Zoom so our virtual guests can join us. 

Shabbat Shalom!