Passover is Finally Over

Passover is finally over.  The more religiously observant amongst you may find this a rather unusual statement to make in the middle of August, but this week I finally found the pizza cutter languishing at the back of a kitchen drawer where we throw all those daft things and tape up for the week of affliction.  I marked the discovery by returning the boxes of Pesach crockery, cutlery and cooking utensils to the garage.  They had been waiting patiently by the front door for me to perform the task.  You’ll have gathered that it’s not something I see as a particular priority, but my wife had, a couple of days earlier, threatened to leave me if she tripped over the frying pan handle that protrudes from the opening of one of the boxes one more time.

 

August is not my record.  A few years ago I succeeded in not returning the boxes for the entire year simply by hiding them under a large sheet.  However, since we had the hall decorated Mrs J has put her foot down.  Frankly, I don’t see the point of stowing it all away.  It’s always such a balagan unpacking it all.  Inevitably one box of particularly heavy items will collapse under its own weight and all for what, exactly?  A week of eating off the tatty crockery we inherited from my grandmother, that’s what.  It was tatty crockery when I was a child.  Now the dog looks upon us with pity before turning back to eat from his shiny stainless steel bowl.

 

The almighty will, I hope, forgive me when I tell you that Pesach is my least favourite festival.  It doesn’t even make my top ten.  I’d happily do all the fasts instead of Pesach. In fact the only reason I don’t currently observe all the fasts is in anticipation that the Lord will somehow offer me the deal I have in mind.  If nothing else, such an arrangement would free me from the havoc that Passover food plays with my constitution.  Every morning for days I’m reminded of what a pitiful soul I have become.

 

Nothing drags on like Seder night, not even 25 hours without food, and from me that’s really saying something; I’m a man who doesn’t eat between meals, but only because I eat eight meals a day.  Having to spend two nights in a row in the company of some fifty family members ranging from screaming overtired infants to snoring overtired geriatrics seems to be a more profound form of penitence than sitting in synagogue without food for a day.  It’s on Seder night that I make my silent petition for forgiveness for the sins I must clearly have committed to be punished in such an excruciating way, not Yom Kippur.

 

Of course the solution to all this would be to spend Passover in Israel.  That way my wife would never need to clean the house again and I’d be able to put grandma’s crockery on e-bay.  You would find me spending the week waited on, hand and foot.  I would turn up at the hotel dining room in time for the Seder meal and leave just as the songs about goats and counting start, and nobody would care a jot.  What bliss!

 

Unfortunately this is, and can only be, a dream.  Why?  Because that’s exactly what all the local alta cacas do and there’s no way I’m paying for flights to Israel at their most expensive for Seder night in a freezing air-conditioned warehouse of a hotel when half the guests are the people I see every week in shul.

 

The good thing is that at least Pesach, like my son-in-law, only visits once a year, and now it’s finally over there’s still 8 months to go before it comes round again.

How Kosher are You?

Our rabbi and “teacher” ascended the pulpit to give his sermon last Shabbat.  “Sermon”, in the singular, is the significant word here.  It’s the same sermon week after week the message of which is  “You don’t keep a kosher enough home”.  As a teacher he’s certainly teaching us about kosher homes, that’s for sure.

I know he’s looking at me when he’s talking.  I’m aware that stabbing a meaty knife five times into a plant pot does not necessarily render it clean after accidentally using it to spread butter, but at least I own separate sets of cutlery.

As the rabbi embarked on his admonishment I began to consider the levels of kashrut people keep and came up with a useful five-point scale.  I’m hoping it will save embarrassment concerning dinner invitations because rather than there being any doubts as to whether the host stabs the knife only five rather than the acceptable six times, by simply stating their level the invitee will be able to wriggle out, thus:

“Would you like to come back to ours, we’re having chicken schnitzels?  We’re level three.”

“That’s a lovely invitation but we’re already going somewhere else.  Come to us next week.  We’re level four”.

“Message received loud and clear.”

So here’s the scale.

Level 1.  You buy a box of matzah at Pesach.  Other than that kashrut laws apply to wandering tribes in hot countries who cannot keep food fresh.  You’re looking forward to the day when you see rock badger on a menu.

Level 2.  You eat shellfish and bacon but not roast pork (because it’s just too goyishe).  At your son’s Barmitzvah you provided “kosher-style” food.

Level 3.  You keep a vaguely kosher home but you enjoy Indian and Chinese takeaways as long as they are eaten from the carton and with disposable cutlery.  Foreign countries do not have kosher laws as far as you are aware so anything goes when on holiday.  You think that Halal means “almost kosher”.

Level 4.  You separate milk and meat but never look at a clock between consuming them instead relying on your rather inaccurate sense of how long three hours takes to pass.  You go to Eilat because you can’t be bothered to clean the house for Pesach.   When shopping you read the list of ingredients on a package and if you don’t see certain obvious words it’s probably OK.

Level 5.  Visitors are perplexed to find four separate kitchens in your house: one milky, one meaty, and two more for Pesach.  Your many children wonder whether going vegetarian might not be a bad idea if it frees up some space for beds.  You feel uneasy buying glatt just in case it’s not glatt enough.  You wait six days after eating meat before consuming dairy.

Yesterday my wife coyly admitted that she had invited the rabbi for lunch.  I think I’ll show him the scale and proudly explain how we’re working towards level 2.  That should put him off.

A guide to orthodox weddings.

I’ve attended a Hindu Annaprashan, a Catholic wake and even a Zoroastrian Navjote ceremony.  However, none of these events left me feeling quite as much an outsider as the ultra-orthodox Jewish wedding I attended recently.

At a non-Jewish function I can get away with making mistakes.  If I do I’ll be politely guided in the right direction, usually the bar, but with Jews I feel I should know better, and I don’t.

Here follows what advice I can offer based on my limited experience.

The fundamental differences between frum and mainstream Jewish weddings are worth noting.  Firstly, there is no free kippah at a frum wedding.  It is assumed you will bring your own.   Make sure you do so. You do get benchers but they’re of no use because there’s no English to tell you which bits to skip. Bensching is virtually impossible to follow because everyone goes solo after the first few words. The way to handle this is to “humble” (that’s mumbling and humming at the same time), tap the table after about 4 minutes then humble again for a minute.  You’ll know when the bensching is over because riotous singing begins.

Also, the food at the simcha I attended was so unbelievably glatt kosher that those of us who are less observant were provided with an individually wrapped and sealed non-kosher meal.

Should you ever find yourself at a frum function you’ll notice that most people spend the entire time on their mobile phones. The reason is that a person never sees his or her spouse.  The phone is the way by which a wife finds out what is happening on her husband’s side of the mechitsa, and how a husband finds out when he’s supposed to leave.

Non-orthodox women who wish to fit in should tug at their hair every now and again.  This will make it look as if they are wearing a sheitl.  Pretending to be wearing a sheitl does not, however, remove the requirement for a woman to cover her hair.  Double cover is the height of fashion in chassidishe circles.

Finally, instead of an embarrassing best man’s speech (so you see, charedi weddings do have something to commend them), you are treated to a series of interminable droshas delivered by various rabbis and heads of yeshivas, largely in a language I call  “100mph Yiddish”. Each will pound on about the groom: he’s a talmud chocham, such chesed, a good son, he’s sure to make a fine husband, etc.

Similarly, the bride will be lauded: her father is a talmud chocham, such chesed, a fine father, etc.

But let’s not dwell too long on the girl.  Let’s talk about the marvellous groom.  A talmud chocham, such chesed…

It’s not polite to leave during the speeches so order your taxi for no earlier than 2am.  Sorry.