The Way I See It

MY FINAL WORD

2007-05-05T23:51:00.000+01:00

Oooooh that ‘final’ bit sounds a bit daunting.

Well, it’s not like I am going to become a mute, live in seclusion at the top of a mountain, only to nod my toothless head in a knowing way when people climb up to ask me the meaning of life.
Nah, I need to be near restaurants.

How final is final anyway?
Any mother who is human, (Well, there are other life forms in the world you know) appreciates that her ‘final word’ can change with just one sideways glance from her liquid eyed offspring.

And besides, there are so many topics I didn’t get to write about!
Such as:

-Self appointed parking supervisors- If you are a woman then they’re out to get you. If you are a man, then you are probably one of them. They are the men who stand and watch woman park their cars and lose interest as soon as the females do a blooming good job parking their ten foot car in a seven foot space. BUT if the heavens decreed that the woman parking should not do such a great parking job…. These men are right there, watching….. judging….

-Visualisation- It’s very hard to go about day to day life remembering Olam Haemes and the fact that we all get there in the end. Well, when I ‘get to the other side’, I don’t want to be shocked about all the things I should have done in this world when I had the chance. So, I use a visualisation technique that keeps me on the straight and narrow.
I have my own cheering section.
Yes, you read correctly. I imagine about twelve Malachim on bleachers, each holding red and white pom-poms. When I do something wrong, they boo and hiss and throw (environmentally safe) rubbish at me, but when I do something good, they cheer like St Louis fans when the Cardinals won the 2006 World Series. My Malachim are really cute because they chant as well as doing the Mexican wave holding peach scented candles.
I really love when they’re happy with me.

-Gender Photos- Why is it that whenever girls take photos together they always huddle and scrunch down collectively, even if there’s an acre of room in the frame; while boys en masse stretch and take up as much room as possible????
Huh? Yeah, you in the white shirt! Why?????

-My neighbours- I looooove my neighbours. I always say that if the people we bought the house from would know just how much we adore our neighbours, they would have tripled the asking price, and we would have paid it. My neighbours are my best friends and my closest allies. I just hope that Bezras Hashem when Mashiach comes and we move to Israel, we can still live near them.

-Conformity- I believe there is great beauty in asserting one’s individuality while still conforming to the ideals of a group. We live in a day and age where you see people going to outrageous lengths just to stand out from the crowd. The irony is that that act of rebellion becomes a trend and then they have to find even more extreme methods just to be different. I mean, I see so many people with piercings all over their bodies, I imagine that the next step for them would to be to create string art, from stud to stud…

-The Great Conspiracy- Most fabulous women’s shoes are designed by men, ie, Charles Jourdan, Jimmy Choo, the great Loubitan. Think about it. It makes sense. If you ever had the good fortune to don one of their death defying heels, you will know that you can barely walk, let alone RUN. This keeps women in their place. Teetering, but in their place.
Ahem.
I rest my case.

-My Daughters Hair- Asparagus was blessed with blonde curly hair. Ever since she was little, people would stop her on the street and compliment her on her gorgeous hair. When she was thirteen she came to me and told me that she had decided to grow her hair for Zichron Menachem, a charity that makes wigs for children with cancer. She felt that as she had been blessed with beautiful hair, she should share it with those less fortunate than herself. Well, flash forward two years and her hair is nearly long enough to cut. All her friends are getting funky haircuts and bangs but not Asparagus. She ties it back, secure in the knowledge that her hairstyle is truly the most beautiful of all.

-Snippets of conversations I wanted to hear the rest of- Have you ever fleetingly heard one sentence that just made you want to hear the rest of the dialogue? It happens to me all the time. Here are a few examples:
“And then he took the entire filing cabinet and stood on the table…”
“I said, Mavis, you are going to sue that doctor for leaving that clamp inside you! You won’t EVER be able to go through an airport metal detector’!”
“But how DID you fit all those chickens in your SmartCar???”
“Hey, why is that weird woman listening into our conversation?”

-Whiney Women- I am so fed up with women moaning about how Yiddishkeit restricts women. I tell you now, I would never want to be a man and I couldn’t deal with the whole tzizis thing anyway. If you are one of those women who put on tefillin every morning, well bully for you, but that don’t curl my sheitel one bit. I am proud to be a woman, knowing that I have my own connection with time and spirituality in my own way without having to be a cheap facsimile of a man. I’d rather do the female thing really well than the male thing badly.

-War Wounds-My body is a physical testament to all Jewish holidays. In other words, I cook and I have the scars to prove it. Cooking for Rosh Hashanah gave me the Kaparah of two horizontal burns on my inner wrists that look like a botched suicide attempt.
This Pesach left me with a mere seven stitches on my left hand. Making Shissel Challah after Pesach left me with a gaping two inch burn on my right arm that took two weeks to close. And that’s just this year- so far.
My arms are starting to look like a relief map of the Indies.
I think I’d like to go away this Shavous….

Ah, well, so much left unsaid….

This past year has been an incredible, almost psychedelic journey. Through writing, I have discovered so many things about myself that it has proved to be the ultimate cathartic experience. I also learned that, boy…. am I opinionated! The best part was that while I’ve chronicled my observations, I made myself laugh all the while.

This past year saw me; send my son to Yeshiva Gedola, get ill, lose my first mentor, celebrate the birth of my brother’s first child, marry off my eldest niece and my favourite little Blueberry. Plus, I turned forty.

Boruch Hashem, you could say that it’s been a watershed year for me.
But the cherry on the cake is that my other sweet, adorable niece just got engaged and watching her and her Chusson together makes my heart swell with joy.
Isn’t that what life’s about?

I thank you for coming on my fabulous, marvellous, remarkable journey with me because without you, it wouldn’t have been what it was.
I love you all!

I particularly would like to thank; Kishmech, Karl, Jameel and
especially, mostly and positively TOWIK, who may be my birth cousin but who actually is my soul sister.
Towik; you are the best.

Lots and lots of (purely platonic, politically correct, shomer negiah) HUGS,
For the very last time,
Kasamba

Goodbye

2007-03-19T21:54:00.000Z

Goodbye Bloggers
Well, the time has come.
The second to last EVER post of Kasamba.
It’s been a year now, a journey that had its ups and pups, madness and mayhem.

I have enjoyed getting to know you, my readers and yes, even my lurkers. I started blogging because I had a lot to say and it seemed like an ideal forum where I would be judged on content rather than externalities. I loved the almost immediate feedback and enjoyed how I could spark off discussions between all of you.

BUT, I have always been aware that the blogashpere is not an alternate universe that people can behave according to their inner consciousness without any barriers. I actually don’t believe there is any place for that at ALL. In fact, as Jews, if we have bad thoughts, we are taught to replace them with good ones, not revel and salsa around in the mire of rotten reflections.
Yes, there is something to venting.
My blog posts are full of that.
But I would hope that I haven’t once cast members of Klal Yisroel in a bad light.

I believe that as bloggers, we have a responsibility that we can’t abandon just because we are anonymous. Once we say we are Jewish, we are accountable for every word we write, no matter if anyone knows who we are or not.

Whew!
Now that I got that off my chest, I can just tell you why I haven’t been going on your blogs or answering your wonderful comments.
Way back when I started blogging, I promised Hubby that I would only do it (all blogging activities) for one year and one year only. As soon as the year ended, he reminded me of my promise and he has kept me to it. And so, he has let me go blogging over the year only to post these final posts but not to visit everyone elses.
Well, who can blame him? He wants his wife back; as do my kids, and my commitments in RL (that’s Real Life for you lurkers!).
Blogging for Kasamba has come to an end. Finito. Full stop.
I will miss you all.

Well, not really, because the next post will be my last.

But I will forever be Kasamba.

Don't YOU be Passed Over This Passover

2007-03-15T21:57:00.000Z

Most women arrive at their Pesach seder looking like their passport photos.
I figured out that the reason why women are not required to lean is because if they did, they would just keel over.
After cleaning for weeks and replacing all the food in the house and then cooking, the Jewish female of the tribal species usually feels rather worse for wear by the time the pow-wow actually begins.
No, no not I. I will survive.
I refuse to be a dishpan handed wreck by seder night.
I want to happily leave Mitzraim, not say,
“Go on without me, I’m too tired”

Instead I want to sit upright at Magid and be‘with it’ as much as possible.
You might ask- Kasamba, how will you do that?
Well, that’s a mighty good question.

With the patented Kasamba Don’t YOU be Passed Over this Passover Program, you too can be as fresh faced as those who say Ma Nishtana instead of as flat and craggy as a matzah and about as bitter as marror.
So ladies, (no, that doesn’t mean you, even if you are feminine) roll up those sleeves, we’ve got work to do!

-The first step is elementary. If you are like me, during the course of the year you would have received numerous hand and body lotions. If you are also like me, they end up standing in your cupboard, like a regiment of French soldiers; basically doing nothing.

So, take samplings from a few of theses creams and rub profusely over your hands, then place under rubber gloves. So while you are scrubbing and scouring, your hands are being treated and pampered. In fact, according to the Kasamba Don't YOU be Passed Over This Passover Program, your lotions have more of a chance to really penetrate into your hands the more you plunge them in scalding, scorching, blistering water. So, get started.

-The second step; use Pre-Pesach to work on your core stability.
We at the Kasamba Don’t YOU be Passed Over this Passover Program advocate what we call Passover Pilates. Pilates will help you work on strength, balance and mental focus; all of which any Jewish woman needs this time of year.
The fitter you get, the cleaner your house gets. It’s a win/win situation.
This particular exercise is call the ‘Working Like a Dog’
First, you perch on a chair, leaning towards the drawer you wish to clean, then dipping a Q-tip in Windex (or Windowlene on this side of the aquarium) point it at area of the drawer destined for crud removal and
-now-
PULSE *1*2*3 and HOLD 1*2*3: repeat sixty times.
Make sure to concentrate on your core.
For Your Information: your core is the area in the pit of your stomach that bleeds into your intestines whenever you think about Pesach.

-The third step is an opportunity for you to see to your face and your fridge/larder at the same time. All of us have expensive items of food that we feel are too good to throw out but are way too old/moldy to use. So, using the Kasamba Don’t YOU be Passed Over this Passover Program, you will learn how to clear these food items from your shelves while at the same time hydrating and nourishing your skin. We have it all in our Ingredients You Have Face Mask.
First, take all unused or half used items from all different food groups and line them up. Then starting with the yogurt, (including the green stuff on the top- it has curative properties; like antibiotics) you will schmear it all over your face. Then move on to the leftover avocado and spread over the yogurt layer. We all know about the medicinal properties of olive oil, so next, take the last of the chametz olive oil and apply it over the other two layers.
Don’t be afraid to go ethnic! Be heimishe and proud! Go on! Dollop on some of that herring your husband was saving but never actually ate. It's full of z complex minerals! Gehakta Leben is also chock full of protein!

Finally, for the coupe de ta; nuts. Nuts are an essential hydrating component of our Ingredients You Have Face Mask.
But you already know that it’s impossible to use all those nuts that you got over Purim any other way! The vitamins found in nuts are wholesome and vital for the collagen production in the skin, so be sure to be generous when applying.
Don’t worry; your face mask might burn a little, which is perfectly normal.
Leave on for 48 hours, making sure to avoid sunlight.

-Step four. We at the Kasamba Don’t YOU be Passed Over this Passover Program, believe in making the most of your cleaning time and that means doing things that you promised yourself you would; but you never did. Keeping in mind that in every Jewish woman there is an Imelda Marcus just waiting to burst out; take a walk to your shoe closet.

Look around. Just how many shoes do you own that are the weensiest, teensiest bit too small for you? Is it only one pair? Or are there five or more? Never fear, because, you will soon be able to wear those uncomfortably tight shoes and they will soon be as loose and as comfortable as a pair of slippers. The secret is this: put on those snug shoes and wear them while you clean. Yes, it’s that simple. Just teeter around in them while you rummage around your house looking for unleavened kryptonite and you will make your footwear as slack as Alfred Hitchcock’s jaw. This key to doing this is something called ‘pain redirection’. Our team of crack psychologists assure you that when you are pillaging your home, you become so highly focused that you will not notice that you are wearing six inch heels that are at least two sizes too small (because they were such a pretty colour and they were on sale and they were the only ones left).

-Step five; learn a new language.
So far we have worked on our outsides, but what of our MINDS????
We must toil and exert ourselves culturally as well as look amazing with terrific shoes while we dechometize our homes. Naturally, this is the best time to learn that foreign language that you always wanted to.

