OyChicago blog

Tuesday night, as my husband Mike and I lit the candles for the first night of Chanukah, for some reason I started thinking about  those candle lighting ceremonies everyone did for their bar and bat mitzvahs. You know, there was a cheesy poem, and for each candle a different family member, or important figure in your life, came up and the DJ played a song to match?

As I watched the candles burn, I thought about how in the story of Chanukah each candle represents another day of light and a small miracle. In a year that was filled with tough times and sadness, I thought about the flickers of light that were brought into our lives and what I would dedicate each candle to this Chanukah. So, in no particular order, here is my Lights of Chanukah 2011 candle lighting ceremony:

Candle 1: The weather we've had in Chicago this winter has been a small miracle. Barely any snow and it's almost the end of December? I dedicate this candle to you, mother nature.

Candle 2: Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit got to come home after five years in captivity. This candle goes to Gilad on the first Chanukah in five years that he can spend with friends and family.

Candle 3: I dedicate this candle to my friend and yours, Siri. She brought light into our lives by teaching us how to tie a bowtie, showing us a picture of a weasel, and so much more. Siri, your answers to our inane and stupid questions brought many a smile to our faces, so this candle is for you.

Candle 4: For the next candle, I'd like to call up Congresswoman Gabby Giffords, whose story of recovery brings light to one of this year's darkest events.

Candle 5: This candle is for Crumbs cupcakes—thanks for coming to Chicago. Your gigantic cupcakes bring much happiness and add to our celebrations (and our bellies).

Candle 6: I light this next candle in honor of the NBA season being back on. Chicagoans everywhere who have given up on the Bears now have something to look forward to—the Bulls. 

Candle 7: This one goes out to my favorite YouTube sensation of the year, Sophia Grace and Rosie. Your spirits are infectious as the Nicki Minaj song you sing (here they are on Ellen). You're beyond adorable with your pink tutus and sparkly crowns, and I can't wait to see what you do next!

Candle 8: I've saved the last candle for all the people who have brought light into my life personally this year: My husband, for being an amazing partner for this adventure of a year; My family, for throwing me the most kickass wedding and for being there to celebrate; my friends and colleagues who've made me laugh, joined me for brunches and glasses of wine and been a shoulder to lean on; and lastly to all of you, Oy! readers, for encouraging us to continue writing and doing what we do.

Wishing you all a very Happy Chanukah and a new year filled with lots of light! See ya in 2012!

The Kotel

I’ve been thinking about the Wall. No, not the Pink Floyd album. And not the security barrier that prevents terrorists from infiltrating Israel.

The Kotel. The Western Wall. The Wailing Wall. Whatever you want to call it, the Wall is a symbol not only of Jerusalem but of Judaism to many.

Except when I look at the Wall, I see a place that has been imbued with meaning by people. I see a collection of stones that surely witnessed some of the world’s greatest tragedies and triumphs, but one that remains a collection of stones. I see a place that allocates barely a third of the space to women (and has a million conditions for women to even approach the wall—cue the ultra-Orthodox women policing one’s attire so it’s “modest enough” to pray there). I see a place where history stands still and where feminism—the idea that men and women are meant to enjoy equal rights—is forgotten or, worse, can feel forbidden. I see a place where I don’t feel the spiritual awakening many claim.

My spirituality, my sense of Jewishness and my personal understanding of my people’s history just don’t fit there.

As Jews, we are supposed to feel a strong connection to the Kotel. I’ve been at conferences in Israel that were so packed that no visit was scheduled. And yet my fellow participants made special detours from their itineraries to trek into the heart of the Old City and touch the Kotel—sometimes very late at night because that was the only time available.

Where does that connection come from? Is it from years of being told of the Kotel’s significance? Or is it because there actually is some higher power that is concentrated in the Kotel and I just haven’t felt it?

For me, the connection to my people is clearer when I stroll the streets and parks of Tel Aviv and hike in the fields and hills of the Galilee. I feel that connection when I sit at a café, everyone around me chattering in rapid-fire Hebrew, even if I don’t understand more than every 10th word. I feel it in Jerusalem, too, just not at the Kotel. The connection is clearer at places like Kol HaNeshama, the Progressive synagogue in Baka, where a children’s choir performed Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” during a Friday night service last time I was there.

The Kotel’s staid adherence to centuries-old tradition does not convey the vibrancy of the State of Israel and modern Jews. That vibrancy is clearer in the shuk, especially right before the onset of Shabbat: The scurrying of people trying to finish last-minute shopping for their Friday dinner—whether they’re religious or not; the yells of the merchants calling out steep discounts at the end of the day; the smells of tomatoes and sweet peppers so fresh they probably were ripped off the bush just that morning; the pungent aroma of spices; the delicious odors emanating from Marzipan bakery (the provider of world’s best rugelach).

Leading a Rosh Hashanah celebration in the woods while sitting atop the rocks at Devil's Lake in Wisconsin in September 2009

Of course, the other connection to Jewish peoplehood is right here at home, and one needs not travel to Jerusalem to feel it. When my husband and I gather with friends for Shabbat dinner; when we celebrate Tu B’Shevat—the once obscure Jewish holiday celebrating trees and nature’s bounty—with a haggadah we compiled ourselves; when we read about Exodus and add our own stories of migration; when we honor Rosh Hashanah while camping in the woods, by reading a new take on Unetaneh Tokef and the celebrated Israel writer Yehuda Amichai’s poetry. Those experiences have drawn me ever closer to my already strong pride and love for being Jewish.

Perhaps one day, when the Kotel is more inclusive of all sorts of Jewish traditions; when women can pray and read the Torah on equal footing with men; when there’s a place at the Wall where families can pray together rather than being separated into a women’s and men’s sections, I might reconsider my connection.

For now, however, it remains a collection of stones with lots of stories to tell. Sure, they’ve got the prayers and hopes and dreams of thousands of people. But I feel more comfortable leaving mine elsewhere.

We’re on Oy!cation! See you in the new year!

I had a rude awakening this morning. I spent the night in Lakeview at the home of the guy I'm dating. Around 6:15 a.m. he dropped me off at my car on his way to work. It was parked right on Sheridan Road, among a slew of other parked cars. The scene looked completely normal. I opened my car door to put a bag in the backseat and I saw that the box holding my brand new GMAT prep course books, which had been unopened the night before, was open.

Considering that it was the crack of dawn and I was groggy, I took a moment to make sure I was thinking straight and that I had not opened up the box the night before and had just forgotten.

I then started to panic when I simultaneously noticed that the items in my trunk were rustled about— the pieces started to come together.

A half second later I looked up and realized the glass of the rear passenger window was completely smashed in and shattered everywhere.

Then the real panic kicked in.

Even though I park on the streets of Chicago every day, this had never happened to me before, and I was alone, in the dark. My car held nothing valuable, and nothing seemed to be missing, even my radio/CD player was still there. However, I was now standing there, by my broken-into car with my wallet, iPhone and laptop. My mind started racing— what if the people who did this were still nearby, waiting for people to enter their cars carrying their purses, etc. I started running and frantically called the guy I'm seeing in a complete panic.

Minutes later, he returned to calm me down and help me out. I pride myself on thinking things through and being calm in times of crisis— needless to say, this wasn't one of those times. This break-in, something that probably happens hundreds of times per day in this city, completely threw me for a loop.

Coincidentally, my dad called at the exact same time all of this was happening. I explained what had happened (obviously, and somewhat uncomfortably having to admit the reason for why my car was parked where it was), and he helped me with the insurance company, etc. My insurance is covering the large majority of the expense, and my car will be fixed by tomorrow morning.

Everything is fine, but I can't help that sickening feeling of violation. Knowing a random person(s) damaged my property, opened my personal package, and rummaged through my glove compartment, console and trunk. It's an awful feeling to be faced with the reality that people live their lives doing things like this. The timing is also ironic, happening at the time of year when we try to come together, be thankful for what we have and respect our neighbors. While living in the great city of Chicago, we usually feel safe in our day-to-day lives, but we are still in a very large, international city, and realistically, there's crime.

I was reminded that not everyone's as well-meaning as we would hope. This holiday season, I'm especially grateful for the many wonderful people in my life who enhance it and fulfill it, well aware that unfortunately, not everyone lives by the same moral code we would hope for in our society.

During my fifth holiday party this past weekend, it struck me that for all the drinking and eating and celebrating that goes on during this season, the holidays are actually a great time of year for dating (and for this wannabe matchmaker to set folks up)!

Back when I was still single, I used to dread the holiday season because it meant going home and facing well-meaning, but annoying comments and questions from loved ones wondering why I didn’t have a boyfriend. Don’t let these folks get you down. With all of the festivities taking place during December, this is actually one of the best times of the year to meet new people and go on dates…so that by Passover you have a different answer for Great Aunt Ruthie.

The biggest holiday party of the season took place a few Saturdays ago and while it’s already been covered here , here and here, I know of three potential first dates that I set up that night and I’m sure with 2,600 people in attendance those weren’t the only ones!

Now don’t feel too bad if you missed out on that great potential dating opportunity because the Matzo Bash is right around the corner. Here is the link to buy your tickets— get them soon as prices are going up.

And if giant holiday parties aren’t really your style, there’s plenty of smaller house and bar parties to attend. This past Friday I went a friend’s festivus and brought a few single girlfriends with me (as did many others in attendance.) By the end of the night, a few folks had exchanged numbers and I know for sure two of them are going out on their first date tonight! While you might not think there will be anyone new to meet at a smaller party, you really never know. So don’t get the holiday blues or turn into scrooge and skip out on any of these great events!

To keep you focused and in the holiday spirit, here are some of my tips for landing dates during the party season:

- Say, “yes” to every party invite you receive, whether it’s from your boss, your neighbor downstairs or your best friend. You never know who you are going to meet at one of these bashes. If you have two parties in the same evening, try to hit both, so you can expand your odds of meeting someone new to snuggle with during the cold months ahead.

- Plan a few holiday party outfits in advance. The holiday season can be long and tiring with lots of parties on week nights after work. To cut down on the temptation to just lie on the couch at home watching TV, have some rotating outfits on hand. This way you’ll be less likely to want to stay in and use the excuse, “I have nothing to wear.” Plus, planning ahead will help ensure you don’t wear the same outfit twice in front of the same group of friends. God forbid.

- Don’t be afraid of theme outfits/parties. The ugly sweater party is never going out of style, so go ahead and just embrace it all: ugly sweaters, reindeer headbands and menorah glasses. These all make great conversation starters and make going up the cute guy or gal in the bar a little easier.

Now let’s get dating. This is actually my favorite time. There is so much to do in Chicago that is fun, unconventional and fosters way more conversation than say, just going to a movie. Here are some great first dates for the holidays:

- Saving your cash for holiday presents? Why not grab a hot cocoa and take a stroll through the ZooLights display at the Lincoln Park Zoo.

- Don’t think because it’s cold out you can’t still be active! This year, Chicago has FOUR ice skating rinks available to the public. Millenium Park, Navy Pier, Daley Bicentennial Plaza and Wrigley Field all offer rinks, for more information check out this list of skating rinks.

- Being outside not your style? Go see a holiday-themed play! Who says Jews can’t celebrate Christmas? Check out a showing of the new play, A Christmas Story, The Musical! The lyrics are written by MOT Benj Pasek. For ticket information, visit The Chicago Theatre box office or call 1 (800) 745-3000.

- Do a little holiday shopping on your date at the Christkindlmarket at Daley Plaza.

- Tour the Sauganash neighborhood holiday lights. Grab another cup of cocoa and a car and take a drive. You can make it a game to spot the tackiest, prettiest, most unconventionally decorated house.

- Make a ginger bread house or bake some cookies. Stay-in on a particularly cold evening and bake some holiday themed treats with your new sweetie.

Hope some of these ideas help gets you through the holiday season and adds a little perspective to this time of year. Feel free to share your own advice and ideas below!

Happy Chanukah, everyone!

While it would be easy to ignore the craze, Tim Tebow-mania is everywhere. As I like to say, he is the "best, worst player I have ever seen." While he throws a horrible deep ball, he misses receivers like no one else ever has, and his reckless style will eventually get him hurt, the kid is a winner. Tebow wins. And the last time I checked, winning is what pro football is all about.

Clearly Tebow is not Jewish. In fact, he is a firm believer in Christianity. But what Tebow has done has brought religion, prayer, and deep faith onto the 50 yard line. Do his prayers help the Broncos win? Is God watching down on them and protecting Tebow and his teammates? I am not sure, but it certainly hasn't hurt. If anything, it seems to have centered Tebow and kept him focus. No one has been more watched and scrutinized. Yet, Tebow remained confident and poised. He remained centered. His faith was a big part of that.

If God and religion certainly have a place on the field, Tebow has used it to help himself. Now he has a football and religious following. Tebow has helped draw attention to faith and hopefully to a better world (even the football world). A world with less players that stomp on people's heads and instead play with a healthy competitive edge. He has helped players find an outward connection to their faith. And maybe, just maybe, this will rub off on the Jewish athletes.

While I hate what he did to the Bears this weekend and while I think there are so many problems with his game, he wins, he is fun to watch, and ultimately he is a role model. So yes I have been Tebowed and I am on board to watch the Broncos play and pray their way into the playoffs.

And Let Us Say...Amen.

10. He wants to be in Old Spice commercials for the Super Bowl.

9. Waxing hurts.

8. He had a bet with Mitt Romney that the Bears would win on Sunday.

7. He got sick of being called a Rabbi.

6. He had put on weight and people thought he was Santa Claus.

5. He just found out that you don't need a beard to be religious.

4. The hair care products didn't last long enough to cover the gray.

3. It was itchy.

2. He saw himself on this new Bravo show and thought it was time to rethink how he observes Judaism.

1. It's easier to eat a jelly doughnut without having to worry about it getting in your beard. 

Best of luck to you Matisyahu. I like your music with or without facial hair. I especially liked when you sang with the PS22 Chorus. I hope wherever your spiritual journey takes you, it takes you to the recording studio.

His eyes were warm and for some reason following me
as I walked through the metal detector.
I turned and somehow found myself in conversation
abstractly
and he was saying something to me
and it felt as if i had come into the conversation midway
helter skelter.
"Moshav Meir,"
he says as I look on in confusion.
"Moshav Meir," he repeats, glowing eyes waiting for a response.
Have I heard of it? I ask… "Well yes... well yes, I have, well yes, someone randomly told me about it, well yes."
And he puts his hands together, cupped in classic Israeli fashion, eyes shining and says, "They're the best people, the best."
And I wonder why
Why he is telling me this
What he knows
What God knows
Where we should go
Where we should go next.
We are never here we are never resting.
Always going.
All roads lead to Moshav Meir
I suppose.
And after a conversation that seemed to last a while
But perhaps, only another minute
Yet a minute with a radiating security guard that wants to tell you how he tries to keep kashrus and wants to be religious as I assure him that he is doing well, as he looks at me in my tiechel and little baby in praise, and I glow, a responsible young adult.
Well then
A minute like that is a long minute indeed.
I walk away, eventually, immediately, and it barely hits me anymore
That a security guard here
cares about my wellbeing
tells me about keeping kashrus.
And back there, in America, no one cares whether you come out dead or alive
Unless it's on their watch.
And they have no business telling you where to go or what to live
and anyone with shining eyes is shown the way out.
But here, it's not scary.
Here, it's shining.
Here, it glows.

The days leading up to my scan— and the 18 hour wait for results— took a noticeable emotional and physical toll.

We were in a holding pattern— waiting for life to potentially shift— for our worlds to be turned upside down.

This time I felt I had that much more to lose.

My life since cancer has been a state of elevation, of hyper-color vision, and filled with immense gratitude.

My life since cancer has shown me what it feels like to be deeply loved, supported, and cared for.

My life since cancer has been filled with clarity, meaning and fulfillment. 

I didn't want to lose all that I had since been given.

I didn't want to part with this new self, this new state of being, this new life.

As I deliberated over my potential losses, I realized the critical importance of reframing my thoughts in order to get through the wait.

My scan-xiety is a symptomatic reminder that my survival, fight and journey is continuous.
As a cancer survivor, I have to accept that I am and will always be reliant on the system. I am and will always be a part of this community.

It is this system— this community— that continues to keep me alive, that continues to keep me strong, and will be there to brace my potential fall.

This morning I received the news that my scans are clean and that I continue to be in remission.
As I slowly exhale, and tiptoe into celebration, I do so with the knowledge and appreciation of life's fragility.

And it is that knowledge that drives my deep appreciation and gratitude for this community, this experience, this moment.

Thank you for your love, support, and prayers.

I needed you, I felt you, I am grateful for you.

So I'm totally afraid of being that annoying mommy writer who only writes about her kids and then I looked at the last few things I've written and found that I already am that person. How did this happen? I have so many other things to talk about. Don't I?

Being a stay at home mom for a full year now, I have to say that the struggle to find purpose in my life does center around raising happy and healthy children. It is literally the first thing written on my to-do list, so that I know that even if I don't get to anything else, I am still being a productive person in the world. But finding a purpose in my life goes far beyond those two little ones. I have had this nagging little whine in my head for as long as I can remember: what are you doing with your life, anyway?

When I worked in the Jewish nonprofit world, I had a purpose every day: raising money to help people in need. I went to work and thought about the Jewish community and the larger community that needed food, housing, health care, education, you name it. Working in a philanthropic field kept me in touch with a larger purpose.

Now I'm way more self-centered. I think about my family, my daughters. I think about my artwork and the new business I launched this fall. I think about going to yoga, sometimes actually going to yoga. I practice my cello. I think about how I became this mommy writer and how the hell did I let that happen?

And then I wrote this really boring post about how I'm starting a tradition on my daughters' birthday next week (again about the kids, really?) of donating $18 in each of their names to a different nonprofit each year. Eventually they will be able to choose the charities they contribute to and hopefully this will instill in them a love of helping others, or at least a habit of doing so. Believe me, it was really boring.

But it did get me thinking about philanthropy and how giving – even in a small way – is something that enriches life and offers a sense of purpose. Turns out I've been doing that all year - giving to different causes and volunteering when possible. Teaching the value of philanthropy to my children is just another way of giving back, part of the larger purpose of my life. Hey, maybe there are a couple of purposes out there.

I'll spare you the boring post and just give a couple of shout outs: 1) to my friend Rachel, from whom I am stealing the birthday giving idea; and 2) to the JUF Chanukah Coat Club, which received the very first donation in the names of Violet and Autumn Hinkley-Wolfman. They were born on the first night of Chanukah two years ago, so really the choice was easy. I hope that when they look back at the first page in their birthday donation scrapbook they will feel proud about helping to keep other children warm this winter.

And now I'm going to think about all the other things floating around in my head, so that maybe next time I will write about social change, or affordable health care, or the environment. You know, the stuff that matters, like your kids.

It happens to all of us. Some of us sooner than others, and there's nothing you can do about it. Yes, this article is about aging—you're never too young to start taking good care of your mind and body.

In college, I thought my eyes might be the reason the chalkboard was fuzzy. I went to my parents' eye doctor, and not to brag, but my eyes were 20/15 and the doctor said, "It's the chalkboard. You have better than perfect vision." And so I went on my way, thinking well, at least I have that.

Several years later, my wife, who has had glasses since middle school, said "one day it will happen to you." And she said it smiling, like she was excited that one day my vision would go. Never having had glasses, I always wanted a pair. I think people in glasses look smart and give off this vibe that says:

● I read Dostoevsky

● I travel the world

● Small talk is for the birds

● And of course, I read nutritional labels (you need glasses, that font is small)

The last time I faced this type of change was in sixth grade. I was going to my locker when my friend Noah looked at me and did a double take, "You got braces?" Being slightly nervous and embarrassed, I begged him not to say anything. He responded with a bigger smile, "Don't worry." Although he said the right words, his deceptive grin didn't ease my angst. I walked into class with my lips glued together.

Everything seemed normal, except, why is Noah standing on a chair? "Hey everybody," Noah said. "Ronny got braces." And, so my awkward stage began.

Noah probably would call me four eyes today, but I don't really care. Maybe that's the upside to growing old; you care less about the little things like glasses, braces, and the occasional zit. As you age there are more important things to worry about. I'm not going to tackle saving for retirement or social security, but I will discuss a few anti-aging techniques.

1. My anti-aging mental super powers

2. Train your muscles for life

3. Nutrition tips for a long, healthy life

My anti-aging mental super powers

When my dad turned 50, I bought him this book, "Brain Fitness: Anti-Aging Strategies for Achieving Super Mind-Power." Like many books in that genre, the main takeaway is use your brain or lose it. Even at our age, if you have a family history of Alzheimer's or Dementia it's very important to exercise your mind. Several studies have shown mental workouts can help keep your mind sharp. It's best to mix them up—like muscles, your brain adapts to the game/puzzle…so if you always do word scramble, do a crossword puzzle once a week. Here are some easy brain fitness tips from the book:

● Once a week wear your watch on your other hand

● Learn a new language

● Do Sudoku or a crossword puzzle several times a week

● Tackle one brain teaser a week

● Exercise daily—keeping the heart and muscles moving helps with brain function

● Download mind/memory games for your smart phone

● Check out Brain Matrix website for more information

Train your muscles for life

There's no reason you cannot build and maintain your physique as you grow older. More important than bulging biceps and six pack abs, is functional strength and flexibility like the ability to bend down and remove dishes from the dish washer and place them in cupboards. Exercise such as yoga, Pilates, and swimming are helpful to keep joints limber. Swimming in particular is great, as water is very therapeutic. Pumping iron has also been linked to keeping your mind healthy, there is still more research to do, but it's a very positive sign.

The number one recommendation to avoid bone loss is weight bearing exercise. If your mom has osteoporosis, it's important you lift weights. Walking, elliptical trainer, and swimming are other examples of weight baring exercises that might help your lower body fight off degeneration.

I cannot stress enough the importance of mixing up your routine. Every 4 -6 weeks you should change your workout routine. There are two reasons for that: 1) Your body adapts to how you train. If you always do the same thing, your body learns how to get through the workout easily. By mixing up the routine your body is confused and you end up burning more calories and building more muscle. 2) It's good for your joints, tendons, and ligaments (connective tissue for muscles). Although your muscles get stronger from lifting weights, it can take a toll on your connective tissue. I see this with older power lifters who have beaten up shoulders and knees from too many bench presses and squats.

Nutrition tips for a long, healthy life

I often hear, "I work out so I can eat whatever I want." That phrase is very flawed. Yes, you can eat whatever you want, but the most important take away here is PORTION CONTROL. Carbs are not making you fat—eating too much of them is. 

For years the Mediterranean diet has been very popular with dieters. It stresses healthy fats, lean meats, lots of fish, and vegetables. In my opinion, keep it easy:

● Drink lots of water (good for your skin, digestion, muscles…)

● Increase your fruit and veggie consumption

● Eat lean proteins

● Eat more whole grains and less white breads and rice

● Try: brown rice, quinoa, bulgur, Chia, and steel cut oats

● If a cookie is calling your name, eat it! The caveat, a normal size cookie which you could fit in your palm. A cookie the size of your face should be shared.

● Drink pop in very small moderation. Studies have even suggested that diet soda reduces bone density.

I was having a party. A "women only" drinks and nosh potluck party. My husband was in Utah on a hiking/biking extravaganza with some guy friends. The kids were having a sleepover at grandmas. I cleaned and organized for a week. I baked. I fretted about wine choice. But I was so excited. I'm not sure if it has to do with being younger, being single, not having kids or what, but something that has significantly changed for me as I have gotten older and married with kids is that the precious alone time with my women friends has declined tremendously. And I miss it. My husband and I as a couple, have found "couple" friends and I enjoy that company, as well. But there is something different that happens in a circle of women when no men are present. There's energy and an ease in that kind of space that's invigorating to me. I feel it provides a balance that I really need. All this being said, bringing a bunch of women together can also cause drama. So maybe I shouldn't have been surprised when I got a strange phone call from one of my friends a few hours before the gathering. But I was.

On the day of my party, I was surrounded by what felt like 1,000 kids in costumes. I was at a pre-halloween party. My phone was vibrating. Voicemail. I plugged one ear and strained to hear the message. It was my friend whom I've known for 19 years saying she was in my neighborhood and could she come over now (3 hours early) and leave when the party started? This made zero sense to me. She lives 20 minutes from me – hardly a haul – and why the hell would she come 3 hours early and then dash? I found the quietest spot I could and called her back. She repeated her nonsense message. "Why would you want to do that? Why would you come before the party – 3 hours early no less – and then leave at the start?" "Well, everyone is going to be married. And you will all be talking about your kids. And dirty diapers. And I have nothing to say. Nothing in common with them." I was aghast.

"First of all," I said curtly, "you don't even know most of these women! How do you know what they will talk about?" She reminded me of my husband's 40^th birthday party where she sat with my parents and grandparents to avoid all the couples. (I did not choose to point out that my parents and grandparents are couples, too.) "Yes. I remember you did that. But these are women. We all have that in common. There will be no spouses." Undeterred she said, "But everyone is a mom. Right? Everyone will be talking about their kids. And soccer. And carpool. I mean, I have nothing to say to that." My response? "You know what? No! No you may not come to my house early. Put on your big girl pants and suck it up! I'm married and a mom and the last thing I want to talk about when I have time with other women is my kids – or carpool, or soccer. You are a, a, racist against moms! See you at 8!" And I hung up the phone. I returned to the 1,000 kids in costume.

I was seething. What the hell? Who did this chick think she was? And worse, who did she think I was? I felt attacked for my life choices. That somehow by my becoming a wife and mother, I had given up my being a woman. I was now seen as someone who couldn't have a conversation about anything that was unrelated to my children. I called another girlfriend. I relayed the incident. I was yelling, in my minivan, in the suburbs, with my 4 costumed children drunk with sugar overload in the back. My friend listened intently. "This is not about you." She finally said. "She's feeling self-conscious about her life. If you are really her friend, you need to call her back and apologize. But if you don't really care either way, do nothing." I was stunned. About her? I didn't say anything about her. She attacked me! I included her! I attempted the mantra of, "it's not about you. It's not about you." I sounded semi-authentic.

I called my friend back. I told her (nicely this time) that no, she could not come early and that she would be fine. That I invited her because she was a girlfriend and this was a gathering of girlfriends. I assured her that while I could not guarantee what each and every conversation would be about, that the women who were coming were interesting, thoughtful and had more to them then a detailed account of the daily ups and downs of motherhood. She came. She had fun. She met another single friend and they made a date. I also got her a gift for her cat. I think she forgave my harshness.

Looking back I see how deeply I was triggered by what my friend had been implying. What she said about me is how I protest being seen and portrayed. I often say, that although I live in the burbs, in a house, in an affluent community and stay at home to raise 4 kids, I am most definitely not like everybody else in my same situation. I feel the need to separate myself from all the stereotypes that are married (if you will) to my life place. Things in fact that may be true about me. Fact is, I am a wife, a stay at home mom and my kids are my life, and I'm wondering as I write this why I feel the need to defend that or put distance between that and myself. Because I may be a suburbanite, mini-van driving mom, but when I've got a pomegranate martini in hand, I'm a well-rounded friend and I throw a damn good party at that.

So my first idea for a blog post was a list of Christmas songs and carols written by Jews. But it turns out that subject has been very, very well-documented. (I did compile a list from these sources, and tacked it on to the bottom of this post, if you are curious.)

Instead, I tried to find out what Jews today do on Christmas. Turns out, this matter is the subject of not a few online videos. Here are my favorites, one for every candle of Chanukah. (Now, some of the language in these is NSFW. But why are you watching videos at the office anyway?! Get back to work- it's a short month!)

1. "South Park": "A Lonely Jew on Christmas"
Kyle Broflovski, the only Jewish member of the South Park foursome, sings this lament on Jewish alienation on this pervasive, even smothering, holiday. And we feel the poor little guy's pain. But what could he do about it? His fellow Jewish YouTubers have this to say:

2. Chuck Brodsky: "On Christmas, I Got Nothing"
First, Kyle must realize that he is not alone. For instance, Chuck here, even as an adult, still recalls the childhood sting of being left out in the gift department. A great folksinger, he once worked on a kibbutz. His work is usually pretty pointed, with songs about everything from pollution to road rage. He also writes many songs about unusual baseball figures- some of whom, like Max Patkin and Moe Berg, were Jewish.

3. Sarah Silverman: "Give the Jew Girl Toys"
Meanwhile, Sarah wants toys on Christmas, too. But rather than pout about not having any, she takes a more proactive approach. (When Sarah wants toys, Santa, you'd better just hand them over… if you know what's good for ya.)

4. Brandon Walker: "Chinese Food on Christmas"
Of course, rather than focus on getting another Transformer or Furby, one could make one's own celebration with the resources at hand, with one's similarly sidelined palls. Are there any Chinese restaurants in South Park?

5. The Chixie Dix: "All I Want for Christmas is to Be Jewish"
And if Kyle can't find any Jews to go with, would a potential Jew do? Some Christians, like these alt-country singers, also feel put out by all the fuss made on Christmas, and actually wish for a more simple, pure, untainted holiday. Some might even be looking for a guy like Kyle to chill with.

6. Melissa McQueen: "All I Want for Christmas is Jews"
So might this Mariah Carey wannabe, although she is too old for Kyle. The guy in the last song wanted to become Jewish, but she just wants to hang out with Jewish celebrities and be Jewish-by-association. So that's another kind of person Kyle might find to accompany him for some dim sum.

7. Kugelplex: "Yiddish Rudolph"
That failing, Kyle might avoid being lonely by actually attending a Christmas party and watching some classic videos with his classmates. But that still doesn't mean he has to "do" Christmas their way. For instance, he can reclaim a famous Christmas song written by his fellow Jews… by singing it in a Jewish way. That should make a keen Christmas memory for his hosts!

8. Jewmongous: "Reuben, The Hook-Nosed Reindeer"
Or he could make up his own words… and follow the footsteps of Jews who specialized in novelty songs, such as Mickey Katz, Allan Sherman, Tom Lehrer, Shel Silverstein, and Andy Samberg. Or this guy, Sean Altman. Altman's old a cappella group, Rockapella, is best known for their "Carmen Sandiego" theme song, but his solo material is far less child-friendly. (And this little ditty isn't even the worst of them.)

9. MC Jew C and Lil Mitzvah: "Merry Hanukkah"
Of course, another reaction to Christmas and the dismissive effect it has on many Jews is good ol' anger. Why seek out other Jews, or wanna-be Jews, or wanna-be-with-Jews? Why not just rail against the system, and like these rappers fight back with a personal war on the all-encompassing Christmas "spirit."

So that's what Jews do for Christmas- deal with the loneliness, alienation, and lack of presents though friendship, sarcasm … and plate after plate of moo goo gai pan. Oh, and by making videos about what Jews do on Christmas. 

For those who did want a handy-dandy guide to which Christmas songs were written by Jews:

- "White Christmas" by Irving Berlin, who also wrote the winter classic "I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm."

- "The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting…)" by Mel Torme and Bob Wells.

- "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" by Johnny Marks, who also wrote "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" and "A Holly Jolly Christmas."

