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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.
I’m normally a huge holiday junkie and, drunk on anticipation, I set out my decorations weeks in advance. Easter is, I think, the only holiday that I reserve until the day-of. Something about Lent makes me feel too somber, I think; it’s such a period of waiting that setting out the bunnies and eggs before the penultimate high holiday seems almost like opening your Christmas presents early. And so it was with the promise of rediscovering the contents of my closet holiday box that I left J’s side and headed home this evening. We spent a fun-filled day in the city–mass, then brunch, then a movie–and as hard as it was to pack it all back in my car and head home, it was worth it to rediscover these: Easter egg candles, easter bunny basket, and stuffed springtime animals; and Easter/Spring time dishes. YAY. I’m so, so excited to start using these again. I realize it’s a bit sad, getting all giddy over ceramic dinner ware. I’m easy to please like that, and hey, there’s nothing at all wrong with simple pleasures.
Leprechauns used to visit the house where I grew up. They came through the vents. True story.
Every March 16, before we went to bed, my sisters and I would carefully open the floor vents in each of our respective bedrooms—to allow the Leprechauns safe passage, you know. Every morning, we’d see that our attention paid off, as gold-foiled chocolates and pennies would always be beside our beds when we awoke. We’d trot downstairs to find mom making green waffles and green scrambled eggs served up over clover-themed placemats; it really was like magic. We’d have shamrock sugar cookies when we came home from school, and we usually had Guinness stew for dinner.
The best part? We’re not a lick Irish. Not. A. Lick.
I can’t really remember when all of this ended; when we stopped being innocent and carefree and into believing in our little green vent-men. My dad will definitely be pouring a few tonight, and mom still has those placemats, but it just isn’t quite the same.
I got a text from my sister this morning: “you’d better be wearing your Guinness underpants.” We all have them. It’s kind of a weird thing.
I don’t have too many outward St. Patrick’s Day traditions anymore. I did wear a green sweater today, and there’s Irish Soda Bread in the oven now (with many thanks to Heidi for the awesome recipe!). It’s in the little things, I think. And when I have kids? Those Leprechauns, they’ll be back.
The mere fact that the calendar today reads 2/14 does not suddenly mean that the world turns pink and glittery (bummer, I know). Still, seeing the rose above the thorns is, perhaps today more than other days, a rather rewarding exercise.
* the thorn: I woke up alone, holding a pillow instead of J.*the rose: I made fab pink pancakes and a very strong coffee, and had breakfast in bed.
* the thorn: So far today I’ve received exactly nine spam messages to my “good” e-mail address telling me a variation of this theme: a giant valentine will happen in my pants if I order their pharmaceutical now. gross.* the rose: My incredibly adorable littlest sister, studying abroad this semester in geneva, sent an e-card featuring a video song by her host siblings, who (a) speak French and (b) appear to be about 5. So precious.
* the thorn: It’s 3pm and my desk is experiencing an extreme dearth of flowers. Repeat: NO FLOWERS. Yes, I said we didn’t need to make a big deal out of valentine’s day, and I don’t care that much, but really? All the other paired girls got flowers. Even my buddha got flowers, in the form of another origami offering. I am pouting.* the rose: I have a boyfriend who is fabulous, and my desk is lonely not because I am unloved, but because he who loves me takes me too literally sometimes. Sheesh.
* the thorn: Work is crazy busy, suddenly, and I barely had time to scoot out for a quick “lunch” to the library.* the rose: After the madness closes tonight, I’m headed directly to J’s, where he is cooking a surprise dinner. This, for the record, is much much unlike last year, when we trudged through a near foot of snow to go to a chi-chi restaurant where the air conditioning was inexplicably blasting our table. One the way back, J threw his back out and I, attempting heroism, drove my sport sedan to the pharmacy for painkillers. Except the pharmacy was closed and, in a case of great parking spot goes terribly wrong, I managed to lodge my car in a snowbank. As I stood kicking the snow in my highly impractical shoes, three kind people stopped to help me out: a small geek-style guy; a man in a giant SUV with vanity plates reading “GODSQUAD”; and the Alexandria City Police. It took our combined effort to dislodge me and send me on my way. Staying in this year seems like such a nice plan.
* the thorn: tomorrow is another work day, so I can’t stay up till all kinds of crazy hours drinking pink vodka and, um, celebrating. You know.* the rose: it’s a long weekend after that, and J and I are going to New York. Hooray!* the thorn: I have a meeting in approximately three minutes, so must get back at it.* the rose: it’s valentine’s day! YAY. And, not one but TWO google searches for “conversation heart bingo”–yes, with the quotes–directed people to my blog today. This makes me extremely happy, for reasons largely unknown.Rose-filled valentine wishes to everyone!
Ranked on a scale of best elementary school party, Valentine’s day is a real contender for Best Holiday Ever.
You make a mailbox, and people just give you candy. You get to spend an afternoon with doilies and glue sticks. You get to eat sugar all day while dressed in pink and red, and play games like conversation heart bingo. It’s just awesome.
I sometimes think Valentine’s day should still be a holiday centered around heart-shaped candies—you know, go back to the way it was before it became a day of pressure, of feeling sad if you were alone and anxious if you weren’t.
A great discussion of Valentine’s day baking over at bunny’s yesterday got me all excited for the re-domestication of the holiday, so I busted out my holiday towels a few days early and got busy in the kitchen.
Because I’m a dork, I’ll share the towels here:
Awwww! I know. You’re jealous of my festive kitchen. I can tell.
The muffins on the stove are cherry walnut, though they aren’t as pink as I anticipated. They are, however, very delicious. (And the spatula! Do you see the spatula?)
I tend to get very kitchy around the holidays, and Valentine’s day is such an easy one. Tools like this don’t make it very easy for people with my affliction to resist:
Loving it!
Pink pancakes! Pink waffles! Toast with hearts cut out and spread with strawberry cream cheese! These are all on my agenda. If I had children, I’d totally be making itty-bitty heart-shaped peanut butter sandwiches, and heart-shaped sugar cookies with their names on them.
I’m also looking into finding some doilies. I kind of miss those.
