There's been a change in the weather

I dashed out to move the garbage can from my driveway yesterday and after only an instant realized something had changed. The humidity here in the Land of Cotton had dropped from hellish to heavenly and the temperature was no longer on bake.

Some cosmic hand had dialed back the celestial burner for the moment and there actually seemed to be a vague hint of fall in the air. So I ignored my trashcan and kept on walking, down the block, around the corner and alongside a lake that can be found at the back of my subdivision.

Poets often play around with the seasons when musing about aging and death and fall is that period when we are in decline – the green leaves of youth first turning lavishly red and golden before wilting away in the early days of winter.

Phooey. I love autumn. The chill of the season is invigorating, the perfect remedy for the torpor brought on by the heat and humidity of summer. People actually become willing to leave the sanctuary of their air conditioned homes and, well, do stuff.

There are fall festivals, fall fairs and fall trips – gee Harv, let’s go to the mountains and look at the leaves and pick some apples. There are fall clothes and fall holidays – the boo fest we call Halloween and the food fest we call Thanksgiving.

And, hallelujah, there are fall sports, which is to say there’s football. And in the Land of Cotton, football – especially college football – is often a religious experience. And let us all say Amen!

In fact, toe meets leather for the first time this season on Saturday, when our Bulldogs go up against the Ragin’ Cajuns of Louisiana-Lafayette between the hedges – trust me, it’s a Georgia thing! A week later, the calendar might still read summer, but the vibe will be full-blown autumn-ee as Georgia travels to South Carolina to do battle with the Gamecocks!

Still not buying the rejuvenating juju of autumn? Then ponder these two words: Fall Classic. For months, baseball has moved along at a snail’s pace, the natural rhythm of America’s great summer pastime.

But when the temperature starts to drop and the days grow shorter, baseball becomes serious business for a few weeks in late September and early October when, finally, the champs from the American and National Leagues do battle. This bit of Americana we call the World Series and, I do believe, the series has come to be known as the “Fall Classic”.

So remember. A little morning chill means that once again the leaves will be changing color soon and the Dawgs will be at home between the hedges. All the rest is commentary. And let us say, Amen!

How I fell hard for a tasty, little treat

The exact moment that I first kissed my sweet, I knew that I was in love. We were somewhere over the Atlantic, 30,000 feet in the heavens when I nibbled away at her crisp, sugary goodness.

Only moments before we had been introduced and it took only seconds for me to strip away her wrap. I of course had the option for a, well, saltier companion. But I was feeling a bit melancholy and knew that nuts wouldn’t satisfy the yearning in my heart.

To my utter delight and amazement, I realized there were actually two goodies to be enjoyed and devoured – a ménage à trios! Ever the gentleman, I asked the lovely Miss Wendy, nodding off in the seat next to me, if she would like a, um, bite? But she yawned, said she wasn’t in the mood and said I should enjoy. And I did!

That was my introduction to Biscoff cookies, a specialty snack produced in Belgian that for years couldn’t be found in the states, and certainly not in the Land of Cotton. Many cookie-holics first came across these crisp, caramelized treats on international flights – coffee, tea, peanuts or Biscoff? And many became addicted to the snack.

Now, I no longer have to pay big bucks to visit some foreign capital to satisfy my Biscoff addiction. Today the cookie can be found in most supermarkets, a euro-sleek package holding 32 pieces – no cholesterol, no artificial colors, 0 grams of trans fat and, drum roll please, only about 40 calories each.

Not long ago I was scarfing down donuts with my morning coffee – 300 calories of saturated fat to start the day. Now my drug of choice is Lotus by Biscoff and the living is good; sweet, too!

What does it mean to be Jewish?

It’s Friday, time again for another posting of Interesting Jewish Stories & Facts (IJS&F). Today, let’s turn our attention to the Torah and examine the Fifth Commandment.

There are Jews who never step foot inside a synagogue, know little about the religion, its rituals and beliefs. But if asked, they’d identify themselves as being Jewish and, in fact, argue they are just as Jewish as black-hat wearing Chasids who are Shomer Shabbos.