- "Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow" by Sammy Cahn and Jule Styne, who also wrote "The Christmas Waltz."

- "We Need a Little Christmas" by Jerry Herman.

- "Santa Baby," music and lyrics by Joan Ellen Javits and Philip Springer.

- "It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year" by George Wyle and Edward Pola.

- "Silver Bells" by Jay Livingston (Jewish) and Ray Evans (not).

- "Winter Wonderland" by Richard B. Smith (not sure) and Felix Bernard (yes).

- "Sleigh Ride" Leroy Anderson (no) and Mitchell Parish (yes).

- "I'll Be Home For Christmas" Walter Kent (yes), Buck Ram (yes) and Kim Gannon (no).

- "There's No Place Like Home For The Holidays" Bob Allen (not sure) and Al Stillman (yes).

- "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch" Albert Hague (yes) and Theodore "Dr. Seuss" Geisel (no).

(Some of this list was researched by Nate Bloom.)

Those of you that tuned in to my post last month were treated to an un-OY-fficial match up of DC vs. Chicago. In a tight race, I graciously called it a draw between the Gem of the Midwest and the Jewel of the Mid-Atlantic. Stephen Richer of Gather the Jews, a DC based website, brought on a full challenge to my results, claiming DC as the definitive winner to this civic battle. Richer gave DC ten extra points out of 10 categories! Frankly, I could easily pick apart most of his analysis, but there is no need, because I can easily come up with nine more categories where Chicago bests DC proving it to be at least as good a city:

1. Chicago is sportier: Chicago has won more major sports championships than any other U.S. city besides L.A. and New York. DC did not even make the top 10! And for those of you that want to dis the Cubs (who won all of their championships over 100 years ago,more people came out to see the Cubs lose last year than to see the National’s win.

2. Chicago is tougher on the weather:According to this article from President Obama’s first winter in Chicago, he dissed DC at a press conference for being a little too quick to cancel school on account of a little bit of ice. Chicago knows winter and knows how to handle it!

3. Chicago is worldlier: So the Bureau of Expositions has sanctioned over 50 official World Expositions, since 1850. Two have been in Chicago (1893 Columbian and 1933 Century of Progress). Zero have been in Washington… well, not totally true. In 1974 SPOKANE, Washington hosted one. How does it feel to be bested by SPOKANE, DC!

4. Chicago is Nobel-er!: So nobelprize.org allows you to sort Nobel Prize laureates into all kinds of lists. So I compared DC area winners with Chicago area winners. Based on the institutions associated with the winners: Chicago=20 and DC=7. Richer went to the University of Chicago, so when it comes to education, he should know that University of Chicago alone claims 16 Nobel Prizes awards for smarty-ness!

5. Chicago is well guided!: I had the unfortunate experience to hop onto a DC Double Decker Bus tour only to find that the tour was delivered by a well scripted RECORDING! When I worked for Chicago Trolley and Double Decker we always had live tour guides showing the sights and sharing the stories on top of the bus. DC=Fail here!

6. Chicago is funnier!: Chicago takes this category hands down. Second City, IO Chicago, the Annoyance are all Chicago originals featuring some of the funniest. Tina Fey, Tim Meadows, Chris Farley, Amy Pholer all trained in Chicago’s finest comedy venues.

7. Chicago is safer!: According to the most reliable source on statistics-the Movies , Chicago is safer. DC is the 3rd most destroyed city in movie history, while Chicago is the 9th. By that rationale, you are more likely to wake up to an alien invasion or zombie apocalypse in DC than Chicago! Stay safe and stay in Chicago.

8. Chicago is better represented: Illinois has 2 senators and 19 congressmen (13 of which are Chicago area districts). How many voting representatives in DC? ZERO! The license plates in DC read - “Taxation Without Representation” for a reason!

9. Chicago is bigger!: More people and more city! And as everyone knows, size does matter!

For those of you that have been keeping score, this battle between two writers trying to come up with random factoid about two cities is tied once again. Let’s face it, we could go back and forth like this forever. For the sake of our readers on the shores of Lake Michigan and the banks of the Potomac alike, it might be best if we just admit that both cities have their pros and cons and that we all sleep better knowing that at least neither one is as expensive as New York!

Two summers ago, I wrote an Oy! post highlighting my summer reading plans. It's been awhile since then and I just got my latest obsession-the new Amazon Kindle Fire. Now if you remember my last post, I talked about how much I love reading BOOKS— my office at home is covered in bookshelves— and was never going to convert to an e-reader. Well, things change. People change. And my boyfriend bought me this amazing toy for my birthday in October and I'm a total convert.

I know I'm late to join the e-reader bandwagon, but since the Fire is so new, I feel like it's still ok to tell you all how cool it is and why you should get one, too.

The positives: Normally a loyal Mac girl, I had reservations about not choosing the iPad, but for a third of the price, I've got to say I'm pretty happy with my choice. Besides getting books instantly to my Kindle, this thing makes renting movies and TV shows a cinch— all it takes is a click and it's cheaper than On Demand and Netflix's! I can also browse the internet, create my own magazine pages and subscribe to my magazines on the Kindle. I can rent books free from the library, share readers with my friends and there is a 99 cent book of the day deal; so believe it or not, the Fire is actually saving me money!

The negative: I no longer can read on the El because I'm terrified I will either drop it, lose it or have it stolen. This seriously cuts into my reading time and makes it harder to get out of bed in the morning (a. because I stay up later reading and b. because I have nothing to look forward to on the commute to work).

Review done, here's my list of books to e-read by the fireplace (not the train) this winter. Feel free to make your own recommendations and post them at the bottom:

In the Garden of Beasts by Erik Larson— If you loved Devil in the White City, you need to read Larson's newest book about America's first ambassador to Nazi Germany, Chicagoan William E. Dodd and his family who in July 1933 find themselves living in the heart of Hitler's Berlin. This non-fiction book offers a fascinating and at times horrifying and frustrating account of the United States relationship with Nazi Germany leading up to World War II.

Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrad— Not to include two non-fictions books here about the same time period, but Hillenbrad's latest book, which took seven years to come out, is currently at the top of my reading list. I loved Seabiscuit and I can't wait to start Unbroken about an army air forces bomber who crashes into the Pacific Ocean during World War II.

Thank You, Notes by Jimmy Fallon— With YLD's Big Event only a few weeks away, I thought I'd check out this year's performer's latest book.

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins— If you haven't read this series yet, immediately stop what you are doing and go read them. I read each book in a day because you just can't put them down. The first movie is coming out in March and it promises to be a blockbuster, so make sure you read the book now. Check out the movie trailer. 

The Lady of the Rivers by Philippa Gregory— So last time, I told all you Oy!sters to read The Red Queen  the second book in Gregory's cousin's war series about Elizabeth Woodville and the Plantagenet family. Well, this is the third book in the trilogy— only it's a prequel to the first book instead of the concluding book I'd been waiting to read for over a year! Gregory explains on her website:

Whilst many of you (myself included) were expecting a book on Elizabeth of York called The White Princess to follow The Red Queen, gloriously, the research has taken me down a slightly altered path and so Jacquetta's book, currently called The Rivers Woman, will be released in autumn 2011.

I'm still going to read it and you should, too. On a positive note, this is now the first book in the series, so if you like historical fiction and haven't read her other books, you can still start here.

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald— Last time I ended with a favorite classic, so I think I'll do the same thing this time around. Since the movie is coming out this spring, the timing feels right to re-read one of my all-time faves, The Great Gatsby. I already own a few versions (I'm a nerd) of the actual book, so for a classic I might have to return to the real thing and skip the Fire.

When I was choosing colleges, my mom made her qualifications very clear. First, of course, I had to go somewhere that was right for me, intellectually, personality-wise, cost-wise, etc. But vying for top consideration was this: My mom wanted to visit me somewhere she could go shopping.

This was never actually going to be a problem. I grew up in a small town two hours from anything, and I always wanted to live in a city (for many reasons, not all of them shopping-related). A decent mall was an hour away, and Columbus, Ohio, with its stores, airport and restaurants, was 80-miles just getting there. Going shopping was a grand day out, a giddy affair bookended by a great car trip, often just me and my mom.

It's no surprise that an activity I associate so closely with happiness should become a go-to for cheering myself up. I don't do retail therapy by blowing triple digits at Express (though I have been known to stagger out of a bookstore, dazed and loaded down with totally justifiable additions to my shelves). Instead, more and more I seem to be gravitating toward single, special purchases. There's a handmade leather belt on Etsy cut and dyed to look like the f-holes on a violin. I'm still floored by how beautiful it is, and I've been lusting after it for well over a year. Timbuk2 makes my favorite bags: even though I don't particularly need one, I'm really itching for one of their customizable backpacks. (It would be great for travel!) Vivien of Holloway, Nudeedudee and Rocket Originals make the most smashing vintage repro, and I can't tell you how tempting it is to dump all the clothes I own now and start over with a dedicated wardrobe straight from the '30s and '40s. Don't even talk to me about John Fluevog.

I hover over these buys, though: I stew in them and put them off, as some future reward for some future accomplishment or occasion. To get all analytical for a moment—my mom is a psychologist, after all—perhaps that's a throwback to those trips to Columbus: the drive and the delay are bound up in the payoff. But let's get real, friends: this is not about why I don't buy things when I want them. Because this week I broke the pattern, and let me tell you, the payoff has been great.

See, my mom has been fighting cancer for three and a half years now. Yesterday was a big test, one that would tell us if the new treatment is working like we've been hoping it is. It's a pretty anxiety-inducing set-up, and even if you're not consciously thinking about it, you feel it under your skin. November was also a stressful month for me on its own, and I still have a mountain of other tasks to scale.

The day before yesterday, I happened on a link: a high schooler covering a Shakespeare soliloquy on a ukulele. Not just any soliloquy: Hamlet's "To be, or not to be," touching on some of the darkest, most profound soul-dredging stuff available to us as human beings. The cover is awesome. It's so cheery, you can't help but smile. It's sweet, but it's the last thing from manufactured. And that's the thing: even the undiscovered country sounds sunny on a ukulele. I'm beginning to suspect that it is actually impossible to be sad with a uke in hand.

So, rather than liking the idea and putting it on a shelf, to be cashed in at a later date, yesterday I headed to the Old Town School of Folk Music and strolled out with a Lanikai pineapple ukulele in hand. Why not? Eight years of piano lessons aside, I've never played a stringed instrument before, and it's been years since I've played music at all, but that's okay. Ukulele is known for being both easy and forgiving, and I have to tell you, it's a lot of fun.

It wasn't a huge purchase—I've actually spent more on pants for work wardrobes—but, satisfyingly, it felt like a bigger purchase than it was. Being able to walk home and open the case, prop open the learn-it-yourself book and start strumming was glorious. And there's so much to look forward to: ukulele covers of all your favorite songs probably exist somewhere on YouTube, and the very helpful guys from Old Town were quite excited to show off Metallica for Ukulele. Anything is possible now.

The danger, of course, is that having given myself permission to actually enjoy a non-incidental purchase spontaneously, I'm now furiously calculating whether I can squeeze in the backpack, the belt, the tea dress, the shoes. Sending in my rent check this morning will probably temper those impulses, but more importantly, I think it's time to just soak up this purchase for a while. As it turns out, my mom's test yesterday came back looking great. That alone makes the world a sunnier place, but I'm not going to lie: having a ukulele doesn't hurt.

I LOVE the holiday season. I love the festive feeling you get when you're making your Thanksgiving menu or listening to holiday music when out running errands. I love the smell of turkey roasting in the oven and of the latkes my dad would fry every year in our garage (because heaven forbid the smell permeates our home - you know that never comes out).

But more important than the presents, the food and the festivities, to me the holidays are a time for family traditions and sharing quality time with loved ones.

While I'm not so newly wed (it's been four years already - where does the time go?), I've found thus far that one of the biggest challenges in relationships is the merging of family traditions, particularly in November and December.

My family makes a huge deal of Thanksgiving - it's always at my parents and every year we gather all of the Friedsons and the Aizens and the Jacobsons around one big table for a dinnertime feast. Even though nearly everyone lives in Cleveland (or did at least - now we have a growing Chicago contingent and a lone New Yorker), it's when we would take the big photo of the grandchildren that would become calendars for our grandparents. My dad cooks the turkey, my mom makes her challah stuffing and mushroom gravy, and Nana always brings the cranberry Jello mold (which sounds disgusting but surprisingly isn't). We sit down around 5:30 for dinner around a big table and stuff ourselves to the point of bursting. It's all very predictable but it's US.

My husband's family traditions are completely different. David's stepmom is one of five sisters, and they all come together at Aunt Amy's house around 1:00 pm, bringing all sorts of yummy treats, which range from honey-baked ham to oyster stuffing to macaroni and cheese. Of course, there's turkey and green beans and pumpkin pie, too. The food is set up buffet style, and everyone hangs out (and pigs out) all afternoon, with the men in the basement watching football, the women upstairs eating and chatting. End result is certainly the same - stuffed to the point of feeling ill (in a good way of course), but totally different.

The December holidays are equally opposite. My family has a low-key Chanukah Party, with latkes and a goofy $10 gift exchange, and that's about it. David's parents have a menorah and a Christmas tree, and both holidays are celebrated in style with lots of presents and huge family get togethers and feasting that rivals the Thanksgiving spread.

The challenge is not so much about different family trends in gift-giving or favorite foods. It's adjusting to the idea that you won't always be with your family on Thanksgiving day - and helping your family adjust to the idea that you won't always be there for every holiday. AND it's getting used to the idea that you ARE with family - they're just not the same family that you were with as a child. Because his family is now your family, too.

Merging holiday traditions is tough. For us, we've come to the agreement of switching back and forth each year.  And for this year, work commitments are keeping us in Chicago for November AND December which meant finding new ways to celebrate instead of visiting family. It meant making friends the new family.

So far, it has been a blast. We feasted on Thanksgiving day with friends, and between four people, we had over a dozen dishes - because of course everyone wanted to share their favorite foods that their families have every year. Who knows what December will bring (besides the inevitable burnout on all things retail and Christmas music related).  Moreover, I know next year will be a whole new different adventure. But the merging of families, favorite foods, fun times and a new future together are what makes the ride worthwhile. 

When I was on my full-fledged BFF search, going on 52 dates in 52 weeks, people often asked me if I'd call off the hounds if I found The One. There were a few times when I considered it. I'd meet someone so fantastic and wonderful that I'd want to give up on everyone else and just dedicate all my time to that budding friendship.

And then I'd learn that she planned on moving.

Longtime readers of this blog know that when it comes to friends I believe in quality and quantity. Having one great friend is awesome and certainly a bajillion times better than none, but I wanted a handful. 

Greedy? Maybe. But people move. Or they have babies and are suddenly less available. I really wanted a friendship safety net.

My major year of dating was in 2010. I made a good amount of buddies during those 12 months, and in the 10 months since, I've made another, maybe, five friends. My calendar is blessedly full.

So the question is: Does the time ever come to stop looking?

For me, the answer is no. I've trained myself to be a people-meeter. (I truly believe this. Being friendly and meeting new people is something I was once kind of bad at, and now I rock. Sorry, but I do. If you think you're bad at being outgoing and talking to strangers, just force yourself to do it. Soon it'll become second nature. I promise.) There might still be a lady soul mate out there for me.

But here's a line that comes up a lot: I don't have time for new friends.

Or: I have too many friends as it is.

Or: So, are you done yet?

As if I'm cooking a meatloaf rather than establishing lifelong connections, here.

I get it. Time is precious and people want to use it on their already existing friends. But it would seem so odd to me, at this point, to just be like "Enough! I deem the search over! Class dismissed!"

Have I shared here the story of the British journalist who met a guy with a one-in-one-out friend policy? He maintained only six friends at a time, and one day sent the journalist a note saying he had an opening. Would she be interested in being his friend?

Lovely, right?

In hopes of never becoming that British twit, I'll keep looking, dating, and hanging with my new pals. Viva la amigos! But I'm wondering, have you ever consciously decided to stop looking for new friends? Ever decided your dance card was full?

With Thanksgiving coming up tomorrow, there's no way I can avoid writing a blog about the holiday of turkeys, cranberries and too many relatives cramped in one space.

I was trying to think of lessons I've learned over the years, and I've come up with three ways to relieve some of the stress that comes along with celebrating Thanksgiving. None of these are particularly innovative or groundbreaking lessons, but nevertheless, I thought I'd share.

1. Remember, there are no such things as carbs, calories, or cholesterol on Thanksgiving (or any major holiday, for that matter). Sure, most of us will eat enough to comfortably hibernate through the winter. Sure, you might feel a button pop off your pants after finishing dessert. So what? You'll work it off next week anyway. You might worry about what and how much you're eating on Thanksgiving, but honestly, I'd rather not stress about it. (Who am I kidding, I am just powerless to resist turkey and cranberry sauce… or dessert.)  Regardless of culture, food has always given people something to bond over and Thanksgiving is the holiday to experience a variety of wonderful culinary treats. Plus, if your grandma catches you avoiding certain dishes, she'll just pile them on your plate anyway.

2. Accept that your crazy relatives will never get any less crazy. When you pack many relatives, young and old, into one room, things are bound to get stressful, especially when you haven't seen some of them since last year's Thanksgiving. There's always a wacky or tactless relative that points out how much weight you've gained since you last saw each other. An older relative, like a grandparent, will probably pester you about finding a nice Jewish man or woman to marry and have children with. Dealing with many family members all at once can be stressful and frustrating, but at the same time, you should know what to expect by now - and be grateful for it. Everyone's family can drive them crazy, especially during the holidays. But if you take into consideration that some people aren't lucky enough to have a family to celebrate with, or that god forbid, someone may not be around for next year's Thanksgiving, you'll have a much different perspective. Take the stress with a grain of salt, and the whole experience becomes more pleasant and memorable.

3. Help clean up after the feast (especially if you didn't cook!) I admit it, I don't cook. But having been raised with a father and grandfather as obsessed with order, organization and cleanliness as Monica Geller on "Friends," I sure know how to clean. And since I don't do much preparing for Thanksgiving outside of setting plates and silverware, my job comes after all the food is gobbled up (clever, right?). If you are a guest at someone's home, cleaning up helps ensure that the hosts don't regret inviting you and might do so again next year. Anyone who has ever had a celebration at their home knows that cleaning up after is enough to make you reconsider ever hosting again. And as silly as it may sound, I like helping my family clean after all the guests have gone home. It makes me realize that no matter how annoying it is to vacuum the dining room carpet or clean the dishes, I'm grateful to have had another memorable Thanksgiving with people I love. And if you're one of those people worried about how much weight you've gained from your Thanksgiving meal, cleaning is a great opportunity to burn off some calories!

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Recently, I was flipping through my channels and saw a Lingerie Football League game on MTV2 (don't worry I don't frequently watch that channel). Yes, the women are dressed in less than modest attire, but once the whistle is blown they hit hard and bruise just like the men. It dawned on me that I had heard rumors that a former campmate of mine was on the Chicago team. Turns out that wasn't entirely true. Julie Farby, the girl all the guys had crushes on at Camp Ramah, had tried out but unfortunately did not make it. Farby was always an athlete. She was one of the stars of the girls’ basketball and softball team and we were on sports staff together as counselors. Farby took her passion for sports to the field in her tryout and here is her experience.

1) Tell The Great Rabbino a little bit about yourself. Did you play sports growing up?
I always loved playing sports. You name it, I played it. Basketball, softball, tennis, volleyball, pretty much my entire childhood consisted of me playing some organized sport or another. Sometimes that included me being the only girl on the team, which I didn't really mind— though I'm not sure how the boys felt about it. No one likes being shown up by a girl, but I think once the novelty wore off, they treated me like anyone else on the team.

2) What made you decide to try out for the Lingerie Football League?
I honestly didn't even know the league existed until like a month before the tryouts when I saw a video of one of last year's LFL game online. I was pretty much blown away by the idea that there was actually a league where girls got payed to play real tackle football live on MTV2. It was right up my alley. As a journalist, I was used to skimpy pay; the skimpy uniforms, on the other hand, would take some getting used to. But it looked like so much fun, I couldn't resist.

3) What were tryouts like?
Tryouts were really intense. Athletically, I hadn't done much since playing Lacrosse my freshman year in college, and some intramural softball and basketball leagues after that, so I wasn't sure what to expect. About 160 girls showed up to the tryouts, where we had to run the 40, do a variety of strength, skill and endurance tests, including pass, catch, and tackle drills, and by the end of the day, they had cut all but 35 or so of us. Those who made it past the first round were invited back to an increasingly intense week of mini-camp, where they narrowed the field even more. The remaining 30 of us were invited to come back to an even more grueling training camp, which lasted two more weeks, until they had the 20 players they needed to fill their roster. With a bunch of returning veterans, roster space was unfortunately limited, and as a result, my LFL journey ended after training camp. But for someone who had never played football in their life, wasn't a marathon runner or a fitness instructor, I think I did pretty well. I definitely learned a lot, too. But some skills you can't teach. Like either you are okay with tackling and getting tackled or you're not. I fall into the former. If I see you with the ball, rest assured I'm coming for you, and you're going down one way or another.

4) What was the most surprising thing about your experience?
The most surprising thing about the whole experience was definitely the level of competition. I thought it would maybe be more about looks than anything else, but that simply wasn't the case. These girls are real athletes, some of them have played football before, some haven't, but pretty much everyone was serious about making the team, and it showed. This was not a powder puff league that's for sure. These girls are elite athletes and work as hard as anyone I've seen. The skill level was very impressive. Watch a game and I guarantee you'll agree these girls are the real deal.

5) Do you think Chicago will embrace the team like it has other sports?
Chicago is a great sports town so I can't believe they wouldn't love the Bliss, too. The team's been around for like two or three years and seems to be growing along with the league in general, which is obviously good to see. I mean what more could you want than watching a bunch of beautiful, bad ass, lingerie clad women play real, hard-nose, smash mouth football? At the very least, they sure look a hell of a lot better in spandex than some of the Bears. And have certainly been more competitive than the Cubs these past two years. Haha, just kidding. But I honestly think Chicago is one of the greatest sports cities in the nation. Just ask them, they'll tell you!

6) What’s next in the athletic career of Julie Farby?
Hopefully, the next step in my athletic career is actually making it on the active roster and onto the football field. The Bliss have had a rough start this year, currently sitting at 0-2 after two tough home losses, something they had never done before. I'd like to think some Julie Farby is just what they need! In the meantime, I've been working hard to get in shape, hone my football skills, and do whatever I can to ensure myself a spot on the squad. I can't do anything about the fact that at 5'4" 115 lbs, I am definitely undersized, even for a league that plays in glorified bikinis. But while I may not be big, I can certainly play big, and that is exactly what I intend to do.

7) Who is your favorite Chicago athlete of all-time?
Wow, that's a hard question because there's so many Chicago athletes I love. I guess I'd have to say Frank Thomas and Ozzie Guillen (as a player) were some of my old-school favorites, along with the obligatory Walter Payton/Michael Jordan answer because seriously how can you leave those two out? Other than that, I am a huge Brian Urlacher and Paul Konerko fan because they've just been quietly awesome for years now. And of course Chicago's own MVP D-Rose. How can you not love the guy? He is so exciting to watch and will hopefully be bringing some titles home- that is if they ever end the lockout and actually play a game. I think Chicago sports in general have some bright days ahead of them, hopefully the Bliss included.

8) What do you do off the field?
When not taking snaps, I write a blog called Democralypse Now which I like to describe as an equal-opportunity satirist exposing stupidity in government and politics, one hilariously scathing post at a time. Like Stephen Colbert…only hotter.

Thank you to Farby for the interview. Best of luck at next year's tryouts. I am sure The Great Rabbino fans will be rooting and watching for you.

And Let Us Say...Amen.

I had a Blackberry on death row after getting the battery wet and needed a new phone desperately. I'd been waiting for countless months until the new iPhone came out. But, I contemplated buying an iPhone with trepidation, because I've killed nearly every phone I've owned with water, by way of sewer grate, washing machine and the list goes on. My Blackberry went from its normal state of dropping calls, to going midnight black whenever I spoke with someone for more than five minutes. I love to talk and found myself tragically "speechless."

I drank the Apple Kool-Aid after using a Mac laptop at my last job and after observing friends coo over their iPhones. For most of my life I've been a PC girl. But, when I was little, my family had an Apple IIGS. I could play Wheel of Fortune on it, and a very ghetto avatar of Vanna White would clap. At school, I lived out my thrill-seeking elementary school days playing Oregon Trail in the computer lab with classmates. When I was in junior high, I found it mind boggling that I could talk with friends via AOL Instant Messenger on dial-up. In 2011, here I was making my triumphant return to Apple ownership, and in an anticlimactic turn, Apple delivered the 4S iPhone and not the 5 version. The iPhone 5 was rumored to have a 3D pop-out screen and a 3D pop-out light-keyboard.

I got my mitts on the 4S, and Siri and I are quickly falling in love. She's not perfect, but she can read me my text messages and deliver them too. If I tell her, "I love you," she has sarcastic and delightful responses like "Oh, stop," "You are the wind beneath my wings" and "Our love of each other is like two long shadows kissing without hope of reality." She proves that technology can be simultaneously frightening, poetic and wistful. Siri is my sassy robot BFF.

The Blackberry ("Crackberry") and the iPhone have been blamed for people's deteriorating social skills and newfound inability to disconnect from work. Now that I've joined the Apple cult, I can report that the iPhone is both amazing and creepy. Not only can I tell my phone robot what to do, I can choose to never disconnect myself from social media, and my phone can geographically track my every move, including where I am when taking photographs. Perhaps we should start shaking the "Apple" tree to find Big Brother. 

The same week I got the phone, I went on a work trip to Los Angeles to attend a fabulously nerdy blog and technology conference. I found myself surrounded by thousands of "computer geeks" who totally got what I was only beginning to comprehend after emerging from my apparent Blackberry rock. As per usual, attendees sat through sessions like school children in study hall passing notes via Twitter. I've been on "the Twitter," as my Twitter-challenged friends like to call it; I understand its perks. But, who was really listening to the sessions? Who's listening to each other while tweeting at dinner, posting to Facebook while with friends or playing "Angry Birds" at parties?  

Guy Kawasaki, who worked closely with Steve Jobs at Apple, spoke at the conference about how Google+ is the future. It's predicted, he said, that everything we do on the Internet will ultimately converge into one complex, indexed Google identity. To reluctantly quote Melissa Gorga from the Real Housewives of New Jersey, everything we do is literally "on display."

If you've recovered from gagging, think about reality TV's growth alongside the expansion of our capabilities on the Internet and alongside our growing desire to showcase ourselves via social media. Facebook, which started when I was a sophomore or junior in college, is so embedded in our collective culture now; people now want to be stars in their own lives. I think we're increasingly finding ourselves in a voyeuristic feedback loop with little substance. Rarely have people commented on the prevalent social media and reality TV freak shows until Kim Kardashian's wedding-divorce debacle, resulting in the first substantial public outcry I've witnessed. 

I can ask Siri to think for me. I can tell my car to unlock for me. I can tell my TiVo to tape for me. Meanwhile, I can't get my mail courier to drop off my mail when my door label falls off. I think artificial intelligence is making some of us dumber. The pace at which we consume information is making us impatient. The monetary and social capital we afford to those without talent is too great. Our priorities are all off. I love my new phone, but I think it's making me more ADD than my Blackberry did. I am part of a generation with more information at our fingertips than ever before, yet I think many of us are overloaded and lack the drive, and perhaps the mental muscles, for skepticism.

I grew up with the weekly observance of Shabbat in my home and Friday night dinners were a break from the week's distractions, when my family and I could enjoy a long meal together with real conversation. Now, I don't often observe the Sabbath unless I'm visiting my family or attending a Jewish event. However, my roommate, with a modern Orthodox background, has sought out new ways to observe. She has stayed overnight with either a rabbi's family or an Orthodox family for Shabbat, after connections she made through a Jewish educational group. Recently, she went to the family's house and spent the night with other guests to observe the Sabbath. She and the guests didn't necessarily know each other or the hosts very well. In observance of the Sabbath, my roommate reported that she and others "unplugged"-they had a 24-hour break from cell phones and computers. My roommate said staying with these families provided a meaningful connection; she spent time with their children and enjoyed a meal that lasted several hours with rich conversation. She described it as becoming part of the family, relaxing and escaping from technology. She said "unplugging" helped her to feel engaged and connected.  

It's scarcely fathomable for many of us to put our phones in "airplane mode" while flying, let alone unplug completely. My roommate placed herself in a situation where she didn't know the hosts and guests, and let herself get to know them without Google stalking, Facebook stalking, Twitter and the like. Perhaps it's archaic by modern standards, but people have been getting to know each other in real life ("IRL" for you acronym geeks) for centuries. Our online personas sometimes create an artificial blockade and we can't just talk without researching each other first.

I'm not shaking my finger at technology or social media. The out-pouring of emotion and sentiments after Steve Jobs' passing speaks to a global desire to stay "connected." And, Siri might take over the world someday, after all. (Don't anger the robots.) However, I miss some of what makes us human, too.

One of my favorite shows on TV is House, MD. I find entertainment and comfort in its formulaic medical mystery plot which includes a side story that reveals a personal side to one or more of the characters. My boyfriend ridicules the show and says that anyone could make five guesses as how to treat someone medically, and eventually get it right.

Dr. House treats without waiting or even testing for medical problems. He and his team listen to a list of symptoms and then diagnose and treat some obscure illness before another symptom emerges that refutes the previous theory. Dr. House himself is a recovering addict and demonstrates sociopathic behaviors.

I thought of Dr. House when the Wall Street Journal published a report about the pretty drastic spread of Americans taking psychiatric drugs including a sharp rise in antipsychotics and ADHD medications.

If the laws of supply and demand apply to psychiatric medication, the increase would be due to the medication being helpful. You wouldn’t take ibuprofen unless it helped your pain. The same would seem to be true for psychiatric medication.

But here is the question that is harder to answer.

Why are Americans so depressed? Why are we obsese? Why are we anxious? Why are we OCD? Are these issues more prevalent today than ever in history, and what happens when these medications, as they may, stop working?

Previous generations had to deal with their siblings dying from the flu and childbirth. They starved during the Great Depression. They were drafted into foreign wars.

They didn’t have TIVO.

Our lives are considerably easier, yet overall we are more depressed and anxious.

Perhaps unlike our great or great-great grandparents, our expectations for life are just too high. They rejoiced in penicillin and a good meal. According to Buddhism, the extinction of desire is Nirvana. If we want less would we eat less, obsess less, be less disappointed?

I know it’s not so simple. The brain is a complicated place. It just scares me that we focus so much on the cure when our understanding of the causes is so much less certain.

It’s like Dr. House is treating us for psychiatric problems, and if you’ve ever watched the show, that can’t be good public policy.

I’m stressed that I didn’t complete everything on my to-do list at work yesterday, and I didn’t have time to pick up my dry cleaning, so I have to fit that in today. I also have a date tonight—what am I going to wear? …

These sorts of thoughts occupy our minds daily, the minutia of day-to-day life. It all seems so important in the moment, like life would end without completing that to-do list. Even though really, life as we know it will likely continue, regardless of what gets crossed off. But, what if it didn’t?