For the first time you will be able to read books in another tongue!
For the first time, you will be able to order without translation in exotic restaurants!
For the first time, you will be able to understand what your cleaning help says!
Be like Mordechai Hayehudi- choose from our Kasamba Don’t YOU be Passed Over this Passover Program’s extensive collection of no less than seventy, yes- you read it right, seventy language tapes. It’s simple.
All you do is listen and repeat.
Can you say
‘is this a really old macaroni or is this a new form of wildlife?’
in Bulgarian?

So that’s it. The patented Kasamba Don’t YOU be Passed Over this Passover Program won’t let you get washed down the drain with the filthy water this year! No this year, you would have worked out both body and mind to arrive at the Pesach juncture prepared to travel with the rest of Kllal Yisroel, just in better, more comfortable shoes.

After the five step Kasamba Don’t YOU be Passed Over this Passover Program, not only will your house be spotless but your hands will be as soft as Paroah’s belly, you will be as fit as an Eved shlepping rocks, your face will be as smooth as a Baitzah and you will speak as many languages as the Anshei Kneses Hagedola.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to blow torch clean my kid’s braces.
Ah, just one kid, just one kid

The Big Freeze

2007-03-08T03:25:00.000Z

Now that Purim is done and dusted, I beg the question; just what is the story with us and our freezers?

Out of all our appliances; why do we break down like a 1980’s Ford Escort when our freezers pack up?

I’ll tell you why, through a detailed analogy as follows;

A ship goes belly up and sinks, taking all its passengers with it.

Yup, that’s about it.

When your freezer dies, it has everything inside that you wanted to keep just in case you can't get to the shops.
After all, you never know when;
-Your car won’t start without warning
-Guests turn up without warning
-Armageddon arrives without warning

Most frum women I know have more than one freezer and these freezers are always full, yet there is never anything to eat in the house.

We females are so dependent on our freezers that our priority shows itself in the discourse we have with our peers.
Example:

Female #1: “I fell down and fractured my leg in fifteen different places. The doctors say I won’t be walking for months and when I do, I will have a noticeable limp.”

Female #2: That must be terribly inconveniencing for you. I wish you a refuah shlemah.

Now, notice the difference when the conversation concerns freezers.

Female #1: I had builders in the garage and they switched off all the power by mistake, so everything I had in the freezer defrosted and had to be thrown out.

Female #2: OH NO!!!! What are you going to do???? What a tragedy!!!! Hashem Yirachem!

This is obviously elementary, after all, once you’ve stood in your kitchen for hours and cooked food, the only place you want it to go is in peoples mouths: not in the gaping jaws of the local sanitation vehicle.

I would have to say that a freezers greatest enemy are children-in-search-of-ices. These children leave the freezer door open while they rummage around looking for the odd ice pop that might have fallen out of the now empty box. Or they try to freeze Evian bottles full of orange juice and need to check on their progress every two minutes.
Then, if leaving the freezer door wide open isn’t bad enough, the kiddies never close the door properly so the cold air escapes slowly and surely until everything that was once rigid with frost becomes completely damp and limp like fat men after a sauna.

Before a Simcha, freezing isn’t even a luxury, it’s a necessity. When a woman davens that everyone should be in good health and her guests should arrive with their luggage and that everything should work out, she will put in an extra bit about her freezers.
“Please Hashem, Master of the Universe, You who have given man the Daas to create electricity, please watch over my freezers so my Simcha can be complete.”
Amen, sister.

On the other hand, you can tell a lot about a person by what they store in their freezers.
-If you store food that is peppered with paprika and heavy on garlic, you are most likely Hungarian.
-If you store food that is perfumed with cinnamon and honey, you are most likely Sephardi.
-If the question isn’t what you have in your freezer, but rather WHO you have in your freezer, you are most likely a psychopath and I ain’t eating at your house.

My favourite freezer story is actually a classic in the Kasamba household. It involves a much beloved and adored Auntie and Hubby’s deceased grandmother.
It was a family get together, six months after the passing of Hubby’s paternal grandmother, Omi. Auntie, the daughter in-law of the departed, presented all assembled with a beautiful apple pie. Everyone had a piece and was marvelling over the lightness of the dough.
In response, Auntie said, “Well, it is Omi’s dough.”
“Oh”, her son elucidated, “You mean, you used Omi’s recipe to make the dough”
“No” Auntie replied, “It IS Omi’s dough.”
“Huh, what do you mean, it is Omi’s dough?”
“You know… from her freezer”

There was a deafening silence after the almighty ‘CLANK’ that was made when everyone threw down their cutlery.

In spite of everything, freezer or no freezer, a person’s food should never outlive them.

What’s with that term ‘freezer burn’ anyway?
Hello?
Freezer, brrr cold.
Burn, achhhh hot.
Go figure. Another thing I won’t ask Rabbi X.

Now before Pesach, I must delve into the depths of my freezer on my mission to either search (and devour) or destroy. Because of the aforementioned ‘freezer burn’, most of the time I must destroy, but even the act of throwing away the remnants of last Shavous’s cheesecake, brings back lovely memories. (Sound effect: birds chirping)

Whenever this time of year barrels along, I always feel like an intrepid explorer braving the sub artic conditions to forage through the icy depths to retrieve some ancient, fossilised prize. However, once the freezers are empty, I start to feel like my car’s gas gauge reads less than 1/10 full. Yup, I get nervous. Maybe it’s because I’m a gilgul of someone who went through the Irish Potato Famine or maybe it’s because I’m part Hungarian, I dunno, all I know is I just can’t rest until my freezers full again.

And so, the cycle continues.
Ah, the circle of life.

Is it Purim Yet?

2007-03-01T19:14:00.000Z

Boruch Hashem Cucumber is feeling a little better BUT because it is before Purim and she missed so much school, I feel I have to pick up the slack and teach her about the holiday myself.
The story went fine but the songs- eh, eh (hand swivel)
Apparently, my memory is worse than I thought.
I sang her the ‘Purim song’ as I remembered it, and it went something like this:

King Achashverosh liked nosh that smelled like feet
He begged his wife Vashti for some
She had many Corn Chips
A hundred at least
And said “I won’t give you even one!”

I knew something was up when my little girl looked up at me as if I was Tom Cruise jumping on her sofa. “Mummy” she said, “I don’t think it goes like that” and she sang me the real version, which I must admit makes much more sense.
Now I recall why I never became a teacher.
Never mind, it’s your kids loss.

Anyhoo, Purim is almost upon us and my theme is ready.
This year’s theme is theWizard of Oz.
I am the wicked witch, obviously.
Hubby is the scarecrow.
(Artichoke is in the US, spending time with my Favourite Fruits)
Cucumber is the good witch
Radish is a gladiator and Tomato is a Pirate- think poetic license or Venahafoch Hu
And Asparagus will be the Lion.
Asparagus HAD to be the lion because she is growing her naturally curly, stunning blonde hair for Zichron Menachem, who make wigs for children with cancer. Her hair is almost two feet long from scalp to end and with a mane like that, she HAD to be the lion!

Oh, I do adore Purim. After Sukkos, Purim is easily my favourite holiday.
Well, you can’t sit in a Shalach Manos for seven days, can you?
But before you lock me up, just know that there are others like me out there!
Yes, they do exist!
We are a secret society that actually enjoy THE most hectic day of the year. But then again, I also love making Pesach, but that’s another story…

My kids love the whole build up to Purim. In fact, they will start preparing next years Purim costumes, while sorting out their Purim nosh this year. And that’s another thing, Boruch Hashem that Pesach comes so soon after Purim, otherwise my kids would have authentic British teeth, if you catch my drift.

When I was younger, I was much more into the whole earth-mother-who-makes her-own-costumes thing. Well, it was the closest I will ever get to growing my own vegetables. Even though I tell myself not to feel guilty about that, apparently London fog and smog is only really good if you want to grow glow in the dark zucchinis. Anyhoo, I used to sew, and create costumes and find satisfaction in doing so. Nowadays, I get satisfaction if I remember to cut Tomato’s and Cucumber’s fingernails. So, it’s off the costume store for us.

I’m just grateful that costumes have evolved since the Stone Age, when I was a child. I used to hate those plastic masks with the rubber band that always came out of the staples. I also hated the way my face would get all hot and sweaty from breathing in my own air. I was always sure that those little tiny cut out mouths were meant for a goyta who was much more refined than I was and didn’t have nearly as large of a mouth.

We are having the seuda in our house but my lovely sisters in law are cooking everything and leaving me to do my favourite part: the dessert. I put out black tablecloths and assembled a yellow brick path winding over the tables. I also have all the accessories on the table; such as Toto in a basket, the emerald city in a vase, ruby red shoes, medal of bravery, etc..

The way it works is that my brother in law is the bouncer and gives out £1 charity vouchers to the collectors but allows the entertaining groups in who get the big bucks. No one in my family drinks much, so apart from the de rigour Purim L’chaim, BH there’s no vomit or drunken behaviour in my house.

So unless you behave yourself, and have a routine, you ain’t getting in.
But I might make an exception if you have corn chips.

Germs Invade Casa Kasamba

2007-02-27T20:02:00.000Z

As a mother and wife, I know that I can’t afford to be ill.
But for me it was always a toss up- which is worse; my husband getting sick or my kids….
That is until now.
(Drumroll please, maestro)

Hmm…
Let’s weigh things up:

If my husband gets ill (Chas Vesholom!):
- I must pander to his every need
- I must seem to be sympathetic
- I must pretend that I don’t mind that he can’t do carpool/help with homework/get fresh bread in the morning.

If my kids are unwell (Chas Vesholom!)
-I must clean up their ‘returning of semi-digested food’ (Ahem…)
-I must clean up their ‘rapidly digested food’ (Ahem, once again)
-I must pander to their every need
-I must hear, “I’m not weeeeeelllll” every two minutes on the clock
-I must advise them on exactly what they are allowed to eat as often as I hear the above
-I must sit through my mother’s lectures on how to make power drinks in the juicer to bring the kids back to health
-I must enjoy their presence as they stay home from school

Yup, hands down, it’s the kids.

And there is nothing more heartbreaking than children who were formally Tasmanian Devils turning into overcooked spaghetti.
Especially, if they miss something big, like a simcha or a party or a Yom Tov.

A day before Asparagus turned two, she got chicken pox and her birthday party had to be cancelled. This didn’t stop many well meaning and kind relatives and friends from giving her presents from a safe distance by the door. It’s just that one relative (yes, you know who you are!) who shall remain nameless, who gave Asparagus her favourite present which was; real Barbie makeup. Now, you do the math. Combine makeup and chicken pox and what do you get? A big sticky technicoloured mess.
Epilogue- she has a souvenir of that gift in the form of a scar on her left cheek, where the makeup got entrenched with the open chicken pox pustule.
Ah, a birthday present that lasts forever.

For the past two weeks, my little four year old Cucumber has been down and out. The first week, she had a severe case of gastroenteritis, which lasted for seven days until she went back to school on Friday. The treatment for that was easy because she wasn’t allowed to eat anything and she exists on air anyway, so it suited her fine. Then, Motzai Shabbos she came down with a fever of 102. In the beginning, she was so cute with it, with her cheeks all rosy and her eyes all glassy, but then she got all miserable. So, I called the doctor over to my house (you see? There ARE benefits to living here!) but he couldn’t find anything else sinister, so he just recommended that I give her over the counter medicine to bring the fever down.
Uh, I’m sorry.
What was that he said? Give her WHAT????

Let me explain: Cucumber is a ‘nil by mouth’ kind of girl. She barely eats, detests family favourite staples- such as pasta, pizza and potatoes and exists by the grace of G-d. She does NOT take medication. And so in spite of cajoling and begging and even bribing she refused to take anything until three days later (the totally white night before last) her fever spiked at 105 degrees. By then I just forced her to take a suppository and bathed her until the fever came down. The doctor came to see her again yesterday and saw that she has a full blown case of Tonsilitis and prescribed antibiotics, which he happened to have in his case, and mixed up the solution for me on the spot. (Take that, UK detractors!)
UH, wasn’t he listening???
Which part of ‘she-won’t-take medicine’ did he not get???

However, extreme times call for extreme measures, so I brought out the last gun in my arsenal: Diddles.

Diddles are the 2007 equivalent of Holly Hobby from the 70’s and Hello Kitty from the 80’s and 90’s. They are the stationary du jour for all the well stocked 4-7 year olds. They have cute pictures of frolicking mice in hot pinks and lavenders. Apparently, it’s all the rage to trade them at school. BUT, being as Cucumber is my fifth and youngest child, her pleas for Diddles actually went unheard and unheeded. Thank goodness I was so negligent in providing her with the accoutrements necessary for popularity in the nursery set, because now I had something to bargain with.