Judaism is lots of things – a religion, a culture, a state of mind. It’s something I began thinking about several years ago during a trip to Israel when it became clear that the majority of Israelis I came into contact with were obviously Jewish, but also cosmically secular. So I was left wondering what it really means today to be a Jew.

All this philosophical musing has surfaced in a much more personal fashion in recent months as my mother continues her slow, relentless march into the darkness of dementia. My mom, who is 87, was raised in St. Paul, Minn. Her parents were immigrants to America, just a step removed from the shtetls of Eastern Europe.

Their links to Orthodox Judaism – observing the Sabbath and holidays, keeping kosher and adhering to other esoteric rituals – slipped away over the years. By the time my parents met, wed and started a family, they were solidly Conservative.

While my father attended shul and was active in synagogue politics and such, my mother practiced her Judaism in a much more amorphous fashion – she cooked and ate Jewish food, decorated the house with Jewish icons and artwork, spoke a bit of Yiddish and played mah jong. She attended High Holiday services, at least for a few hours each year, and sort of fasted on Yom Kippur.

She knows little about the Torah, Jewish rituals and holidays. But until recently she could roast a chicken or brisket and make a kugel that was spiritually inspired. Everything about her, essentially, was Jewish and, for better or worse, all her friends were Jews.

Several months ago, after we had moved her to an assisted living facility, I found my Mom sitting alone in her room. She seemed anxious and upset and after only a few moments she broke into sobs. Her life was already becoming hazy and out of focus, but there were moments of stark lucidity when she realized who she was and where she was headed.

“I just feel so alone,” she had said that day, then added, “and no one around here is Jewish.” She was right. The facility was bright and airy and filled with delightful people. But there were absolutely no cultural icons or images, foods, rituals or friends to bring her comfort.

We tried to add a few “Jewish” touches to her small space – little drawings from the grandchildren, photos of a trip she had taken to Israel years earlier, matzo ball soup from the neighborhood deli and a brightly lit hanukkiah that we placed in her window on Hanukkah.

But our efforts were too little and too late. Just a few weeks later she had already reached that place where her life was now a fading memory, mostly white noise filled with static. Yet it was still a shock, at least for me, when I walked into one of the facility’s public rooms and found my Mom sitting with a group of other residents, all singing “Amazing Grace”.

In the months my mom has been in assisted living, there have been church services, youth groups passing through singing Christmas Carols and chaplains offering spiritual advice and healing. None of these activities involved my mother. But Christian life was part of the fabric of the place.

So it wasn’t all that surprising last week when my Mom, clearly confused, told one of my brothers that she needed to go someplace. When he asked where, she first said to the library, but then added, no, she “was going to church.”

All that will change today when we move her to the William Breman Jewish Home here in the Land of Cotton, one of the premier care facilities in the area.

In a real way, I like to think, she’s returning home. That becomes immediately clear when you spot a mezuzah on the front door, the little touches of Judaica that are about and the small shul off the main corridor of the facility.

It’ll also be nice that ham sandwiches and bacon won’t be an option any longer and, once again, brisket, kugel and matzo ball soup will be on the kosher menu. That she’ll be dining each day with dozens of other Jews is the proverbial, ahhh, schmear on the bagel.

My hope, a silent prayer really, is that a bit of light still shines along the dark path my Mom is walking and that one day soon, if only for an instant, the savory smell of Jewish cooking or perhaps a small phrase of Yiddish being spoken around her or the cheerful sounds of Jewish day school students singing a Yiddish lullaby or Jewish song will remind her that she’s not alone.

So what does it mean to be Jewish? For my Mom, at least for now, I hope it’s about finding a place that is warm and safe, filled with a bit of yiddiskeit that reminds her of home. And for me? Observing the Fifth Commandment.

THIS JUST IN: Unfortunately, Mom will have to wait another day or two before dining on brisket and matzo ball soup! After posting this blog entry, there was a bit of a crisis and Mom was taken to the emergency room of an area hospital. She has been admitted for observation of a gastro-intestinal problem – I'll spare you the details. Once released, we will move her directly to her new home.