In my prior job, I worked with a sweet, generous and hard-working woman who managed our office. One day, as we were about to leave the office, she got a phone call, on her cell, from her doctor. She was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Her life changed in a matter of seconds and her previous stresses, like her to-do list and errands, became abstract and lost the type of significance they held in her life just moments before. She focused more on family, her treatment, and getting enough rest. The to-do list and errands later took on meaning, not because they seemed important the way they did before, but because they sometimes helped her feel healthy and fulfilled, distracting her from fear and pain. Her view on life and priorities shifted, and at that time I truly learned about our mortality, and my view on life started to shift, too.

A couple weeks ago I went shoe shopping at Nordstrom. Although I went for brown leather riding boots, I got side-tracked by a pair of plush moccasin boots. I didn’t purchase the boots because they didn’t seem too practical for trudging through the Chicago snow. This was kind of a dilemma, because they were so cute, but I couldn’t justify the expense if I couldn’t get through the snow in them. The other day, while driving back into the city from the burbs, my mind somehow fell on these boots again and eventually my mind wandered to, “But what if I couldn’t trudge through the snow? What if, physically, I couldn’t navigate the snow?” Now this would be a legitimate dilemma. I brought myself back to earth, criticizing myself for fixating on such a silly material possession …

About four years ago, a dear friend of mine stumbled upon an ill-marked construction site and fell several feet. Due to serious spinal cord injuries, he now will rely on a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Recently, I had a conversation with him and he told me that now, his life is all about “perspective.” He no longer stresses over the little things and allows himself to appreciate what brings him happiness, even if it’s just short-term gratification. Life’s too short to worry about every little thing and it’s also too short to disregard what’s going to bring us pleasure. I think we forget that, and I think those of us who are lucky, and I mean really lucky enough to have our health and physical capabilities, too easily forget that in our daily lives.

This Thanksgiving, I’m grateful for my health and loved ones, but I’d also like to thank those who have touched me and taught me strength by example. I’m thankful for the perspective they have given me and how they have reminded me to enjoy the pleasures in life that often go un-noticed due to the minor stresses and concerns running through our brains like a ticker tape. This holiday season, as we’re reminded about all we should be thankful for, let’s also try to remember not to sweat the small stuff.

This is my second year as the Turkey Talk expert and I could not be more excited. I have to admit that after the glamour of last year’s Turkey Talk (I had solved all of last year’s frenzy of turkey troubles), I went through a period of withdrawal. I waited for more emails, I hoped for phone calls, I even prompted strangers in the grocery store to tell me their kitchen enigmas. I was ready, willing and able.

For those of you who do not know, here is the skinny. The very popular and informative www.Koshereye.com has teamed up with the folks at David Elliot Poultry Farms, myself and Avrum Wiseman to provide home cooks everywhere with Thanksgiving tips, recipes, advice and expert advice for solving your turkey troubles.

This is the zenith of the year for me. I love Thanksgiving and for most of my life, I have loved helping people prepare fabulous meals. I realized that the turkey presents challenges for most home cooks and I want to help you. Most folks only cook a whole turkey only once a year. The turkey is this large, slippery thing that is finicky to cook, hard to manage, and can somehow end up dry and undercooked all at the same time.

Thanksgiving, while not a Jewish holiday, is an important holiday for American Jews. It is the day when we can celebrate exactly the same as everyone else. We can jump in the car after dinner and visit friends, have the ballgame on in the background and eat much the same menu, with a few tweaks here and there, as any other American. This great country allows us to do all of that and to celebrate our Jewish holidays Jewishly, and I as a patriotic, American-Jew am going to have my turkey and eat it, too.

I hope that if you have turkey troubles, kitchen conundrums and other culinary enigmas, you will tune in to Koshereye and give us a shout out, check out my blog www.cheflauraskosher.com and have a wonderful and thankful Thanksgiving.

I’m always looking for healthy products, something that will give me a bigger bang for my nutritional buck. I took a wild night out recently and strolled the aisles of Whole Foods, and found a litany of items I’ve never seen before. My main objective was to buy some milk, but I made a few other purchases. One of which was a cool product I saw online called, Garden Good, from Mama Jess. It’s a pasta sauce that has carrots and sweet potato listed as ingredients—being a nutrition geek, I thought that was awesome. We made some quinoa pasta, tossed the sauce on top, and really enjoyed it! The next step was to interview Mama Jess, a local health food expert. Our short phone call ran long and I learned a ton!

Tell us about your background: 
I come from a food science background. I worked in food development, brokerage, and with ingredients. I developed a lot of food products, but never got to launch my own brand. My past experience was a big help. I always wanted to lunch my own product. 

What was your inspiration for Garden Good and Bean Good? 
My children were my inspiration, hands down. When my son suddenly stopped eating carrots and sweet potatoes. I worked on recipes to get more vegetables into both my sons’ diets. Garden Good was a family favorite. My husband once joked, you should sell this, and here we are.  

I created Bean Good because I love beans. They are a great source of protein and fiber. And, most kids do not like beans so this is an easy way to get them into their diets.

This sounds a little like Jessica Seinfeld—did she influence you? 
I really like what Jessica is doing. People often think that I’m her because of my products and first name, but these are all my recipes, and my ideas. I do like her cookbook and have made a few things. I thought it was a little time consuming for the average mom. I wanted a product that was easy for parents and nutritious.

What do you think of all the Fiber One bars and other products with Inulin and Chicory Root? 
Real fiber from fruits, vegetables, and grains fills you up with less. The fiber, in Fiber One bars, is not natural, and I always prefer the natural route.

What about fiber powders? 
I’m not against powders and fiber supplements; I prefer to get my fiber from food. There’s a connection when you chew your food that sends a message to your brain that you are getting full. It’s also important to read the labels and make sure you aren’t getting fillers or artificial ingredients added to your supplement.  

What’s the biggest problem for children: portion control, food choices, or something else? 
Hands down, the number one problem is advertising of junk food. With the dyes, artificial everything, they pull in children and it starts at a very early age. It is going to take years to change this, along with legislation. And it will be a very expensive battle. Everything falls on parents, and it’s hard when [advertisers have] basically brainwashed our children. 

The number two issue is vegetables. Only four percent of kids are eating enough veggies. It’s one of the reasons I created my two current products.

The organic movement is gaining more and more steam, more products, like yours, are organic. Do we need all organic diets? 
I don’t think everything needs to be organic, but I recommend using the dirty dozen list and buying those products organic. The only argument against organics is cost but for your family it might be worth it. There’s a study I recently read, where they gave children non-organic food, then all organic diets for a week, tested their urine, and after a week of organic eating, there were no pesticides in their urine.  

Right now everyone has some vitamin-filled product. What’s your feeling on that? 
In the industry, we refer to that, as “fairy dust.” It’s all marketing. Some companies use such a small amount that it really has no effect. It’s much better to eat whole foods and vegetables. You get much more out of it than a drink or even a smoothie.

If you did the Oprah favorite things episode, what foods would you list?

1. GoodBelly: Digestive health is very important and GoodBelly has great products that contain probiotics, which aid in digestion. If you are going to give your children a yogurt product, they have a great selection. During cold and flu season I make sure we eat more probiotics. I like their juice drink and their GoodBelly Shots.

2. Z-Bars: I buy these bars for my kids. My favorite flavor is the s’mores. These are great because they have no high fructose corn syrup or artificial sweeteners. And actually taste really good.

3. Lara Bars: They make my favorite granola bars. They are all natural and taste great.

4. Tinkyada Rice Pasta: I love their penne pasta. It has a great pasta taste and it fills you up a lot better than regular pasta. It’s also good for those with gluten allergies.

5. Quinoa: I love quinoa. I’ve been eating it for a while, and it’s great to see more people talking about it and using it.

What’s the future of Mama Jess? 
Brown rice, snap, crackle, pop! I’ve been experimenting to try and get that same taste and sound, from brown rice cereal as Rice Crispy cereal. When something is fun to eat, kids like it, and that noise is definitely fun. The problem is that cereal turns right into sugar and your children get no nutrition. That might be my next product. You could also use it to make Rice Crispy Treats.

Even with a quick game of word association, Jess is a complex carb girl:
Cookie: Kashi makes my favorite
Tomato: Sauce
Carbs: Whole grain
Treadmill: The gym

Aside from having read children’s books to my younger sister and cousins, and then my own kids, I actually took a class in children’s literature in college, much to my parents’ joy. Also, there are tons of lists about which books to read to your kids, but no lists of the ones not to. I know for many of you Oy!sters, I’m probably ripping on some of your favorite childhood stories, but try to bear with me—I mean this all in good fun.

1. “Goodnight Moon” by Margaret Wise Brown 

It starts off fine, with a list of things in a child’s room. Although, why a “great green room”? Aren’t kids’ bedrooms small and cozy? And is no one upset at the “mouse” loose in a baby’s room? If it’s a pet, why isn’t it caged? Anyway, the book has a simple task— relist all of these things and say goodnight to them to help a child ease from wakefulness to slumber. But it fails in this task. It adds things that were not listed at first: light, clocks, socks, stars, air, the Moon itself. It leaves out the telephone, the very first thing mentioned. It rhymes “Moon” with… “Moon.” It adds “Good night, nobody”— a blank page!— when there is not “nobody” there. In fact, there is a lady whispering “Hush,” who is then acknowledged. And why is there a “bowl of mush” in the bedroom? How many times do I have to say it: No food in the bedroom!  

A better choice? “Goodnight, Gorilla,” by Peggy Rathmann

This adorable, mostly wordless book showcases a clever gorilla child who figures out how to sleep in a nice cozy human bed instead of his cage. It’s a good metaphor for kids who want to sleep in their parents’ bed, gently explaining they have beds of their own where they belong.

2. “Runaway Bunny” by Margaret Wise Brown 

This time, she gives us a baby bunny who is trying to individuate and declare a sense of self, imagining himself running away. The mother bunny will not allow this liberty, even in the abstract. He is not even allowed to entertain the notion of freedom. No matter what form he changes himself into, she will change form to suit, in a way that captures him and brings him back. She does not say, “When you turn into a fish, where will you swim? What places do you want to see?” She says, “I will turn into a fisherman and catch you.” This fear/hatred of her child’s freedom is more than Big Brother-ish, which would imply endless watchfulness. No, this reminds me of the quote: “It can’t be bargained with. It can’t be reasoned with. It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever.” Which is about The Terminator.

A better choice? “Blueberries for Sal” by Robert McCloskey

A mother and daughter go blueberry picking on a lovely day. Also, a mother bear and her cub. The children end up getting separated, with each unwittingly following the wrong parent. The resolution is handled with care, and children learn not to stray… but that if they do, their parents will find them.

3. “Guess How Much I Love You?” by Sam McBratney 

More parent-child bunny dysfunctionality. This time Little Nutbrown Hare (is “nutbrown” even a color?) declares his love for Big Nutbrown Hare with expressions like, “I love you how high I can jump!” Does the parent hare say, “Aww, how sweet! Thank you, baby!” Or “What a clever way to say how much you love me! I love you, too.” Nope! He says “I love you how high I can jump!” Which, as is he is Big, is much, much higher. In fact, the entire book consists of the adult one-upping the child with his superior, adult-level size, strength, and wit. But why the competition? Why insist that his child fall short, and must love him less, simply because he is smaller? Can’t a Little creature love as largely as a Big one? And wouldn’t that be a better book— “I can love you, Parent, just as much as you love me… even though I am not as big!”

A better choice? “Pat the Bunny” by Dorothy Kunhardt

While the baby interacts with the pages, she also relates to her parents. Daddy has a scratchy face! Mommy’s ring is too big! There is a sense of warmth, closeness, and playfulness. No one is better or worse—everyone does what they can do, and that’s wonderful.

4. “Love You Forever” by Robert Munsch   

This one truly makes me ill. A mother holds her baby son and tells him: “I love you forever. I love you for always. As long as you’re living, my baby you’ll be.” Aww! But then she keeps doing this as he grows up. He’s a kid, he’s a teenager, he’s a young adult. Still, she cradles him in his sleep and tells him this. Then he’s a grown man, and he moves into a house across town. So she’s done, right? Nope! She drives over in the middle of the night. She breaks into his house, sits on his bed, cradles him in his sleep, and tells him, “As long as you’re living, my baby you’ll be.” At which point, he wakes up and screams, “Leave me alone, you psycho! Why do you think I moved across town? Why do you think I never got married? Do you know how high my analysis bills are?!” Except… he doesn’t. It is too late for him and he’s doomed. She eventually grows too old for this ritual. So now he drives over to her place in the middle of the night, holds her, and tells her, “As long as you’re living, my mommy you’ll be.” Now just look what you did… you made Dr. Freud cry!

A better choice? “Counting Kisses” by Karen Katz

Books on letters, numbers, colors, shapes, and objects abound. But along with “counting,” this book teaches the members of the family and parts of the body, basic elements of a baby’s world… and ones that are arguably more important than animal sounds. Everyone gets a turn to kiss the baby goodnight until she is all kissed out.

5. “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein 

This should not be read to children. This should be handed out to members of Codependence Anonymous as a case study. It’s about a tree who loves a boy. He eats her apples and plays in her branches. Then he grows up, gets married… and builds a house out of those branches. Then he retires and cuts her down to make a canoe out of her trunk. When he is ready to die, he comes and sits on the stump, which is all she had left. And no matter how much he uses her, how much he takes, how little (actually nothing) he gives back, she loves him! Because that’s who she is. The one thing he’s made from her from the start is a doormat. If this is supposed to be the model for a parent, we’re going to have a whole lot of bratty, take-y kids running around. Oh, wait.

A better choice? Anything else by Shel Silverstein

Silverstein’s books of poetry-plus-cartoons for kids are the best since Dr. Seuss’. It’s just a shame that “Giving Tree” has become so popular, while better storybooks of Shel’s like the “Missing Piece Meets the Big O” and “Lafcadio, The Lion Who Shot Back,” are less well-known.

Year after year, these same books get trotted out as “best for babies.” Yet how many adults have examined them with a critical eye, and noticed what messages we are really sending kids when we read them? Some of the best-loved books of baby-dom are, in fact, teaching our kids all the wrong things.

There’s no better place in Chicago to watch professional sports while sipping unlimited Bloody Mary’s on a Sunday morning than Timothy O’Tooles.  This pub has it all, with a comedy club on Wednesday nights, great daily specials, and some of the most remarkable bar food in the city.

Timothy O’Tooles has two locations, with one in Gurnee near Six Flags Great America, and the other in Streeterville.  In a recent article by Metromix, the pub beat out Joe’s Bar on Weed Street for the title of “Best Bears Bar” and if you can take a hint from that, you would know that it’s a wonderful place to watch any Chicago sports team.  Locals have been flocking to the pub since 1992 and with the magnitude of Irish bars in the city, after 15 years, this one is a keeper.  There really is a flat screen TV everywhere you look.

The list goes on about the daily specials they offer but one of them is to note.  They have an unlimited Bloody Mary and Mimosa bar on Saturdays and Sundays from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m.  They provide you with the vodka, and then you do the rest with choices such as pickles, olives, and more than 40 different hot sauces.  Not only will the drinks flow, but also the Breakfast Nacho’s and Rise & Shine Burger will do the trick to get your day started off right.  If brunch isn’t your thing, then lunch and dinner have the likes of their award winning spicy Buffalo wings, Michigan Avenue salad, and a Pub Fish & Chips, all for reasonable prices.  If you want more expensive, there are options.  If you want cheaper, there are options.  However, if you want crazy, there’s the Big Timmy Challenge.  

The Big Timmy Challenge isn’t as extreme as it might sound, but nonetheless, it’s something to be proud of if you can down it.  For $19.99, you need to consume two-half pound burger patties piled high with toppings served with fries and onion rings.  If you were wondering what you get for finishing it, you get a Timothy O’Tooles t-shirt and a stomachache. 

In Chicago, it’s important that bar owners look out for their patrons and offers the best craft and micro-brews at a reasonable price.  This pub nails down the winner for an all-around venue with its beer choices such as Duvel, Three Floyd’s, a great supply of Goose Island Brews, as well as many other domestic, import and locals, 32 in total.  They also have wonderful specials such as their homemade O’Tooles Famous Holy Water or Roq Candy Martini, which features, Absolut Vodka, Hpnotiq Liqueur, sweet and sour and a splash of pineapple juice.

In their backroom, which features another bar, you can watch comedy on Wednesday nights.  As opposed to going to Second City or Improv Olympics, this show is done by up-and-coming artists like Marty DeRosa and Michael Sanchez, both very funny.  Audience members can have dinner and drinks while watching standup.  Comedians You Should Know is $5 online and $10 at the door.  If comedy isn’t in your taste, then you can jam out with Karaoke on Tuesday nights! 

With all Timothy O’Tooles has to offer, you are covered almost every day of the week.  Check out the menu and events coming up HERE.

I labeled my second child an anxious baby. My background is in psychology and I get it. I know what labels can do to people. So, I of course had consciously decided when I became a mom, I was going to try very hard not to label my children. However good my intentions were, my follow through on the notion was eh. I have a variety of different labels for each kid depending on the day. Some labels, which would be used on a good day, would indicate their talent, particular interest area or my feelings of specific, individual, affection towards them. Other labels are a little less flattering. And, of course, in my mind they are secret labels. My kids don’t outwardly know that I think this way. But I am aware that sometimes it seeps into their consciousness and some of the roles/risks and approaches they take in life mirror this. Whether I like it or not.

I couldn’t leave the house much because he refused a bottle. If we left him with a sitter or good intentioned friends, we would never see the sitter again and would have to pay friends. In all fairness, he was just a baby. But in truth, he was incredibly difficult to soothe. He slept terribly. I slept in his rocking chair more than I slept in my bed. After two years of this, I was ready to die. Someone suggested he was lonely. We moved him and his crib in with his big brother. Upon arrival, he declared, “I want to be a BIG boy!” So we broke down the crib and put him in a twin bed with rails. This is the part where the kid realizes he is no longer behind bars and begins a two year ritual of running into his parents room four to five times a night screaming, yelling, crying about one thing or another. In turn, I screamed, cried and yelled a lot myself. It was a special time. Hallmark moments all around.

As he got older, my son started talking about being afraid. Afraid of people, dogs, monsters, dying—you name it, he worried about it. His eyes would fill with tears at the prospect of going to the circus because he had never been before. Going to a play with Grandma was nerve racking. No sleepovers. New situations brought about fantasies of how totally terrible he JUST KNEW fill-in-the-blank would be. A trip we talked about taking as a whole family back to his sister’s birthplace in Ethiopia was a no-go for him because he was terrified of all the shots. We came to expect and deal with resistance around just about any new situation. He was the one we had to coax. He was our frightened child.

We were always quick to reassure him. Make phone calls ahead to make people aware that he was nervous/sensitive/scared. We did our best to cushion the big, bad world for him. I invented pixie dust—my MAC eye glitter that I put in a small crystal heart-shaped ring holder. I told him it was magic. I told him it would give him sweet dreams. I would put a tiny bit on his forehead every night. Some mornings he would come down to breakfast and it would be obvious that he had gotten out of bed after I kissed him goodnight because his entire face would be dusted in glimmer. I spent a great deal of time fearing anxiety was going to swallow him up. That fear would rule his life. And then suddenly, right under my nose, he morphed into a kid of courage.

It didn’t happen all at once. It was gradual. And completely initiated in his own time. But I realize as he was changing I was hanging on to who I had decided he was. If he demonstrated bravery, I was surprised. And looking back I realize he showed courage often, but I wasn’t bringing that into the definition of him. I thought of it as a moment. A fluke. The latest came when my son managed (cause “unknown”) to cut the tip of his tongue with a scissors. The blood was unbelievable. My oldest near fainted and threw towels at me while gagging and covering his eyes. My youngest boy exclaimed, “He cut off his tongue?!” But my frightened kid? Cool as a cucumber. As we rode to the ER in the rain, he bled into towel after towel asking level headed questions. He took the shot in his tongue, in his arm and the stitches that followed without flinching. It was unbelievable. And that was my frightened son.

So I’ve been contemplating. How many more lessons do I need in order to learn that holding on to my preconceived notions of how I see my children only limits my ability to experience the here and now? They are growing, changing, emerging right under my nose. If I spend too much time trying to anticipate what’s going to happen or who they are going to become, I think I might just miss out on who they are in this very moment, who, for all intents and purposes is who they are. And today—today, my son says he wants to go to Ethiopia.

Earlier this year, my wife got a “too good to pass up” job offer outside of our nation’s capital.  She arrived in April to start work, and I figured it would be reasonably good form for our new marriage if we lived together, so I quit my job in Chicago and headed for the East Coast.  Now that I have been living here for six months, I thought I would do a head-to-head comparison. 

DC vs. Chicago:  Which city is better? (an un-OY-ficial match-up)

Origins
Chicago:  Founded around the turn of the 19^th century from a muddy swamp on the shores of Lake Michigan.
DC :  Also founded around that time, also in a swamp along the banks of the Potomac.
Winner:  DRAW (pretty much the same start)

Namesake
Chicago:  Native American name for a smelly wild onion that grew in the area. 
DC:  Named for George Washington, our nation’s first President.
Winner:  DC (Smelly Onion? Really?)

Most Recognizable Politician
Chicago:  President Barack Obama 
DC:  President Barack Obama
Winner:  Draw (I have now seen the motorcade block miles of traffic in both cities!)

Pizza
Chicago:  Famous Chicago Deep Dish and Stuffed Crust Pizzas began here!  Uno’s, Giordano’s, Lou’s, Gino’s, just to name a few. 
DC:  A lot of specialty pizza places like Pete’s New Haven Style Apizza.  That’s New Haven, Connecticut, so it’s not really a DC original.  There’s also Amy’s Neapolitan Pizza.  Again, this is an imported style and isn’t Neapolitan a flavor of ice cream?
Winner:  Chicago (No contest!  Chicago has the best pizza!)

Museums
Chicago:  The Shedd Aquarium is the second largest aquarium in the country and the Art Institute has the second largest French Impressionist collection.  Most of the museums have occasional free days.
DC:  Home of the world’s largest museum complex, the Smithsonian, with 19 museums and galleries, nine research centers and the National Zoo (with pandas).  Did I mention they are all free, all the time, every day!
Winner:  DC (It’s hard to beat FREE!)

Most Visited Tourist Attraction
Chicago:  Navy Pier, visited by 8.6 million people every year.  Navy Pier has shops, the Shakespeare Theater, an indoor botanical garden, the IMAX, a convention center, a Ferris wheel and fireworks. 
DC:  The National Mall, visited by 25 million people every year.  The Mall is home to some of the most recognizable memorials and monuments in America— Lincoln, Washington, WWII, Korea, Vietnam are all a part of the mall.
Winner:  DC (Fireworks over Lake Michigan are pretty cool, but how can you compete with all that history and honor rolled into one park?  25 million people a year agree.)

Getting Around by Car
Chicago:  The streets are on a pretty simple and orderly grid that holds true throughout most of the city.  The blocks are mostly spaced out so that eight blocks is a mile and you can figure out approximate distances. 
DC:  The streets are in no order at all.  There are angled streets, curvy streets, traffic circles and streets that just start and stop without any real reason.  Some say DC streets were designed to keep foreign armies from ever being able to reach the Capitol.  It seems to have also made it impossible for current residents to get anywhere.
Winner:  Chicago (I’m still lost in DC—seriously. I’ve been driving for two days straight now, trying to find my home.)

Getting Around by Public Transit
Chicago:  Second biggest transit system in America.  $2.25 allows you to ride as far as you can get for as long as it takes.  It tends to be slow, smelly and often scary late at night.
DC:  One of the cleanest subways in the world thanks to strictly enforced no food policy.  The seats are cushy though, the floor is carpeted and the stations are air conditioned.  The whole thing shuts down at midnight during the week and has a complicated fare structure based on time and distance (over 400,000 possible fare combinations).
Winner:  DC (You do get what you pay for, but the few extra bucks get you a much more comfortable and almost luxurious ride.)

Famous Fires
Chicago:  The Great Chicago Fire of 1871, allegedly started by Mrs. O’Leary’s cow (though later theories attributed the fire to either a drunk guy with one leg or a meteor), burned and gave way to a new era of building that changed architecture forever. 
DC:  The Burning of Washington, during the War of 1812.  The British had captured our nation’s capital and burned some of the most important buildings in the capital including the Capitol, the White House and the U.S. Treasury building.  
Winner:  Chicago (Chicago gets the slight edge here because the fire had such an impact on the city’s history moving forward and because of the song that school children sing about the song.  Also Chicago now has its Fire Academy at the very spot the Great Chicago Fire started!)

2011 Disasters
Chicago:  Snowmageddon 2011 was the third largest snowfall in Chicago history.  Hundreds of people were left stranded for hours on Lake Shore Drive. 
DC:  This fall DC weathered an earthquake and a large tropical storm just a few days apart from each other.  The Earthquake knocked over a few lawn chairs and startled a few people, but no major damage was reported.  Tropical Storm Irene proved to be much more of a problem in other parts of the country.
Winner:  Chicago (I can’t imagine spending the night in my car on LSD!)

I could go on for days putting one city against the other; however I think for this match-up we’ll call it after 10 rounds.  I realize there are many other categories to look at, like beaches, parks and recreation, tallest buildings, mayors, other elected officials (by the way DC can’t actually elect any voting representatives in Congress, hence the license plate motto that reads “Taxation Without Representation”).  Perhaps those topics can be revisited in a future post.

And with five points for each win (I gave half a point to each during the draws) it looks like it’s a tie.  Really, a tie?  Hmm….

What’s the tiebreaker?  Perhaps those that know both cities well enough can add your comments and weigh in for the next un-OY-fficial match-up of Chicago vs. DC.  For the moment, though I am writing for Oy!Chicago, the jury is out as to which city is better, which makes this post:  To Be Continued…

Let’s be honest, I don’t usually use this space for anything other than my matchmaking musings, but I’m in the middle of participating in Do The Write Thing (DTWT), a three-day program held during the Jewish Federations of North America’s (JFNA) annual General Assembly (GA), which gathers young editors, writers and multimedia specialists for workshops on mainstream and Jewish journalism. The program is a joint project of the World Zionist Organization (WZO), American Zionist Movement (AZM), and the Jewish Agency for Israel (JAFI). I thought I’d share some of my insights and experiences as I go through the program as a student for a few days with my fellow Oy!sters.

First of all, I never thought I’d be in a space filled with so many Jews at once. I believe that there are 3,000 Jews from all over North America and Israel converged in Denver right now. Yesterday, during the opening plenary, you could barely see the people across the room. But you could feel the energy. One of my heroes, Congresswoman Debbie Wasserman Schultz spoke to the crowd about how important Israel is to her personally and to the President of the United States. She urged everyone in the room to recognize and appreciate the overwhelming bipartisan support for the Jewish State of Israel in the US government and to encourage our politicians to stop using, “Israel as a political football used for a partisan game.” She got a pretty good-sized standing ovation. The only standing ovation of the day, I might add.

This morning I attended a really fascinating session titled, What do Israelis Really Care About Anyway?” The panel included, the new editor-in-chief of Haaretz, Aluf Benn, Haviv Rettig Gur, chief spokesperson for JAFI, Rebecca Caspi, senior VP Israel and Overseas for JFNA and Amir Schaham, director of programming, Metrowest-Israel, United Jewish Communities of MetroWest, NJ.

So what did I learn?

• Israelis consider the greatest threat to the State of Israel to be the “social demise.” Fears of Iran ranked second. According to Caspi, worry over “the price of cottage cheese appeared many more times than the Iranian bomb.”

• More Israelis watching the finale of Master Chef than Bibi’s speech at the UN.

• 54% of Israelis believe Obama is pro-Israel

• 74% of Israelis believe the economic situation is good

• 62% of Israelis support recognition of any type of marriage in Israel

• 79% of Israelis supported the release of Gilad Shalit “We sat glued to our TVs till we saw him safely home,” said Caspi. “We cried and we are thrilled and every single one of us is nervous about the consequences.”

• Less than a quarter of Israelis are optimistic about peace. But, the vast majority of Israelis (70%) are in favor of the two state solution and massive withdrawal of territories if it leads to a complete and true lasting peace. However at this stage, most don’t think such an agreement could or would give Israelis peace right now.

On that note, while I still have many more sessions to attend and lots more to learn, I’m going to wrap this thing up so I can head to lunch. I hope this gives you a small flavor of what’s going on here…more from Denver soon! 

We prepped for weeks. Ben had the Halloween drill down cold. We fake knocked on our own front door to practice saying “trick or treat” and “thank you.” We dug his Halloween bag out of storage and explained that it would be filled with candy soon. He stared longingly at his costume, hanging on his closet door and prompting the daily question, “Halloween is today?” He was so sweetly excited.

Luckily for Ben, Halloween came early in the form of a preschool party and costume parade. Not to mention the party in his gymnastics class, the party at the Mom-Tot class, plus Halloween itself.

The class lined up to start the parade, little puppy dogs, fairy princesses and Spidermen eager to show off their costumes. When prompted to join his friends, my pirate meandered over, glancing back at the trucks and trains he would rather be smashing, a pout firmly planted on his face. We walked to the first classroom, full of four-year-olds, parent helpers and teachers, paraded through the crowd, and circled back to the door, ready for the next room. Except for the pirate, who had spotted a train set and decided to ditch the parade.

As his classmates went on to the next room, I coaxed, pleaded, and bribed the pirate to move on. The kids in the class watched as I tried to reason with a two-year-old, and the teachers obviously wanted to continue with their lessons. Ben got louder and more decisive each time he said, “Not leaving.” I finally picked him up, absorbing a brutal kick in the gut and a possibly blown eardrum, and walked towards the door. But before we got there, the sneaky pirate wriggled his way out of my arms and onto the floor, where he proceeded to throw the most epic tantrum I had ever seen.

I looked at Ben. I looked at the teachers. My mind went blank.

I scooped him up, held him so tightly neither of us could breathe, and dashed out of the room. When we were far enough away from the scene of the crime, I put him down. He sprinted back to the train table room, threw himself against the closed door, and continued to wail. I dragged him down the hallway, feeling more and more like The Mom Who Can’t Control Her Child, and wanting to melt into the carpet.

Ben’s teacher and classmates appeared at the end of the hall. He stopped crying, grabbed his pirate hat from the floor, and sprinted over. He grabbed his teacher’s hand, smiled, and asked if it was snack time yet.

I could only shake my head in awe at the classic toddler split personality, and brace myself for the party at gymnastics, the Mom-Tot class, and Halloween itself.

Listening to stories about my family is a surefire way to keep me enthralled. It has been since I was little. My parents had me quite late, and I missed out on knowing a huge segment of my relatives, including both my maternal grandparents. Stories are how I connect with that part of myself.