With the promise of Diddles, she finally took her antibiotics.
Then this tiny, feverish girl brought me her boots and her coat.
I said, “Cucumber, it’s okay, we can go tomorrow to get the Diddles, when you’re feeling better!”
“Uh, uh” She answered, “I want to go NOW.”
So I bundled her into my car and set off to the only stockist of Diddles in our area: Toys R US.

Now, you have to understand, Joan of Arc walking towards her fatal barbeque wasn’t half as much as a martyr as my little Cucumber. The image of my poor child shuffling down the aisle of the mammoth superstore in her pyjamas, dragging her booted feet behind her, is indelibly etched in mind.
Her skin was a shade of duck egg blue but she sported a determined look in her eye and when she saw her prize, she went in for the kill. She picked out a hot pink folder with a selection of notelets and then said,
“I’m not feeling weeelll. Can you carry me?”
Which I did.

School Never Ends

2007-02-26T21:42:00.000Z

An evil poem that redeems itself.

School Never Ends
To say I dislike school fundraising dinners and school shows
Would be a form of major understatement I suppose
Because you’d think giving a donation would be enough
But sitting through speaker after speaker- man that’s tough
Even though I know I must support my kids’ school
My eyes glaze over before I’m even seated as a rule.

Blahdi, blahdi, blah; education is the key, it is the core
Yeah, I sort of got the message eighty dinners before!

It is said that it is much better to give than to receive
If that’s true, we gave already- so why can’t we leave?
I think I just take umbrage at the whole phrasing
I mean, just who put ‘fun’ into the word ‘fundraising’?

And then comes the school shows which get the kids all excited
With all the hype- you’d think they were about to get knighted!
To get close to the school is a nightmare- parking is a real kafuffle
Then once you’re inside to get good seats, again you have to shuffle.

But as soon as my sweet treasures did what they had to do
Which usually entails them saying lines that are oh so few
I still must stay for another three hours, which is a whole day shot
It’s not like I’m interested in your sweet little darlins- I’m really not
But before all of you start jumping right down my throat
Don’t be all self righteous cuz we’re all in the same boat!
So calm down, count to ten and then take a breather
I know you’re not much interested in my kids either!

Wouldn’t it be so much better if the school was able
To come up with a precise schedule and timetable
So we could come on time to watch our own offspring
And then waltz home right after- not missing a thing!

Okay, okay I know I’m being a tad bit mean
After all, I know we’re all on the same team.
As Lady J says, all yiddisher kinder are ‘ours’ not ‘yours’ or ‘mine’
And the way she says it, you know that it’s not just a line.
So would it kill me a few times, for a few hours a year
To enjoy other peoples children that they hold so dear?

And to say that I can’t stand school dinners, I can’t really afford
Because my husband is the chairman of the school dinners board!

So I will go to both and I promise I will try to enjoy and smile
But I will be thinking about writing another evil poem all the while.

Give Them a Hand!

2007-02-24T19:31:00.000Z

Erev Shabbos in Jewish homes across the world (or at least in London), women such as myself, are busy playing ‘beat the clock’ before Shabbos comes in.
Not so in Monsey NY.

Erev Shabbos in Monsey finds the average Eshes Chayil in the nail salon.
On Friday afternoon, completely organised and relaxed knowing that they have Shabbos completely prepared at home. (Halevei of mir gezucht!)

In Monsey, there are as many nail salons as there are Minyanim. In spite of this, these ‘manicure havens’ are all really homogonous and their staff are literally interchangeable.

These nail salons are all owned and operated by Koreans although to the untrained Monsey eye, they all look Chinese. It is always run by the one Korean ‘Mamasan’ (okay, that’s Japanese. Sue me.) who can speak ‘Engrish’ so she can translate to the rest of her workforce that do not. Ironically, although they can’t say a full English sentence, they all have nametags with monikers stolen straight from an All-American cheerleader squad. You can have your nails done by Jenny, Jessica or Tiffany. They all smile at you sweetly, then yell at each other in Korean (which the Monseyiites would swear is Chinese) then smile at you sweetly again. They won’t understand any of the bright, witty, remarks and observations you make. Although they will laugh politely. Quite possibly at you.
What a waste of good material.

They grab the hand they need to work on and tap your rings to show that you must remove them. Then before they remove polish your nails, they say the only three words in English they know, “You pay now”. Which of course you do, making sure to tip them well so they don’t spit in your polish. You choose from a selection of nail polishes with names like; Moda Skooda, Ador-a ball, Raisinuts, Prima Ballerina and Limo Scene.

When you are done they deposit you by a huge table covered with nail dryers. They then carefully move your sheitel to the side (knowing that it is just a tug away from coming off) and proceed to massage your neck. After around one minute of bliss, they take their tiny fists and start to rhythmically beat you on the back until you thank them profusely or scream, “Mercy!”
In vibrato.

But all of that is ‘de rigour’.
What I find so interesting on my Erev Shabbos Monsey expeditions are my fellow seekers in search of the perfect set of nails. Many moons ago, when I grew up in Monsey, Monsey was run primarily by the ‘Sensible Women Brigade’. You know, the type; sensible shoes, sensible hair, and mix and match clothes. In the good old days, these women would never be caught alive, doing something as vain as getting their nails done.
Not so anymore!
The Sensible Woman Brigade sits alongside the pretty and the pampered and make sure their nails are beautifully shaped and lacquered.
I say good on them!

And what is even better is the achdus the nail-drying tables facilitate. You have double decker women (sheitels and hats) wearing bullet proof tights and sitting beside women wearing very long sheitels with sheer tights, and women who wear no sheitels and no tights at all.
This bizarre gathering of interspecies creates an opportunity for instantaneous bonding where deep, meaningful conversations can take place.
My personal favourite debate is; is it correct to bring a baby to non family Chuppah?

Not once do they discuss kugels or chicken soup.
As I said earlier, these superwomen are super organised. Their food is ready and waiting for them to be warmed up and served. All that’s left for them is to be indulged and improved. After all, you wouldn’t want to greet the Shabbos Queen with mangy nails. These Nashim Tzidkanios look down on their gleaming fingernails as they light candles and bring light into the world and they feel great.
This promotes Sholom Bayis.
I guess that makes Jessica, Jennifer and co. the most unlikely shlichim.
Viva La Difference!

The Kasambamama Helpline

2007-02-22T08:50:00.000Z

My kids are needy.

They always need something from me.
This makes me tired.
How can I be a good mother when I am oh, so, very tired? Huh?

Hence, using 21 century technology, I have devised a method of dealing with requirements from my five children, while still retaining my last vestige of reason.

So, voila!
It is my pleasure to welcome to
the Mommy Helpline Voicemail

If you would like to know what’s for supper, please press 1.
*
-If you want milky, press 1
-If you want meaty, press 2
-If you have suddenly become a vegetarian, please move out.

If you have lost something, please press 2.
*
-If you lost your schoolbag press 1
-If you lost your homework, press 2
-If you have lost your shoes, press 3
-If you lost your pet, use the intercom. Now.

If you have a report due tomorrow press 3
*
-If your report is on English subject, press 1
-If your report is on a Jewish subject, press 2
-If your report requires two months of research in one evening, dream on.

If you are being bullied, press 4
*
-If you are being bullied in school, press 1
-If you are being bullied on the bus, press 2
-If you are being bullied by a sibling, press 3
-If you are being bullied by the cleaner, get off the phone and clean up your mess!

If you need an item of clothing that is in the laundry, press 5
*
-If you need your dirty gym clothes, press 1
-If you ran out of clean tzitzis, press 2
-If you want to wear your favourite pair of knickers even though they are so filthy they could walk into the washing machine… forget about it.

If your sibling is bothering you, press 6
*
-If your sibling is touching things in your room, press 1
-If your sibling is imitating your every move and word, press 2
-If your sibling read your diary, press 3
-If sibling found your hidden stash of nosh, it’s so gross that you had food in your room; it serves you right.

If you need to buy anything, press 7
*
-If you need to buy new shoes, press 1
-If you need to buy a new football, press 2
-If you need to buy new Polly Pocket dolls, press 3
-If you need to buy a refrigerator in your room….uh, rethink your needs.

If you can’t sleep, press 8
*
-If you need a drink, press 1
-If you need the bathroom, press 2
-If you need to do your homework, press 3
-If you need to call all your friends, hand telephone back to me. For good.

If you are not feeling well, press 9
*
-If you are throwing up, press 1
-If you have a gaping wound, press 2
-If your throat is ‘killing’ you, press 3
-If you have fever, press 4
-If you are dizzy, press 5
-If you have all of the above, hang up. You are 100% faking.

If you feel that you can’t go to school tomorrow, press 0
*
-please listen to mishnah tapes while your call is being processed….

Still being processed…

Citizen Kasamba and the Police

2007-02-20T15:49:00.000Z

I love the London Police.
I know they love me too.
In fact, we have a symbiotic law enforcement/citizen relationship.
Just check out my correspondences with these
'men in blue'.

Dear Mrs Kasamba

I am writing to you regarding the theft of your 6 ft. American flag from the flowerpot outside your home [Case # VB9372A].
Although we appreciate your help in apprehending the perpetrators of this crime, the small trails of dirt from your flowerpot to the street can not be tested for DNA as per your request.

We also feel that this episode, while most unfortunate and difficult for you, is NOT an ‘International Incident’ and does not necessitate the involvement of the American Embassy. Nor does this incident constitute a ‘Hate Crime’.

You can be sure that we are doing our utmost in solving this theft, however in the meantime please avail yourself of our criminal victims support therapy group sessions. You can phone freephone 0800 566 7872 to find a support group closest to you.

The Golders Green Police force is proud to have the lowest crime rate in the borough of Barnet. We take theft very seriously and we will do our best to bring you a satisfactory result.

Whilst we are happy to hear that you have purchased a new flag, we can not guarantee its safety with around the clock police guard.
May we suggest placing it in a higher place?

Sincerely,
Inspector Herbert Blakely
Golders Green Police Station
Finchley Road
London
NW110QE

Dear Mrs Kasamba

Enclosed you will find an official report for you to relay the details of the double decker bus driver whom you feel to be a menace to society.

When filling out the forms, please use explanatory adjectives.
Rather than describing the bus driver as a ‘beady eyed troll’ I would find it easier if you could just describe his general demeanour in as much detail as possible along with the exact date and time you witnessed his reckless driving. Please refrain from using the Indie 500 as an illuminating feature.

Mrs Kasamba, I feel that I must reiterate what I said to you on the phone, that writing that you could hear his evil laugh right through to your car, will only make it more difficult for my colleagues to take your report seriously.

Thank you for your concern with public safety.

Sincerely,
Superintendent Ian Marcy
Commercial Vehicle Unit
Traffic OCU HQ 6th Floor
Empress State Building
Lillie Road
Earls Court, London
SW61TR

Dear Mrs Kasamba

On behalf of the entire Golders Green police station we would like to take this opportunity to thank you for single-handedly removing the gypsy problem from our streets.

People just do not realise that by giving these travellers money, they are encouraging soliciting and the harassment that often accompanies this. By calling us every time you saw them begging, we were able to mobilize our units and consistently collect them and take them to the edge of town.

It is my understanding from our many chats together on this subject, that it is the fact that they take their many babies begging with them, subjecting them to all kinds of inclement weather, that bothers you. However Mrs Kasamba, opening up a gypsy creche facility would not stop the problem and might possibly exacerbate it as well.

It is also not possible to remove one of their many gold teeth to sell, in order to provide sustenance for the entire group.

Once again we thank you for your tireless efforts on behalf of the community and I regard it as an honour to be on your speed dial.

Sincerely,
Sergeant Thomas Fielding
Golders Green Police Station
Finchley Road
London
NW110QE

Rabbi X and the Gilgul Cat

2007-02-05T23:22:00.000Z

I was so excited when Rabbi X moved into the vicinity.
I read every one of his books and he had answered questions that I had since I was a child.
One day, I was driving with Asparagus and I spotted Rabbi X walking on the street. I was so overcome to see the great man himself that I shrieked, “Look, Asparagus! There’s Rabbi X!”
Asparagus was very perturbed and cried out,
“Ma, what do you want me to do?”