FOOD FOR THE SPIRIT: Nothing like a hot bowl of matzo ball soup (photo above) to feed the soul and connect a member of the tribe with their Jewish roots.

Miss Universe Pageant languid and svelte!

While sort of watching TV earlier this week, mostly switching between The Food Network’s Cupcake Wars and yet another rerun of Law & Order on TBS, I stumbled across a bunch of nearly naked women.

I thought for a moment that the lovely Miss Wendy had gotten me an early birthday present and signed us up for the Playboy network, but then realized what I was watching was way too bizarre for anything Hugh Hefner and company could develop.

No, this was a production of that zany Trump fellow, the annual flesh fest we all know and love as the Miss Universe Pageant. Actually, I exaggerate.

It’s been years since any sort of beauty pageant has attracted much more than a collective yawn from Mr. and Mrs. America. Bert Parks – now that’s a name hidden way back in the vault of golden oldies – was still wearing a tux, standing onstage in Atlantic City and singing an ode to Miss America when beauty pageants still registered on the nation’s pop culture radar.

All that said, for the few minutes I forced myself to check out the, ahhh, cupcakes on NBC, the judges were in the process of whittling down the lovelies to the final 10. The bikini-clad babes, sporting shoes with foot-long stiletto heels, stood about waiting to hear their names called, then strutted their, um, stuff to center stage.

For a few moments I thought I was having some sort of flashback, sitting in the Springer Theater in Columbus – that would be my hometown, a little village nestled comfortably in a crook of the Chattahoochee River – covering the Miss Land of Cotton Pageant for the local paper.

The state pageant was held each year in Columbus – go figure! When I managed to wrangle an internship with the Enquirer in the late ’60s, one of my first jobs was covering the preliminary events – swimsuit, evening gown, entertainment.

At the time, it was understood I didn’t have the necessary experience to cover the final night of the pageant. It would take another few years of journalism school and seasoning to learn how to properly use such modifiers as svelte, voluptuous, limpid and languid, seductive, sensual and, ahh, booty before I’d be able to, well, rise to the occasion.

Unfortunately, I was moved to the cop beat. But that’s another story.

It was late Tuesday before I learned Miss Mexico had most wowed the judges Monday night and walked away with top honors. The bigger story, so I heard on the evening news, came during the pivotal question and answer segment of the program, when Miss Philippines, Maria Venus Raj, dropped the proverbial ball. Shame!

Asked to detail “one big mistake” in her life and what she did to “make it right,” the svelte beauty, seductively suggested with a sensual look that was at once limpid and languid, that in her “22 years of existence,” she had done “nothing major”. Then she shook her voluptuous booty.

My mentors in journalism would be proud!

HOW ABOUT THIS MOMENT? Miss Philippines (photo above), Maria Venus Raj, lost her composure and the Miss Universe title when she couldn’t recall one mistake in her life.

Friends and food with an Italian accent

Road-
house is the word that comes to mind when I pass LaStrada out here in my neck of the woods. It’s a little Italian restaurant that has been around for decades, doing business out of a pieced-together shack that rests uncomfortably close to a major thoroughfare in the Land of Cotton.

It really has no shape or form and I have no idea what it housed before it became a little ristorante that has the feel of a neighborhood trattoria. Unpretentious sums up its interior – a few dozen tables and booths on a rickety wooden floor, small bar in one corner, a few photos and tchotchkes sprinkled about to provide a bit of, um, atmosphere.

Balancing out the look, however, is the food, iconic Italian dishes that are hearty and dee-licious – ravioli, lasagna, linguini and spaghetti. There’s also a creative chef back in the tiny kitchen, kicking out daily specials that ooze with Italian flavor and charm.

The Shrimp Sambuca, for instance, will have you humming “That’s Amore”. It’s a lavish and sophisticated dish featuring sautéed jumbo shrimp in garlic, flavored with onion, basil, and kalamata olives, blended together with a tomato sambuca sauce and served over a herbed pappardelli pasta and feta cheese.

