It’s a total thunderstorm outside in these parts, washing out the memories of an 80’ sunny day yesterday.  I spent the morning down at the water, and my arms are just ever-so-slightly less sickly pale as I sit here and type in the low lighting of J’s apartment.  We came back from mass in the pouring rain, showered off, and have just finished a late lunch of leftovers from Passover dinner.

I don’t understand a lot of things about modern, assimilated Judaism, but I’m totally into matzo ball soup.  I think it’s a little bit fraudulent for J to run around and call himself Jewish without the knowledge and the discipline of the faith, but reading about the plagues with a tall glass of Manischewitz is a pretty fun way to spend a Saturday.

We weren’t quite kosher in our Passover preparations last night—the beer we drank while cooking killed that—and we were really only in it for the food.  Happily, I’m becoming quite a kick-ass non-Jewish girlfriend in the kitchen. I’m a total matzo ball mistress, and my haroseth will blow you away.  I also made a very tasty zucchini and carrot quinoa, courtesy of the Bon Appetit Passover section.

J is Jewish in much the same way as I’m German, which sometimes really gets me going. It’s where my great-grandparents lived until the first war, and where my grandfather is from.  It’s my heritage without a doubt, but I’ve never been to Germany, I don’t really know anyone there, and I certainly don’t speak the language very well. I could hang little flags around, get some dirndls, and drink beer in October—but is that enough to make me German? I mean, can’t practically anyone do that?  J doesn’t go to temple, and he did only about a year of Hebrew school.  I know more of the old testament stories that he does, which is at once sad and frustrating.  He identifies with Judaism because it’s his family’s heritage—not because it’s anything they practice.  

Once I get my mind around this disconnect, it all becomes a little clearer.  We can go to church and have my faith, but still take time for his traditions.  Like Passover.  I’m a total sucker for holidays, so throwing a few more into the year seems like a steal of a deal.

We didn’t do a Seder and we didn’t say prayers, but the food was so delicious, and we did read parts of Exodus aloud.  Let my people go, and all that.  Tradition really is important, and I would never want him to give that up.  I think, and I hope, that we can mesh our lives and our beliefs and our heritages into something workable.  We may end up with children named Michael Ezekiel Berndt, or Rachel Mary-Elizabeth Helga, but as long as there’s good food, real tradition, active faith and a sense of belonging? Then I have great confidence that we’ll all be fulfilled and happy in the end.