It all stems from my hero worship.
You see to me, Rabbi X is the biggest celebrity there is.
Living in London, I see people the secular world considers to be the brightest stars and it doesn’t curl my sheitel one bit.
I have seen Madonna, Nicole Kidman, Elizabeth Hurley, Kate Moss, sharon Stone, Richard Gere, Courtney Cox, and Tom Cruise to name a few.
They do nothing for me and I have no problem talking to them and asking them to move if they are in my way.

But then there’s Rabbi X, the man who is privy to the mysteries and enigmas of the world. To me he is the real icon, the absolute higher form of being that everyone can look up to for inspiration.

Then one fine day, Rabbi X and his family moved in bang across the street from me!

Well, I am not exaggerating when I tell you that it took me two whole years to get up the courage to speak to him. My kids knew about this and would shout, “Ma, Rabbi X is outside!” to which I’d respond by looking out the nearest window.
Even watching him take out the rubbish was spiritually uplifting. BH, his wife has got to be the nicest person in the whole world, otherwise she would've taken an injunction out on me, for sure. She knows that I am in awe and that I revere her husband as one of the 36 tzaddikim and she also knows that I’m a bit, well, mad (in the deranged sense, not in the angry one).

One of my other neighbours told me that she woke up in the middle of the night on Shavous and looked outside her window and saw the most bizarre scene. Rabbi X’s house was well lit and the entire roof was covered with pigeons. But, here’s the kicker; no one else’s roofs had even one!
(cue theme from Twilight Zone)
Ummmmm…

It’s great having Rabbi X across the street because:

1- If I run out of his tapes while I am cooking, I can run across the street (in my cooking tiara, naturally) and get some new ones. I actually told Rebbetzin X that she is so lucky that I am so considerate that I listen to Rabbi X’s tapes instead of forcing him to stand in my kitchen and talk while I cook.

2- I can ask him any question.
Of course there are a few I would never ask, such as: Why do socks disappear? Why doesn't anyone name their children ‘Adom’ and yet there are loads of Chavas? (Thanks E!) Why do airlines trust passengers to only take their own luggage? Why can’t I keep my lips closed when I put on mascara? Why is it called ‘right’ when we go the opposite of ‘left’- does that mean left is ‘wrong’?

3- My kids have a great role model.

4- I feel like my whole street is protected by the Torah he learns day and night.

And then, there’s his cat.
Rabbi X’s cat is a gilgul cat.

That cat is a well travelled soul in the body of a mangy, fat feline.

Apparently the cat choose Rabbi X’s family and not the other way around.

He is not a normal cat.
A normal cat runs from you when you try to swat it with a broom.
A normal cat doesn’t win a staring contest.
A normal cat doesn’t give you ‘attitude’ when sitting on your car.

Yes, this cat has been around this way before. Most likely he committed sins so heinous as to require him to itch at fleas and pick at other people’s (namely mine!) garbage. I know that when ensconced in the bodies of animals, recycled souls retain memories of past lives. Every so often I tell him (okay, shriek at him) “Ich bein moychel zein!” three times, to which he just looks at me like a drunken sailor; which he probably was.

I wait for my words to take effect and hope that he will drop dead and move into the light. But alas, it is not I who must offer reparations to this creature, but someone else.
I think it was definitely the master plan to have this cat’s lack of middos addressed to by Rabbi X.

In the meantime I back out of my driveway at the crusty calico’s peril.

Go on stupid cat.... make my day.

Some Day My Prince Will Come

2007-02-02T10:44:00.000Z

When I was 19, I bought the most exquisite shoes.

They were Italian made, black leather with a spiked four inch heel.

They were Ma Rabu maasecha Hashem, for only Hashem could have imparted the knowledge of how to create such a design.
They were truly breathtaking.

I felt they deserved a spectular debut, so I decided to save them for a special occasion, which presented itself in the form of my cousin’s 25 wedding anniversary party in Staten Island.
(Okay, so I was desperate to wear them already.)
On the ride home, Kasamba Papa noticed that one of the car doors was opened. So on the highway, we all open and shut our doors.
Everything was fine….or was it?
No it was….NOT!

One of my beautiful, magnificent shoes had flown out the door right onto the Palisades Highway.

I felt sick with loss.
Later that night, as I hobbled back into my parent’s home, I thought,
“I was not meant to be parted from such beauty!”
I took my lovely lonely abandoned and newly single shoe and said “My darling shoe, you will see your mate again, for when I find my true love, you will be reunited with your one and only”
I then placed the shoe in a Lucite box upon my shelf, awaiting my Prince who would bring me my missing shoe.

That summer my parents and I went to LA.
In front of a kosher restaurant I spied the most beautiful automobile known to mankind. It was a silver white cloud Rolls Royce convertible.

I was SURE that my shoe was in that car.

Now, my parents are not easy to embarrass. In fact that whole vacation was spent with my mother introducing herself to celebrities as if they should know who she is. She’d say “Don’t you remember me? I’m Kasambas Mama!” Okayyyy. Get the picture?

So when I went up to the Rollers chauffer and insisted that my shoe was in that car, my parents were….
So proud.

They were cracking up when I was arguing with the poor driver that "Yes, I know that the owner is in the restaurant, but my shoe really is in that car!”

The guy got more flustered when I insisted that the owner was single (he was) and that although the owner had never met me (he hadn’t) my shoe had magically ended up in his car. Finally, I put the guy out of his misery by saying that I would ask the owner of the Fabmobile himself.

When I went inside the restaurant, I saw the Roller’s owner immediately; because he was the only one sitting there. As soon as I saw him I decided that building a Bayis Neeman with someone on the basis of their car was not such a good idea. Really, it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the guy was pushing seventy. As sure as I had been that my shoe was in that car, I knew then that it was not to be.

And so, I went back home, sans shoe, and more importantly
sans Prince.

When I met Mr. Kasamba, I told him about my missing shoe and asked him if he had it. He responded the response that went straight to my heart. He said,
“It’s only a stupid shoe.
I’ll buy you plenty of shoes!”

And bless him, he has.

(All together now; ‘Awwww’)
Sigh.

The Fashion Police

2007-01-31T13:23:00.000Z

When I was younger, I would always bristle at what I considered to be fashion faux pas.
I took them as a personal affront to me and my good taste.

Here a few cardinal regulations that I felt were inexcusable to break:

*You all know how I feel about fur- I love it.
I always think of the happy animal souls floating upon high, secure in the knowledge that their sacrifice is keeping a Mitzvah loving Jew warm. It’s a win/win situation except, and here comes the Kasamba policy:
A fur coat should never be larger than the animal it was ripped off of.

*Then there are two things I never wanted to see on men, unless they are channelling Carmen Miranda and going to sing any song by Judy Garland. These two things are jewellery and long hair. I’m afraid that men with hoops in their ears always forced me to resist the compulsion to tug and see what happens. To me, rings, bracelets and necklaces make a man look like a pirate at a dress up party. And about the long hair- the problem is, men with hair past their shoulders, require them to follow strict hygiene rituals, which I really think is an unmasculine pursuit. And what’s with the pony tail? Eww, gross. All that does is make me want to find an inkwell to dip it in.
Why can’t a man be a man and get a normal fuss free haircut?

*Now here’s a fashion no-no that would be simple to correct, had the perpetrator invested in another mirror. Yes, that’s right, I’m talking about -people who look fine from the front but from the back they look like they are sausages bursting out of their wrappers- in other words, their poor overworked clothes are busting at the seams. Most of the time this offence is committed by pregnant women who are so enthralled by the shape of their bumps that they wear poured on clothes (do I really want to know if they have ‘innie’ or ‘outie’ belly buttons?) not realizing that they also regale the viewer with every ounce of freshly acquired cellulite visible from the rear.
Yup, way too much information.

I would walk along my merry way thinking:
(This is interactive- you have to fill in the blanks)
“Hey ___________ called, they want their ___________ back”
Sonny & Cher .............................fuzzy vest
Seventies ....................................Afro
Eighties ......................................shoulderpads
Tevye ...........................................tatty hat
Ringling Bros. ...........................clown makeup
Diana Ross ................................sequined monstrosity

Then it came to a point where I appointed myself, self proclaimed ‘Fashion Police’. I don't think there would've been enough forests in the world to produce the paper necessary for all the tickets I would've been handing out, because every fashion offence would deserve its own penalty and punishment.

Small offences like dressing for summer in the height of winter or dressing thirty years too old or too young for your age would get a £20 fine.

Larger offences such as wearing more than six designer obvious prints at once, or overaccessorising would be punishable by a £100 fine.

Heinous offences such as ill fitting suits with sleeves up to the wrist and pants to the ankles would be a felony requiring clamping.
This would entail immobilising said perpetrator, until someone else can bring him suitable clothes.

Of course, any Tznius crime would require enforcing the felon to take a one way trip to the care of the Mullahs in Saudi Arabia where they put immodest people in burlap sacks and beat them round the head with dried salamis.

I think I would have run out of citations.

Then one day, I saw the most interesting woman in a department store. She was wearing a purple and orange ensemble, with co-ordinating purple and orange accessories.
Her blouse was a bright tangerine orange, offset by her choker and earrings of purple plastic. Her deep purple slacks (they were definitely ‘slacks’ as in ‘leisure suit’ slacks) had an orange belt, and a matching purse.
Even her lipstick was orange.
I was riveted.
She was a vision.
I had never seen anything quite like it before and I doubt that I ever will again. “My goodness”, I thought, “What was she thinking when she got dressed this morning? Or was she thinking at all? Ha! Snort!”
Then something strange happened top me, I noticed the obvious care and attention this woman had put into her outfit. All that effort just to find exactly the right shades of purples and oranges.
Why, she thought she looked great!
I then took notice of her evident pride in her demeanour and I felt duly chastened.

Um, exactly who had made me the Fashion police?
Why did I have the urge to point out what I perceive to be other people’s fashion failures?
Looking deep in myself, I realised that in order for my way to be right, someone else’s must be wrong.

Like playing see-saw, I would have put her down so that I could have felt up.
We all do the same thing in one way or another.
We condescend to other people because they don’t share our vision of the way we think things should be.

Relaxing standards can be very frightening because we are taught at an early age that life is black and white. Something is either ‘good’ or it is ‘bad’, someone is either ‘right’ or he is ‘wrong’.
It’s only as we mature that we recognise the shades of grey.

As Jews, not only do we have to learn not to condemn differences, we must actually learn to embrace them, because to do otherwise is to exclude other Jews and we cannot afford to that, even those shades of grey don’t match what they’re wearing.

The Tell Tale Tart

2007-01-23T21:04:00.000Z

Every year when my birthday rolls around, I always think fondly of Edgar Allen Poe.

We have many things in common, me and old Edgar;
1-We both have a warped sense of humour.
2- We both hate photos.
3- We share the same birthday together with Dolly Parton and General Robert E Lee.

The only difference being that he is dead and I am, well… not.
So with mucho apologios to the Poe estate, I have taken Ed’s (do you think I can call him Ed?) famous short story the Tell Tale Heart and tweaked it a tiny, eensy, weeny, bit. (I'm winking at you TOWIK)

The Tell Tale Tart
EMES!
nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am meshuggah? The hunger had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the kitchen and in the fridge. I heard many things in the basement.

How then am I meshuggah? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved that puff pastry apple tart. It had never wronged me. It had never given me indigestion. However for its calories and fat content I had no desire. I think it was the dough! Yes, it was this! The dough was as flaky as dried autumnal leaves. Whenever it’s smell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to put the apple tart away, and thus rid myself of the temptation for ever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me meshuggah. Meshugganas know gurnisht. I say gurnisht!!!
But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work!

I was never more carelful to an apple tart than during the whole week before I hid it. And every night about midnight I turned the latch of the fridge door and opened it oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark flashlight all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the condiments on the side compartment.

It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see the apple tart with its vanilla icing drizzling down the sides.
Ha! would a mehugganah have been so wise as this? And then when my head was well in the fridge, I undid the flashlight cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously, I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the pastry. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight. And now have I not told you that what you mistake for being meshuggah is but over-acuteness of the senses?

now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a chocolate wrapper makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the puff pastry apple tart. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the flashlight motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the dough. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the tart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder, every instant. It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! -- do you mark me well?

I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the tart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The pastry’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the flashlight and leaped into the sub zero refrigerator and placed a ziplock baggie over the pastry.

I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the tart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the aluminium wall. At length it ceased. I placed my hand upon the tart and held it there many minutes. The dough would trouble me no more.

If still you think me meshuggah, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the tart. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.

I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly so cunningly, that no human eye—could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no crumbs whatever. I had been too wary for that.