My parents like to say that our family business is storytelling. We all rely on it to some degree professionally, but we do it for fun at the drop of a hat. I had great uncles, the sons of immigrants, who used to jump off bridges into the Allegheny River in Pittsburgh, long before it was the most livable city in America. My grandfather, who was 6’4”, was hired to be a school principal on Kelly’s Island in Lake Erie because the previous principal had been tossed out a second-floor window. One that always blows me away is my father’s story of his great aunt, who, when he visited as a small boy, told him that she’d been sitting in that very chair when her father walked in, hung up his coat and hat and said, “They’ve done it, they’ve shot the president, Mr. Lincoln is dead.”

I have an insatiable appetite for these stories, as I suspect many of us do. I remember once asking my mother how far back our family remembers go. She said there used to be a saying, “cold as a Frenchman,” which we got because come spring, when my predecessors in Lithuania did the plowing, every year they turned up bones of Napoleonic soldiers who’d died marching against Russia.

Thanksgiving is prime storytelling time. Not only do you have all those hours waiting for the turkey to roast, you have those glorious, tryptophan-hazy post-meal evenings to sit around and let the conversation wander. I’m particularly looking forward to seeing my two young nieces who live in Seattle, who are at a wonderful age for asking questions about our family. We’re a far-flung bunch – I like to tell people that I’ve got one sibling in every time zone – but Thanksgiving has always been a great time to catch up.

There are other benefits to swapping stories over the holiday. Aside from Turkey Day and the inevitable crush of pre-Christmas mania, November is also National Family Health History Month. Family health history is one of those “secret weapons” in health care that, when used properly, can open up a whole field of potentially life-improving options. Preventive medicine loves family health histories. For instance, if you start talking about particular health issues that have appeared in multiple members of your family, you may wonder if you’re at risk for these issues yourself. They can range from diabetes and high blood pressure to an increased risk of developing cancer. Ashkenazi Jews are often particularly attentive to patterns of cancer in their families, because of increased incidence of cancer predisposition mutations in their BRCA genes. If you’ve learned that you’re a carrier for one of the “Jewish” genetic disorders, other family members may want to investigate testing too. This information is useful: your health care provider will always want to know if you’ve made some connections or discovered something new in your background.

I get it if the thought of talking about health issues, particularly scary ones, is kind of a downer for Thanksgiving. (My grandfather, who was a doctor, used to say that when he got together with older friends or relatives, it always became “the organ recital” – an exhaustive catalog of all their latest aches, pains, operations and embarrassing prescriptions.) But it doesn’t have to be excruciating. There are a number of free resources online to help get the conversation started. Even the act of putting together a family tree – a pedigree, in a medical context – is a great start and can be a fun activity, especially with a healthy dash of anecdotes. (And goodness knows I have a hard time keeping my gigantic, sprawling list of relatives straight in my head.)

This year is going to be nuts at the old homestead. My sister and her family are coming, and all five of us will be staying at our parents’ house, along with Gus, the 80-pound basset hound. In addition, I also have a serialized novel to keep writing, the GRE to study for and graduate school applications to map out. There are only so many hours in the day. But I am looking forward to the moment when I can sit down, look around at my family and pose my favorite question: “Hey, remember that time when…?”

I forgot about you
About the scar I want to repair
Representing the memories I have been trying to forget.

You are elevated, raised, tender
I hoped you would be flat, translucent, invisible.

It was only at 3:00 p.m. today that I remembered you.
You came up in the midst of scheduling appointments, arranging meetings, planning life.

And there you unexpectedly emerged—to remind me that this journey is not a sprint but rather is a marathon.

I need to slow down.
I need to breathe deep.
I need to refocus.

Life loses meaning when led by urgency.

As I prepare to remove the scar that holds the memories of the last 10 months
May I continue to remember that cancer does not define me but is a part of me.

As the scars heal, and my mind quiets—may cancer continue to wait till 3:00—be remembered by accident, and eventually become a profoundly meaningful afterthought.

I was chatting with a couple during last weekend’s wedding happy hour, when the male half referenced a budding actor that he was “friends with.”

Right on cue, his wife looked at him and said, “Are you friends? Or are you Facebook friends?”

Turns out this guy and the actor in question went to high school together. I’m not sure if they have spoken since. But on Facebook, they have extended and accepted connection requests.

My friend told me that he and his wife have this conversation all the time. He liberally throws around the “friend” label, she’s a bit more selective. Because of this, they’ve come up with some friendship criteria. Namely, if his wife–who he has been with for ten years–hasn’t met this person, or hasn’t at least heard of him, then he’s not a friend.

She’d never heard of the actor friend.

You can imagine how excited this conversation made me. It was pretty weird, actually.

If you’re in a long-term couple, I think this rule is right-on. If you’ve never had occasion to introduce someone to your partner–if you’ve never even seen fit to mention someone–then he probably isn’t really your friend. He’s your Facebook friend. Or, as the wife explained to her husband, “that’s not your friend, that’s someone you know.”

It’s amazing how often we confuse those two things.

Since the does-your-spouse-know-him criteria doesn’t work for everyone, I proposed this rule as well. If you haven’t spoken to someone, at least via email, in two years, then she’s not a friend. She’s a Facebook friend. She’s someone you know.

I keep trying to think of “friends” of mine who would break this rule. People I haven’t spoken to in two years  but I still consider my friends. I can’t.

What do you think of these friend-or-facebook-friend measures? Are they appropriate litmus tests? Is there a better one?

Schmoozing is part of my job description. I go to breakfasts, lunches, dinners and events in between to meet people. I build coalitions. I form new relationships and maintain existing ones.

My job stems from the American Jewish Committee’s longstanding belief that as a small minority in America, we Jews can only ensure our full participation in society, with all the rights and privileges that go along with that, if other minority groups enjoy the same rights and privileges. That’s the impetus for a lot of our diplomatic outreach, too: In addition to working with Chicago’s ethnic and religious communities, I’ve been getting to know Consuls General from Latin American countries (those years of Spanish are paying off!).

I meet people on their ground. Sometimes, I’m the first Jewish person they meet. Sometimes, I’m the next representative of an organization they know and respect. Mostly, the setting is cordial. We discuss political issues, but rarely do we get into outright arguments.

Which leads me to the question I’ve been mulling for the past couple of months: If we have a relationship but choose to avoid some subjects (the hard-hitting topics, for example), is it truly an equal relationship?

A couple of months ago, I listened to Eboo Patel, the founder and president of the Interfaith Youth Core, talk about the state of Muslim-Jewish relations in America. He spoke movingly about the most recent collaboration between Muslims and Jews – last year’s Cordoba Center debate and New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s impassioned defense of the “Ground Zero Mosque” (largely going against his party and his closest advisers). Cordoba, of course, calls to mind another era of Muslim-Jewish collaboration: the Center chose the name of the capital of the Al-Andalus Caliphate, whose rule marked the “Golden Age” of Muslim-Jewish relations in Spain between the eighth and tenth centuries when the two communities lived side by side in relative peace and made great contributions to the advancement of science, philosophy, medicine and culture.

Patel also pointed out that Jews and Muslims share many qualities: a deep connection to their history; an enduring set of values; a historical connection to the Middle East; a focus on family. The gist of Patel’s talk centered on finding safe ground, talking about successful collaborative efforts beyond the high-profile Cordoba case – such as an Iftar in the Synagogue, an increasingly popular event in which Muslims and Jews engage in their respective prayer and join for a festive meal celebrating the end of the Ramadan fast for the day.

And yet, the 800-pound gorilla remained all but invisible. Of course, Muslims and Jews have much more to talk about beyond the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Recognizing the myriad of existing opinions on the subject, it’s easy to choose to ignore it completely, to skirt the issue. But it’s engaging in debate on the difficult questions that tests the relationship and takes it to the next level.

The situation in the Middle East, with all its nuances, is not a topic for the first meeting. It might not even be a topic for the fifth or tenth encounter. But there has to be an understanding that eventually we will reach a level of cool-headedness and mutual respect – if not complete understanding – that would permit us to actually talk about the tiny speck of land in the Middle East that so many of us are so passionate about without getting into stereotypes and hateful speech and devolving into complete chaos.

As Jews, we are taught to welcome the stranger because “we were once strangers in a strange land.” As I schmooze my way through life, I keep this maxim close to my heart. Yes, we might disagree on pretty much everything. But we can do it respectfully. And we can still engage with each other regardless of the disagreement.

I still have vacation brain, so instead of a full length post today, I thought I’d share some photos from my trip last week to Costa Rica…and pretend I’m still there for a few more minutes of hiking, swimming and animal watching. Enjoy the pics!

My boyfriend Jason and I after taking a dip in La Fortuna Waterfall in Arenal on our first day in Costa Rica. We had to climb 500 steps to get back to the top. For those of you who’ve gone on the Birthright Israel Jilabon Hike, this was a lot like that.

The sign when you enter Arenal National Park, home to one of the many volcanoes in Costa Rica. This volcano is considered the second most active volcano in the world, second only to a volcano in Hawaii.

Us standing on top of volcanic craters leftover from the eruption that took place in 2001. Our tour guide said from this point, we’d have seven minutes to get out of the park if the volcano erupted. Great.

The wildlife in Costa Rica is amazing. This was one of the first of many lizards we saw while hiking.

The most colorful bird in Costa Rica, otherwise known as Toucan Sam. Did you know that Toucans mate for life, (my kind of bird) but they’re also mean?

Another cool looking lizard.

Crossing one of the hanging bridges in the rainforest in Arenal. This was my favorite hike in Costa Rica— if you plan a trip here, make sure to include the hanging bridges tour in Arenal in your itinerary.

This little guy is known as the blue jean frog and is extremely poisonous. He was sitting on a leaf about a foot from us on the trail in Arenal.

You can see monkeys everywhere you go in Costa Rica. This one is a Howler Monkey, he can be heard “howling” up to a mile away. After this picture was taken, one of his monkey friends decided to pee on the tourists next to us on the trail in Arenal. Glad we got out of his way!

This guy is called the Jesus Christ lizard because he can run on water. Unfortunately, he was being lazy and refused to “perform” for us. I think he resembles a miniature dinosaur.

We took a blow-up boat (so safe) down one of the many rivers in Costa Rica and ran into a bunch of these guys. They’re territorial (and mean) so you only see one at a time. We saw about a dozen on this river, which was about 11 too many for me.

My favorite moment of the trip was visiting a hermit family that lives on the river. The father is 99 years old and lives with two of his daughters on a farm. The house had dirt floors, no running water or electricity and only a roof. They fed us delicious homemade cheese, coffee and tortillas and I got to practice my rusty Spanish for a few hours. It was the highlight of the trip— even though I had to get past these guys to get there.

Jason took this photo right outside of our hotel room in Guancaste. There were more than a dozen parrots in the tree at the time. They started to take off when we came out of our room to go to dinner and that’s how he got this awesome shot.

This is one of the beaches in Manuel Antonio— my favorite area of Costa Rica. We barely got to spend an hour in the water before it started to downpour for ten hours straight. You can see it getting very ominous in the clouds.

The entrance to Manuel Antonio National Park. Another “must see” spot for anyone visiting Costa Rica. There are tons of trails and you can get lost (literally) for hours following the wildlife.

We saw this Spider Monkey in a tree as we were leaving the Manuel Antonio National Park. So adorable! Bye little guy, bye, bye Costa Rica!

Several weeks ago, I had a quarter-life crisis. (And I’m not technically old enough to be considered quarter-aged.)

I was sitting at my desk, doing some work, when an anxiety-provoking thought exploded in my brain: “You’re a grownup.”

“No, no, no,” I thought. I hadn’t even reached my first high school reunion. In my head, I started checking off qualities that I associated with being a grownup: paying your own bills? Check. Wearing professional attire more days of the week than not? Check. Feeling grumpy on Monday mornings and exuberant on Friday afternoons? Check.

It was official—I was a grownup.

I freaked out.

It’s funny. In my younger years, I was consciously aware of how much older I felt than my numeric age and how eager I was to be an adult. Unlike many of my peers, I couldn’t wait for high school to be over. I knew for a fact that those were not the best years of my life and counted down the days until graduation. I even boycotted the supposedly most important night of high school—prom.

I was passionate and hard-working in school because I longed for a career and to be taken seriously by the people I respected. My junior year of high school, I even skipped out on lunch in order to take an extra honors class. (It was totally dumb and unhealthy, but as I say, “It builds character.”)

So you would think that I’d be happy about high school and college being behind me. And for the most part, I am (although college truly was extraordinary). But realizing that I was finally at an age that I had always dreamt about, that I was never going to get my adolescence back and that I probably should have had more fun as a kid, shook me up.

There was only one thing to do and I had to do it right away. Instead of heading home after work, I took the train to a place that would have exactly what I needed: Uprise Skate Shop.

Yep.

I bought a skateboard.

It might sound crazy. Well, no, I’m pretty sure it does. I’m not the most nimble, athletic or coordinated person. I’m also not a teenage boy. But for me, a skateboard has a lot of meaning.

When I was a child, my parents (like many overbearing, well-meaning immigrant parents) were always afraid that I would get hurt, so they didn’t allow me to get certain things, mainly things with wheels that weren’t attached to me. I wasn’t allowed a scooter, and skateboards were completely out of the question (but rollerblades were acceptable.)

So when I was 14, I had my male, skateboarding best friend purchase a board for me online. It was the first significant time I actively did something my parents wouldn’t allow me to do. I had to do it. When I finally got on that board and rode down the streets, I felt like a rebel. I felt free.

Sure, I never learned how to do tricks and I never attempted to make anyone believe that I really knew what I was doing. But I loved how I felt on that board: young, reckless and independent.

Now, years later, I couldn’t wait to feel that again. I went outside my apartment, ready to ride the streets of Chicago, ready to release my inner child.

Ten minutes later, I was on the ground, chin and knuckles scraped up and bleeding. The board slid out from under me, leaving me to topple on the concrete. My face stung. Someone on the street stopped and asked if I was okay. And then all I could do was laugh.

I laughed because I had just spent money I should have saved, on a skateboard I would probably rarely ride, because I wanted to feel cool again.

But I’m grateful for the experience. I figured out that if you think you’re all grown up, you probably have a long way to go. Having a full-time job might make me more of an adult than I’ve ever been before, but it doesn’t mean that I have to lose my personality and my passion, or that life just goes downhill from here. It just means that when I’m not working, I should find things I love to do and have as much fun as possible (probably not on wheels though).

I haven’t stood on that skateboard since. It just lies around my apartment. The cats like to nap on it. But whenever I look at it, I laugh at my naiveté and foolishness.

I guess I’m not as grown up as I thought I was.

Whether a mother stays at home with a child or works, motherhood is a tough job. As a full-time working mamma, I often feel very torn between my two jobs. And I know that I’m not alone—virtually every friend and working mom I’ve had this conversation shares this feeling. And I couldn’t get through my crazy life without the support and honesty of they many working women—my friends, coworkers, pre-school moms—who have shared their feelings, experiences and great advice with me. I’m passing on some tips—some mine, some from much smarter women—in the hope that it helps a fellow mom, working at or in the home.

1. Embrace your inner half-ass. The best advice I have ever received was to embrace my inner half-ass. In other words, stop with the self-imposed stress of trying to be some sort of supermom able to work a 40+ hour work week, meet every want and need of my two-and-a-half-year-old, and still have time to bring about world peace. No one is going to ever write on my tombstone that I didn’t make gourmet dinners, only cleaned my house once a week (and I use the word clean loosely here), or didn’t serve as a school mom. And it doesn’t matter. My child is happy and loved—and that in of itself makes me one kick-ass mamma.

2. Have dinner (almost) every night with the family. It doesn’t matter if dinner (or breakfast) is take out or a three and a half minute microwave mac and cheese, carve out time to put work aside every day for the family.

3. Get the best childcare that you can afford. Yes, my nanny some months takes home more than half my paycheck. But I can’t tell you how much inner-peace it gives me to know that my daughter is with someone I completely trust, and that she adores. And selfishly, having someone in my home saves me valuable time picking up and dropping my daughter off at daycare, not having to worry when she is sick what to do, or sweating that 6 p.m. pick up deadline.

And, while this advice doesn’t apply to me (both of our families live far away), one of my friends strongly recommends that whatever child care arrangement you have, that you pay for it—don’t rely on the free sitting services of a family member or friend who might not be reliable, or follow your care instructions. In her case, she had relied on her mother who not only had a different parenting style, but had to abruptly stop when her father (my friend’s dad) became ill.

4. Form or join a working moms group. I know a couple of women who either joined or started a group for working moms, one of which was a group of working moms with kids at the same school. Having this working mom school group enables the women to feel part of the school community (not always easy when you aren’t picking up/dropping off your kids, or around to volunteer during the day), and has been a real source of moral support.

5. Press for a more flexible work schedule—and if the company says no, consider finding a new job. Companies are becoming more open to employees working from home, and flexible schedules. If your company is not one of these, ask—you just may be happily surprised at the response, and pave the way for your fellow employees. If this isn’t possible, consider finding a work situation that will better suit your situation.

6. Set up play dates on the weekends. Just because you can’t set up a play date during the week doesn’t mean you can’t aim for the weekends. Most stay-at-home moms get your schedule and would be happy to be flexible.

7. Remember to thank other moms for all they do to help the school and your kid. Just because a mom doesn’t work outside of the house doesn’t mean she is obligated to volunteer—or has all that much time either. A simple thank you goes a long way.

8. Set your priorities, and say no when you need to protect them. This can be really, really hard—especially when it’s saying no to your boss, or a loved one. But doing what is right for you and best for your family isn’t always easy—and your first job is to take care of you and your family. Set your boundaries and protect them—because if you don’t, no one else will.

9. Reach out to other parents for help when you need it. Don’t be afraid to ask other parents for help on days that schools are closed/close early. Many women have shared with me that other parents have really helped out when needed—help that is reciprocated on the weekend or at other times.

10. Tell your work-addicted, childless coworkers to get a life…nicely. I admit: I was the eager 20-something that would spend countless hours in the office past 5 p.m., trying to impress my boss and climb up the ladder. And yes, I may have rolled my eyes once or twice when my older coworkers left early to pick up their kids. But here’s the thing: no one ever explained to me that they were probably logging on from 10 to midnight, or in the office at the crack of dawn. Now I wish I had listened to my older colleagues who told me to spend more of my nights enjoying myself instead of working—because downtime truly is a luxury.

With the NBA lockout looking more likely, The Great Rabbino decided to look at who we would want to see in Israel (besides Jordan Farmar). Which NBA players would be the most intriguing stories and where should they go play.

Roger Mason Jr.
Mason Jr. played two years for Hapoel Jerusalem and that was really the last time they were relevant. Maybe Mason Jr.'s return would bring them back.

Joakim Noah
Noah's athleticism and laid back nature would fit well in Israel. Can't you just envision Noah playing for Hapoel Eilat kicking back on the beach?

Lawrence Frank
Frank's not a player but as coach he still needs to work. Bring him to Israel and watch him work his magic (I'm sure he is hoping to pull some rabbits out of his hat in Detroit anyway).

Will Bynum
Bynum had success for Maccabi Tel Aviv. Let's put him back in Tel Aviv for Hapoel Tel Aviv and see how he does.

Blake Griffin
Griffin is maybe the most exciting player in the NBA. His frame and athleticism would be attractive. Put them on Maccabi Tel Aviv and see how great he performs.

Deron Williams
Yes, we know DWill is in Turkey, but if we are looking at all NBA players, DWill fits in nicely. He wants to play and Israel likes passionate players. Also, many former Illini players have been bolting to Israel (Dee Brown, Brian Randle, Warren Carter, etc). Since will DWill is willing to take risks let’s put him on Maccabi Rishon LeZion who played against Maccabi Tel Aviv in the semi-finals. Maybe he puts them over.

Omri Casspi
The favorite son returns. Where else? To his original team Maccabi Tel Aviv.

Anthony Parker
You can't begin to talk about Israeli basketball without mentioning Anthony Parker. He is a legend in Israel and I am sure they would welcome him back. Again, bring him back to Maccabi Tel Aviv where he belongs.

Amare Stoudamire
Stoudamire talked a lot about Israel and his passion for Judaism. He spent a lot of time touring Jerusalem. Let’s bring him in for a year and have him play for Hapoel Jerusalem.

Lebron James
The games brightest star, James would bring credibility to Israeli ball. Maccabi Haifa is where I would like to see him. They have been trying new things (coming to the states for tryouts, TV shows, Jeremy Tyler, etc). James would be big news. Also, I would love to see him in his natural habitat, aka not surrounded by other stars.

And Let Us Say...Amen.
-Jeremy Fine

Henry, my son, is almost three months old. He has beautiful chubby cheeks and fat thighs. No, he does not need a personal trainer, but I’m there if he needs me. We do make him exercise— don’t call DCFS, it’s just tummy time and moving his arms and legs around. His favorite thing to do is kick, so I’m thinking, future swimmer, martial arts expert, or maybe cyclist.

Now that my extra time is focused on watching Henry kick and trying to get him to smile, I understand the number one excuse to not work out: NO TIME! I hear this from everyone, especially new moms and dads. I have lost countless clients to newborns. I’m lucky— I hit the gym at lunch and if you can do that, it’s the way to go. I don’t have to wake up super early (unless Henry wakes me like he did today at 4 a.m.) or run to a packed gym at 5 p.m.

Since not everyone can workout at lunch, I have a few suggestions. My first idea, which might sound outrageous and look even sillier, is to exercise with your baby— it’s a great way to burn calories, build muscle and bond with your bundle of joy. (You can do these same exercises without a child using this medicine ball to workout while watching some TV.)

Babies love to move around. Obviously, you have to be extremely careful, hold them tight, and support their head/neck. Most pregnant mothers notice their baby does not move when they exercise, because it usually puts them to sleep. I’m not suggesting you go crazy, but dance with your baby, lift them over your head, do push-ups with them staring up at you, lunge with them. Check out this short video I made with Henry.

If you work long hours, get home tired and hungry, exercising is unfortunately kicked to the curb. My suggestion is short bursts of exercise throughout the day. This might sound weirder then working out with your baby, but it works. There are several studies that have demonstrated the benefits of exercising sporadically, such as 10 push-ups when you get to the office, 20 squats when you go to the bathroom, plank for 30 seconds before you run out to lunch… If you do not have an office with a door that closes, it might be hard to do a lot of exercises, but shoot me a note and I can help you figure it out.

My last suggestion is family/friend fitness. Turn off the TV, grab a friend, spouse, or child, and get moving. It doesn’t matter if it’s a walk, bike ride, soccer at the park, a fun fitness video (in that case, turn the TV back on) or mall walking. Make physical activity part of your daily routine. And don’t forget to eat your vegetables.

18
Chai
Life.

Over the last 18 months I hoped for your arrival.
I conceptualized you when Cancer was privately dancing from cell to cell.
I dreamed of you when I was tied up, hooked up, strapped down.
I believed in you when I was checked out, recovering, rebuilding.
18
Chai
Life.
On Sept. 18, the hope, the dream, the belief that I would be able to lead a group of 18 young professionals to Austria was realized.
I wasn’t sure this day would come.
I wasn’t sure I would be able to be with you.
And yet there I was, and here I am.
18
Chai
Life.
As I explored Austria’s jaded past and wrestled with her current complexities, my relationship with Cancer changed.
She was no longer front and center.
She was no longer at the forefront of my mind.
She was no longer screaming.
18
Chai
Life.
As I allowed myself be present, I started to unlock the parts of myself that had been forgotten, the parts of myself that had been on hold, and the parts of myself that had been quieted.
Cancer’s cries were muffled.
Cancer’s song was but a murmur.
Cancer had become a shadow of her former self.
18
Chai
Life.
I had arrived!
The person I was before Cancer was reawakened.
The person I am now in spite of Cancer was celebrated.
The person I hope to be because of Cancer was contemplated.
18
Chai
Life.
As I walked through the streets of Vienna, and I discovered the lives lost, the stories untold, the moments taken,
I started to write a new chapter.
I started to tell a new story.
I started to create new moments that did not involve Cancer.
18.
Chai.
Life.
As I lost myself in the Jewish narratives of hardship, trauma, survival, and resilience, I found my story reflected in their stories—and their stories reflected in mine.
I was reminded of where I have been.
I was reminded of where I am at.
And I was reminded of how much further I have yet to go.
18.
Chai.
Life.
18, Chai, Life—I see you everywhere, you are beautiful, and I am forever grateful for you.
Cancer—while you may have quieted, you continue to show me that there is meaning in every moment, every experience, every victory, and every obstacle. There is meaning in overwhelming happiness, and there is meaning in intolerable suffering.
May this year you all choose to find meaning in your sea of moments.
I assure you, meaning is there, simply waiting for your discovery.
Here’s to 18.
Here’s to Chai.
Here’s to Life—with meaning.

Just when you thought you had run out of ideas about what to make for dinner, when you thought you had tried every chicken dish on the planet and you could not possibly face another stir fry, along comes not one, but two, kosher cooking magazines.

Is it a dream? Could this be real? Imagine not having to substitute ingredients in an effort to try to make a Martha Stewart recipe pareve, or taking out the treif and hoping that a dish comes out at least similar to what the magazine pictures show. Well, kosher eaters, it is true. There are two high quality kosher magazines available to us.

I know a lot of people use websites to find recipes. And I know that the old problem of dragging your computer over to your stove top in an effort to make your dish picture perfect is no longer a problem with iPads and other gadgets. But, with a magazine at your fingertips, the whole thing, pictures and all, can go with you everywhere.

I am sure you are thinking that pictures of gray gedempte meat and brown cholent are not appealing and who would want that anyway? Well, as a food writer for both magazines, I can assure you that these are both high quality publications. Think GOURMET or BON APPETIT goes kosher. The articles are modern, the pictures are gorgeous and the recipes are luscious (of course!), and these magazines are written just for us. Why, even the advertisements are kosher, it is awesome!

Here is the scary part for me. I am worried that people will tire of the magazines, or worse yet, not even bother to subscribe and then we will lose both of them. I wrote about this phenomenon when Whole Foods began carrying the Kosher Valley poultry products. I was practically jubilant when I saw a huge amount of fresh refrigerator space (a precious thing in a grocery store) in many local Whole Foods stores devoted to kosher chickens and turkeys. I was concerned then as well though that there would not be enough customers for the products and that the stores would devote less space or simply stop carrying the high quality poultry products. I was right. The kosher poultry section at Whole Foods is scanty at best with sporadic merchandise that is sometimes frozen, by the store in an effort not to have the products spoil.

Well, this is different and I am hoping that everyone even remotely interested in kosher food will check out these magazines.

You can subscribe online at: JOY OF KOSHER and BITAYAVON 

And while you are waiting for the mailman to bring your magazines, you can enjoy these recipes.

Caramelized Vegetable Tagine  

This satisfying and riotously colored dish will please all of your sukkot and Shabbat guests. I like to hollow out a pumpkin and roast it for 15 minutes, so that it is not raw, and then present the finished tagine in the beautiful, toasty-orange gourd for a big WOW presentation. I serve the tagine with my Pomegranate Glazed Chicken or braised pot roast.

Serves 10

Extra virgin Olive oil
1 large red onion, diced
6 garlic gloves, minced
1 cup diced fennel
2 cups diced butternut squash, cut into 1-inch dice
1 cup diced sweet potatoes, cut into 1-inch dice
1 cup diced russet potatoes, cut into 1-inch dice
1 cup sliced carrots
½ cup thinly sliced parsnips
½ cup sliced dried apricots
½ cup sliced dried figs
½ cup sliced pitted dates
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
3 teaspoons ground coriander
1 teaspoon ground cumin
½ teaspoon ground cardamom
Pinch of crushed chili flakes 
⅓ cup tomato paste
1 cup barley
10 cups water
Salt and pepper
Suggested garnishes: toasted pumpkin seeds, pomegranate arils (seeds), cilantro and parsley leaves,

1. Preheat oven 350 fahrenheit.

2. Sauté the vegetables in batches until they are golden brown and crispy. Be sure to season each batch with salt and pepper.

3. Place all of the remaining ingredients and the vegetables in a large Dutch oven. Cover the tagine and cook for 1 ½ hours until the vegetables are cooked through and the barley is tender.

Pomegranate Lacquered Chicken  

Every chef and home cook has their favorite ingredient that they reach for over and over again. For me, it is pomegranate molasses. Pomegranate molasses or paste is the reduced juice of many pomegranates. It is thick and syrupy with a tart sweetness. I find that it makes a great marinade, vinaigrette, BBQ sauce, sorbet flavor and really just about anything! Find a brand that you like. Flavors can vary with each brand. Pomegranate molasses or paste can be found in Middle-eastern grocery stores or on-line. Most pomegranate molasses brands are kosher.

Serves 8+

For the chicken

2 whole chickens-cut up, on the bone
½ cup pomegranate molasses
3 tablespoon brown sugar
1 tablespoon tomato paste
¼ cup rich chicken stock
2 cloves garlic-minced finely
1 shallot-minced finely
Salt and pepper
Olive oil for sautéing
½ cup pomegranate arils for garnish
¼ cup flat leaf parsley, chopped

1. Preheat oven to 350 fahrenheit.

2. Place a large sauté pan over medium high heat. Add a small amount of olive oil to coat. Season the chicken with salt and pepper. Brown the chicken pieces, being careful not to overload the pan. Place the chicken in oven proof pans separating the white and dark meat.

3. Place a small saucepan over medium high heat and lightly coat with olive oil. Sauté the garlic and shallot until browned. Add the pomegranate molasses, sugar, tomato paste and chicken stock. Lower the heat to medium and stir ingredients together until combined and thickened (about 10 minutes).

4. Brush chicken pieces with pomegranate glaze. Roast chicken until cooked through, about 45 minutes for dark meat and 30-35 minutes for white meat. Re-glaze the chicken during cooking and when it is removed from the oven.

Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu greets Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit at the Tel Nof Air Force base in Israel shortly after his release from captivity, Oct. 18, 2011.

Gilad Shalit was reunited with his family shortly after crossing into Israel from Egypt after his release earlier in the day by his captors in Gaza, ending five years and four months in captivity.

First off, the word is “kvell”—one syllable, like “swell.” Second, there is one expression, “to kvell,” and another, “to schep nachas”; one does not “kvell nachas.” Good, good… Now we are ready to learn how to tell people that, as the Torah puts it, they have found favor in our eyes:

Aidel—refined: “The princess is so aidel; how could anyone have called her a ‘commoner’?”

Chidush—innovation: “This odometer app is a real chidush; it totally changed my workout!”

Farbrent—intense: “I’ve never seen a bar mitzvah so farbrent over a tikkun olam project.”

Ferpitzed—dressed up: “Hoo-hah! Look at my little girl… all ferpitzed for the prom!”

Note: not to be confused with “fertootsed”:  over-dressed, overdone 

Freylach—festive: “A reggae band for a wedding? Well, it’ll keep things freilach!”

Ganef—clever one: My eight-year-old hacked the Wii to play my old Atari games, the ganef.”

Note: The original meaning is “thief,”so be clear you do not intend an insult. 

Gebenshed—blessed: “I heard your family is gebenshed with a new addition— Mazel tov!”

