The first time I saw my rabbi dressed up as Buzz Lightyear I knew I was in the right place.  Most adults stared uneasily, not sure what to make of this grown man bounding happily in a bright green and white suit, but I felt right at home.  My children were with me at the time and quite naturally declared:  ”Look, there is rabbi Andrew!” just as they would if they’d seen him at Publix, the park, or up on the Bima.  There was no mention of the outfit, I assume because he wore it quite well, quite naturally.  I’d step out on a limb and confess he even seemed more comfortable in it than the stiff grown-up jackets he’d have to, on many occasions, wear.  This was, after all, Purim, the Jewish holiday that, not only allows, but expects …Read on

This is the day that your headache won’t go away, regardless the amounts of Advil you’ve wolfed down with a Tums chaser so you won’t get an ulcer with the water so you’re not left with chalk jammed in your teeth. This is the day you’ll be stuck behind Grandma driving 37 miles per hour on the freeway and you will honk and curse and huff and puff like an idiot in a rush to go nowhere just because it’s that kind of day.

You can’t see her well, Grandma. She’s shriveled down to a solid 4’8” and that’s including the lavender hair but you could swear when the sun hits at an angle just so and you squint and look at her rearview mirror, well, you could swear that that little old lady is smiling at you. …Read on

I could say if I just look at the slope of her nose (ever so slight with a generous finish) I’d recognize that it is exactly like mine and unmistakably connect us but I know what you are thinking: there is so much more to a face, so many more crevices and cracks to throw you off course. You’d say the eyes, the chin, even the hair. And I’d agree, one cannot gage another by merely the slope of the nose but in this case it really is all it took.  Because when she turned and I saw her profile, I saw myself in her; ten, maybe fifteen years earlier I was there, only with different colored hair and different colored eyes but still me and I knew right then and there, that even though we never crossed …Read on

Today is Yom Kippur, the day of Jewish Atonement, where all Jews become somber and introspective, asking for forgiveness for any wrongs they may have done throughout the year, spilling the beans to God, for lack of a better word. All this has to be done without any distractions, which means, no food. Such a condition does not sit well with a foodie like me, as you can well imagine, and so, I breathe a sigh of relief to be a member of a very progressive, informal synagogue, the only one in my nieghborhood, I believe, where my son is warmly accepted wearing jeans and crocs to the service and the rabbi conveniently slips us an out to the food clause by ending his sermon with a “for all of you who are fasting, may it be an …Read on

Some things have to be said without shame and straight out. This is one of them: I love oil. Not the kind that leaks out of my convertible 1970’s red Beetle, but the kind that sizzles, sputters and splashes all over my kitchen counter while feverishly altering some bland forgettable food into culinary ecstasy. Yes, I know it’s not politically correct to adore oil as I do, I realize the health implications, I know an embarrassing percentage of the American population is obese and we are all much more sedentary than we should be. Still, I can’t help myself. I merely try to use restraint, purchase plenty of carrots and celery, drive by the gym frequently, and wait with great anticipation for that fabulous moment when it will be acceptable,required;, to pull out my …Read on