When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o’clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, -- for what had I now to fear? There entered my offspring returning from school.

A pastry had been smelled by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of hidden pastries had been aroused; and they (the children) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled, -- for what had I to fear? I bade the children welcome.
The smell, I said, was my own. I took my inquisitors all over the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them, at length. I showed them all my treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the puff pastry tart.

The children were satisfied.
My MANNER had convinced them.
I was singularly at ease.
They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, my stomach rumbled, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness—until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.

No doubt I now grew VERY pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND—MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A CHOCOLATE WRAPPER MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON.

I gasped for breath, and yet the youngsters heard it not.
I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles and other desserts, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased.
Why WOULD they not be gone?

I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the children, but the noise steadily increased.
Oy vey! what COULD I do? I foamed—I raved!
I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased.
It grew louder—louder—louder! And still the children chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?
Uch und vey! -- no, no? They heard! -- they suspected! -- they KNEW! -- they were making a mockery of my horror! -- this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision!
I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! -- and now—again—hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! --

“Rasho’im!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! -- tear up the planks! -- here, here! -- it is the beating of this luscious apple tart !”

THE END

It’s My Party!

2007-01-19T10:09:00.000Z

When I was young, I thought that anyone over the age of 20 was old. Every year since then, I have raised the bar accordingly.
Now I think 80 is old, but I know that I won’t think that way in twenty years time. Then it will be the new ‘middle age’ because I will never believe that I am getting on. I am just way too young and way too immature for that.
I want to grow old disgracefully.

Today I am turning the big four-oh. (Gasp!)
I don’t like that term ‘turning’; it feels like I should be metamorphosising into something else. I don't even want to think about what it is that I am turning into.

It is with some trepidation that I approach this milestone in my life. I am appreciative that I made it thus far and have done so much, but it still doesn’t alter the fact that I am terrified of getting old. I don’t want to look like it and I definitely don’t want to act like it, but it sure beats the alternative.

In my circles it has become the ‘in’ thing to make surprise parties for those of us lucky enough to make it to this landmark number.
But alas and alack, I am a control freak and there are certain elements of my life that I am loathe relinquishing, namely my big bash.

And so, I have sent out invitations to those whom I adore, to invite them to my surprise party.
Yes, you heard correctly, (IYH everyone should be healthy spit, spit spit)
I am making myself a surprise party.
It will be a women’s only Karaoke party, all in the best of taste, I assure you. (wink)
The invitation, which is black swirly writing on silver card, reads as follows:

SURPRISE ME!
You are cordially invited to my 40th Surprise Party
Bo Bayom (it’s on my Hebrew birthday)
Motzai Shabbos, January 27, 2007
8:30pm prompt - Don’t ruin the surprise (well, I will be making an entrance!)
My House
Shhhhh… Please park down the road so I don’t see your car
Love,
Kasamba
PS If I knew about this, I’d look forward to seeing you!

You see, I have been planning this shin-dig for years, there is no way I’d let someone else do it for me.

Like I told you, my birthday is actually today, but I wanted my party to be on my Hebrew birthday which just happened to be on a Motzai Shabbos. How abba-solutely convenient.
I call the days in between my English birthday and my Hebrew birthday;
Chol Hamoed.

At first, I thought I would walk into my surprise party, fresh from a massive Botox injection. I thought I could walk into my living room with all my guests assembled to surprise me and I would react by …
not reacting.

I thought I would be resplendent in my ageless, preternaturally still face. I would just be a model of sophistication by not being my usual self and squishing up my facial muscles, with excitement and hyperactivity.

But then, I went to a Botox luncheon held by Emunah, in some fancy hotel in town. They had a famous Doctor who specialises in Botox, ,talk about the drug. He gave a talk about the benefits of injecting botulism into one's face and then dropped the bombshell;
He, himself, has regular Botox injections.
No duh.

The guy looked like a Madame Tussaud wax figure, save for the blue vein running down the length of his forehead. And when he smiled, his nose crinkled up and parts that shouldn’t crease, creased. His nose looked more ruffled than a potato chip. He didn’t look young, he just look shiny and odd, like someone had taken varnish to his face.
I have since decided that every laugh line I have is because I have laughed for forty years.
Every age line I have is because I have lived for forty years.

So that was the end of my Botox dream, instead I have deemed that chocolate shall be my poison of choice.
Bring on the wrinkles.

Back at the ranch, I am still planning my surprise party sans facial immobilisers. I am of course creating my own cake, in three tiers and it will have all the candles I deserve standing proudly like a regiment of soldiers, each one attesting to a year spent, well, in insanity.
I will also have a fire extinguisher on hand, just in case.

I will only serve food I like; such as sushi and…more sushi. I will also have a cappuccino machine paying homage to those caffeine addicts like me. My friends are making a ‘Who Knows Kasamba best?’ quiz which will afford the people who really paid attention to me to be acknowledged and rewarded accordingly.

I am planning my entrance by blowing up a baby photo of myself and putting it on a great big piece of white paper. When the pre-recorded drumroll finishes with a great big BOOM;
I will rip through the paper and step forward; symbolically giving birth to myself as a forty year old woman.

I have one friend who is a real Tzadekes. She never wants anyone to spend money on her as she’d rather the money go to Tzedakah. She gives out ‘money has been donated in your name to charity’ cards instead of gifts.
She is a good person.
I, on the other hand would like a good gift and feel very guilty hoping that I don’t get one of her cards.
One friend already told me that she is buying me a goat in Uzbekistan and I will get a certificate and photos in the post. I can’t imagine anyone beating that.

The way I figure it is that I’m at the stage in my life where I can do what I like and I like parties. I have already purchased a brand new tiara just for this occasion.

As the great Bill Cosby once said,
"If you can find humor in anything, you can survive it."

Shehchianu Vekiamanu Vehigiyanu Lazmaan Hezeh!
Party on!

UPDATE:
Boruch Hashem my party was better than I could have ever hoped!!!

After my grand entrance, I was presented with a giant box and told that it's a kitchen appliance and out burst.... my mother! It was the very same woman who told me not to make her feel guilty for not coming to my big bash because she wasn't well!

She had spent the entire Shabbos cooped up in my mother in law's house, together with my sister in law who surprised me by coming in from Vienna!

And the surprises kept on coming!
Asparagus sang me the most FABULOUS song, written by TOWIK (the handout coppies were decorated by Sarah-thank you!)
My best friend (and neighbour) and my daughter made me a fantastic video (edited by Kishmech- thank you!) and another friend said a speech and my two sister in laws sang gramen. If that wasn't enough, another close friend and neighbour, made me a giant signing board using the only photo of myself that I ever liked!

Then another amazingly close friend of mine dedicated 'wind beneath my wings' to me and we all swayed with tealights in our hands! Another group of friends dedicated a song to Mr Kasamba (who was not there naturally, because it was a woman only event!) which was ' hey big
spender'!

My three teired birthday cake was a big hit and was more of an engeneering project to accomplish. We finally closed up shop at 2:30 am when Mr Kasamba decided he wanted a go on the Kareoke machine!!!

I know I made my own party, but I never felt so loved in my life!
I adored every minute!!!

The More the Merrier

2007-01-16T09:06:00.000Z

It’s getting late Kasamboys and Kasambettes!
So, make yourself a hot cup of cocoa, curl up under a warm duvet; it’s time for a bedtime story!
(clear throat)

The More the Merrier

I had too many things to do, too much was on my head,
And then I heard a strange voice, a strange voice that said:

‘Kasamba, one of you is not enough, so I’ll make my offer now,
Just say the word and they’re yours, one word and than ‘kapow’!’
‘Just what is it that you offer?’ I asked that strange, strange voice,
It said, ‘I’ll tell you what they are, and then you make the choice’,
‘Okay, fine!’ I said ‘but hurry up! I can’t stand here all day!’
But I leaned forward to hear just what that voice would say.

The voice said it fast, the voice said it clear,
And said the things a frum woman wants to hear;
‘Too much is on your head, you have so much to do,
So I propose to help you out and make a few of you!’

'Is this a joke?' I screamed out loud,
But I must admit that I was wowed,
The wonderful idea of more of me,
Was something I would die to see!
(Well, not actually die, it must be said,
You can’t see anything, when you’re dead)

The voice started to explain that they were loans,
Why would I complain when it meant clones?
‘More of me?’ I thought, how great, how grand!
Instead of one, I will have a triple helping hand!

And then there they were; me but yet not quite me,
I could not, I would not, have dreamed this could be!

But then they smiled, my ever so charming smile,
I was so glad to see that they had such great style.

And so it was that I got thrice as much done,
Three Kasambas! Three times as much fun!
Fairly soon I managed to finish my never-ending list ,
We were the speedy Kasambas- well, you get the gist!

My expedience left all of my peers in the dust,
They didn’t know I had clones? Ha, they must!

But we would never be at the same place at one time,
To show my husband I had it easy would be a crime,
Hey, let me at least get credit where the credit is due,
All those things my clones did, means I did them too!

Purim was done by Chanukah, Pesach was done by Jan,
And kids’ homework needed more than just one wo-man!
We cooked five course meals on every single night,
Between us there was never one spec of dust in sight.
We did four different carpools, with nary a complaint,
My friends and family started to think I was a saint!

Then of course, the voice returned to me, one night late,
This time, to hear what it would say I knew I could wait.
It said, ‘Kasamba, listen, I have something to say',
‘Oh no’ I thought, ‘it can’t take my ‘me’s away!’
‘Yes,’ it said, ‘I’m afraid your clones must go back,
And you’ll just have to try to get your life on track.’

And then with a puff of the prettiest pink smoke,
My clones were gone as quick as my Diet Coke.

Now I’m alone to do, so I do what I must,
I do what I can without getting too fussed.
So every now and again if you catch me standing still,
Know that I’m simply listening out to hear what I will.

For far too much is on my head
And I have too many things to do,
I just want my beautiful clones back;
Because I am better as a few.

Of Cleanliness and Kabbalists

2007-01-13T18:35:00.000Z

Before y’all start jumping to conclusions I just want to pre-empt your natural assumptions by saying that my house is clean.
It’s really very clean.
I just don’t do it myself, that’s all.
In fact, every time I see something requiring elbow grease, I hear a voice shrieking,
“Kasamba! Step away from the filth! NOW”
I do my best to listen to that voice.

The way I look at it, is that I am definitely overqualified to wash, scrub and scour.
When I first got married, I thought nothing of dumping my handbag and coat on the kitchen counter in case I would need it later, or the next day. Mr Kasamba took this lack of tidiness as a personal affront to him and his entire bloodline. Therefore, I did train myself to pander to his peculiar need, but as far as the rest, well it didn’t mean that much to me.
The way I explained it to him was,
“Hey, ya want it clean, but I ain’t gonna do it so I guess you is gonna have to hire someone, huh?”
I know, I know I am just so…refined.

I love my cleaning help.
I have them in mind every time I light Shabbos candles.
I love how I can cook like Hurricane Katrina and the kitchen will be spotless before you can say, 'damaged drinking water'.
So you could say I’m relaxed in the cleaning area.

Now for the Kabbalist part.
As you already know, I am a Rebbe follower and I love the idea of going to get Brochos from people who are many steps closer to Hashem than I am. So, when I saw an ad in the local paper about a Rav who specialised in the Kabalistic art of Chachmas Hayad, (reading hands) I thought,
“Oh, yeeeeeaaaah! Gotto go to him!”
I immediately called up and booked an appointment. Then, I forced poor Mr Kasamba after a long day at work to take me to North London, where this Kabbalah guy was temporarily based.

Knowing that Kabbalists see you more as a spiritual entity rather than a physical one, I tried to cleanse myself of bad thoughts and busied myself saying Tehillim before I met him. Now, Mr Kasamba doesn’t go in for all of this stuff. He believes, as my father does, that we can approach the Almighty when and wherever we want, but he indulges my meshugassim. So we shlepped into the bowels of North London where we were ushered into a decrepit tiny room with a bed and a sink.
“Ooooh,” I thought (See? I'm always thinking!),
“An Anav! You don’t see many of those these days!”
Then I met him, the man who with his gift of special sight, would look into my hand and tell me what I need to know.
I was gurgling with anticipation.
Well, not actually gurgling, but I just like that word. Gurgling.
Gur-ga- ling.
The Rav then instructed me to sit across from him and asked to see my hand. He looked at my hand for a long time. I looked over at my better half who had his arms folded in incredulity and I gave him a look that said, “You see? This guy is the real deal!”