Gefelt—pleasing: “That white-noise generator is so gefelt— I love the ‘ocean’ setting.”

Geshmack—lip-smacking: “The guacamole there is geshsmack, and the burritos are great, too.”

Gezunt—robust: “That linebacker can eat a whole pizza and not show it, he’s so gezunt.”

Hano’oh—pleasure: “I get such hano’oh from my Mother’s Day bath beads, thanks so much.”

Heymish—homey: “I love how heymish these throw pillows make your studio apartment feel.”

Khap—insight: “What a khap, letting the kids dunk their veggies in ketchup.”

Kitsel—tickle: “That comic strip always gives me a good kitsel.”

Leibedikeh—lively: “Bubbie’s been feeling much more leibedikeh with her new hip.”

Lechen-di-finger—finger-licking: “This sauce! I just want to drink it, it’s so lechen-di-finger.”

Mamash—indeed: “Not too hot, no breeze, no clouds… this is mamash a day for golf.”

Mechayeh—a joy: “Your puppy is so friendly and bright— what a mechayah!”

Noch-amol—Encore!:  “Come on, noch-amol— one more strike and he’s outta there!”

Oht azoy—You got it, baby!: “Now that’s what a guitar is for! Oht azoy… play that thing!”

Richtiker cheifetz—the real deal: “My Dad had the richitker cheifetz... a cherry red, ’57 Caddy.”

Yasher-ko’ach—Nice job!: “Yasher-koach on winning that sales contest!”

Zies (rhymes with “peace”)—sweet: “A candlelight dinner for my birthday? You are so zies!”

Next: Ess, ess! How to Eat in Yiddish 

Correction to the “How to Kvetch” article. “Farblonget” means “lost, aimless,” not “blugeoned” as I had written. 

We sat quietly, Ben finally sleeping on my lap after nine hours of traveling by car and plane. I shifted a bit to ease the cramping in my back, but the squeak of the rubbery seat nearly woke him up, and I resigned myself to the discomfort. Having arrived in San Francisco mostly unscathed, Ben’s dad and uncles went off to collect luggage, rental car and snacks, leaving us to a few minutes of midnight snuggling at Baggage Claim.

Our adventure had started earlier that afternoon with a harried ride to Midway. Amidst the debate about the best way to get to the airport in rush hour traffic, I realized that Ben’s stroller was leaning against our garage door, where I had the foresight to leave it so that it would not be forgotten. The debate over directions turned into arguing over whether or not we had time to turn around, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the stroller represented a bad travel omen. I had been stressing for weeks about traveling with a two-year-old, and the trip couldn’t have started more hectically.

We pushed on, stroller-less. At the cheapo parking lot we unloaded an obscene amount of luggage and rode the shuttle to the airport, at which point I realized we had left Ben’s car seat strapped into the car. Unlike the stroller, the car seat was a mandatory component of our trip, so we stayed on the shuttle, rode back to the lot, unloaded the car seat, and rode back to the airport. Bad omen number two.

I waited for the next ominous warning as we made our way through baggage check and security. Ben enjoyed his first McDonalds dinner, and I did not enjoy our first airport diaper change. Car seat in tow, we boarded the plane omen-free.

Thankfully we did not forget the iPad, whose Angry Birds, Thomas the Tank apps, and Sesame Street episodes kept our kid quiet (though awake and eager to kick the seat in front of him) for the majority of the flight. The trip was free of whining and crying, much to the relief of every passenger (except for the kicked guy in front of us, who dealt with the situation by drinking excessively). I started to relax, and wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry when Ben finally fell asleep just before we landed.

By the time we got to Baggage Claim, Ben was sound asleep in my arms, and I was eagerly anticipating a peaceful ride across the Golden Gate Bridge, and a cozy bed waiting for me in Santa Rosa.

Then I felt something warm and wet spreading over my lap. I closed my eyes, told myself I was imagining it, looked down, and promptly started to panic.

I looked around for my husband and my brothers, who had left me alone with the luggage and Ben, but saw no sign of them. The rubbery chair, now defiled by my child’s pee, squawked as I twisted and turned to keep my soaked clothes from touching my skin, all while holding a drenched toddler who I did not want to wake up.

My brother finally returned and helped me get a clean diaper and change of clothes from the suitcase. I changed Ben on the airport floor, desperate to get him clean as quickly as possible so that I could get clean as quickly as possible. I grabbed a fresh outfit from my luggage and made a break for the bathroom, avoiding eye contact with strangers while trying to follow the directional signage. A security guard snickered as I tried in vain to hide the enormous wet spot on my pants.

Alone in the bathroom stall, I started to laugh. Bad omen numbers one and two did not hold a candle to this, the epitome of a Traveling with Toddler Horror Story. Confident that the remainder of our journey could only get better, I tossed the soaked clothes in the trash and finished getting dressed. Applauding myself for my great attitude, I opened the bathroom door, heard Ben screaming “I WANT MY MOMMY” from across the airport, and promptly started crying.

In the United States, we’re often presented with two different views of cancer. Last month, the Chicago skyline was lit up teal, for ovarian cancer awareness; this month, it’s impossible to avoid the color pink. The other public face is that of the celebrity who recently passed away: yesterday, we lost Steve Jobs, founder of Apple and creator of nearly every gadget you hold dear, to pancreatic cancer.

Certainly these are engines for cancer awareness within our society, but all too often we tweet or we buy a snack with a pink ribbon on the label and that’s where our involvement ends. My fellow Jews, there’s more you need to know, and more that you can do to make cancer awareness work for you.

Ashkenazi Jews are at greatly increased risk for mutations in their BRCA genes. BRCA stands for BReast CAncer; these genes are responsible for keeping the cells in your breasts healthy. When these genes start to malfunction, sometimes in women as young as their early 20s, that individual’s lifetime risk of developing breast cancer, ovarian cancer or both is greatly increased when compared to the rest of the population. Women who discover, through genetic testing, that they are BRCA-positive often call themselves “previvors” – pre-survivors. They have a number of options for managing their situation, ranging from surveillance to surgery to remove their breasts and ovaries, reducing their lifetime risk of developing cancer from as high as 87% to the low single digits.

The truth is that these cancers are scary. They’re scary and they’re hard and they can be overwhelming, but we’re not helpless against them. One of the easiest and most important things you can do to fight hereditary cancer is to see if you recognize a pattern in your family health history. Draw up a pedigree using any of a number of free resources online. Pay attention to the age of onset, if you have a relative who had cancer or passed away because of it. If you’re concerned about a recurring pattern of cancer – or any other health issue – bring the pedigree to your doctor.

Unfortunately, many doctors may be skeptical or dismissive that someone in their 20s or 30s could be worried about cancer. Be firm, and insist that you want to pursue this. The Chicago Center for Jewish Genetic Disorders has a number of resources and educational programs to back you up. With hereditary cancer syndromes or with testing for “Jewish” genetic disorders such as Tay-Sachs disease, we have to be our own advocates. In both cases, prevention is the best medicine.

I wrote about cancer last October too, when I confessed that I couldn’t finish Gilda Radner’s autobiography. A year later, I stand by my message. Cancer is personal to me, and no amount of pink merchandise or trending topics will supplant the fact that knowledge is far more powerful than awareness alone. Educate yourself and your loved ones about breast self-exams and the symptoms of ovarian cancer. Stay on top of developing news about mammogram guidelines and other scientific advancements. And if you know someone who’s going through cancer treatment, ask them what they need, and help them, consistently, in whatever concrete way you can, no matter how small.

If you have questions, please get in touch with the Chicago Center for Jewish Genetic Disorders, which you can call during normal business hours at (312) 357-4718, or write to jewishgeneticsctr@juf.org. We take your calls and read all your emails, and will put you through to the professionals who can help you.

For those who follow my posts on Oy!Chicago, or if you’re forced to see my Facebook newsfeed photo-fest (sorry friends), you know that we recently made a life-altering purchase. No, we’re not new homeowners. We got a dog.

Not just any dog—a black labradoodle puppy. The world’s greatest and most adorable puppy (if I do say so myself). Miss Kenzie Puppy-face Underfoot Little Monster Friedman.

(Insert strange look here—yes, I am 100% certifiably nuts.)

Six weeks of puppy motherhood has taught me a lot already. In talking with friends who have a different kind of new baby—you know, the human kind—I’ve realized that raising a new puppy is not all that different from the changes that come with having a baby:

1) Sleepless nights. In Kenzie’s first couple weeks home, she did not sleep through the night. While it seemed like she was sleeping and napping constantly, up to 18-20 hours a day (just like a new baby), it never seemed that she could make it through the night. We would go out at 11 p.m. before bed and by 3 a.m. she’d need to get up and go out again. It’s crazy but I felt like I had mommy-style super hearing, and would notice immediately when she was whimpering and needed us.

2) Frequent visits to the doctor. Within only a few days of having a new baby, parents are already rushing to the pediatrician for well-baby visits and regular trips to the doctor for shots and check-ups. Same goes for our new pup. We’ve already had several vet visits—the first, a general check-up to get to know the veterinarian, and then several more for shots, and of course one visit due to an overreaction regarding fairly minor symptoms that were, in fact, nothing to be concerned about.

3) Always with the growing. New babies grow like weeds. You blink an eye, and it seems like they have outgrown all of their clothes (and goodness, next thing you know they are asking for the car keys and breaking curfew, I’m sure). Thank goodness, we don’t have to buy Kenzie clothes every time she grows because, holy cow, she just keeps growing (never mind the fact that David has outlawed dog clothes for the Kenz). In just six weeks she has more than doubled her weight and is hardly recognizable from the little nine pound pup we brought home from the breeder. Tipping the scale this morning at over 20 pounds, she is essentially gargantuan and is practically too big for me to lift.

4) Expensive! Babies need lots of things. Hugs and kisses. Diapers and formula. Car seats and cribs. Puppies come with a whole set of costs, both expected and unexpected, and parents of all kinds are more than happy to shell out the cash to make sure their babies have everything they need. Kibble, medicine, toys, a nice crate to hang out in, a doggy bed, a dog walker on days that we aren’t home for hours at a time—you catch my drift.

5) Love attention from Mom and Dad. Babies love cuddling with Mom and Dad—being held and soothed and showered with attention. Puppies are no different. Just as a baby will cry when they want to be held, a puppy will act out if they’re not feeling that they’re getting enough attention. But on the plus side, loving a new baby and loving a new puppy are both very easy things to do—since they’re so lovable of course.

I’m assuming that the greatest difference between getting a puppy and having a baby is that once you have a baby, your parents and grandparents stop nagging you about their dire need of grandchildren/great-grandchildren. The puppy did nothing in that regard—in fact, it just gave my grandparents an opportunity to tell us point blank that a puppy is not the kind of baby they had in mind.

While I’m certainly not a puppy or baby expert, I’m learning a lot about parenthood (at least the puppy version) as Kenzie grows. As everyone seems to say, it will hopefully be excellent training for the day down the road when my husband and I decide to bless Kenzie with a little sister or brother.

The Jewish Community Heroes campaign promotes the people in our community who make tikkun olam a guiding element of their everyday lives.

This year's Oy!Chicago (and JUF) nominee is local networker Shalom Klein, who has helped find jobs for nearly 100 Chicagoans this year.

Learn more about all the good work Shalom Klein does for the community (below) and vote for him and the other Chicago nominees here up to once a day.

Get connected: Meet Shalom Klein, chairman of Jewish B2B Networking 

You might say Shalom Klein was born to schmooze.

In fact, within hours of our interview, I already had several emails from Klein connecting me to people I should know.

It’s this passion for networking and entrepreneurial spirit that makes Klein so successful at what he does. As the chairman of Jewish B2B Networking, Klein spends his days (and most likely his nights) making connections for small businesses in the Chicago Jewish community.

About a year and a half ago, Klein left his PR job in New York to come home to Skokie and work for the family business—Moshe Klein & Associates, Ltd., which handles bookkeeping and accounting for small businesses. Klein said it’s his nature to stay in touch, and so he naturally began connecting people.

In June of 2010, Klein decided he wanted to introduce his clients, family and friends and held his first event at Slice of Life in Skokie. While he expected a small turnout of maybe 20 people, 75 people showed up.

“The outcome was great,” Klein said. “People were already doing business with people they met that day.”

And just like that, Jewish B2B Networking was born. In just nine months, Jewish B2B Networking has a mailing list of 12,000 people and over 3,000 people have come to events—plus, at least two or three dozen people have found jobs thanks to connections made during these events. Each month, hundreds of people show up for monthly networking meetings—175 people showed up to a speednetworking event at 7:30a.m.—and monthly networking open houses held at different businesses. Events are also being organized in Detroit and St. Louis.

“I believe we’ve tapped into the small business community,” Klein said. His events attract a diverse crowd, with about 80 percent looking to connect business to business, and about 20 percent looking for jobs.

A few months ago, Klein launched the website JewishB2Bnetworking.com where members can register for events, create profiles, search for jobs and post to a blog.

“The goal is stimulating the Jewish and Jewish-friendly small business community and people doing business with each other…[to] create that network and create business opportunities around Chicago,” he said.

Jewish B2B Networking and Jewish Vocational Service (JVS), a JUF agency, have been collaborating on programming, presentations and reaching out to the community—and according to Gail Gruen, executive director of JVS; they are planning more collaboration in the future.

Klein is also the publisher of Jewish Business News, a monthly publication with a circulation of 15,000 that he launched this January available at local businesses synagogues, kosher and kosher-style restaurants. Thousands of people have attended and benefited from his regular programming, including most recently “The Business Event,” a free business and employment expo which drew over 3,000 attendees. 

If you met yourself, would you want to be your BFF?

I think about this a lot. I heard somewhere that the usual answer is no--that we often don't like people who are too much like us. Which I can imagine might be true. If we want to be the expert on something, maybe it's annoying when someone else comes along with her know-it-all knowledge. Or maybe all the things we find frustrating about ourselves are uber-turn offs when it comes to someone else.

The other night I was at the library with my little brother reading a book from the kids series Judy Moody. In the book, Judy meets a girl who's a bizarro version of her. Amy Namey's name rhymes, so does Judy Moody's. Amy idolizes Nelly Bly, "woman reporter," while Judy's hero is Elizabeth Blackwell, the first female doctor. They both have funny speech ticks.

You get the point.

At first Judy can't stand Amy. She finds her little quirks obnoxious, until her friends point out that Amy and Judy might as well be twins. Judy's horrified by the fact that there's another her walking around, when she thought she was special. Soon, though, she talks to Amy--who invites her into the My-Name-Is-A-Poem club--and Judy decides they should be BFFs.

Then Chapter 2 ends.

At this point, my little bro got bored so I don't know what happened next. But the set up got me thinking.

That same night I was watching the season premiere of Glee, and a similar theme popped up. Rachel and Kurt show up to a mixer for a New York dramatic arts school, and meet a room full of people who might as well be them. They're not thrilled.

I'd like to think that if I met the bizarro me I'd want to be friends with her. After all, I like myself, right? I think I'm a pretty decent friend. And when I meet women with whom I share similarities, I go ahead and claim them as my BFF like it's nothing. (Well, claim is a strong word. They're not baggage.) But I can totally see how it might not go that way. We like being individuals, right? We want friends who complement us, not who are us.

I'm not entirely sure why I think about this as often as I do. But I think it matters when it comes to looking for pals. Do you look for a BFF who seems to share your brain? Or for someone totally different than you? Or both?

Free Book Alert! Want to read MWF Seeking BFF early? Goodreads is hosting a giveaway. Enter by October 10 to win one of 15 advance copies. 

With the Phillies' Joe Blanton headed to the 60 day DL and Placido Polanco going to the 15 day DL they called up Michael Schwimer (no relationship to David or so we think). Schwimer was 9-1 in AAA with 10 Saves and a 1.88 ERA. He had 86 strikeouts in 67 innings.

Schwimer is now finishing the season with the Phillies, but it is yet to be seen if he will be on the playoff roster.

A day after Michael Schwimer got the called up by the Phillies, the Boston Red Sox called up Ryan Lavarnway. Lavarnway, was swinging a hot bat in AAA. This season he has 30 homers between Double-A Portland and Triple-A Pawtucket while hitting .293. He's hit .301 in 55 games with the PawSox. Lavarnway also joined the roster when it expanded.

The third call up was Josh Satin of the Mets. Satin plays all over the infield. According to JewishBaseballNews.com, "Satin is versatile with the glove. He played 57 games at 3B this season, 44 at 2B, 20 at 1B, and another 12 as designated hitter. Though this will be the Hidden Hills, Calif., native’s first stint on an MLB roster, he had 6 at-bats with the Mets during Spring Training this year, going 2-for-6 with 1 HR and 2 RBIs."

Good luck to all three players who have a solid chance at starting in the big leagues next year.

And Let Us Say...Amen.

Corn smut, Mexican Truffles, Fungus, blight…Call it what you will, huitlacoche is just plain delicious.

The fungus spores infect the corn plant much the same way a mushroom spore infects wood. Considered a pest by many farmers, hutilacoche can decrease the yield of crops and can lower the value of corn. In Mexico and by many chefs, huitlacoche is considered a delicacy and highly prized. This was the case this week when I went to my favorite market stall and found a special basket of infected corn with fungus lovers huddled around it, all trying to find the most “infected” corn. I scooped up the precious ears and carried it back to my kitchen at Spertus.

My staff and I scraped off the fungus and corn kernels and a short while later feasted. The flavor of huitlacoche is sweet, woodsy and faintly mushroomy. Tasty! When you visit your favorite farmer’s market or corn stand ask for corn smut. If you can get past its ugly appearance you will be rewarded with an exotic wild mushroom flavor.

Huevos Rancheros con Huitlacoche  

Serves 6

1 cup huitlacoche (from about 6 ears of corn), scraped, rinsed and roughly chopped
1 medium red onion, chopped
2 garlic cloves, chopped
2 cups of corn kernels
1 cup Spicy Green Mole*
12 eggs
½ cup shredded cheese-Optional (I prefer white cheddar)
Salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 325

1. Place a large sauté pan over medium-high heat. Lightly coat the bottom of the pan with olive oil. Add the huitlacoche, onion and garlic. Sauté until the onion is lightly browned, (about 5 minutes). Add the corn kernels and the mole. Reduce the heat to medium low.

2. Crack the eggs into the sauce. Sprinkle cheese on top and place the sauté pan in the oven. Cook the huevos rancheros until the eggs are set but the yolks are still liquid.
Serve with warm tortillas and additional cheese.

*Spicy Green Mole  

3 pounds tomatillos, about 8 medium tomatillos, husked and rinsed
1 small red onion cut in half
1 Serrano pepper, stem removed
3 cloves of garlic, do not remove from the skin
1/3 cup shelled pumpkin seeds (pepitas)*
¼ cup chopped fresh cilantro
2 avocados, pitted
Juice of 2 limes
¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
½ teaspoon hot sauce (optional)

1. Place the tomatillos, onion halves, Serrano pepper and garlic in a medium sauté pan. Heat the ingredients over high heat until the vegetables start to toast and blacken. Turn the vegetables to toast on all sides. Remove the vegetables as they turn black. Transfer the toasted vegetables to a blender or food processor.

2. Toast the pumpkin seeds in the same pan over medium high heat. The seeds will start to pop. Continue toasting until the seeds are light golden brown (about 2 minutes). Transfer the seeds to the blender.

3. Add the remaining ingredients to the blender and process until creamy and fairly smooth. Adjust seasoning with salt and pepper.

*Pepitas can be found in Latin markets and many grocery stores.

The farm owners were busy making roasted tomatoes and canning salsa. Everything smelled fresh and tasted delicious. It was our annual trip to the farm in southwest Wisconsin. In our first 24 hours there, we picked apples and plums and raspberries and grapes and tomatoes and ate them right there next to the plants and trees. My daughters Violet and Autumn thought this was just about the best thing they’d ever done. I’m pretty sure they would have eaten tomatoes until their skin turned red if we had let them stay in the garden as long as they wanted.

On our second day it rained, and while everyone else was napping I got out my yoga mat to practice outside on the covered porch of our little house. My friend Becca describes yoga as a reset button – for both your body and your mind – and I couldn’t agree more. It feels therapeutic to stop everything and focus on your breath. My thoughts and my body both feel realigned afterward.

Sitting on the porch after my yoga practice I realized that going to the farm is like a reset button for the entire year. It seems right to make our trip close to Rosh Hashanah. As soon as we got to the farm it felt like everything stopped even though I was still physically racing up and down hills following toddlers who were chasing chickens. It felt slow like falling asleep when you’re not quite tired but your body is heavy from running around in the sun all day. Slow like toasting the perfect marshmallow over a dying fire. Slow like the opposite of my regular life.

I can’t think of a better place to stop our routine and reconnect with ourselves, nature, and family. This sense of stillness is something I find on my yoga mat, too. I know that wherever I am or whatever I am doing, I can always return to my mat and the deep breaths I find there, even if I can’t get to class. That feeling of centeredness is with me at all times – on the mat, at the farm, everywhere.

I suppose this is also like praying: finding a place inside yourself that you can come back to, a place to connect with God (or however you think about spirituality). I like this idea of finding something larger than yourself within yourself. Sometimes this place is hard to find, like when you are stressed about how your life has no purpose, or wondering what on earth it is about you that makes everyone think you are the nanny instead of the mom (just a couple random, hypothetical examples), but knowing that place is still in there (somewhere) can bring comfort and confidence and inspiration.

If the farm is an annual reset button, and yoga is an anytime reset button, then Shabbat is a weekly reset button. It’s a time each week to connect with ourselves and each other and slow down to remember what’s most important in our lives. Being at the farm reminded me that there are a number of paths to finding this feeling of stillness among the chaos of daily life. I’m sure there are other ways besides yoga and nature and Shabbat that help people find a way to connect and keep their sanity intact (feel free to share).

Now that we are back at home, the farm is still with me. Autumn and Violet are bawking like chickens and mooing like cows multiple times a day. The homemade tomato sauce is in the freezer and the calmness is in my mind. I plan on keeping the farm around all year. Tomato sauce and challah will be the reminders.

Despite being in Israel more times than I can count, I had never been to an Israeli wedding until this past week when my boyfriend’s best friend was married.

There isn’t one typical kind of wedding in Israel—every wedding reflects the couple’s religious values and familial influences. And this one was different than any of the 53 (I’m serious) other weddings that I have been to.

Let’s first start with the similarities. The bride looked incredible. Her dress was beautiful and was custom-made and not poofy. Ok, now you see why I don’t write for Vogue. All I know is that when I saw her, I immediately started to well up in tears. The wedding was held at a venue that mostly caters to weddings. It was beautifully decorated featuring great food, an open bar and a rocking DJ.

The differences were aplenty. Here were the top 10 + 1 for good luck.

1. The wedding was held on a Thursday night, because for many Israelis, that’s when the weekend starts.

2. The rabbi was not a major part of the ceremony (although you can’t have a wedding without him). He said the blessings and then was out of there, just as the bride (kallah) and groom (chatan) wanted it.

3. There is no wedding certificate because there is no civil marriage in Israel. The ketubah is the legally binding document.

4. When you enter there is a safe where you drop your cards with money (Israelis don’t really give gifts). To know how much money you are supposed to give, “there is an App for that.” The criteria includes:

a. How many are you? (single, couple, family)
b. What is your relationship to the bride or groom?
c. What is your profession?
d. Where was the wedding held?
e. What month was the wedding held?
f. What day was the wedding?

Then it provides you with the amount.

5. The bridal party is really just family, and they are the ones who stand under and by the chuppah.

6. It is normal for the guests to talk through the entire ceremony.

7. After the breaking of the glass, the crowd rushes the bride and groom with hugs and kisses.

8. Because this was a Mizrahi wedding (most of their family is from North Africa originally) there was the chair dance, but it wasn’t to the “Horah.” Instead of the mayim step, there is a Mizrahi step, more similar to “My Fat Greek Wedding” than “Fiddler on the Roof.”

9. While the women were wearing everything from jeans to formal wear, most of the guys were wearing jeans or khakis.

10. When you come with a date, it is normal to say, “B’karov etzlechem” which means “Your wedding will be soon.” It’s also normal for your neighbor and the guy at the gas station to say it when they see you walking out in fancy attire.

11. The bride and groom are going somewhere awesome like Thailand rather than relaxing (Hawaii).

Overall, my first Israeli wedding was tremendously fun and I wouldn’t mind going to 53 more!

It’s been a difficult and busy couple of months, with an intense work schedule and a death in the family after long-term illness. Without boring you or falling into shameless self-indulgence, I’m merely a bit tired.

I’m a “Type-A” girl and sometimes find myself off kilter when it comes to a work-life balance. As I type, I’m coming down with a cold, fall is upon us and I’m already in desperate need of a recalibration. Hopefully, I don’t sound like Alexander from the book, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

As such, I’m particularly looking forward to the High Holidays this year. As a child with a limited attention span, I dreaded the seemingly endless hours spent in services, broken up by hallway breaks with my sisters and snatches of hard candy and gum from my mom’s purse.

As I’ve gotten older, the High Holidays have become a valuable opportunity in which I can sit still, and actually think about my life. The New Year reminds me of the chance to start fresh—whether it’s contemplating adjusting my daily schedule, or reconnecting with loved ones. In many ways, I think the Jewish New Year leaves room for reflection in ways New Year’s Day in January falls short. We have one life on this earth, and as we’re reminded with the Book of Life, we best be living it.

But the New Year isn’t just about self-improvement; it’s about making others’ lives a bit brighter through forgiveness, understanding and commitments to change—our promises during the Days of Awe. Sitting in services no longer feels like a marathon, but rather a time to sit in awe of life around me, of those sitting next to me, surrounding me, chanting with me.

I’m often reminded of a sermon my rabbi gave a few years back on Rosh Hashanah, recalling Jewish folklore, in which King Solomon is humbled by a phrase that could always be true in good times and bad: “This too shall pass,” or in Hebrew, Gam zeh ya'avor. There are supposedly many versions of this story, as is often true with folklore; I won’t retell the story for the sake of brevity. However, “This too shall pass” has been a phrase my mother has used with me throughout my life in times of difficulty. Similarly, her mother used the phrase with her. It wasn’t until I heard the sermon a few years ago, that I understood the duality of the saying—which made it resonate even more.

As the cliché goes, “Time heals all wounds.” However, I’ve also always been someone who’s keenly aware of when times are good—and to hold on while I can. Joy, like pain, is fleeting. I’d say many of us live our daily existences somewhere in the middle. It’s equally important, however, to remember the transient quality of pain and joy. Those moments are when we are most alive.  

When I went to Israel on Birthright I bought a silver ring with Hebrew letters carved in a shortened version of the phrase. I haven’t taken it off since. Still, sometimes I lose track of its meaning.

Every now and then, I have to remind myself: It’s time to breathe.

My initial thoughts about this month’s Oy! post weren’t gelling the way I had hoped, so I asked my friend Heather what I should write about. She said, “Whole Foods isn’t just a grocery store.” She is so right.

I live five minutes from the large Lincoln Park Whole Foods store. Hands down, this was the biggest bonus of moving into the neighborhood. The massive made-to-order foods section is always a convenient dinner option, giving me a great excuse to rarely cook, and the store offers so much more than simply groceries. There’s Tuesday Trivia night; the pub and wine bar; cooking classes; and I even saw a flier for yoga classes. 

This is not an ad for the LP Whole Foods, but admittedly, it is not the ordinary grocery store, or even the ordinary WF. Aside from all of its bells and whistles, my favorite aspect of WF is the way it brings people together. I know that statement sounds zany, especially for a store that simply sells overpriced natural foods and products, but it’s true. People socialize, go on dates, and shop there (not only for food, but for gifts, beauty products, and even Halloween costumes). I can’t think of another place that offers the same variety of experience and convenience.

My girlfriends and I have been frequenting WF for some time now, but about a month ago, we decided to make our visits a regular weekly occurrence, so we never go a week without catching up. WF has now become our version of the coffee shops on Seinfeld and Sex and the City. We choose from a variety of food genres at an affordable cost, we streamline our dinner plans with our grocery shopping, and there’s fantastic people watching, especially from a sneaky bird’s eye view on the mezzanine level. After a long day, WF is exactly what we have found we need. Yesterday, although stressed with busy season and tired from the already long week, I looked forward to convening at WF for some good food and conversation. I’m still trying to figure out what exactly makes it the perfect venue for that. We could have met anywhere – at one of our apartments or perhaps at Rockit, another one of our favorites, for some yummy truffle fries – but it probably would not have been the same. Our little cohort is not alone. The store continuously buzzes with singles, couples, moms and dads with their kids, and people from a variety of age brackets and cultures.

In life, especially in a big and busy city, we need something dependable, that we can always count on, even when everything else gets crazy. WF, certainly not just a grocery store, serves that purpose, and I’m grateful it’s just a five-minute walk away.

For young adult patients (ages 18-40) who are in the prime of their life, a cancer diagnosis can dramatically impact their trajectory in unique and specific ways. This demographic in particular has the misfortune of having to consider how cancer treatment will affect their fertility.

Historically, the medical field has focused their efforts on treating the disease, and has not spent enough time considering the individual as a whole. Young adult cancer survivors who are about to undergo treatment deserve to know the facts, deserve to know their odds, deserve to know what life can look like after cancer.

I would argue that understanding how your fertility will be affected, and what options are available, is just as important as understanding your cancer diagnosis and course of treatment. For young adult survivors, it is critical that fertility be discussed during the initial conversations with your primary care physician and/or oncologist.

Northwestern University’s Oncofertility Consortium, spearheaded by the brilliant Teresa Woodruff, provides young adult cancer patients with the necessary hope that there is life after cancer. Teresa and her team of experts are providing survivors with critical tools and resources for how to bring life into the world.

I am incredibly indebted to Northwestern University’s Oncofertility Consortium. I wholeheartedly believe that in learning about my risks and options, I was given the hope I needed to fight this disease.

I recently attended the Oncofertility Consortium’s five year gala where they premiered a short documentary showcasing their remarkable work. Featured in the film are leading reproductive specialists, oncologists and patients who have chosen to take their fertility into their own hands. It was an honor to be a part of this project, and I feel incredibly grateful to be a part of this beautiful community.

Learn more about the Oncofertility Consortium’s work here. 

A special thank you to Kristin Smith who helped guide me through this entire process. I do not know what I would have done without you. Thank you for your professionalism, your guidance, and your friendship.

When I was a freshman in high school, a fellow Jewish kid in my class—a guy with a tendency to tease tall girls like me—approached me at the start of the school year and gave me a great big hug.

“I’m sorry, Cindy, for anything mean I did or said to you last year,” he told me.

I hugged him back, shocked and confused by his admission of guilt. In the ninth grade milieu of angst and pride, an exchange like this was unheard of. He was taking seriously the Days of Awe—the 10-day period of introspection in between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur when Jews are supposed to ask the people in their lives for forgiveness—and I respected him for that.

His apology touched me because, well, he did have something to be sorry for, but was a big enough person to show remorse for his wrongdoing.

That freshman encounter has stuck with me all these years. When those 10 days of repentance approach each fall, I contemplate what I’ve done wrong and even ask some of the people in my life to forgive me for my indiscretions.

