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Mother’s Day

Rhea Kohan: No one spits in her kids’ Kasha

Sunday afternoon at the Kohan home is one of those classic portraits of familial bliss: Children are screaming, singing and scurrying about, clamoring for attention, eager to play, while the adults assembled in the kitchen are trying to have a coherent conversation. Clearly, a tall order.

Mystery Mother of Long Ago

I wonder who she was. My “Common Female Ancestor,” as she was called in the write-up that came with the results of the DNA test I took. We all have one, this mother from another time, or we would not be here today.

My Mother’s Daughter

As an adjunct professor teaching four writing classes, I’m flooded with student papers. In one of my classes, an outspoken student looked at a tower of students’ essays on the edge of my desk and said, “I’d rather wash floors than have your job.”

About

Not Just a Daughter Anymore

When I was 4 years old, my father died. When I would meet someone new, I needed to get this information out almost as soon as I said my name. “Hi, my name is Rachel,” I’d say. “My father died.”

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Shabbat dinner, right in your inbox.

More news and opinions than at a Shabbat dinner, right in your inbox.

More news and opinions than at a Shabbat dinner, right in your inbox.