Just then the Rav looked up at me and started to regale me about secrets of my life.
He told me that my quiet kids were loud and that my easy kids were difficult.
Wha???

But what cinched it was when he said that I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder that manifests itself in cleanliness.
He said that I am so extremely spotless that my family and kids suffer and especially my husband.
He said that having a spic and span house is not the true measure of an Eishes Chayil.
He said that I must learn how to relax my standards in order for me to have Sholom Bayis.
By this time Mr Kasamba was physically holding his sides in pain from withholding gales of laughter.

My first thought was that maybe my hands were dirty and that’s why the Rav misread my signals and thought I was somebody else.

But then he went on to ask me if I knew of any rich people in Golders Green who would be interested in his expertise.
Ah, huh. Yeah right.
Beam me up Scottie.
Fast.

Boruch Hashem, I have had the zchus of meeting amazing Rebbeim who beyond doubt have Sight and true clarity of vision.
This guy was obviously not one of them.
Or maybe…. I was meant to be a neat freak.

Wait a Minute Mr Postman

2007-01-09T20:59:00.000Z

If I had to think of the most stressful jobs, I wouldn’t put Postmen at the top of the list.
Instead, these are the professions I think would be the most stress inducing:
1- Doctors- they are never off duty.
As soon as someone asks what they do, they know that they are in for a ‘why does it hurts me right here when I cough?’ question.

2- Telemarketers- you know, the people who call you and ask you who handles your insurance; just when you have one kid in the bath, something that needs to be taken out of the oven and someone ringing on the doorbell.
The abuse those poor, innocent people get! Nebech.

3- Staff at Walmart- for heaven’s sake, you know the higher ups were just begging for trouble when they put ‘How can I help you?’ on the back of the staff t-shirts.
Well, how would you feel if you couldn’t speak any English and people are constantly bombarding you with queries like ‘where are the 12 gauge shotguns’?

4- Waiters at any Jewish establishment- we Jews don’t go in for ambience. We don’t go out to eat for the company.
We already talked in the car.
When we go out to eat, we want our food and we want it… fast.

But when I look at my Postman (or mailman to you on the other side of the puddle) I see someone who does things in their own time at their own pace in their own style.
And yet these are people who live this close (my forefinger and thumb are very close together- trust me) to the proverbial edge of reason.
For some odd reason, when a Postman loses it, he goes all out.

So, I have dedicated an entire post to figure out;
Why do Postmen go insane?

Could it be their uniforms?
Why is it that postal services all over the world dress their employees like Uumpa Loompas? With their cute shorts and knee socks, they look more like Munchkins than they do civil servants.
I know life is not a catwalk but it ain’t a walk in a lunatic asylum either. (And it can’t help that their vans resemble the vehicles used by Barnum and Bailey to stuff all those clowns in.)

Could it be the animals?
I would think the Postman’s worst enemy is a householder’s dog.
A dog is supposed to protect and guard his master’s abode.
If you think of it from his point of view, he sees a strangely garbed human walking with a sheaf of envelopes. Now poor doggy doesn’t know if he is going to set them alight and torch the place. Or this strange stranger could be using that bunch of envelopes to whack his master over the head leaving doggy with no Purina Dog Chow which is great tasting and tailored to his specific dietary needs.
I know I’d be upset.
And so the dog reacts, the way any of us would really, and tries to chomp the heck out of our Postman.

Could it be the catalogues?
Darn, those things are heavy.
I don’t think they would mind delivering them that much if they were appreciated. But don’t think Mr Postman doesn’t see piles of the ghastly things sitting in your recycling bin! He sees every single one, knows that they are recent and knows that his back breaking labour was for nought. He knows there are hardly any forests left and the whole ozone is falling down as a result and yet you can’t be bothered to read the catalogues.
Shame on you.

In the US could it be because of the extra four digit zip codes?
In the UK could it be because the numbers of the houses don’t follow up normally?

Do you think they cram all the mail into the post box, until they resemble Oliver North’s documents, on purpose?
Could it be because of braving the elements?
Too much exposure to sunlight or car fumes?

Is the pressure just too much?
Is that why they end up at the top of a watchtower shooting up all and sundry?

Here in the UK, a person making a simcha doesn’t even have to send out invitations. All they have to do is call up people a week before the shin-dig and ask them if they received the invitation. People will assume that the invites got lost in the post, which happens here all the time. In fact, last year the Hendon and Finchley Times reported that most of the mail from my area ended up in a nearby lake because the mail carrier couldn’t be bothered to deliver it. Okay, so that guy was prosecuted but in his wake we got a guy who gives my post to other people and gives me their stuff.
Growing up in the States also afforded me plenty of opportunities to sing the requiem that is ‘missing mail’.

They don’t say, “Your check is in the post” for nothing, ya know: Because it’s a 50/50 chance whether it will ever arrive or not.
Most likely, your check is not in the post, but rather ;
‘your post is in the Czech’.

I couldn’t tell you why Postmen go insane.
I can only tell you that they don’t contribute an awful lot to the mental health of society.
Well, at least not to mine.

The Right Shoes

2007-01-07T11:40:00.000Z

I am an extremist.
Surprise!
Whatever I do, I end up doing to the nth degree.
So nine years ago, when Mr Kasamba bought me a treadmill, I couldn’t stop running. Thank goodness it was stationary, because with the amount I ran, I would have ended up on another continent. I’d start out by saying that I’d run for a half an hour and two hours later I’d still be on it. After a few months, I started noticing that I had pain in my shins, so what would a normal person do?
I couldn’t tell you, I can only tell you what I did.
I would take painkillers before I ran so the pain was bearable. BTW, I have a very high pain threshold, so things have to break down before I see to them. Soon enough, the pain crossed the threshold of normality and I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I couldn’t even stand anymore.
So I shlepped myself to the doctor who x-rayed my legs and told me with an awed expression that I had shin splints. He was awed, because you can only get shin splints if you are an athlete and over do it. Mine were so bad that both of my shinbones were covered with minute fractures and it hurt just to stand on them. The doc also said that it was really important to wear the right shoes. I thought, (ding!)
" He is sooo right! I must go shopping!"

Part of my treatment was to have physiotherapy, to stretch the stranglehold my calf muscles had around my shin bones to alleviate the pain and the pressure from them.

One fine day, I walked into LA Fitness on Golders Green Road, to go to see my physiotherapist. She wasn’t there but the front desk told me that her stand in was excellent. I sure hoped so.

I walked into the treatment room and was face to face with a stunning blonde girl with a friendly smile. As she was beating me up, we started talking. Somehow the conversation shifted to the Jewish Learning Exchange, which is a division of Or Sameach that happens to share the same building as LA Fitness. I told her what an amazing place it is and she asked me what association I had with them. So I informed her that I tutored there every Tuesday evening. She got all excited and asked if I would tutor her as well.

Now, there was no way I would have ever known this girl was Jewish, so I got quite a shock. I told her that as I had the same learning partner for years that would be impossible for me to learn with her on Tuesday nights at the JLE, but that she should call the JLE and arrange to have another tutor learn with her. She was adamant that I was the only person that she would want to learn with. I asked her why she felt that strongly about me when I could easily be the most rubbish teacher ever.

I will never forget what she said. With confidence as she pointed to my things in the corner of that little room, she said
“Anyone who wears shoes like that, has got to know what they are talking about!”

Impressed (and flattered!) with her tenacity, I agreed to start learning with her on Monday afternoons at my home.
She always showed up on time and soaked up whatever I taught her. Her enthusiasm was infectious and she became a greater source of chizuk to me than I’m sure I was to her. I remember that I t was right before Purim and she was overjoyed to learn about Esther and her plight. At the end of our session, she told me that was going to Israel the next week and would call me to continue upon her return.
She never called.
Pesach came and went that year and I hadn’t heard from her, so I just assumed that she had had enough. I thought,
“You win some, you lose some.”

Years flew by with no word from her.
In the interim, I had had another child and married off my regular learning partner. Soon after the birth of Cucumber, I found myself once more in the JLE on Tuesday nights.
I was standing at reception schmoozing with the secretary waiting for my new learning partner to arrive when I saw her.

At first I didn’t recognise her because whereas before, I couldn’t tell whether or not this girl was Jewish at all, now there was no mistaking that aidelkeit and the refined deportment that said ‘I’m frum’.

She looked as magnificent as ever. She rushed over to me, her gusto as evident as always, and embraced me in a huge hug. She said in her animated way, “Kasamba! I’m so excited to see you! I wanted to call you so much but I had lost your number! When I left you to go to Israel all those years ago, I enrolled myself in a seminary and I’ve been there ever since! Don’t you see? You inspired me so much, I wanted to learn everything!” Tears stung at my eyes as she continued, “And now I’m here visiting and I’m teaching someone myself!” Hearing this, I knew in my heart that she had surpassed her teacher.
Her existence now would be an undiluted, pure life of Torah.

I knew that I was just the tiny spark that ignited her ‘Pintele Yid’ and caused it to burst into flames.
And THAT’s why it’s so important to wear the right shoes.

My Favourite Fruits

2007-01-03T14:31:00.000Z

When I was single and went out on a date, I would whip out a photo of three gorgeous smiling little girls and say,
“I just want you to know, I come with kids.”
I can’t say it was a terrific marketing ploy, but it didn’t really scare Mr Kasamba away because he knew that I had not bore them, rather I just felt that they were mine.

I first arrived into the lives of my three girls not more than a child myself at the tender age of sixteen. I was in Israel at the time and my mother sent a suitcase with the Seeded Fruit family for me (by the way, never tell my mother you are going anywhere, she is sure to know someone she needs to send something to wherever you’re going). I waited for this family, strangers to me except for my mother’s constant raving about how cute the kids were. Finally, they came out; two parents, one babysitter and eight adorable children. And the luggage! From far the luggage looked like a mountain as all the cases were piled sky high. Of course, my case was on the tippy top. They fell on the drinks I had bought for them, famished from their long trip from New York.

That summer on hiatus from seminary, I worked as their babysitter. It was then that I fell in love with my girls. At the grand old age of three, the oldest Guava, was the leader of the bunch. She would tell me that she wanted ‘checkup on her pasghetti’. The second in line Kiwi, would pick up her dimpled little two year old hands and say ‘huggame’. But it was the littlest one that I lost my heart to.

Blueberry was just a little baby with soft round cheeks and a little pink tongue that would stick out whenever she smiled. She had the biggest, bluest eyes I had ever seen, and she smelled like baby lotion. I wanted to eat her. I couldn’t bear to away from her and I would have Blueberry attacks, where I felt that would just die if I couldn’t smush her immediately, so I would have to go to her toot sweet.

The dynamics shifted shortly after I came back after my second year of Sem and I needed my girls. I would pick them up and shlep them everywhere. They were always dressed identically, in the most amazing outfits, like little dolls. I would take them food shopping and put all three in the trolley and they would chant together whatever it was that I was supposed to buy. I still can’t buy apple juice without hearing them chant, ‘app-le juice, app-le juice, app-le juice’. Then I would take them clothing shopping and all three would sit on the floor of the changing room and give me their verdict of what outfit worked or not.
They had very good taste.

Soon enough, I forged a friendship with their mother Mango that has strengthened and deepened over the years so much that I can’t even remember my life before she was a part of it.
She is the sister I should have had.

Subsequently, when the girls were in school and I was in college, I would find myself keeping neat freak Mango company while she colour coordinated her daughters' Barbies' (massive) wardrobes. She has always been my best audience, and she used to crack up when I would whine that Barbie’s life was so much better than mine at the time; Barbie had great clothes, a fantastic car and such a good looking (albeit effeminate) boyfriend.

Then Mango and I would take Mama Kasamba and shlep out to the far reaches of New York State. We called these trips Road Trips. As the years wore on, whenever I come in from London, Mango’s oldest daughter Apple joins us as well as Guava, Kiwi and Blueberry. Soon, I expect my very own Asparagus to be included in this right of passage.

There are rules for the Road Trip.
The first being that as soon as you enter the car, you have to say whether or not you ate or not and whether or not you want to be on a diet. This is so when we stop at the last gas station before the George Washington Bridge, we will know what nosh to buy all assembled.

The next thing one must do is decide where to eat when we arrive at whatever Borough (usually Boro Park) or city that is our destination. Most of the time the Road Trip will try and defer eating until later, but this usually proves fruitless and we give in.

The Road Trip also requires laughing so hard that everyone must then yell at Mango to retain control of the wheel.

You might be inclined to ask, ‘why now, Kasamba? Why mention the family of the Seeded Fruits NOW?’
Well, I’ll tell you.