But sometimes I can’t help but think what do I have to be sorry for? After all, I’m a good person: I smile at babies I don’t know, I offer my seat on the subway more frequently than the typical rider, I’m nice to my mother, what more can I do? And I have a feeling that most of you fall into the same boat—after all Oy!Chicago is known for its kind readers.

But if we really delve, no matter how upstanding we are as people—as Jews—we all have sins to repent for.

The other day, I googled the Al Cheit prayer, the confession of our sins chanted as a community on Yom Kippur. Sure, every year, I’d pound my fist to my my chest and recite the prayer along with the rest of the community since that’s what we’re supposed to do. But I figured I was really asking God for forgiveness for the sins of that guy sitting in the pew ahead of me in shul, because what had I ever done wrong?

Smugly, as I was re-reading the prayer on my computer screen, scrolling through the list of sins, I anticipated there’d be only one or two that I’d committed.

Truth be told, there were a bunch.

Now, I’m confident that in the past year I have not committed “causeless hatred,” “evil inclination” or “embezzlement.” My parents must be so proud! At the same time, I do admit that I’ve “prattled my lips,” “passed judgment,” and—as certain members of my family might vouch for—I’ve been guilty once or twice of “obduracy.”

And I’ve got a feeling I’m not alone. Suddenly, I understand why we chant the prayer together as a “we.” No matter how decent we are, we’ve all racked up a laundry list of sins through the course of the year.

What’s beautiful about this season of reflection is that, as the year comes to a close, we can repent for what we’ve done wrong this past year and start over with a clean slate for the new year. We’re lucky to get to do a little better next year and even better the year after that.

I lost track of that high school classmate of mine some time ago, but every now and then I wonder what he’s up to. Something’s telling me each year he’s doing a little better too. 

Every culture has its own version of it. As long as there have been alcoholic beverages, there have been toasts. To me, a toast is a sign of etiquette and respect, a display of goodwill. Sometimes, simply raising one’s glass can say more about a person than words. As a child, I always pictured that well-dressed man in the center of the room, rising from his seat, his glass lifted ever so slightly above his head and his face pulled back into a grin that could be seen for miles. Then, he quotes Twain, Shakespeare, Aristotle, and all the people around him are frozen in time, captivated by his every syllable. When he finishes, the sound of champagne flutes clinking are drowned out only by the sounds of the crowd cheering and celebrating a momentous occasion, everyone in the room dancing and singing the night away, without a care in the world.

Whether it’s lifting one’s spirits when they are down or congratulating one’s accomplishments or milestones, toasts remind us of important events in our lives, much like bookmarks in a book. They may not always mark happy times, but they certainly mark the meaningful ones. I believe that there is a lot of value and significance in this shared experience. While the moment may seem somewhat superficial and fleeing on the surface, in reality it embodies so much more. At a wedding, a father can tell his daughter how much he really loves her by sharing a story about her with the closest people in her life. A best man can rip the groom to shreds with embarrassing stories, corny jokes and nicknames that only a best man can do well. Parents can congratulate their child on completing school, couples can celebrate an anniversary, soldiers can honor the fallen and the forgotten. Each toast holds a memory or experience that can elicit strong emotions and stir even the most tempered individuals.

We are a people, a community. To raise a glass to one another is to share in a bonding experience. It can bring people closer together, help reinforce strong fraternal or familial bonds, even mend broken relationships. We all want to feel like we belong, that we are acknowledged and valued by others and by ourselves. Most importantly, we want to have something to celebrate, something important that can be shared and enjoyed with others. Every time we say the blessing over the wine, we are essentially toasting God in thanks for giving us the fruits of the vine to enjoy. From prayers to weddings to bar mitzvahs, it is built in to the Jewish custom and tradition to give thanks and to celebrate the joyous occasions in our lives.

As Jews, it is customary for us to say, “L’Chaim!” after giving a toast. It makes sense to end such a moment with the timely phrase, “to life!” and subsequently quench our thirsts. In one motion, we can acknowledge to God and the world around us how thankful, how lucky, how happy, and most of all, how humble we are to be alive and to have opportunities to enrich both our own lives and the lives of those around us. We consecrate those feelings and beliefs with a physical connection towards one another via clinking of glasses. As the wine glasses are brought together, so symbolically are those grasping them, united in a common experience.

As 5771 draws to a close, let us all take a look back at this past year and raise a glass, to all the good times and the not-so-good, and be forever grateful for having lived through it all. As we raise our glasses simultaneously, we acknowledge that, as the “wine” symbolizes life itself, the whole bottle of life experience has been poured out, shared with others, and brought back together again, if only for a brief moment.

L’Chaim!!!!

I never had a bat mitzvah. Growing up, I did not belong to a synagogue. My family did nothing religiously organized. I married into a heavily community-affiliated Jewish family. I was married in their synagogue. My husband’s father was eulogized there. My children had their namings there and have attended the temple’s preschool. Our oldest is in Hebrew school and all but my youngest go to Sunday school there. Over the years, we have regularly attended Shabbat services for the kids and High Holy Day services there. I have made some friends and I have met some good people. But truth be told, after over 14 years, a connection to, or a soulful belonging within temple walls, has eluded me. Then one month ago, I found my connection to my Temple community. It was through the heart of the North Shore all the way to the South Side, in Englewood.

My husband and I have volunteered with young people in the Englewood community for many years. This spring, two of my Englewood students, whom I’ve known for the past four years, were accepted into college on scholarship. They are both the first in their families to go to college. The excitement in these kids was palatable. I was very, very proud of them. But, my excitement was a bit tempered when I found out from an Englewood community leader and mentor that the kids had received “the list.” That’s the list everybody gets telling you what you need to bring to college– from soap to a duvet and everything else in between. I remember that list– it represented the first step into my independence—and the argument that ensued between myself and my mom about my deep desire to buy light mint green sheets. She was attempting to dissuade me from my color choice as it would, “show every piece of dirt and dust!” I won the fight. (But she was right. Duh.) However, for my students, this list represented something else: an additional, unexpected roadblock. They had beaten the odds, earned scholarships through academic merit, and yet the reality set in that despite all that, they couldn’t afford the things they needed for school. They couldn’t afford the new beginning.

I was bereft. I was angry. But the larger issue for me was the injustice. And even larger, my issue was that here on the North Shore, I knew no one knew anything about it. So I called my friend, who is also a rabbi at my synagogue and I told her the story. She had been involved in many mitzvah projects over the years and I thought she might provide me with some guidance. A starting point. Anything. She listened intently and then asked me to email her the lists as well as a mini bio about each kid’s journey. I did. She then forwarded the information to about 30 people within our synagogue walls. The subject header read: “Want to help an incredible student go to college?” I was CCed in the email. Literally, within two minutes, someone emailed me offering $500. One minute later, I received an email donating $200. And it snowballed. People from the original email passed it on to friends and so on. In poured gift cards to Walmart, Bed Bath & Beyond and Target. Checks. Cash. Someone offered to bake cookies and brownies and mail them to the kids during the year like she did for her own daughter in college. Another person bought sheets and a duvet. Pillows, lamps, soap, shampoo, laundry baskets, hangers, cleaning supplies. It was soup to nuts. Every single item covered and then some. Then I received a call that someone wanted to buy a brand new laptop and right after that, another laptop had been secured for the other student— at a shiva no less!— by someone simply being moved by the sharing of the story of kids who so desperately want to make it.

I cried. I cried tears of gratitude and happiness. I was so unbelievably moved by the kindness of strangers who were in turn moved by these kids’ stories and motivated to take action to help them succeed. Englewood, geographically and culturally, can feel like a very far away land from the North Shore. It would be easy to turn away and pretend like the kids there don’t dream about growing up and being someone great, just like our kids do. What I feel happened, was that strangers made attachments to the hope. Bigger things were opened— much more than just wallets – doors, opportunities, hearts. The students were sent off with a sense that they are deserving and that people – strangers, who felt a world away from them— believe in them. As for me, as someone who has felt at a distance in connecting in the organized Jewish community, I also finally felt like less of a stranger myself.

There’s a group of people who every month visit a new, sometimes popular, more often lesser-known Chicago pizza restaurant. That group is known as the Windy City Pizza Club. Over the past 13 months, they’ve networked, the singles mingled, and they ate award-winning pizza at places like D’Agostino’s Pizza and Pub in Wrigleyville.

D’Agostino’s Pizzeria has four locations throughout the Chicago area but their flagship location is at 1351 West Addison Street— just west of Wrigley Field. The location has been a pizza icon since 1968 when Joe and Jan D’Agostino opened the doors— not realizing then that their pub would soon be a Chicago Cubs pre-and-post-game legend. D’Agostino’s is known as the, “Best in Wrigleyville.” While the pizza isn’t to die for, everything else is fantastic.

The pizza is served four ways. There is the award-winning thin crust, which is paper thin and while tasty, lacks any fulfillment because of its lack of, well, everything. A fan favorite is the double thin crust, as this type of pizza has double the amount of cheese and dough, making it more, “Chicago” rather than Neapolitan. A frequent Windy City Pizza Club member David Stock said, “My shared medium olive thin crust tasted about the same as my Jewel brand frozen pizza I had a few days earlier. I will probably not go back here for pizza, but I could see myself coming back for a few beers and to watch a game on one of the many televisions.”

Unfortunately reviews like David’s are more and more common at D’Agostino’s. According to several critics that frequent pizza restaurants around the city, the pizza pubs in Chicago are moving away from the traditions that made them famous throughout the years. Regardless, there are others who would disagree and say that their pizza is as good as it gets.

From a personal experience, their stuffed cheese, and pan pizza do a little better as they are a mess of cheese, sweet tomato sauce, and whatever else you would like to add on to their supersize pies. If you really want to feel heavy and full, this is what you need. For someone to eat one of D’Agostino’s Pizza’s, you need to be okay with the heavy amount of grease, even if you’re only having a vegetable pizza. For newbie’s to D’Agostino’s, try the pan pizza— it’s great to share, very fulfilling, and goes well with an ice cold brew before or during a game. You can also get their pan pizza’s at Wrigley Field.

The restaurant is full of televisions, trains winding around the ceiling, red-checkered tablecloths, and a great menu that includes wonderful salads, like the DAGS Italian Salad or Walnut Gorgonzola Salad, which are both delicious to share as an appetizer. They also have pasta, sandwiches, and entrees like a jumbo fried shrimp dinner, and desserts to please. They have a chunky homemade chocolate chip cookie served warm with a gigantic Scoop of Homer’s vanilla ice cream topped with hot fudge for only $5.95.

Overall, the restaurant wasn’t a major hit with the club, but nonetheless, everyone agrees that it’s a place to go back to— just not for the pizza. The best part of the whole experience for everyone was the service. Sometimes, large group service is a problem anywhere you go, but with a friendly wait staff, cooks that are organized, and bartenders that can keep the pace flowing on a crowded day, D’Agostino’s Pizza and Pub has the push to keep Cubs, Sox, and fair-weather fans coming back for years to come.

For information on joining the Windy City Pizza Club, email Kevin at KevinFriduss@gmail.com.

There are at least 25 other good movies set in Chicago, so look for this post’s sequel in the months to come.

The PresenTense Coordinators and PresenTense staff at our training conference in Jerusalem this past summer. 

This past week, PresenTense announced that it will launch 13 social entrepreneur fellowships in 10 cities around the world.  Some of the fellowships are with existing partnerships and others are brand new.  By next summer, dozens of new social ventures will launch in Chicago, Washington DC, Cleveland, Kansas City, Jerusalem, Moscow, Boston, Philadelphia, New York, Jerusalem and Tel Aviv.  Social entrepreneurs are individuals with innovative ideas that can better the community, and social ventures are the result of taking those ideas and developing a new project or organization that provides solutions to social problems.  The fellowships, run as part of the PresenTense- developed Community Entrepreneur Partnership, are owned and managed by local partners in each of the cities, including Federations, JCCs, and the JDC.

Probably the most beneficial part of the PresenTense program is that there are many ways to be involved.  If someone has a big idea to make the Jewish community better in some way, the fellowship provides training and support to help that person see it through to a launched venture.  Many people are not looking to start new ventures or projects, but are still just as excited about the next big idea.  For these folks there is the steering committee—a group of individuals responsible for helping the program take shape and driving it forward.  The steering committee recruits the fellows, promotes the program and leverages their individual networks to bring in help.  Lastly, there are opportunities for experienced professionals in the Jewish and general business/entrepreneurial communities to act as mentors and coaches for the group of fellows. 

The program culminates in a one of a kind event known as Launch Night.  At Launch Night, the entire community comes together to get a first look at what a group of social entrepreneurs has created!  What start as just ideas, turn into real ventures that have the potential to create lasting change in local communities and those abroad.  Over the past five years PresenTense has been operating this program, they have launched over 140 ventures around the world.

Some of the brightest stars have included Challah for Hunger, an organization devoted to making challah on college campuses and selling them to raise money for charities.  It now exists on over 40 college campuses and has raised over a quarter of a million dollars.  Meanwhile, the Warehouse is bringing in young Jews that feel unaffiliated and underserved by providing non-traditional spaces and worship opportunities for them and incorporating music and new media.  Lastly, On Both Feet was started in Boston to combine improvisational comedy and Jewish texts to create interactive training and experiential education programs.

Part of my new role at the Jewish Federation of Greater Washington is to coordinate the Washington DC fellowship.  Chicago’s fellowship will be coordinated by Sara Massarik, who, as it turns out, is a pretty amazing choice for the job!  I recently met Sara when we both attended coordinator training in Jerusalem over the summer.  She is bright, experienced and knows a lot of the right people to help this project move forward.  She also happens to care a great deal about the Jewish community in Chicago. 

Questions?  Know someone that wants to get involved?  There is an informational meeting coming up soon, so email Sara Massarik, Chicago Coordinator at smassarik@gojcc.org for more information.

For the Greater Washington DC community: Email Andy Kirschner, DC Coordinator at andrew.kirschner@shalomdc.org.

My parents have been telling me I should visit the National U.S. Air Force Museum at the Wright-Patterson Air Force Base for ages. It’s understandable: I spent about two and a half years living and breathing WWII paratroopers, thanks to Band of Brothers. Planes have never been a particular interest of mine, but my parents wanted to share what they’ve enjoyed on previous visits (we have a wonderful photo of my mother posing in front of a bomber decorated with a gorgeous pinup, “Strawberry Bitch”). When I came back to Ohio for a visit over Labor Day weekend, we dropped off Gus at the dog spa, took the day and drove the 90 minutes to Fairborn.

My first surprise was how enthralled I was by the early airplanes. The turn-of-the-century flying machines and First World War dogfighters were works of art; I was particularly taken with the beautiful grain of the wood propellers. (In August, after wanting desperately to do it since I was five, I finally got to go whale-watching in Massachusetts; laugh if you want, but there was something about those early planes that reminded me of the humpbacks we saw. They were incredibly graceful, even if some of them were literally made of balsa wood.) Seeing those artifacts in the flesh always fills me with a sense of awe—it doesn’t take much to look at the crumpled goggles and high-laced boots and imagine the people who dared flight when it was a much more dangerous proposition.

On the other side of the hangar (one of three that comprise the museum) were the WWII exhibits. This was where I recognized more, and it was an equally astounding experience. Spitfires! Jump boots! Glenn Miller’s glasses! A C-47, like they used over Normandy! Painted bomber jackets! Whizz! Bang! Pow! It’s easy to get caught up in the sheer neatness of browsing through all these artifacts; the past is right in front of you, and real people used these objects as everyday parts of their lives. It’s a shivery, immersive feeling that I really treasure; it’s the same feeling I get reading oral histories. This compass helped someone stationed in the Aleutian Islands. This cap kept a pilot warm over North Africa. This lighter belonged to a kid from Brooklyn who died at 21.

After two hours, everyone started getting antsy and wanting some lunch. There was a lot of museum left, but I’d seen most of what I’d come for, and there was only a little of the WWII hangar still to see. I went ahead while my parents examined a greatcoat worn through the Battle of the Bulge. The end of the exhibit was all Pacific bombers, with bronzed and bare-chested mannequins unloading crates and checking on machinery. The last airplane was monstrous, a gleaming silver behemoth nearly the size of a commercial plane. After weaving through a number of placards, I finally stumbled on the identifying signage.

I was standing in front of Bockscar, the plane that dropped Fat Man on Nagasaki. A replica atomic bomb was on display near the loading bay. All my excitement at the other artifacts shriveled up. Seventy thousand casualties happened under this plane. And then an impossibly brutal war ended. How do you reconcile that? I had to leave as soon as I could. To go from that to the gift shop was an exercise in emotional whiplash. I don’t think the mood wore off even as we were driving home.

I wasn’t prepared to see Bockscar, and I wasn’t prepared to be so overwhelmed. My relationship with the other exhibit items had been very innocent and uncritical, which, in retrospect, did a disservice to us both. The bomber was presented in a completely heroic context, but I had other things on my mind: the testimonies of Japanese and Americans who lived through the bombings and their aftermaths, as told to Studs Terkel in “The Good War”; and an article I’d read last month, contending that Japan surrendered because of Soviet entry into the Pacific Theater, and claiming that the destruction of cities has never been a deterrent in modern warfare.

It’s easy to get comfortable with a narrative. We are taught in most American schools that bombing Nagasaki saved countless lives and spared the world a much-prolonged conflict. That might be true. But there’s always something new to understand by demanding discussion of past events.

We’ve been asking a lot of questions as we prepare for the anniversary of 9/11: What happened? What did we do? What do we know now? What could we do better? The questions we’re asking this week shouldn’t be an annual exercise, but a continual one. What we do with how we answer is too important for us to simply remember and not engage.

Years ago, when I started dating David, the man who would end up being my husband, I knew that if this was the real deal, pets would be the great debate in our relationship.

He always had pets growing up—everything from dogs and cats to turtles and birds. The dog he had as a young child, a lab named Hershey, lived a long and fulfilling 14 years and was beloved by David and his family until she passed away a couple years ago.

I had a goldfish. His name was Sammy (although whether or not he was a “he” was unconfirmed). Sammy actually lived for five years, though it seems I did nearly everything I could to kill him sooner—I didn’t feed him regularly, his bowl wasn’t cleaned nearly enough, and as you can guess, we rarely spent much time together. I’m horribly allergic to cats, slightly scared of dogs and pretty much every other potential pet (excluding fish, obviously) grosses me out.

David would always point out dogs he liked and suggest potential breeds for us to get for our first pet. Once he warmed me up to the idea of a dog, it never seemed that we saw eye-to-eye. My allergies kept us restricted to only hypoallergenic breeds, ruling out dogs like huskies, bulldogs, and all the other “manly breeds” that David so admired. And besides, I didn’t want a huge, scary dog. I wanted something cute and cuddly, preferable the size of a small handbag (that would perhaps fit in a large handbag). When I suggested a mini-poodle, a cockapoo or a bichon, I was swiftly rejected—according to him, the Friedmans would not own a tiny dog that would leave my husband feeling emasculated.

The years passed and every few months, the topic would come up, we would disagree once more, and it would be tabled. But then this summer, David graduated from business school at the end of June and has several months off before he starts work on Halloween (it’s ok to be jealous—I am).

We realized that now, more than ever, was the perfect time to get and train a dog, while he had so much time at home. So the debate resumed, this time with more research and deeper thought. Because of my allergies, adopting or rescuing a dog was not a viable option. We started researching breeds and breeders, and discovered that there was such a thing as medium-sized dogs, dogs that are not too girly or manly and options that we could both fall in love with.

And let me tell you—looking at pictures of puppies on the internet is quite possibly one of the greatest things it has to offer.

In the end, we settled on looking for labradoodles or goldendoodles. We both compromised—we wouldn’t be getting a dog that would fit in my purse, but we wouldn’t be getting a 70 plus pound dog either. She’d be hypoallergenic, but fun and cute without being yippy or goofy looking.

And when we visited the breeder, it didn’t take long to fall head over heels. Pictured below is the fruit of our compromise, the world’s cutest and most amazing puppy of all time (from the most biased blogger ever, but that’s neither here nor there), Kenzie.

Last Friday, through the cloud of my sinus-y, phlegmy sickness-from-hell, I mentioned that I recently had a bit of a making friends aha moment.

Well, the clouds have parted, I can finally breathe through my noise and swallow without wincing, so I’m focused and ready to discuss.

Gretchen Rubin, in her Secrets of Adulthood, says that “the opposite of a great truth is also true.” (As it turns out, she borrowed this from physicist Niels Bohr, but let us not pretend that I am caught up on the work of physicists. In fact, I opted out of physics in high school.) Examples, for Rubin, include: “Control and mastery are key elements of happiness; so are novelty and challenge;” “The days are long, but the years are short;” “Happiness doesn’t always make me feel happier.”

I’ve always loved these truthful contradictions, because I believe in this “secret” wholeheartedly. I’ve gotten in many a tiff with my husband where he will say, “You’re contradicting yourself!” and I’ll say, “But I’m telling the truth!” It may not be logical, but it’s real.

When it comes to friend-making here’s my revelatory discovery, two truisms that contradict: “To make friends, you must be okay with being alone.”

Did I just blow your mind?

There are many reasons why this is true. First, back when I wasn’t as comfortable being alone, I often stayed in because I didn’t have anyone to go out with. So instead of going out, exploring, and talking to new people, I’d stay at home, peruse Facebook, and watch Friday Night Lights (R.I.P Riggins). As you can imagine, this exercise in TV watching didn’t bring me any new BFFs.

Also, when I wasn’t as cozy in the world of solo adventuring, I would see a sign for a class or an activity–say, a dance class or a flash mob–and I’d think: That looks like fun, I wish I had a friend to do it with. Now, my thought process has flipped. The new reaction to a posting for said class or flash mob is: That looks like fun. Maybe I’ll make a friend when I do it. See the difference? The first is restrictive–since I didn’t have a friend, I didn’t do it. The second offers possibility–do it anyway, and maybe (bonus!) make a new pal.

People often think they want friends because they hate being alone, when really you should want friends because you love company. There’s a difference. People who fear time with themselves, and thus find company in the arms of The Kardashians or even a good book (and I’m not knocking either one), will likely find themselves alone for far longer than those who embrace the solo lifestyle. Aside from the reasons above, people who are comfortable with themselves and don’t need a companion for every little thing, exude a confidence that attracts new friends. The opposite attitude can potentially project a neediness that turns others off. Something to think about…

Do you agree with this friend-making contradiction? Have you found that the more comfy you are by yourself, the easier it is to meet potential BFFs? Do you have another friend-making Secrets of Adulthood you are ready to share?

Twenty-seven days ago, Tanya Ester Avigyle came into this world, alert and alive, looking wide-eyed at me while I stared at her in disbelief, gasping, “oh my God, oh my God” on repeat for what felt like forever.

But this isn’t the story of the afterbirth; of the lessons and ways my mind has taken in this new abrupt identity and transformation, as physically my body recovers from shedding 25 lbs. in the span of a few minutes.

It’s the story of the sequence of events that led up to that, the frantic cab ride, the months of emotional and intellectual preparation, the fear of the unknown, that waiting and the waiting, the decision of to induce or not to induce as I approached 42 weeks, the days of being cooped up in a fourth floor Israel apartment in the heat of the summer, and the final day in which everything I had been hoping for in the last nine plus months came to fruition.

After learning about how labor and birth can be the ultimate spiritual, emotional and intellectual challenge, (check out the fantastic book Labor of Love) I decided that I wanted to take on the challenge of attempting to have a holistic birth experience; learning how to relax my body while it encountered the greatest pain of its life, learning how to release fear and embrace the unknown, learning how to trust that my body can do this, that it was meant to do this. I was going to try and give it my all, and try and do it without pain medication— as much as I could.

On the 10th of Av, August 10th, a day after Tisha B’Av, I awoke at 11 a.m., and started to feel my body experiencing some sort of inner pressure.

By 1 p.m. it was pretty obvious—I was finally going into labor.

I labored at home until I was ready to go to the hospital. They say it’s important to stay at home, in an environment of safety and familiarity as much as you can. The experience of being in a cold, unfamiliar hospital arena can cause a woman to tighten up, become afraid and complicate the labor thus slowing it down.

My husband came home excited and encouraged me throughout the entire thing, as I, in a fog, tried to visualize myself running track, with teammates, friends, even my track coach! (Where did he come from?) All rooting me on. “I can do it!” I chanted. “I can do it!” “You can do it!” My husband shouted back at me grinning. “You can do it!!”

By 6:30 it was becoming increasingly obvious that now was the time REALLY the time, as I realized that I was feeling the need to push, and that the baby was pretty ready to come into this world.

My duela arrived and the three of us quickly hailed a cab. It was the classic scene of a woman frantically huffing and puffing in the backseat of a taxi, as the cab driver according to my husband, was grinning from ear to ear, having the time of his life, with an excuse to drive as crazy as he wanted along the Israeli streets—an Israeli cab driver’s dream come true.

“Pray for me,” I shouted to my husband, calmly turning to the duela to explain, “God listens to him.” She laughed and nodded, “I’m sure He does.”

We arrived and my duela ran through the hallways with me in a wheelchair huffing and puffing. Being overcrowded, I’m taken into a room with two other women giving birth, sectioned off by a curtain, and the process of pushing begins.

“Imagine your child in your hands very soon,” the duela encourages, but this doesn’t help me because I never really have held a baby before and didn’t know what it felt like.

And so I dreamed of the only thing I knew—having Shabbos meals with my children, standing proudly at their bar mitzvah, watching them go to the chuppah… and as the pain came in waves, in my mind’s eye, I saw two golden challahs, and that’s what I concentrated on as my body swayed back and forth. I looked up to God and told Him, I’m doing this for you, so help me through this, knowing that it didn’t have to been painful if He didn’t want it to be.

Finally, the time had come, and as I lay on my back, she emerged, wide eyed, alert, and loving, reaching towards me as I stared at her in disbelief. Wait, what? What just happened? Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…

I had gotten through it without any medication, just with two golden challahs in my mind, a lot of love and support.

That’s the story. But here comes the real story, the reason why it all took place. Now comes the ultimate challenge. May it be revealed good. Hello, Tanya Ester Avigyle. Welcome to this world. Let’s get to work.

My wife gets mad at me— as she should— when I judge her sweet tooth. The truth is, I also have a mean sweet tooth. I try and avoid the office M&M’s and the giant sized cupcakes being sold in trucks and bakeries on every street corner, but I’m only human. I try to keep sugar at bay with small portions and I opt for freshly baked goods as opposed to boxed goodies.

When people ask me how to avoid sweets, I have one simple answer for them, eat what you want, but only take a taste. And if you know you are going to have a heavy meal, a Specialty’s Bakery cookie (my favorite) or something else dangerous, make sure it’s a day you’re working out. My other big tip, log your food. Write down everything you eat for one week and you will have a good understanding of your diet.

If you want more nutritional advice, turn to the experts. (I’m always happy to recommend a good nutritionist.) Recently, I met with one, sports nutrition expert Deb Ognar. I was curious to see if my post exercise chocolate milk was a good choice or just a tasty one. Here is some of what I learned:

The best thing to eat/drink after a workout
Recovery doesn't start until you rehydrate and refuel after long intense workouts. The recovery meal may be the most important meal of the day. If you are consistently training hard or working out multiple times in day, rapid recovery is a must. Eating within 30 minutes of finishing an intense workout can help an athlete recover faster, minimize chronic fatigue, and help train your muscles to store more fuel.

Nutritional components of recovery should include: fluids (24 ounces for every pound lost during a workout), carbohydrates (about half your weight in grams of carbohydrates), and protein (10-20 g). The carb to protein ratio should be around 3:1. Basically carbs should be the focus with a little protein added. Great recovery food/drinks include:
• chocolate milk (I win)
• sports bars
• peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
• granola bar
• graham crackers with peanut butter
• trail mix
• yogurt
• crackers and string cheese

Energy drinks
Energy drinks can give more immediate energy due to the high level of caffeine and sugar content. However, many energy drinks contain substances and other stimulants in them that can be dangerous. They usually have multiple stimulants in them that when combined can be dangerous. A few hazards of energy drinks:
• decreased concentration
• heart palpitations
• nervousness
• increased blood pressure

Safe ways to boost energy
Healthy ways to increase energy are: make sure you are well hydrated (dehydration causes fatigue), make sure you are getting enough sleep, eat a balanced healthy diet, eat every few hours (avoid skipping meals and snacks), and consume enough carbohydrates to support your activity level.

Do I really need to take my Flintstones (multivitamins)?
A multivitamin can give a person extra coverage if they don't consistently eat a varied diet. Although a multivitamin shouldn't be a substitute for whole foods, it can fill in some nutrient gaps that might be missing in the diet. The US Dietary Guidelines Advisory Committee identified vitamin D, calcium, iron, B-12, and folic acid as some nutrients that many Americans consume too little of.

How do you know if a supplement is safe?
If a label carries a USP or NSF seal then the supplement contains what is stated on the label. Also, NSF Certified for Sport is another independent company that does testing on products to confirm content, purity, and identifies banned substances.

Recommended supplements
Working with NCAA athletes, supplements are always a tricky area. Since they are not regulated by the government there is no guarantee that supplements are not contaminated or tainted with NCAA banned substances. If collegiate athletes decide to take supplements, they do so at their own risk, and are ultimately liable if something comes up in the product.

That said whey protein, which is naturally found in milk, yogurt, cottage cheese, and other dairy products, is rich in branched chain amino acids (BCAA). Whey protein has a higher content of leucine compared to other proteins. Leucine has been independently shown to stimulate muscle protein synthesis. Since during exercise the body uses a small amount of BCAAs, it would be helpful— as part of recovery nutrition— to replenish them. Bottom line—including a carbohydrate source and high quality protein (such as whey) post exercise (in a 3:1 ratio of carbohydrates to protein) in combination with resistance exercise can help with muscle mass gains and muscle recovery.

Creatine has been shown to increase lean mass, encourage strength gains, enhance recovery and increase endurance. Note that not only is it found in supplemental form, it can be also found naturally in meat, fish, and pork. Additionally, caffeine has been shown to aid performance in long endurance activity and might also improve performance in intense short duration exercise. Urinary caffeine levels exceeding (15ug/mL) is banned in NCAA athletics.

In a city known for deep dish pizza, hot dogs, and spicy fries at U.S. Cellular Field, a little know secret still remains at the ultimate popular sports bar in Wicker Park, Fifty/50.

After years of disgraced and so-so Buffalo wings at almost every bar in Chicago, we have finally found the ultimate wing. This wing isn’t like any other you have ever come across. This wing is quite large with choices such as regular or boneless and flavors such as buffalo, teriyaki, tangy BBQ, BBQ, or orange sauce. All in all, these wings have something to offer to anyone. You can go with the 8-piece ($9), 16-piece ($17) or massive 50-piece set for a sum of $45. The only warning that I have heard from frequent wing buyers is that each wing equals two, meaning, your order actually means double.