I’m thinking it was the aroma of all these tasty delights that smacked me in the kisser when the lovely Miss Wendy and I met up with weekend pals, Susan and John, at LaStrada a few nights ago. Before we could say ciao and offer up a few air kisses all around, there was a basket of garlic bread and a small bowl of black olive tapenade to whet our appetites.

The menu is expansive, but manageable; and being in a no frills sort of mood, and only moderately starving, I had little difficulty sorting through the salads and pasta, meat and fish dishes before pulling together a euphonic blend of Italian delights.

Ignoring the hellish temperatures outside, I started with one of the evening’s specials – chicken vegetable soup, a hearty blend of fresh veggies and hunks of chicken, swimming in a rich tomato-based broth. For my entrée, I went with the manicotti – large tubular pasta shells stuffed with ricotta cheese and herbs topped with marinara sauce and melted mozzarella cheese.

I was so lost in all this Italian goodness – a perfect blend of sweet, hearty sauce and gooey cheeses and pasta – that I have no recollection what my partner in life and friends were feasting on nearby. I do recall the clinking of dinnerware and some vague sounds of contentment around me.

So, what about desert? Well, I’m glad you asked. There were no bad choices, just a difficult decision – cheesecake and gelato and tiramisu, oh my! What about Cioccolato al Forno, a warm flourless chocolate cake served with a chocolate sauce topping? Why, yes, let us all eat cake

It was rich in a light and airy sort of way, amusingly garnished with two delicate swirls of cream, sensually caressed with a layer of silky chocolate sauce. And it was good.

Now it’s gone and so is the weekend, our Italian feast just another warm memory of good times, with good friends. Bella notte, I think, is the appropriate phrase – a beautiful Italian night, at least for a few hours, before stepping back out into the heat and humidity of the Land of Cotton.

LOOKS ITALIAN: Take a couple of large tubular pasta shells (photo above), stuff liberally with ricotta cheese and herbs, then top with marinara sauce and melted mozzarella cheese and, bingo, you’ve got manicotti!

Book explores what it means to be Jewish

It's Friday and time, yet again, for another posting of "Interesting Jewish Stories & Facts" (IJS&F). Today I offer a review of a book that essentially allows two rabbis -- one Reform, the other Orthodox -- to share their worldviews and debate who is the "real" Jew.

How Jewish do you have to be to be a real Jew? That's the convoluted question that uneasily rests at the heart of the book, "One People, Two Worlds" (Schocken Books, $26), written by two rabbis who share the same religion but practice their faith in dramatically different fashion.

Rabbi Ammiel Hirsch, a leading Reform advocate for religious pluralism, and Rabbi Yosef Reinman, an Orthodox Talmudic scholar, were brought together by a mutual friend who convinced them to embark on an e-mail dialogue about the issues that polarize the Jewish community.

The two men spend only a few pages introducing themselves before tackling the thorny philosophical concept of "truth." It's a subject that colors much of their discussion over a 21-month period as they tap dance around a mixed bag of theologically sensitive topics within the Jewish community.

The rabbis manage, for the most part, to keep their emotions in check as they debate such explosive topics as the divine nature of the Torah and the stories it contains; the status and treatment of women; assimilation and marriage; sabbath observance and synagogue rituals; divorce; and homosexuality.

But eventually both men grow weary – and frustrated. After 15 months of sparring, Hirsch writes: "Your writing is replete with terms like 'distortion,' 'scandalous distortion,' 'appalling distortion,' 'lies,' 'big lie' . . . The tone of your writing betrays a certain defensiveness . . . Your efforts to project certainty reveal uncertainty."

Reinman responds: "Well, it appears the debate has gotten down to the tone of my remarks rather than the substance. You cannot refute my arguments, so instead you point to my occasional use of rather strong language as proof that I am covering up undetected flaws. 'Efforts to project certainty,' you argue, 'reveal uncertainty.' How clever."

