When friendly strangers find out I\’m a convert to Judaism, they want to know why.
And I\’ve learned to be ready.
I have two stories: One is
respectable, and one involves comic books and video games.
t\’s not that Jeanne Weiner wanted Aunt Leonie\’s Indian Tree dishes for herself. She hadn\’t used the hand-painted china in five years — since just before her husband died — and last Passover she was on the verge of giving the entire service for 31 to her daughter Joelle Keene, who had taken charge of the family seder.
But when it came to actually giving up the china, she balked. And even though this year she is making the transfer, these dishes — more than the Thanksgiving dishes or all the furniture she gave to her daughters — call up a wave of emotion and tears.
After years of being talked about in hushed tones as \”the change of life\” — or not being talked about at all — menopause is now in the spotlight. Two recent plays, \”Is it Hot in Here … Or Is it Me?\” and \”Menopause the Musical\” literally put menopause center stage.
Almost every Friday afternoon for the last few months, I\’ve been visited at my office by a pair of young Chasidic Jews — high school students in big black hats and sporting the wispy beginnings of what I am certain will someday be fine beards.
My family never went to church but celebrated Christian holidays by putting up a Christmas tree in December and hunting for Easter eggs in the spring.
One of the best things about being the editor of a Jewish paper is I get to meet a lot of Jews.
Like many unaffiliated Angelenos between 30 and marriage, I face a problem every Rosh:
This Rosh Hashanah brings to a close the year in which my father died. For this reason, and many others, I am grateful that the Jewish New Year is marked not by parties, but by days and weeks preceding and following of self-evaluation, quiet contemplation and prayers for blessings in the coming year.
Mah Nishtanah Ha Lila HaZeh Mikol HaLeilot?
Why is this night different from all other nights?
On all other nights I\’m required to act like a 25-year-old adult, but on this first night — being the youngest person at my seder table — I get to be a kid.
My great-grandmother, Gouda, escaped Germany by boat at night when she was in her 60s. My grandfather, Opa, fled with her and his wife and two small children when he was 42. Both lived long, energetic, brave lives in their adopted country: she, chasing her great grandchildren around in a playful hide-and-seek when she was 95 years old; he, establishing a synagogue in the Bronx after abandoning one in Grebenaou, Germany. Both also had elaborate Passover breakfast rituals involving broken pieces of matzah.
\”Gouda lined her half-full coffee cup, with thin strips of matzah,\” my mother told me. Then, in the order they went in, she lifted each piece out, sprinkled it with sugar and ate it.
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