Fifty/50 is a three level sports bar with two bars and 12 flat screen televisions and mainly focuses on secret sauces, fried foods and sandwiches. Each floor has a slightly different feel—the main and lower levels consist of booths, high-tops and a bar while the top floor has regular four-person low tables. With owners like Greg Mohr and Scott Weiner (Joe’s Prime Steak and Seafood) and investors such as Yankees player Curtis Granderson and renowned chef Brian Storey, this sports pub is the real deal, and worth a try.

Not only is the food menu impressive, but they also are serving up 40 oz. beers that vary each week, as well as a bunch of domestic brews. The beer menu is tourist-like, meaning cheap, with very little craft and micro-brew items. Nonetheless, they always have daily deals such as $1 beer Mondays and fun events during March Madness and the Super Bowl that make for a lively atmosphere. They also have a DJ that regularly plays between commercials for big games.

If you’re a big sports fan and attending the Fifty/50 for a big game, be sure to arrive at least an hour early for a table, order the nachos and cheese fries for an appetizer, and then let the spicy wings and good times roll. By the way, if you’ve ever ordered wings at Wrigley Field, Fifty/50 supplies the wings of the Cubs!

I sat down last night looking for fodder for my latest blog post and tuned in to a new episode of Millionaire Matchmaker and then disillusionment hit me. Why am I still watching this show? I used to love to hear Patti and her wise cracks— she’d put those arrogant, Stepford-wife-seeking-men in their place! But now every episode feels exactly the same, and even worse, fake.

I happened to pick up the RedEye this past Monday on my commute to work and I read the story about Daniel Kibblesmith, a Chicagoan who works for Groupon who appeared as a bachelor looking for love on Monday’s episode. In the article, the author explains how Stanger’s camp reached out to Groupon’s PR team, ideally to get the founder on the show. Turns out he’s engaged, so Groupon’s camp offered up Daniel and they settled for him.

Interesting. So much for the idea that millionaires seek out Patti’s services. But what really irked me, was while Patti watched the tape of a perfectly nice, although nerdy, Chicago boy introducing himself to the club, Patti remarked, “give him his money back, I can’t help him.”

First of all, Patti, you claim to be a professional matchmaker, so you should be able to help anyone. Second of all, it says on the bottom of every episode, that none of the bachelors who appear on the show actually pay for your services, so don’t suddenly pretend they do just to embarrass them more.

Now I realize that’s how every episode of this show works and that people sign up willingly to participate knowing they could be embarrassed, but this time for whatever reason, I got upset at being duped— probably because it was a local guy.

Now Millionaire Matchmaker isn’t even really my biggest gripe. At least no one physically gets hurt. But this morning I got upset. Really upset. I turned on my computer and did what I do every morning over a bowl of Cheerios—check my email and read People.com. There it was, after weeks of speculation and criticism (that I agreed with), Bravo announced it is still moving forward with the second season of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills as planned. Here is the full statement from Bravo Media President Frances Berwick:

"Bravo will proceed with the Monday, September 5 premiere date of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Given that these episodes were filmed months ago, the producers of the show taped a brief interview this week with several cast members to introduce the premiere…Re-editing of the episodes is still underway."

For those of you who haven’t heard the news, one of the “househusbands” from the show recently committed suicide leaving behind a five-year-old daughter and 11 and 13 year old sons. His cast member wife spent last season sobbing to her cast-mates about how awful her marriage was, as the show vilified her spouse in every scene he appeared in. The second season is supposed to carry a similar plotline for her “character,” only this year she does file for divorce. Now, I’m not saying that this guy was totally innocent of all wrongdoing. I didn’t like him either when I watched last year. But in lieu of everything coming out about him now, how he put all of his money into building his wife up so she’d fit the shows’ wealthy mold, I’m starting to feel a little differently.

Here are some of his own words in a Daily Beast article:

“‘I didn't really understand what we were getting into.’ He said that times when he was shown leaving parties, disappointing his wife, were in fact late at night.  

He agreed that his decision to stay in the background of the show ‘backfired.’  

‘I’m going to be more engaging next season,’ Armstrong said. In person, he appeared more at ease than he had on camera and seemed eager to show reporters speaking with him at a party that he was kinder than audiences had seen him being.  

In a reunion special for the show, broadcast in early February, Armstrong responded to questions about what it was like watching his marital troubles on television. ‘It was difficult,’ he said. ‘The last three years have been very challenging for the entire country. I, candidly, have been working 80-hour weeks. It’s very easy to get preoccupied with kids and business and the day-to-day grind.’  

So, I do feel bad for the man, I don’t believe he understood exactly what he was getting himself into. Moreover, I feel horrible for his parents, who’ve now spoken out against the show, and most importantly for his children, who hopefully don’t yet know all the details of his passing. But inevitably now will, thanks to the show and media coverage. And it bothers me knowing that a new season of the show is about to premiere (so soon after) that will once again vilify a man who can’t even defend himself.

I understand that Bravo was counting on the show airing and a lot of fans will be disappointed. I, too, was really looking forward to another season with my favorite housewives, but when does it cross the line? Shouldn’t this be it?

As I see it, the show needs to be re-shot without Taylor Armstrong and her family, or somehow they need to both be edited out of all scenes and plotlines. But I’m not sure that’s going to happen.

So what do we as viewers do? Do we boycott shows like Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, or rather do we watch shows like Millionaire Matchmaker and Keeping up with the Kardashians that embrace their scripted-ness?

I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to tune in to the second season of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills on Monday. I might see how they handle the first episode and go from there. But I’m curious to hear others thoughts…do you think Bravo has gone too far?

In early July, on one of the happiest and most perfect days I can remember, I got married!

After a year and a half of wedding planning and events—including showers, a bachelorette party, an auf ruf, a wonderful and warm wedding and an amazing honeymoon—suddenly, it’s two months later, it’s all over and I’m left with a sky high pile of thank you notes to write and a quickly fading tan…Oh yeah, and a new, caring, handsome and kind husband who I adore.

As we are in the midst of wedding season and coming up on a three-day weekend that is surely jam-packed with weddings and engagements, I thought I’d impart some of my wedding wisdom (I mean, I’ve been married a whole two months now, so I’m basically an expert) to all of you brides and grooms-to-be out there. Here are a few lessons I learned from this whole crazy process:

No matter how stressful the planning process may seem, it’s totally worth it.
I’ll admit that at the beginning, and through most of the planning process, I wasn’t so much into all this. Lucky for me, my mom was super organized and took the lead on the process—and I’m so grateful that she did. I promise, all the stress and fighting and tough decision-making is worth it when you get to that day.

The first few months after you get engaged are really exciting and fun, but they can also be the most stressful and overwhelming time. It’s totally normal to cry a lot (I definitely did), but once you figure out the major stuff—I recommend choosing your date, location and officiant first, then band or DJ, photographer and wedding coordinator, if you’re having one—you can take your time figuring out the rest.

Wake up on your wedding day with a smile on your face.
I spent a lot of time leading up to my wedding worrying about little things that I wish I hadn’t. You put so much stock and effort into this one day and there are so many factors you just can’t control—weather, traffic, if someone comes down with the flu—and it’s easy to get caught up in worry and anxiety.

My best advice for the day of is to just let all the stresses of the past few months (or years) of planning go.  This might sound a little crazy, but leading up to the wedding, I would envision myself waking up that morning happy and excited and ready to get married, instead of stressed, anxious and nervous.

Partly because of this, and partly because of the fact that once you wake up that morning there’s nothing left to worry about, it worked—I was the happy, excited and calm bride I had envisioned (now if only I could envision myself this calm all the time, I’d be in good shape.)

There will never be enough time.
Your wedding will fly by. I thought this was maybe just a cliché, but it’s true. You won’t have time to dance with everyone you want to, talk with everyone you want to, taste everything you want to—you probably won’t even get to see your dessert (I didn’t). So just do the best you can—people will understand. And try to have as much fun as you possibly can while at the same time being the most gracious bride or groom you can be.

Your friends are awesome. 
At least mine are. Our friends totally made our wedding. Good friends will be there for you all day and dance like idiots all night. Just be sure to thank them profusely and be sure to return the favor when it’s their big day. Same goes for family members—(shout out to my sister, who was the world’s best maid of honor.) 

Beat the post-wedding blues 
You’re married, now what?

This is definitely not the healthiest thing to do, but the first thing we did after our wedding was to eat anything and everything we wanted…I’m not sure how long this diet (I’m calling it the anti-diet) is acceptable, but we’re still doing it….maybe when our clothes stop fitting?

But seriously, I think the best way to beat post-wedding blues is to move on to the next big step in your lives as a couple. For us, it’s been searching for a new place to live that is big enough so we can start married life with a kitchen table. It’s also fun to get back your photos and videos—I sometimes find organizing my photos and memories helps me close an exciting chapter in my life and move on to the next.

That’s all from this newlywed. I’d love to hear what all of you have to say—comment below with your wedding advice:

Gabe Carimi  

Before the NFL Season starts, The Great Rabbino wants to look at the most compelling Jewish NFL stories for fans to follow over the season. Here are the top 10 stories:

10) Will Sage Rosenfels see playing time— Rosenfels is Eli Manning's backup, which means he probably won't see the field barring injury. But if that does happen, is Rosenfels truly the Giants QB2?

9) Binn back— Former Pro Bowler Charger's Long Snapper David Binn was out almost all of last season. Hopefully, this ageless wonder can come back to pro bowl form.

8) Pro Bowl punting— Adam Podlesh was last year's pro bowl alternate. This year he is in a new league on a team (our Chicago Bears) that shines on Special Teams. Will Podlesh finally bring some Jewish representation to the Pro Bowl?

7) L.A. Raiders in Oakland or LA? Make up your mind. Several Los Angeles groups want a football team in LA. Rumors have it; the Raiders are going back there. What does this mean for Al Davis?

6) New and improved Redskins— Like every year the Redskins and Daniel Synder make a ton of moves— maybe the biggest by moving huge man (and contract) Albert Haynesworth. Will this pay off? Rex Grossman sure seems to think so by claiming they would beat out the Eagles, Giants, and Cowboys for the division title. Good luck.

5) Can Antonio Garay keep it up— Garay has been a journeyman most of his career. But last year he performed and performed well. Is San Diego finally the place Garay remains consistent.

4) Will Julian Edelman see the field— Two years ago The Great Rabbino blew up in part because of Julian Edelman. Edelman, from Kent State, stepped in for the injured Wes Welker and performed at a high level. Last year, he was a virtually irrelevant. This one time up and coming receiver needs to bounce back and ask Brady for the ball.

3) Can the Bear Jew protect Cutler— The Bears selected Gabe Carimi in the first round for one reason; keep Jay Cutler off the ground. If Carimi is to prove that he was worth a #1 pick, he needs to do just that.

2) Which Taylor Mays will show up— We hear he is in ridiculous shape and we have seen sparks of greatness from Taylor Mays. We have also seen him disappear. With new coach Jim Harbaugh, how will Mays perform?

1) Super team— There is a lot of hype surrounding Jeffrey Lurie's Philadelphia Eagles. Are they a Super-Team? Are they Super Bowl Bound? Eagle fans are praying for a championship, but are they praying hard enough? A lot rest on the shoulders of Michael Vick and all the off-season moves Lurie's Eagles made.

And Let Us Say...Amen.

See below for a bunch of photos taken at the photo booth at the Oy!Chicago presents, “For the Love of Summer” party. Comment below on your favorites and to see the rest, click here for our Oy!Chicago Facebook album.

Hope all of you had fun and thanks for coming!!

I’m bummed August is rapidly coming to a close. Where did the summer go? June was a massive fail weather-wise and July and August simply flew by in a blur. I’m not quite ready to say goodbye to summer in Chicago—I never even made it to the beach.

Nonetheless, fall has always seemed to bring with it some magic. There’s something about that first nip in the air that permeates into our skin and although chilly, warms us.

When I was a kid, I loved visiting the apple orchard, stocking up on school supplies, carefully planning my outfits for the entire first week of school, and taking the special trip with my mother to the costume store to choose my Halloween costume. The beginning of a new school year opened up the door to endless possibilities and successes. I always felt fulfilled and determined, writing my first notes and homework assignments down in my trusty Chandler’s notebook with a brand new pen. During college, I continued to feel the same sense of endless possibilities I had felt during my younger years. I was eager to gain knowledge in the classroom, equally anticipated getting asked on dates by frat boys to the Vandy home games, and anxiously awaited other exciting happenings the year would add to my overall college experience. As I moved into my professional political career, fall continued to be special because it was election season—again, anything could happen.

Now, although I look forward to the crisp air and warm colors, I’m approaching the season more cautiously and perhaps more realistically. After all, in Chicago, fall is simply a brief precursor to a long, cold winter. Sometimes this depresses me, but maybe that’s also what makes the season magical, it’s so short and evanescent, but so lovely. Now though, it’s my busiest time at work, and although successfully completing the various projects is rewarding, it’s also intimidating and exhausting. The magic has faded somewhat with age and experience, but I still can’t help but anticipate the season, hopefully at least sprinkled with some magic. I look forward to quenching my thirst with fresh apple cider, actually following NFL football for the first time this year (that’s a goal, by the way), and most of all, I can’t wait to slip my skinny jeans, knee-high boots, fur scarf (sorry PETA, I had a weak moment while shopping a few Octobers ago in NYC), and tweed blazer back on— the lush fabrics, the deep jewel tones, the chic silhouettes— and for a couple fleeting months, no concerns of salt stains or water damage. Fall fashion is always magic.

Even if life now fades some of fall’s magical glow, it still does not fail to promise the thrill of new beginnings. This year, I’ll be celebrating my brother’s wedding (believe it or not, the first Jewish wedding this Jewish girl will have ever attended) and my five-year college reunion.

What are you looking forward to this fall? Let the magic begin!

The market stalls are bursting with produce. It seems as though everywhere I turn there is an abundance of riotously colored vegetables and fruit. The possibilities seem endless—so much food, so little time. I am happy this time of year in the market. I feel blessed to live near so many farmers and shoppers who share enthusiasm for high quality, local produce.

But, like all good things, this too will end. The season won’t taper off slowly and gracefully. One day not too far from this moment it will just end. The vines will simply not produce any more. The weather will turn cold and the party will be over. I like to hang on to remnants of summer and look to preserving some of the bounty. It is at this time of year, I start canning and pickling.

Refrigerator pickles are quick and simple. They tend to have a bright flavor and keep that summer feeling. I like to pickle beets, carrots, beans, peppers, tomatoes, onions, mushrooms, eggplant, cauliflower…you name it, I’ve pickled it!

These pickled veggies can be the star or co-star of your late summer meals. I add them to salads, garnish steaks with them and eat them with great cheeses and bread in the Sukkah (the holidays ARE coming). Hold on to summer for just a few more weeks by pickling the color and flavor or summer’s bounty.

Refrigerator Pickles
Basic Pickling Liquid 

2 cups Apple Cider vinegar
2 cups water
1 cup sugar
½ cup kosher salt
2 tablespoons mustard seeds
½ teaspoon dried chili flakes
½ teaspoon whole black peppercorns
½ teaspoon coriander seed
1 small cinnamon stick
several slices of peeled ginger

1. Bring the above mixture to a boil. Reduce the heat to low and simmer until the sugar has dissolved. Cool completely.

2. Prep the vegetables that you are pickling by blanching and shocking them until they are tender or by roasting them in the case of beets until they are tender. Peel and cut to size. Arrange the vegetables in clean jars. Pour the pickling mixture over the vegetables to completely cover and seal with tight fitting lids. Refrigerate the pickled vegetables for one week before serving.

The refrigerator pickles can be stored, covered, in the refrigerator for up to 6 weeks.

So here we are— 11 weeks post-treatment, eight weeks post-infection, six weeks post-reconnection with the outside world.

It feels great to be back, but I am not really back.

So where exactly am I? And who exactly is this?

I feel as if I am living in gumby’s over-stretched body. I have one foot planted in the life that I used to lead, that is familiar, cancer-free, routine, and safe. The other foot is planted in a new life that is unfamiliar, cancerous, exciting, and frightening.

I am attempting to walk around with mismatched shoes and over-stretched limbs that are being yanked and pulled in opposing directions. I am working hard to get my feet and legs to communicate with one another, but they are both so opinionated!

The leg and foot that exists in the life that I used to lead has decided to go on a sprint, exploring the roads that are familiar, routine, comfortable and committed to memory. I run down these paths with a new found urgency and fear that one day I will be robbed of these memories, robbed of this space, robbed of this life.

And then there is the other leg and foot that is planted in this new territory, this new space, this new existence. This world operates at a slower pace, is filled with new emotions, new feelings, new ideas and a new perspective. All of my senses are magnified— I see and feel things differently. I bruise more easily.

Two legs, two feet, two worlds, two selves, that are sprinting and walking in vehemently opposed directions.

How can I really be back, when I am headed in opposite directions? How can I really be back, when part of me is choosing to live in a time before cancer? How can I really be back when the other part of me is trying to find my footing in a post-treatment world?

As I continue to try to live in both worlds, I am really living in neither.

As I work to find my footing, work to find my balance, work to integrate my two feet, my two legs, my two worlds, my two selves, I am still fighting cancer.

What many do not understand is that while I may not be tied up— I am still fighting. While I may not be awaiting another round of treatment— I am still fighting. While I may not be bound to my bed, mal-nourished and exhausted— I am still fighting.

I fight every day to be here, to be present, and to be alive.

I fight every day to live fully, live gratefully, and live mindfully.

I fight every day to hold on to the hope that Cancer will not return, will not reenter my body, will not reenter the life that I am trying to slowly, pragmatically and thoughtfully rebuild.

And perhaps it is that fear that is preventing me from taking these 2 feet, 2 legs, 2 worlds and 2 selves and integrating it into 1 life.

As I was perusing around the Internet one afternoon a Facebook page called Hallelujah: A global Jewish singing contest caught my eye. Interesting, who would not want to sing their way to win a free flight to Israel? “This is your chance to become a Jewish Star!” the website bellowed. I thought it was a great idea. Of course, most of us are already aware of the surge of talent competitions across the globe, mostly due to the recent successes of shows like, “American Idol,” “America’s Got Talent,” the UK’s “Pop Idol,” “The Voice” and “Britain’s Got Talent”. I find this recent global wave of talent shows and competitions both provocative and intriguing. Sure, many of them seem silly and mildly entertaining on the surface. But these shows are also a good way to connect to others across the globe more easily than ever before. Given the popularity of these types of shows,this competition seems like a great idea.

There is no better way to create and maintain a strong global Jewish community than through song and dance. So what better way to promote this concept than through a vocal competition where the winner gets to travel throughout the land of Israel, visit some of the greatest places on earth, share a love of everything musical and Jewish, and connect with countless other Jewish people across country lines and oceans?

So, what is this contest all about? Here’s what the website says:

“What is Hallelujah? The Hallelujah contest has been searching for the next Jewish Star. After hundreds of auditions from 62 countries, we are proud to present the 31 finalists from 14 countries. The finalists arrived in Israel ready to train and compete but also ready to learn about their Jewish roots through the sound of Hebrew songs. In this application you will find each singer's personal profile and original audition tape. On August 25, 2011 the finalists hit the big stage for the final blowout concert. The entire event will be broadcast live from the beautiful city of Ramat HaSharon, north of Tel Aviv.”

So cool! The contest not only promotes original songwriting by Jewish artists and amateurs alike, but it also plans and organizes a countrywide trip throughout. Although it’s too late to enter this year’s competition, there is still time to go to their website and vote on your favorite! The contestants hail from all over the world and incorporate all different types of musical and lyrical skills. You can satisfy your reality television temptations while simultaneously connecting with Jews everywhere in the world.

So go check out the finalists’ music videos on the website and cast your own vote for who should be flown to Israel to compete in a singing competition and travel across one of the greatest countries in the world. Who are you going to choose as the winner of this awesome competition? Or will YOU be next year’s “Hallelujah Star”?!

L’Chaim!

Add Andy Dick to the list of celebrities who feel perfectly free to toss around anti-Semitic slurs as cavalierly as if they were commenting on the weather. He just called Howard Stern a “miserly… money-grubbing Jew” with a “big, fat, hook nose.” I’m not sure how I feel defending Howard Stern in a war of words, but these comments are over the line.

Kanye West’s recent self-comparison to Hitler, to express how much he feels hated, is another recent example of this kind of nonsense.

And so Andy and Kanye join a list of celebrities who feel it is OK to dabble in Nazi and anti-Semitic terminology, a frustratingly growing trend.

For a while, it seemed, thankfully, to be ebbing. It has been years since Louis Farrakhan called Hitler “wickedly great” and Michael Jackson used the word “Jew” as a verb in his song “They Don’t Care About Us.”

In the past few years, though, it’s resurfaced. Mel Gibson, John Galliano, Charlie Sheen and Lars von Trier have recently all recently made negative remarks about Jews. So have non-entertainers Rick Sanchez, Michael Scheuer, and Helen Thomas.

What in the name of Simon Wiesenthal is going on here?

Some of this, the Kanye kind, reflects the super-sizing of American rhetoric. Unless your words are positioned in the extreme, they will not cut through the 24-7 chatter of TV, TMZ, and Twitter. And so we have sort of trained ourselves to speak in “big” terms. We overuse the words “awesome” and “from Hell” to describe things like coffee… and the state of the office coffee maker.

So Kanye is not, he feels, only as hated as much as, say, Pol Pot, Augusto Pinochet or Slobodan Milosevic. No, he is hated as much as Adolf Hitler.

You could argue, much of the rest of this anti-Semitic rhetoric is the backlash against “political correctness.” People feel that they are being edgy or bravely truthful (and not, you know, bigoted) when they tag whole countries, ethnicities or religious communities with certain traits. It’s socially and societally wrong to do it, so they know they will be seen as brazen and iconoclastic if they do it. (Personally, I am hoping my one-year-old, who isn’t doing the “catch me being bad” thing yet, outgrows this phase by the time he can ride a bike.)

It is true that “PC” has been taken to somewhat silly extremes in some quarters. But political correctness—what used to simply be called “sensitivity”—was itself a reaction to the insensitivity and simple inaccuracy of popular terminology. “Fireman” had to give way to “firefighter” because, today, some firefighters are not men.

Now, I did read 1984, and I am a George Carlin fan, and I am aware of the dangers of euphemizing all the meaning out of our language. Bending over backward to be sensitive can lead to intellectual dishonesty, the obfuscation of potentially harmful policies, and even bad medical advice.

But at the same time, I understand that “names” can hurt just as much as “sticks and stones.” Yes, “vertically challenged” is a very stilted way to say “short,” but springing back to the other end of the spectrum is not the answer. The way to combat over-reaching sensitivity is not by being purposefully insensitive. There is a viable, medium stance that is both honest and kind.

Avoiding any negative rhetoric about a particular group of people is not a matter of freedom of speech. Or even, necessarily, one of hate speech. It’s a matter of being a decent human being. It’s a matter of knowing that just because you can say something doesn’t mean you should.

It’s not censorship if you decide, because you have a heart as well as a brain: “You know what? This thing I could say is not going to come off well. I’m just gonna think that thought in my mind and not say it out of my mouth.” That’s just manners.

So, celebrities, when it comes to mouthing off, maybe you should heed the words of my second-favorite Abraham— Mr. Lincoln: “’Tis better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt.”

In 1998 my friends and I did what your average 21 year old does at 2 a.m., we ordered food. My friend placed the order under the name Kritdaddy, because I needed another nickname. We thought it was hilarious when I picked up the order and tried my hardest not to laugh when I said, “I’m Kritdaddy.” Fast forward to July 18, 2011 and I receive a text message, “Kritdaddy has a brand new meaning.” And it does, I’m now a father to Henry (aka King Henry, Handsome Henry, and Smoosh face).  If having a child wasn’t a big enough change, we also moved out of the city, to Glenview.

A horribly selfish and loud neighbor guided us to the suburbs. It was bound to happen at some point. Eventually we were going to head north. Our plan was to live in the city for a few more years, maybe five, but here we are—minutes from Target, malls, and the Metra. And with a baby, that's very convenient.

I wasn't sure if I would really like it. I've been hopping on buses, walking to sushi spots and running across the street for groceries for over 12 years. The city boasts a sexy skyline, killer restaurants, and a quick commute to work. How can a burb compete with that, and there's no Jerry's Sandwich Shop.

The suburbs are not horrible though. There are definitely perks, like the clean and timely Metra, and the quiet. We don't hear bass blasting so loud it shakes our ceiling, there's no El rocking our windows, and the only live music comes from signing in the shower. Here's a quick comparison of the city vs the northern suburbs:

The winner? It's a draw. I still love the city, there's nothing like living in walking distance from everything you need, and the burbs are great. What are your thoughts? If you have restaurant ideas, or any fun suggestions for the North Shore, send them my way. In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy suburbia and being a Kritdaddy.

After two weeks at my new job at the Jewish Federation of Greater Washington, I was sent to Israel for a training conference, but was lucky enough to get a few extra days to tour around on my own. I have always been infatuated with the beauty of Israel and the rich connection of the land and people to the history of the Jews. On this particular trip, I got to experience a lot of this firsthand.

I took a day out of my schedule to visit an area about 30 minutes outside of Jerusalem, called Beit Shemesh and some of the surrounding area. Since it was DC’s partnership region, the Jewish Agency helped me get a tour of the area. My guide for the day was Amit, and soon after she picked me up I was treated to a piece of biblical history. We passed by the ancient spot were Samson was born, between Tzorah and Eshta'ol. Samson was one of the heroes in the Book of Judges—think long hair and big muscles. I recognized the names of these places right away because I read the story for my Haftorah when I became a bar mitzvah. It was exciting to find this connection from the words I chanted 20 years ago when I entered Jewish adulthood to my work today.

Further down the highway, Amit pointed out the very hill believed to be the spot were David slung a rock, killing the mighty Goliath. She mentioned a river bed nearby that tour guides will bring groups in order to show them the very spot where he found the rock.

Later in our day, as we were driving back from a winery tour, Amit looked out the window and remarked at the beauty before us. "Many people see a dry and desolate desert here," she said, "but to me it looks biblical."

The following day, I took a half day and walked over to the City of David. From a description in my guidebook, the underground tour of ancient ruins and the journey back into biblical history sounded pretty interesting. It was close to 100 degrees in Jerusalem that day and the idea of getting underground and wading knee deep in the waters down in Hezikiah’s Tunnel, was the perfect way to beat the heat. The 3D movie to open the tour and the archaeological exploration certainly lived up to the hype. What I didn’t expect was how much I was going to take away from our guide. She was young, enthusiastic and had complete faith and love for the place we were exploring together. As she shared the story and history of how King David came to build his palace on what was likely the place we were standing, it was impossible to not be drawn in. I felt like this guide loved the story so much that she wanted nothing more in life than to have the chance to visit King David’s palace and meet him live and in person. He was one of her personal heroes and this place was truly her favorite.

During my stay, I was walking distance from the old city, so I was able to walk there each day. I visited the Kotel a few different times on this trip, more than I ever had before. When I think back to my first trip to Israel over six years ago on Birthright, visiting the Kotel was an inspiring highlight. It was a place where I had a real religious and spiritual moment. This trip was different because instead of touring on a whirlwind schedule, I was able to see things on my own schedule. It allowed me to understand the Kotel and perhaps all of Jerusalem in a different light.

I thought a lot about what it meant for Jews to visit the Wall. Walking up to the Wall and touching it, I thought about the image of Israeli soldiers during the 1967 Six Day War, reaching the wall and touching it for the first time, and breaking down in tears. I found myself thinking less spiritually, less religiously and more about my love for the state of Israel.

Everyone here at Oy!Chicago would like to say mazel tov to Marcy Nehorai and her husband, Elad, who are now proud parents of a healthy baby girl. Little Tanya Esther Avigayil Nehorai. What a cutie! Mazel tov Marcy and Elad, we hope she brings you much nachas!

My hometown has an admirable, almost perverse dedication to shopping local. During my high school years, “Support your local economy” bumper stickers were as ubiquitous as college logos and Dave Matthews Band sprites. It’s a lifestyle that I cling to in Chicago: indies over chains, always always always. If I have the option to support an independent business over a corporation, I will. (This doesn’t always work, but I’m not ashamed of my H&M-loving ways. A girl and her budget need to choose their battles sometimes, and clothing is a different story than, say, jewelry, food or entertainment.)

This month marks the last sad gasp of Borders, at once the bane of many a mom’n’pop store and sometimes the only place to get books for miles around, if you live in certain parts of the country. Plenty of people, including former employees, are speaking up about why they’re not surprised to see it go, and plenty of others are lamenting its downfall. (As for myself, one of my fondest memories of Borders actually has nothing to do with being inside one. I passed by the store on North Avenue while riding the Brown Line on the night of the final Harry Potter book release, and the entire place looked like one big party.) But the fact remains that 11,000 bookselling jobs will be gone in this country by Labor Day, and the publishing industry is struggling enough as it is.

This is a great opportunity for consumers (us!) to remember that Chicago is home to some of the most fabulous independent bookstores out there. If you know and love the business below, I hope you find yourself nodding along, and if you’re not familiar with these great shops yet, I hope you have a fabulous time discovering them!

57th Street Books (1301 East 57th St., Hyde Park) is, admittedly, my best beloved in this city. This unassuming subterranean storefront opens up into rooms and room and rooms of shelves, all full of the most fantastic selections in any genre, field or interest you could imagine. There’s always some incredible author event going on, and I’ve definitely found surprise autographed copies of some really big names while browsing. 57th Street is part of the Seminary Co-op, and the equally magnificent academic bookstore is just a few blocks away in its new digs (5751 S. Woodlawn Ave.)

Unabridged Bookstore (3251 N. Broadway, Lakeview) is my home away from Hyde Park. I almost never manage to leave this place without a new hardback I’d have never discovered if not for their great displays at the front of the store. Their online newsletter is equally culpable; I always wind up with three or four new titles on my to-read list when it comes.

Women and Children First (5233 N. Clark St., Andersonville) is a smaller store, but it more than makes up for size with selection. If you’re into socially conscious material, whether it’s an exposé of political injustice or simply great works by overlooked writers, you’ll find it here.

Open Books (213 W. Institute Pl., River North) is actually a nonprofit organization dedicated to literacy in the Chicago area. They operate a beautiful storefront run by volunteers just off the Chicago Brown Line stop, and all merchandise comes from donations. Books + good causes = win-win all around.

Some of my favorite bookstores in the city are actually comic shops. I consider Chicago Comics(3244 N. Clark St., Lakeview) my own personal grand dame of sequential storytelling. Don’t be intimidated by the idea of comics or being “nerdy” (which is the best and only way to be, as far as I’m concerned): the staff is always helpful and eager to share the best and brightest from this awesome art form. It’s not all just superheroes too – you’ll find incredible stories touching on everything from immigrant experiences to civil rights to new interpretations of the Great Books themselves.

Comics will absolutely surprise and delight you if you let them. Alley Cat Comics (5304 N. Clark St. – Rear, Andersonville) only just opened, but they won me over with one chance visit, not just because of their super charming location (look for the neat ironwork sign in the alley that leads to the store!), but because they had a print copy of my favorite webcomic ever (Gunnerkrigg Court, for the curious) in stock, without anyone having to order it by special request. Alley Cat Comics has also been running a weekly free movie night on Saturdays, so keep an eye on them for more great events.