In fact, Hirsch and Reinman both appear clever after 300 pages of give and take. Neither is moved by the other's arguments and both continue to hold tightly to their own version of truth. Perhaps Reinman captures the ultimate truth when he shares an old Yiddish story with Hirsch at the beginning of their dialogue.

"You remind me of the rabbi who agreed to mediate a dispute between two congregants," he writes. "After listening carefully to one of the litigants, he scratched his chin and said, 'You know, you're right!' "He then listened to the arguments of the other litigant. Again, he scratched his chin and said, 'You're right!'

"The rebbetzin [rabbi's wife] objected. 'My dear husband, if he is right, then the other is wrong, and if the other is right, then he is wrong. How can they both be right?' The rabbi thought for a moment, then he said, 'You're also right!'"

Reinman and Hirsch rest comfortably at opposite ends of a theological spectrum. One end remains firmly rooted in ancient beliefs that continue to offer profound meaning to many Jews; the other end pokes into the 21st century, still linked to the same biblical concepts, but constantly changing and adapting to the modern world.

Can Reinman and Hirsch both be right and bearers of truth? Is one rabbi just as Jewish as the other? Possibly. Probably. Just ask the rabbi in the old Yiddish tale – and the millions of Jews in the Orthodox and Reform movements.

What's in a name? Everything that's important!

When I was growing up in Columbus, I knew a kid named Robert – Robert Schwartz. His name seemed a bit odd for someone so young. Yet it seemed to fit.

Robert was quiet-spoken, reserved and, it seemed at the time, always serious. And he was smart – very smart. Robert was also a year or two older than I was, at an age when kids spent most of their time with youngsters of their own age. So Robert and I knew one another, but we were mostly in the background of each other’s lives.

Flash forward several decades. After school, the army, getting married and moving around to further my career, the lovely Miss Wendy and I landed in the Land of Cotton. Turns out Robert had been living in the area for years and was a member of the synagogue we joined.

But something had changed. Robert was now Bob. He remained quiet-spoken, reserved and, it seemed, still somewhat serious. Did I mention he was smart as a whip? Why, I think I did. And he held onto his smarts as an adult.

Bob also seemed happy and friendly, at times even jolly. Bob was – how should I put it – comfortable with his life and who he had become. I’m certain a major reason for his happiness was his wife Paula and their two sons, Marshall and Elliott.

I bring up all of this now because I attended Bob’s funeral on Tuesday. There was a huge crowd – family, friends and colleagues – who huddled together, ignoring the hot and humid weather, focusing instead on the moving eulogies offered by friends and family.

It turns out Bob had yet another name that his longtime friend, David Witt, shared with those present. When both were boys, growing up in Columbus, they called each other by their first initials – David was D, Robert was R. But it became clear moments later, when Marshall and Elliott spoke, that perhaps the most important name Bob ever had was “Dad”.

Both spoke fondly of a man I never got to know, a loving, kind and generous soul. Bob apparently had a rule that one of his sons detailed, explaining that when he came home from work he would spend 15 minutes with each child doing whatever they wanted.

Marshall and Elliott often pooled their time together, and father and sons would wrestle and play football, the games of childhood that bring generations together. The Robert I knew from Columbus was the sort of guy who might create such a rule, but it was Bob who had learned the joy of playing with his children.

Bob, like all of us, had changed over the years. He had grown and matured, become a loving husband and father, a “selfless” man who understood the absolute joy to be found in taking care of his family.

He had lived – and outlived – several names in his lifetime. But they were all part of the same person, a man who had played out his life, it would seem, with integrity and love. And that’s important, the living of a “good” life, a point that is always noted in the funeral liturgy of a Jew.

“As a drop of water in the sea, as a grain of sand on the shore are a person's few days in life. The good things in life last for limited days, but a good name endures forever.”

Based on the outpouring of love and respect shown at Tuesday’s funeral, Robert need not worry. Bob is now at rest and his good name endures.

May the Almighty comfort the friends and family of Bob among the other mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.

GOOD LIFE, GOOD MAN: Bob Schwartz (photo above) was remembered fondly as a selfless man who cared deeply for his friends and family.