My youngest, my ittle, wittle, cutie, patootie, Blueberry has gotten engaged.

She has grown up to be every bit as wonderful as her babyhood promised. She has a heart of solid gold, a smile to melt glaciers and a sense of humor to rival mine. In other words, she’s perfect (spit all over her and wrap her in red string).

I still haven’t gotten used to the fact that Guava and Kiwi have two kids each.
And now Blueberry is getting married and I shall have a new son-in-law of sorts.
My baby is growing up.
Oy.

Six Special Things about Me

2007-01-01T09:39:00.000Z

As you know, I don’t take instruction well.
Even if I get a recipe, I always do my own thing. So when Sara with no H tagged me for this meme, I thought, why not? But, Sara forgive me, I’m not going to follow the rules stipulated in your lovely post. If someone wants the rules then they can click on your link on the side of my blog because I don’t know how to link in the post. Plus, I don’t like the word weird, I like the word special, especially with a Spanish accent so it sounds so ‘thepthial’.

Six special things about me:
1- I am Bentchaphobic.
I adore eating bread and the like, but if it means that I have to bentch… well, you get the idea. I will pass over every sandwich or other type of food that has to made Hamotzei over. So, I only eat Challah on Shabbos and then hope that it’s not Shabbos Rosh Chodesh and have to say Yaalei Veyavo. The worst is when Rosh Chodesh falls on Shabbos Chanukah and then I feel like I’ve been bentching for years. It’s funny because I don’t usually mind davening, it’s just I like to eat and run, which you can’t do when you have to bentch. Anyways phobias are supposed to be irrational.

2- I am Fleishaphobic.
I can’t stand being fleishig.
I love eating chicken and other cute fuzzy animals once their souls are properly dispatched to the Afterlife, but I feel nauseous knowing that I won’t be able to have milchigs for another five hours and 1 minute. I was so excited to marry Mr Kasamba because he only waited three hours between meat and milk. But then, he decided to take on five hours and one minute so that he would be waiting within the sixth hour. How frum. How inconsiderate to me. My minhag from home was to wait six hours so you have to trust me that his three hours waiting time was a big selling point. Well, at least I got to reduce the wait for 59 minutes. So, I will only eat meat on Shabbos or if it’s already too late for me to visit my favourite therapists; Ben & Jerrys.

3- I am Magiphobic.
I hate magic and the people that call themselves magicians.
I break out in a cold sweat and start to shake when anyone asks me to choose a card, any card. Grrrrr. It all started when I was but a mere child and I only witnessed the first half of a program on the tumah box in my friends home. It was an episode of the Brady Bunch that dealt with one of the children trying their hand at magic and making someone disappear and then getting freaked out because they never reappeared. Because I had to leave in the middle and I didn’t have a TV at home, I never got to see what happened at the end and have had this irrational fear as a result. I guess that’s why my grandfather called TV a ‘Time Vaster’.

4- I am Directionally Challenged
I have absolutely no sense of direction.
I can’t find my way out of a paper bag. With this challenge, comes a gift; the gift of obstinacy. So, I go the wrong way, 100% sure that I am going the right way, that is, until I reach another county or another country. Knowing this Mr Kasamba, bought me a satellite navigational device. But that doesn’t work either. I just don’t trust her.
She tells me to go right, I take a left. I also don’t remember landmarks and places I’ve visited a thousand times. And I have no memory for names of roads either. One of Mr Kasamba’s party tricks is asking me to tell him where a certain road is.
Of course I can not and it causes much mirth and hilarity because the street he named is usually two blocks away.
Oh, ha, ha, ha. I’m killing myself laughing. Not.
It’s okay, I get my retribution whenever I get lost and I call my Husband for directions. He asks me, “Where are you?” and I say,
“I’m next to a tree and a lamppost”.

5- I am an Embarrassing Mother
My kids never realised how embarrassing I was until they noticed that other mothers don’t behave like I do.
Other mothers don’t:
A- Bring pom-poms to cheer at their kids’ school sports events.
B- Leave lipstick kisses all over their kids’ schoolwork.
C- Cook wearing a tiara.
D- Hang eight foot American flags outside their windows.
E- Make everything into a song.
F- Speak really loudly in public so the kids will stop asking things.
G- Dress their kids in the wackiest clothing until they’re able to complain.
H- Show photos of their kids as babies cavorting with the opposite sex.
In the bath.

6- My Brain has no Off Button
I can’t turn my brain off. It’s running the entire time.
I am so petrified to lose a thought that I keep a notebook with me all the time. If I don’t get all my ideas out I’m scared I might self combust and there would be pieces of brain matter everywhere. Shabbos is always very difficult for me because then I’m always afraid I won’t recall whatever brilliant idea I come up with on Shabbos after Shabbos ends. I even keep a notebook next to my bed so I can wake up and jot down whatever comes to me. Because of this, I can’t fall asleep so rapidly, instead I am always running on ‘high speed’. I actually have to wait until my brain has been purged and ‘downloaded’ of all its notions and only then can I ‘hybernate’.
But it seems I can never ‘log off’.

As far as tagging, Kasamba runs after no one-
unless they holding bars of chocolate.

But you're all ‘thpethial’ to me!

Meet You in Miami

2006-12-29T09:06:00.000Z

Before we started our annual winter pilgrimage to Switzerland, we used to go to Miami, Florida.
Mr Kasamba and I will always be partial to Miami because we met there.
It’s so nice to go on vacation and meet new people.

Sixteen years ago, when Artichoke was not yet two and Asparagus was only a few months old we journeyed south to that place of the turquoise architecture for winter break. Being as we wanted some semblance of a vacation (as much as one can have with two babies in tow) we shlepped along a lovely Bais Yaakov girl who was to help us diaper, burp and feed the little ones. That particular vacation did not have a good start. Our flight was delayed so long that we only arrived at the (now defunct) Kosher hotel at two in the morning. Now here is where things got interesting.

I remember climbing out of the cab, absolutely exhausted, with one arm holding Asparagus and her baby bag and the other arm holding Artichokes little hand. Mr Kasamba was at the back of the car helping the driver to unload our suitcases. Suddenly, two black youths (isn’t that how they always describe them in the paper?) jumped out at us and started grabbing at our luggage. It all happened so fast but at one point when one of the ‘youths’ wrestled with me for Asparagus’s baby bag, we locked eyes. His pupils were so dilated it was like looking into two empty dryer drums.

Our lovely Bais Yaakov maidel reacted in a way that would have made Soro Schneirer proud.
She screamed at the top of her lungs, “Hashem, Hashem” over and over again; except it sounded more like
“ Haaa- SHHHem, Haaa- SHHHem”.
I was so pleased she was there, because there’s nothing like a good G-d fearing girl to help in a crisis.

The criminals, who probably never had a chance and were never given love or education, grabbed what they could and ran into a waiting car.
By the time Mr Kasamba got in the hotel and called the police, they were already in ‘hot pursuit’ of said vehicle. The Fuzz arrived to the hotel within minutes and said that as me and my cohort had gotten a good look at the ‘perps’ we would have to identify them where they were being detained. So they asked us to go in the back seat of the police car. I must say that I was a little disappointed that they didn’t help me to get in by pushing my head in. I thought things were a little weird when we were given a three car escort, but as the Miami Dade police gently explained to me, there are certain areas in Miami that the police do not venture with less than four cars, full of gun toting cops.

We arrived to a scene reminiscent of Dante’s Inferno. There were bunches of tall nondescript apartment buildings with what looked like thousands of people, hanging out of every available window and door. They were using language loudly that was not at all complimentary, but I had to give them points for creativity. I was so happy that Miss Bais Yaakov could not understand what the throbbing masses were screaming. We had to leave the safe confines of the police car, (Goodness, those things are squashy) in order to get a good look at the guys who robbed us. I recognised the guy with the black eyes right away, but neither BY girl or I could be 100% sure about the other guy. The cops kept trying to help us make unbiased decision by saying, "Doesn’t he look guilty to you?” and “Maybe try looking closer?”. But, since neither of us was certain, we couldn’t in good faith have him locked away for something he might not have done. Like children giving up ice cream cones, the Law very, very reluctantly, let him go.

Then the police drove BY girl back to the hotel to help Mr Kasamba with the kids and I was driven to the station to give a statement and to get our luggage back. The Miami Dade police station is really nice and not grimy or slimy at all. As far as the people who pass through it, well, you can guess for yourselves.

Apparently, they had caught the driver of the runaway car while the two guys ran away. She was a fourteen year old girl called Shawanda. I kid you not, that was really her name. Anyhoo, because she was a juvvie, they were not allowed to put her in the main holding cell with all the older criminals so they had to keep her on the main floor of the police station. It was surreal because plunked in the center of the room was a round cage where Shawanda was kept. She was a scrappy, skinny black girl with a head full of braids. Sitting on the aluminium folding chair in the center of this barred enclosure, she looked like a scared little child. I even felt sorry for her when the Fuzz teased her relentlessly by saying things like, “Hey Shawanda, why did you want to hurt this nice lady?” (Wow, I don’t recall ever having been called a ‘lady’ before!) and “Shawanda, how did your legs reach the gas pedals?” Nebech.

I then gave a statement and was taken to another room to identify and retrieve my stolen items. Two bags were untouched, but the baby bag, my lovely pink beribboned baby bag was covered in blood. The officer who gave it to me looked sheepish as he tried to wipe away some of the blood with his sleeve. It seems that the good officers of Miami Dade used an age old program of theft deterrent, called ‘Brute Force’. (Remember, this was before Rodney King made every passer-by into a documentary film maker.)
I love cops, they are so manly. When the police drove me home they explained to me that the Miami District Attorney would be contacting me to discuss the charges against my assailant.

Over the next few months I forged a very close relationship with the Miami DA because she had to prosecute for me by proxy as we only stayed in Miami for ten days. She won both the criminal and civil suits, by the end of which we were on first name basis. She called me ‘Kasamba’ and I called her ‘Janet’, short for Janet Reno, before she became the US Attorney General.
Yes, it was she- pre the wacko Wako disaster.

My convicted assailant owes me the neat sum of $3,000, which he’s never paid.
Thank goodness I’m didn’t hold my breath, because I would have been out of it along time ago.
Never mind, at least I widened my social circle and met new people.
Ah, a vacation to remember…

Skiing Next Door

2006-12-24T16:22:00.000Z

It is a European tradition that on the two week Chanukah vacation afforded the euro-kiddies, that there is a mass exodus to go, as they call it, ‘on holiday’.
So, we too fall in line with the masses and go away as well.
If you remember (see? You never know when I’m going to give a pop quiz!) that Vienna is practically in Britain’s back yard, Switzerland is like going next door.
Yup, you got it, we go skiing.

It should be simple enough; you pack, you step on an airplane, you arrive, you ski.
But nothing is ever that simple is it?

1-Packing
Packing should be easy because you just plunk everything you think you require, for yourself and the kids, in as many suitcases as needed and voila! Done.
Yeah, I wish. Mr Kasamba has a fear of taking too much luggage. If it was up to him, we’d wear all our clothes plus our ski gear on the plane and just take hand luggage. So, he goes around inspecting and inquiring about every single item, “Are you sure you need this?” To which the answer most usually is, “Yes Dad, I need underwear!” to which he inevitably replies, “Okay, just checking, we don’t want to take too much, you know!” Then on the day we leave comes the weigh in. I don’t care what diets you’ve ever been on, this is by far the scariest weigh in ever. We all stand around and hold our breaths while Mr Kasamba estimates the weight of each case before he puts it on the scale. Then the moment of truth arrives as he tells each of us if we’ve passed the weight challenge. If a case weighs more than Oprah, then he will ask the offending packer to open up their case to see if he can spot something that he feels is unnecessary, like shoes or slippers.

2-Stepping on an airplane
This year proved the most difficult of all for this task. But before I go into the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’, I must preface things with a short observation about the United Kingdom: The UK is one of the most woosiest and sisiest of all countries. They are given to a state of hysteria every two minutes, and it’s always about the weather. If it snows a light snowfall of dandruff flakes, they close all the roads and schools down. If there is too much rain there are flood alerts and once again, everything gets shut down. If there is too much sun, they put a ‘hosepipe ban’ into effect and cry about drought. I’m telling you if Great Britain would be a woman, she’d be having ‘the vapours’.

This time, we had fog. Okay, it was a pretty dense fog. It was so thick that I half expected Celine Dion to step onto my patio and start singing. But still, I know planes are equipped with instruments to allow them to fly in the fog. Uh huh, not in the UK, in the UK they cancel hundreds of flights, forcing people to wait around the airport for hours and then go home dejected. Our first flight was cancelled but Mr Kasamba managed to get us on a later one, which in spite of the inevitable delays, was really fortuitous.

Then came airport security. That entire liquid ban is a joke. You are allowed to take any liquids that fit into a ziplock bag. Since the line was so long, I took the opportunity to grill, oops, I mean ask, an airline security official about the state of affairs as it stands in airport security.

I asked him if airline officials were checking the gel inserts that look like chicken fillets that women sometimes use to enhance their upper regional areas. I asked him if they are checking pregnant women stomachs to make sure they are real and not just a hidden chamber storing sticks of dynamite and heaven forbid, Evian. I asked him about concealed tubes hidden in baby milk bottles. I also asked him about the fact that 80% of our bodies are made up of water.
What’s next? Dehumidifying chambers? HUH???
I won’t repeat what he said because you will not feel very safe boarding a flight if I did.

3- Arriving
Well, Boruch Hashem we arrived but… sans Asparagus’s luggage. She was not too gutted as it was the small one that had all the contraband that was weighing her suitcase down like a Mafia victim; in other words, her school books. This year poor Asparagus is taking her GCSE’s which are the British state exams. She has a tremendous mount of revision that she must do while she’s away. When just that one piece of luggage did not arrive, she took that as a sign from the Almighty that she deserves a break. I’m sure that will go down a treat with her examiners.

4- Skiing
Skiing is a very interesting sport, where the ungainly and ungraceful in real life are given a chance to look like gliding swans. Unfortunately, I am not one of them. My kids and husband are content enough to throw themselves off of mountains, but I think I have more of a connection to this world than they do.
Put it this way, I’d really like to live.

In the beginning of my non skiing career, I had an instructor who tried to make me go down a particularly steep ninety degree mountain. I told her that I would just wait there for spring thaw and then I could just walk down. She didn’t budge. I told her that she should just go and save herself, but that didn’t make her budge either. Suddenly, she came and gave me a huge push and off I went careening towards the abyss.

Finally at the end of this impossible run, I was so exhausted that all I wanted to do was collapse. Finally I saw a huge bank of the whitest, fluffiest snow ever, so I manoeuvred myself to plough right into it, which I did. Except instead of the ‘whoosh’ expected of falling into soft snow, I heard a ‘bonk’ as I smashed right into a snow covered generator. What made this discovery even more special was the fact that it was witnessed by an entire café of Swiss people who were waiting for this moment their entire lives.
Anti-Semites.

BTW, it was at this juncture that I also discovered what the ski poles are for. Some people would have you believe that their purpose is to help one’s balance.
Attention K-mart shoppers: this is patently NOT TRUE!
The ski poles are there to use against snow boarders. The snow boarders come shooting out from all angles, like wildebeest with no rhyme or reason, and so the poles become a disciplining tool. And as you know, it is so very important to have the proper equipment.

It has been a few years since I gave up conventional skiing and I took up what they call here, Lange Laufing- cross country skiing. I like it because I find it all very civilised with no plunging descents. The only thing that I can say that I find disconcerting is the zeal with which my fellow lange lauffers pursue their sport. In their slim cross country ski suits the men and the women look androgynous, like they came off the same assembly line with the same expressions on their faces as well.

They all have this smile that says so much.
It says: I am so healthy because I am outdoors.
It says: I love the scenery, it is so lovely.
It says: I am so happy because I have a Swiss passport.
It also says: I don’t even care that I don’t know if I am male or female.
I always hope it is not catchy.

One thing I can tell you is that the one thing that is simple; Apres Ski.
The hot chocolate back at the hotel is simply the best!

Uh, oh. I think I feel a smile coming on.

Tomato, Come Light the Menorah

2006-12-20T09:20:00.000Z

Tomato, is a very special boy.
Eight years ago, he almost arrived in the world on Yom Kippur but then changed his mind. He next tried to make an appearance the following Shabbos but then got shy. He was finally born the first night of Sukkos having forced his Daddy to drive on three mega holy days. We were this close to calling him ‘Mechallel’ and his middle names were going to be, ‘Shabbos and Yom Tov’.

He is the least demanding and easiest of my children, therefore, I find that I have to remind myself to spend some alone time with him. This Chanukah afforded me the opportunity to spend some real ‘Mommy and Me’ time with him because he came to me with a request to help him with a Chanukah project; to which of course I immediately acquiesced.

FYI, I happen to be the Project Queen.
It’s not that I’m not humble, it’s just that I appreciate and cherish the gift that Hashem gave me even when it means that I’m doing my neighbours Shabbos table shoebox diarama at two o’clock in the morning.
Okay, maybe I’m not humble.
Sue me.

It is actually very interesting that I’m so good with what teachers call ‘technical’ skills because I’m really lousy with what I think is really the technical stuff. In fact, you could call me ‘technically impaired’. It’s serious and it’s sad. I can’t program my car radio buttons so I end up scanning and listening to the same gardening radio show, over and over again. I can now mulch and compost with the best of them. It is amazing that I can type this and it’s a real miracle that I can turn this computer on at all.

Anyhoo, I have been excelling at kids school projects since I learned how wield scissors. My brothers always capitalized on this as did my mom’s friends and then mine which then extended my friends kids. What can I say?
They recognised greatness when they saw it.

So when Tomato told me he had to do a project for school, I thought ‘Oh, good’. When he told me it was a competition, I thought ‘Oh, FABULOUS’!!!!! Now, as you know, I’m not a competitive person per se, only when it comes to having the nicest Sukkah and the best darn school projects.

The project assigned was to create a Menorah from disposable goods.
This was on Tuesday, so I asked Tomato when the project was due and he said on Friday. On Friday!!!! That left us so little time! How was I to collect all the toilet rolls from inside the toilet paper? How does one (uh, hum) encourage family members to go more often and use more paper?
Never you mind, a teensy bit more fibre in their diets and we shall we say, managed.

Then Tomato and I sat down and cut half moon shapes from the bottom of each of the nine toilet rolls and stuck them on the two paper towel rolls, which I had no problem collecting considering we go through paper towels like Condoleza Rice goes through Helmet Head Hairspray.
For the Shamas, we added another half of a toilet roll to make it higher and then we put another toilet roll underneath the paper towel rolls and attached it to a tissue box which we taped and glued into submission. Then we taped up the holes at the top of the toilet rolls and put Evian bottle caps as candle holders.

The final touch was when we spray painted it silver and the wind shifted and Tomato ended up with silver tipped school shoes.
I actually think they make quite a style statement.

The entire Menorah was finished by Thursday night. We had made the deadline! Then Tomato dropped the bombshell; sheepishly with a sly smile on his face he said to me, “Actually Mums, (well, he is British you know!) It’s due for NEXT Friday, I just wanted it done ahead of time!” Aha. I thought back to all that sweating and rushing and I came to the conclusion that he is a very bright boy indeed because he knew that I would only do it last minute anyway.

Anyway, on the allotted correct Friday, which was this past Friday, I drove Tomato to school, because he didn’t want his beloved Menorah, which we had all bonded with (well, it was sitting around the house an awfully long time) to get squashed by well meaning boisterous boys on the school bus.

He came home in awe of the other projects and thought there was one good contender; a boy had made his Menorah out of sweets, but apparently, when he wasn’t looking the rest of the class helped themselves and so by the end of the day there were very few sweets remaining on it.
Come on, let me hear a big, ‘AWWWW’…..
But Tomato assured me that it still looked okay.

The final judging was on Tuesday after his Chanukah Show.

I must say that even though the parking is murder and the school hall is jammed packed like the Harrods sale, I always look forward to Tomato’s Chanukah shows. Tomato got such a treat because the infamous travelin’ man Mr Kasamba came as well. When Tomato saw both of us sitting in the audience he grinned from ear to ear. The show was adorable and hearing Tomato sing his solos was a shtikel Gan Eden. I can’t imagine the Leviim in the Bais Hamikdash would have made me feel any more blissful then I felt at that show. It was a real nachasfest.

Soon enough the moment arrived, the results of the menorah competition were in! The lady sitting on my right leaned over and said to me, “I helped my son make the most amazing menorah!”
I answered, “Well, we’ll see, won’t we, my pretty…”
and then I laughed an evil laugh, “Whaaa, ha, ha Whaaa haaa haa….”
Actually, I didn’t really say that out loud, I just thought it.
At full volume.
What actually happened was that I turned to her and said,
“How nice.”

Then it was announced, (drumroll please…)
Tomato had won the competition!
Oh, yeah, oh yeah, we’re the best oh, yeah, oh yeah!
After Tomato collected his prize, and I gave high fives and cigars all around, I very maturely explained to Tomato that winning isn’t everything and that it’s just as important to have tried your best. And as he looked up at me with his earnest blue eyes, I was hoping that he couldn’t tell that I didn’t mean a word.

Oh, BTW the sweetie menorah won second place and that lady’s kid didn’t win at all.
Never mind, as I said before, winning’s not everything.
Yeah, right.

Chanukah is Here!

2006-12-17T00:18:00.000Z

YAY!
It’s Chanukah!

Chanukah is here! The ‘Festival of Lights’!
As a kid, before Monsey was homogenously Jewish, there were loads of people who celebrated the Other Holiday and they had loads more lights than we did. Their homes were bedecked with twinkly lit baubles in all different shapes and colours with huge illuminated figurines of reindeers, candy canes, and fat men in red suits that made the electric company rub their greedy hands with glee. I mistakenly thought they were celebrating the ‘Festival of Lights’.

It was only as I grew older that I was able to look at the Chanukah candles and appreciate their quiet sophistication imparting their ancient message and feel that I was not missing out on the garish commercialism that now characterises the Other Holiday.

Besides, there are so many differences between Chanukah and the Other Holiday:

#1- Our legendary men might be overweight, and they probably would have beards but there is no way any self respecting Jew would hurl himself down a soot covered chimney to deliver presents. Lehavdil a million Havdalos, our undead is very civilised; after all, we open the door and welcome in our white bearded man. (Plus, there’s no milk and cookies for our man- we offer ours a huge cup of wine.) Not only that, but I don’t know any Jews worth their borscht who own chimneys at all.

Now, before I get inundated with mail from ‘Jews for Chimneys’ I would just like to say that I’m generalising for a purpose here.
Gotit? Anyway, if you do have a chimney and like to sit in front of cozy fires in the winter, my guess is that you chop the wood by yourself and have shelaqued bagels with painted scenes hanging on your walls. If that’s so, I have nothing to say because you are in a different category of Jew altogether. Anyone who has to take down their artwork for Pesach, is just well, different.

#2- Cooking doesn’t scare us. In most magazines, the big talk is about cooking for the big meal on the Other Holiday. They dictate to their readers how to prepare menus, give them shopping lists for ingredients and organise their cooking schedules. This is because it’s soooo very difficult to arrange a five course meal, isn’t it?
HA! NOT!
We do it every Friday night.
Big whooping deal.
The only extra thing we do on Chanukah, is make Latkes and donuts, but we don’t have to take a Valium to ‘get through it’.

#3- We have fewer songs about Chanukah. In the beginning of Chanukah, I always think ‘I Have a Little Dreidel’ is the sweetest song my little ones could ever sing, so much so that I just want to thank the person that composed that cute little ditty. By the end of Chanukah, I have had enough of that clay dreidel and all I want to do to the composer is throttle him.
Never mind, Nachas comes with a price.

The Other Holiday has so many songs, some of them really terrific.
The only problem I have with them is that I can’t seem to get them out of my head. I know this is genetic.
I have a clear recollection of shopping with my Mother and wanting the earth to swallow me up when she sang, ‘I’m Dreaming of a White…’ out LOUD in a Hungarian accent, in a Chassidishe Mocher Seforim. Apparently, I tend to act similarly because my kids are forever telling me to ‘Shush!’ when we go to Jewish stores at this time of year.
It must be a subconscious thing.

Chanukah is really a holiday about Us vs. Them.
I find it fascinating that even the name ‘Chanukah’ separates Us from Them.
Unless you are Scottish or Swiss (hey, maybe they’re the lost tribes?) or an Arab (they don’t count- they’re cousins), only a Heimishe can pronounce the ‘Cha’ in Chanukah.

Here is a Chanukah synopsis;

They wanted us to act like Greeks
They didn’t want us to practise as Jews.
We fought them.
We won.
We couldn’t find oil.
We found oil.
Let’s eat.

Have a Fabulous Chanukah!!!!