All of these indies, I’d like to add, will happily order anything you want, not to mention you’ll get to talk to a real human being about what you want. If avoiding real human beings is how you like your book-shopping, I promise you, powells.com has the selection of Amazon and much less of the evilness (search “Amazon fail” for a taste).

I know I’ve missed dozens of other great local indies in Chicago. If you’ve got one that should be on this list, let me know in the comments! I’m always thrilled to find my way to another locally owned bookstore. IndieBound, another great website, also makes it easy to find your nearest independent sellers, no matter where you are. Borders may be on the way out, but bookstores don’t have to be. Just because it’s on a bumper sticker doesn’t mean it’s not true – support your local economy! Independent booksellers and other readers will thank you for it.

It’s Tuesday night. I’m home alone all week for the first time in our new apartment.

On one hand, it’s peaceful having the whole three bedroom place to myself—no one to cook for or clean up after, no one to check in with before making impromptu plans. On the other hand, it’s a bit eerie being alone in a new apartment, especially when you’re still getting used to the building and neighborhood noises.

We’ve all been there. We’ve experienced the hardwood floors that squeak in certain places, air conditioning that kicks on with a boom, the gentle humming of the refrigerator. We’ve been awoken by honking horns or the not-so-gentle rumble of the garbage trunk way too early on a Friday morning. We’ve heard the crying baby next door or the pitter patter of puppy feet upstairs.

But what happens when the noises you hear aren’t part of the inevitable cacophony of your existence—when they are noises that just can’t settle in to the background noise of life?

What happens when the things that go bump in the night aren’t things, but people? People who could use a volume switch, or a mute button, particularly before 7 a.m. on weekdays. People who don’t know that screaming is meant for the adult film industry and not for the room directly above my bedroom….

Yes. You guessed it. IT. My neighbor upstairs who I have barely spoken to, other than “Hi, how are you?” We barely know each other but I feel like I know them if you know what I mean. Ew.

I know this seems like I’m making a big deal over nothing, but it’s been happening four to five times per week (and sometimes twice in a morning—you go neighbor girl!). It literally shakes my bed and cannot be slept through. And thank goodness they aren’t into role play or screaming dirty words in the heat of the moment, but Oh. My. Goodness. Keep your sex life to a dull roar please.

So here is the question Oy!sters. And don’t be shy – I know it’s scary to comment out in the blogosphere, but I’m at a loss of what to do.

Do I say something? Can I say something? If you think I should say something, how do I say it without being awkward/rude/inappropriate/etc?

Help! 

It’s been two decades since my bat mitzvah.

How did that happen? It feels like yesterday, well maybe not yesterday, but last week for sure, when I was up on the pulpit chanting the Torah portion in my poofy floral dress.

Of the kids in my Hebrew class, I had the most rock star Torah portion—Bereshit—the story of creation. You know the one about God creating the sun, the moon, and the stars? Unlike most tween girls who declare the “theme” of their bat mitzvahs as “ballet” or “Broadway show tunes” or “the color pink,” my bat mitzvah theme was “Let there be Light!” My guest sign-in board was decked with glittery sketches of the sun and moon, designed by my artist grandfather, the concept of illumination front and center during my rite of passage weekend.

I think a lot about those steps in between my light-themed bat mitzvah and where I am now, sitting here writing this very post. We all have “full circle” moments that lead us from our meandering paths of life to the place we’re at today.

Reflect on the decisions, the big and small ones, you’ve made over your lifetime. Often, you never realize how what seems like an insignificant decision can ultimately lead you through a different journey.

In my professional career, I decided last minute to show up at my college’s magazine job fair where JUF News happened to be recruiting that day. Without attending that fair, I probably never would have found my job as editor of that publication. And, in my dating career, I recall my friends dragging me to go dancing one night following a dinner out, even though I was tired and wanted to go home. I humored them and joined them at a club and met a wonderful man who I dated for a while. And, although we’re no longer together, I may not have met other special people in my life without having met him.

Small decisions can make the difference in life and death too. Recently, I heard about a family friend who was visiting Chicago for a weekend. Just as he arrived at O’Hare to fly home, he had a heart attack. A cardiologist happened to be walking by and stepped in with a defibrillator mounted nearby and saved our friend’s life. Only a few minutes before, he’d been sitting in a cab, where no life-saving measures would have been available. The difference of a few minutes, perhaps the cab driver taking a shorter route to the airport—or speeding (a common occurrence in Chicago cabs)—probably saved his life.

The alternate journeys life takes is dramatized in the 1998 British-American romantic comedy film Sliding Doors. In the movie, starring Gwyneth Paltrow, the plot splits into two parallel universes. In one, after being fired from her job, Paltrow’s character Helen catches an early train home from work and catches her boyfriend cheating on her. Helen dumps him and starts life anew with a new job, a new circle of friends, and, ultimately, a new love. In the second scenario, she misses the train and gets home after her boyfriend’s mistress leaves, and stays with him, in the dark about his cheating. The film conveys how one tiny event, catching or missing a train, changes the course of history for Helen.

While I believe in free will, I find comfort in the concept of beshert, knowing—hoping—that some of the choices we make and that which is beshert work in harmony. Perhaps some of the steps along our journey are out of our hands, preordained by God, a force bigger than all of us. Perhaps who we’re meant to meet, what we’re meant to do, and who we’re meant to become is written in the stars, a subject I sang about at my bat mitzvah all those years ago. 

This weekend marked another stop on the annual wedding circuit. I’m told that this phase of my life (we’re attending seven weddings in 2011, six of which are out of town) will slow down in a couple of years, but since I’ve already got four weddings lined up for 2012, I don’t see that happening soon.

Saturday’s affair was one of my closest friends from college’s nuptials. Which meant the entire weekend consisted of bonding with my besties and reminiscing about the old days. After I got home last night, I spent some time analyzing the difference between time with old friends and new.

A year and a half ago, I would have come home close to tears, totally bummed that I didn’t have anyone in Chicago who measured up to my college BFFs. But now I have Chicago friends. I may still be searching for The One, but I’ve racked up plenty of pals here–people I could invite to last-minute brunch, even if they couldn’t attend. Still, there is a noticeable difference between hanging out with the college crowd and hanging out with my new friends, and I think the culprit is, simply, time.

I met my college friends 11 years ago. It’s hard to believe that it’s been that long. For three of those years we lived together, spending every waking moment by each other’s sides. A friend and I were laughing over the weekend at how even though we were roommates and took classes together and went out as a group at night, whenever I’d run into her at the gym during our college days, I’d stop her mid-run and she’d stand on the side of the treadmill so we could “catch up.” You know, since the hour earlier when we’d hung out.

There’s no adult equivalent to that college set up. You grow up, you live alone or with a romantic partner or roommate, but the days of eight girls sharing one home? Those are over. Unless you’re in a brothel.

And in all that time together, you make memories. It’s inevitable. So I spent a good majority of this weekend reminiscing. We laughed about awkward date stories (mine included), embarrassing moments, and, I must admit, there was some toilet humor in there too. And by some, I mean a lot.

In looking back at the weekend, and at old friends versus new, it’s become clear that time with the oldies is often about strolling down memory lane. Of course we talk about our current lives and what we hope for the future, but even those conversations are rooted in a shared history. With new friends, even after a year, there’s still so much getting to know each other. And the learning curve is higher, because we don’t live together and we’ll never spend the 24/7 time together that college friends do.

One isn’t necessarily better than the other. I cherish time with my college BFFs more than anything in the world. It’s so comfortable, being with people who know you so completely and will always, always, laugh with you. But I adore my new friends, too. They’re different, and it seems I’m lucky, finally, to have both.

Do you get nostalgic about old friend reunions? If you had to, would you choose old friends or new? (Remember my friend, who made the case for new friends being better than old ones?)

Unlike Alex Epstein, the Russian-born Israeli author whose first book I reviewed for Oy! and whose prodigious imagination gives birth to a seemingly unending supply of fantastical characters and settings, fiction is not my strong suit.

But inspired by Epstein’s latest offering, the sublimely translated Lunar Savings Time (watch for a review in Oy! soon), I challenged myself to explore fiction-writing before I dismiss it as an aspiration beyond my imagination and skills. That’s why I joined Birthright Israel NEXT’s latest creative offering—a Jewish Writers Workshop. Led by Stephanie Friedman, program director at the Writer’s Studio of the Graham School of General Studies at the University of Chicago, the workshop is both a safe place to get your writing critiqued and a four-part series exploring the work of great Jewish writers: Malamud, Paley, Keret, Bezmozgis, etc. In our two sessions so far, we’ve discussed what makes a writer a Jewish author and what makes the work of fiction a Jewish story. No consensus on the subject just yet—imagine that! The opinions are as varied as the books on the shelves at Noble Tree Coffee where we meet (Chekhov next to a physics manual).

I’m due to submit my story next Tuesday. And until about a week ago, my page remained as blank as when I started the workshop two months ago. I had trouble even coming up with a concept, much less actually contriving an entire story around it. (We even got writing prompts. In case you’re interested, we were asked to write a dialogue-based story or, following a reading of Malamud’s “The Talking Horse,” a fabulist story. Participants can also work on their own stories already in progress.)

Unlike the angels, ghosts, Zen masters and kings who like to rearrange libraries that populate Epstein’s stories, the characters that finally popped into my mind are decidedly less out of this world. Still, the story of how this story came about might be worth Epstein. In fact, it’s less a story than the transcript of a very detailed and persistent dream. I hardly ever remember them beyond the few short minutes between sleep and complete wakefulness, so I’m left with the surety that my mind must have taken this challenge seriously.

I’ve been honing the story since scribbling the basic outline last Thursday; the details keep revealing themselves, coming into my mind in spurts, sending me scrambling for the nearest pen and paper. (Luckily, I always keep writing utensils in my purse and on my bedside table.) The only things that came clearly were the first and last sentences. With them, I woke up itching for a pen, trying to capture the specific words that appeared in my dream.

As I’ve dwelled on the story, I’ve realized I also need to read more short fiction (among other things one can do to be a better writer). I happened upon the perfect venue to realize this goal: The Poetry Foundation’s Printers Ball, an annual celebration of printing and the written word held last Friday at the historic Ludington Building in the South Loop. It was a feast of literary proportions. (I’ve always wanted to write something this pretentious-sounding, but in this case—it’s true.) I picked up a bagful of anthologies and literary mags from the apparently burgeoning local lit scene. I’m savoring the stories, going through the anthologies little by little, getting inspired.

Of course, one short story—especially one of questionable quality and as yet unfinished—does not make me a fiction writer. In fact, as a journalist by training, I’ve always preferred having a factual starting point. But it’s been fun to challenge myself to try something utterly new and experience for myself that the birth pangs of of fiction are never painless.

Hi. My name is Karen Flayhart, I’m 37 years old, and I’m at camp.

If hell exists, camp would be my version of it.

My first Jewish camp experience began this Sunday when I arrived at camp with my husband—who is teaching at the camp the next two weeks—and our two and a half year old daughter. Unlike her mother, she loves camp.

Having never been a good camper—I went to a total wuss camp—I pretty much knew I’d spend the next couple of weeks moanin’ and complainin’. But as I laid in bed last night, trying not to think about all the buggies that might be hiding in the mattress (I miss DDT), I realized that I finally got the awesome impact that Jewish camp has on these kids lives—impact that I had heard about, but had never personally experienced.

(Especially since the last time I was at camp, I was singing songs about having Jesus in my heart. I don’t think those songs will work here.)

Everywhere I look at camp—in addition to seeing incredibly filthy flip-flopped feet (really, wear sneakers kids)—I see future Rabbis, Cantors, Temple Presidents, Jewish Professional Workers, and Community Leaders. I see kids of all ages praying morning, afternoon and night out in the open air. Last night, I watched them support and cheer for each other during the talent contest—something that almost anywhere else would be considered social suicide to participate in.

It made me realize that as a kid I really missed out—too concerned with what other kids thought, too afraid to be myself, to embrace the nerd that I am. I admire these kids for their courage and confidence.

I’ve seen how the camp environment nurtures these young kids, giving them a place where they are accepted for who they are, and where they can love being Jewish. Here at camp, it’s cool to speak Hebrew, to love Judaism and Israel, and want Judaism to forever be part of their lives.

And let’s face it: our Jewish community really, really, really needs these kids. We need their joy and excitement, for them to believe for at least 15 more years that they can and will make the world a better place.

As adults, it’s not only our job to make sure that they have places like camp to nurture their spirits, but to give them the tools and the resources so that they can pursue their dreams.

Providing Jewish experiences such as camp, or trips to Israel for kids, isn’t just about helping to shape Jewish identities, or ensuring there is a generation after us that gives a shit about being Jewish, staying Jewish, and raising Jewish kids.

It’s about realizing that we are now the adults—yes, even at age 37, not 57—who are supposed to help give kids opportunities to pursue their dreams—the real chance to fix what’s broken in this world.

It’s our turn to pony up. After all, we did help fuck things up.

The truth is, despite all the great stuff around me, I’ll never like being at camp myself. One word: “port-o-potties”. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t appreciate and love the impact Jewish camp has on our kids and on our community. You don’t have to have been born Jewish or attended Jewish camp to get it, or give to it.

(In case you haven’t gotten my o-so-subtle message, I’m advocating for you to dig into your wallet and give—ideally to JUF which helps support Jewish experiences and programs for Jewish kids and young adults, but it’s really none of my business where your money goes. Please, just give.)

I’ll try to remember all this tonight while I’m forced to eat nasty ass food while fighting off mosquitos enjoying nature.

Mom: please send tequila.

From time to time I miss a player. Last year I missed this guy, Alex Hoffman-Ellis. Good size, competitive edge. The Great Rabbino likes this linebacker. He has gone up against some of college football's best and here is what he has to say:

1) How did you get into football?
I guess the abbreviated version of how I got into football is that a lot of my friends from my freshman basketball team at Santa Monica High were playing, and I wanted to play that year, but my parents wouldn't let me. When they finally said it was okay to play my sophomore year, I became academically ineligible, and that lasted through my junior year. When I transferred to Hamilton High, I changed my outlook on how I approached academics and became eligible to play for senior year. Been playing since then.

2) How is Washington State shaping up for next season? What are your expectations for the team?
This coming season, we expect from ourselves nothing less than a bowl game. A bowl game victory really. We've got some solid leadership and some really good developments on the field as well as in the weight room and conditioning-wise. Guys are starting to develop more of a chemistry, as we've been getting together more frequently to sort of build up that camaraderie amongst ourselves. I expect this to carry over on the field in terms of us trusting each and every person on this team to get their individual jobs done so that we can accomplish our goals and get W's as a team.

3) What will your role be?
I expect myself to lead this team if nothing else. I have as much experience as just about anyone on this team, and I feel like I'm a very dependable person for guys to look to in tough situations for guidance. All in all, I'm on that field to be both a vocal and physical presence, so I know what I've got to do, now it's just up to me to do it.

4) What is the highlight of your career?
I would have to say the highlight of my career was getting my first interception ever against SMU in 2009. I took it back 54 yards for a score, and it was also my first touchdown ever so it was a very surreal moment standing in that end zone with the ball in my hands and Martin Stadium going nuts.

5) Who is the best player you played against and what was going through your head when you saw him play?
I'd have to say the best player I played against was my redshirt year in '08 when we played against USC and their linebacking corps of Mauluga, Maiava, Cushing and Matthews. I just remember watching those four play the LB position that game (and that entire season, really) how it was meant to be played, straight downhill with an attitude and a purpose.

6) What is your Jewish life like? Did you grow up with a strong Jewish identity?
I never really felt that much of a connection to Judaism growing up. Having a Bar Mitzvah and playing in the Maccabi Games were the most Jewish things I ever did, but I never have been very spiritual. I attended Sunday school and Hebrew school up until 8th grade, but to me it was more of a place I was being forced to go. Being Jewish was more of something I identified with once I got up to Washington. Everybody up here is so religious and everything is prayer this, Jesus that. The team actually says a prayer in Jesus’ name before and after games, so I feel almost pushed towards my Jewish identity more than as a voluntary thing. Although I am proud of my heritage, I don't have as big of a connection to it as I might like.

7) Did you get a chance to play against Taylor Mays? What was that like?
Yes, I played against him. I don't really remember much of him as an opponent, just that there was a lot of hype around his physical attributes and him falling to the second round in his draft class. Other than that, I don't remember much.

8) What are you goals when you graduate?
When I graduate, I want to keep training and hopefully (knock-on-wood) keep playing ball. Outside of sports, I'm thinking of writing. I write some poetry and short fiction every now and then, though I haven't made a move to get any of my work published. I guess I'm kind of going with the, "I'll just cross that bridge when I get to it" attitude.

9) If you could play for one pro team and/or coach who would it be?
That's a tough question, so I'm just going to go with my favorite team, the Green Bay Packers. Coach McCarthy seems like a very levelheaded, smart coach, Coach Capers has that defense really coming together, and seeing Coach Greene coach up the linebackers just gets me fired up.

Not Packers fans at The Great Rabbino, but big Hoffman-Ellis fans.

And Let Us Say...Amen.
- Jeremy Fine
For more please check out www.TheGreatRabbino.com  

Last night while watching one of my many reality show guilty pleasures, Giuliana and Bill, I came up with the topic for my latest dating post…  And my boyfriend thinks nothing productive comes from me watching so much TV! 

Let me preface this by saying that I love Giluliana and Bill as a couple.  I think they’re adorable together— probably why I’m a sucker for the show— and I respect the relationship that they appear to have with each other.  I’ve even read their book, “I Do, Now What?: Secrets, Stories, and Advice from a Madly-in-Love Couple” and no, I’m not married, but I borrowed it from your blogger-in-chief who now is, so I think that makes it ok.

In this particular episode, Bill and Giuliana travel to London, so Giuliana can cover the royal wedding. While there, Bill insists they immerse themselves in the culture and drags an unwilling Giuliana and four of her female friends to a traditional English lunch of fish and chips.  Bill foots the check for everyone and they’re all impressed with his gentlemanly ways— forgetting that they’re being forced to eat fried foods.  While thanking Bill for paying the bill (pun kind-of intended), Bill launches into a story about when he and Giuliana first started dating. 

He brings up their second date and how they went out for a nice dinner.

At this point, Giuliana interrupts to ask, “Are you going to tell them about how we slept together on the second date?”

Apparently they did “it” or it might have been on the third date that “it” happened, no one seems to be clear on the issue.  It’s a funny moment in reality TV that I felt like re-telling even though it has nothing to do with today’s dating etiquette blog post.  (You all already know how I feel about that kind of behavior.)

Anyway, Bill brags, “I was going to tell them about how you excused yourself to go to the bathroom and secretly paid the check.” 

Now in my opinion, that is one classy move! Her friends seem to agree and impressed respond by saying, “Giuliana did that because she already knew how much she really liked you.”  It’s very sweet.

So I’ve been having this debate with friends for years.  I have girlfriends that will drop a new guy fast if he isn’t quick to pay the bill for at least the first three dates.  Alternately, I know plenty of guys who if they don’t see the girl do the “pretend to reach for her wallet move” won’t bother calling her again.  Clearly, I haven’t set up any of these friends with each other. 

I even know of one relationship that had a quick demise because after more than a dozen dates, the girl still had never offered to pay for anything— even a coffee.

Giuliana, on the other hand, handled the situation beautifully and made a real impact on her now husband.  She declared right away that she wasn’t after his money and that she liked him enough to grab the bill and she did it in a creative— dare I say it— romantic way.  Single girls, pay attention.  You can learn a lot from her moves!  I’d even suggest that it saved their relationship from fizzling out after the quick intimacy.  But I get that it’s not that easy for everyone.  

So Oy! readers tell me: who should pay for the date and when?  Have you ever pulled Giuliana’s move?  How’d it turn out for you?

Finally, I have to give a shout out to my girl Patti Stanger whose show Millionaire Matchmaker premieres Monday, August 15.  Rumor has it: this season Patti isn’t just helping other single folks find their one true love, but is back in the market herself.  Is love in store for the matchmaker?  You know I’ll stay tuned to find out and I’m sure I’ll end up blogging all the details.

I received the text while I was at the gym, “Amy Winehouse died.” During the 20 minute walk from my gym to my home I thought about Amy’s music, how short her life was, how I had dressed up as her for Halloween a few years ago (as did a million other people), how sad it was that she never overcame her addiction and then tried to estimate the number of times I had listened to really her only album “Back to Black.” I’d guess 180 times in one year.

So when I got home and turned on my computer I wasn’t surprised but still a little taken aback about the vitriolic commentary about Amy Winehouse and how she did not deserve media attention because, among other reasons, she was a “crack addict” and a huge tragedy had just occurred in Norway.

When someone is controversial, disliked or detested, there is a new form of Negative Mourning. Their death becomes fodder for criticism of their lives, repeated in some form millions of times via social media. Not that no one has ever spoken ill of the dead, but the numbers of people who do and can now publicly, are almost deafening.

The flurry of activity on Facebook and Twitter about Amy Winehouse made me think about just how much public mourning has changed, even since 9-11 when Americans proudly waved American flags, watched a star-studded telethon, read the heart-wrenching New York Times biographies of those who were killed, and watched the funerals of the brave New York City first responders on cable news.

Can you imagine if 9-11 had happened in 2011 instead of 2001? What would it have looked like on Facebook or Twitter? What will it look like this year when we commemorate the 10^th anniversary of the tragedy?

Public mourning has changed so significantly this century. Twenty years ago, one might publicly mourn by doing one, or all of the following: a. reading an obituary b. sending a card c. making a donation in the person’s name d. attending a funeral and shiva. In addition, in the Jewish community you might help make a minyan (10 person quorum) so that a friend could say kaddish, the traditional memorial prayer on the anniversary of a family member’s death.

In the event of a leader’s death, like Yitzhak Rabin, there were vigils held, sometimes for days.

Today, the death of a public or private person is up for lengthy discussion online. While there has always been “letters to the editor,” this sort of banter on the dead, outside of really important contributors to our society, is probably unprecedented in human history.   

The same is true for ordinary losses.

When two people who I cared for very much died this summer, I felt a need to publish two blog posts about them. I requested that the eulogist from one of the funerals post his words onto Facebook for those who hadn’t been able to make the funeral. All of these posts were welcomed and well received. Those who commented on them wrote beautiful notes, because these were two very righteous people. 

I’ve also seen others post news of a loved ones’ death, and receive tremendous Facebook support and condolences. My only concern is that do these people receive the same comfort that the traditional means of public mourning provides. Is the “RIP Mrs. X” the same as a phone call or a hug at a funeral, wake or shiva. Someday, it might be all we do. For now though, I think we have to consider whether the comment is really closer to doing almost nothing at all depending on the relationship. The same is true for something like Holocaust Memorial Day. Does clicking on a Facebook page or changing your status to dedicate it to 6 million who died in the Holocaust the same as attending a memorial service or going to a museum? I don’t know.

Next week there is Jewish Holiday called Tisha B’Av, which commemorates catastrophes faced by the Jewish people where there was tremendous suffering and loss of life. If you observe the holiday, it is carefully choreographed to feel sadness and hope for redemption.

If the holiday were to be discussed on Twitter, the dialogue would probably shift from the suffering of the persecuted to:

“It’s going to happen again if we continue Sinat Chinam.”

“Why do we still celebrate this holiday? Israel is a state now.”

“Did the prophets predict that this would happen anyways?”

I think because of social media we are losing our ability to authentically be sad, empathize, or celebratory without being flooded with other’s editorial commentary. I wonder what the world will be like if authentic emotion will one day be extinct. What will happen then?

The answer may be in the beautiful Amy Winehouse song, zichrona v’livracha.

My sister’s favorite dinner conversation topic of late consists of her explaining to me, with an air of elitism, that she’s a member of “Generation X” and I’m a “Millennial.” Her theories about our supposed generational differences, and thus her superiority, derive from a combination of conversations she has had with friends, Wikipedia research and her obsession with author Jonathan Franzen’s 2011 commencement speech to Kenyon College.

Mostly, I think she and her friends—former Smashing Pumpkins- and Jesus Jones-loving grunge folk—like to sit around in their still-tattered flannels (now considered hipster—what great revenge on the formerly rebellious garb), and discuss how they are the scrappy generation, and those after them are not. According to my sister and her Doc Martin-loving cohort, members of Generation Y (who she insists are now miraculously Millennials) are lazy, need constant affirmation and happen to be great with technology. While I grew up with computers and I am comfortable with technology in ways that my sister has not caught up to, I resent, rather than resemble much of what “defines” a Millennial. I also don’t understand how I got lumped with the iCarly generation. Let’s keep Generation Y where I can see it, and leave the five-year-old computer wiz’s to the Millennials. My sister and I get into some fork slinging every time she brings this topic up with a smirk.

However, I will say that us, Generation Y-ers or “Millennials” (should you wish to accept that title despite birth-year discrepancies), are facing some new challenges. In a shortened essay reprint of Franzen’s speech in the New York Times, entitled “Liking Is for Cowards, Go for What Hurts,” he described consumers’ affection/love relationship with their cell phones, and other social media devices such as Facebook.  

“Let me toss out the idea that, as our markets discover and respond to what consumers most want, our technology has become extremely adept at creating products that correspond to our fantasy ideal of an erotic relationship,” Franzen said, “in which the beloved object asks for nothing and gives everything, instantly, and makes us feel all powerful, and doesn’t throw terrible scenes when it’s replaced by an even sexier object and is consigned to a drawer.”

He said these objects of technology respond unquestioning to our needs in an indifferent natural world. In turn, he said our objects of love find themselves at odds with real love, and we humans, get a bit muddied about the concept altogether.

“Its (techno-consumerism’s) first line of defense is to commodify its enemy,” Franzen said. “You can all supply your own favorite, most nauseating examples of the commodification of love.”

Franzen cited the wedding industry, TV ads, etc. for responding to our desire for love with the push to buy things.

“A related phenomenon is the transformation, courtesy of Facebook, of the verb ‘to like’ from a state of mind to an action that you perform with your computer mouse, from a feeling to an assertion of consumer choice,” Franzen said. “And liking, in general, is commercial culture’s substitute for loving.”

Franzen went on to explain that technology allows us to exercise a narcissistic feedback loop that we could never play out with other human beings who won’t support an endless desire to be “liked” and have our egos stroked…or could we? 

Forgive me before I advance into a discussion, in which I tie in Franzen with a movie featuring Justin Timberlake. You’ve been forewarned.

Essentially, Franzen is addressing a technologically driven phenomena that has seeped into our social psyche—one which reinforces our narcissistic tendencies and simultaneously encourages us to avoid social challenges. It’s Ok to “like” something or someone, as long as you don’t have to commit to it—or rather, love it.

I would argue that the film industry, both a driver and reflection of social norms, is sending a similar message about modern, romantic relationships.

The cinematic seeds for this modern relationship paradigm perhaps were first observed in films like Pretty Woman, in which a prostitute was rescued off the streets by a cold-hearted millionaire, used for her “business,” and some where along the way she seduced and softened her millionaire into giving her the fairytale.

In many ways, Pretty Woman—a Cinderella/My Fair Lady combo package—did not drift too far off the map from the original Cinderella tale. While Roberts’ character was bold and loud-mouthed, she knew her place, what with her lack of education…and well, prostitution. Let’s thank our lucky stars that debonair Richard Gere rescued her.

Somewhere along the way, with brilliant works of art such as Girls Gone Wild, The Girls Next Door, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days and Love and Other Drugs, women gained some societal permission to have casual sex without having to be prostitutes.

However, the modern alternative, as seen in films such as Friends With Benefits and its sister films, No Strings Attached and Love and Other Drugs, is in some ways equally deranged and sad. Some might hail these films as proof that women can have sex “like men,” casually and without consequence. However, if you read between the lines in the scripts, they can’t. Equally sad, you end up with a story about a guy and a girl who are so busy pretending to have no feelings, they’re both hurt, confused and miserable, until the guy wakes up near the end of the film and fights for his rescue/happy ending scene and sweeps the girl off her feet. What you have are Cinderella stories lightly veiled with a girl wearing “tough pants” until she puts on a dress at the end.

In the film, an emotionally damaged girl who feels injured for caring too much, and thus shuts down that which is human in her, finds temporary comfort in a guy that lives a by a philosophy that caring is a weakness. The two trick themselves and each other into being happy, just for a little while. Isn’t it romantic? I’m not sure the women in this film have figured out what it means to be liberated and exist in a healthy, equal relationship. But, it certainly does not look like this. Women are confused; men are confused; I’m confused. I think the film does reflect ambivalence, both from women and men, about what “liberation” and gender roles mean today.

In real life, rarely do “friends with benefits” result in lasting love relationships. By definition, the emotion is left out, and the couple is in it for the physical. After the physical grows tiresome or strained, the “friendship part” is likely destroyed—that’s assuming a friendship could exist under such conditions. As with Franzen’s description of our relationship with technology, “friends with benefits” relationships satisfy our immediate needs without talking back. In these films, however, love impossibly comes from this place, which lacks in trust, what it makes up in instant gratification.

Most troubling, is our new ideal to be indifferent, meanwhile hoping love finds it way through our grasping in the dark. Is this how we now have to arm and protect ourselves? Where do we go from here?

In his article, Franzen argued that to truly open yourself up to love, you have to allow yourself to be ugly and see the ugly in your beloved.

“This is not to say that love is only about fighting. Love is about bottomless empathy, born out of the heart’s revelation that another person is every bit as real as you are. And this is why love, as I understand it, is always specific,” Franzen said.

Franzen added, “The big risk here, of course, is rejection. We can all handle being disliked now and then, because there’s such an infinitely big pool of potential likers. But to expose your whole self, not just the likable surface, and to have it rejected, can be catastrophically painful. The prospect of pain generally, the pain of loss, of breakup, of death, is what makes it so tempting to avoid love and stay safely in the world of liking.”

Franzen asserts that we can either step into the world to embrace the pain and the love, or we can stand on the sidelines and give love and life a thumbs-up.

My hope is that both women and men find a way to leap.

The power of scent is a curious phenomenon. We are all familiar with the concept of “smelling fear.” But we can’t really smell it, because fear is an emotion, not a scent. We may see fear in someone’s eyes, or feel the tension in their muscles, but we can’t smell it. Yet, smell is so powerful that we often naturally align it with our emotions.

Sometimes when I get into a Chicago taxi cab, I feel as though I have crawled into an armpit and I grow so uncomfortable that all I can think about is a hot shower, regardless of my previous mood. Or, when I’m in the fragrance section of a department store, a whiff of Bulgari’s BLV Pour Homme brings me right back to a past relationship, one that unfortunately did not end well. Ironically, that bright blue, fresh, soapy scent sends me to a dark place, instantly dampening my mood. We constantly smell one thing and can’t help but feel another.

Smell can be dangerously deceptive. Something may smell good, but is it always? When I was in high school, I used to love Crabtree & Evelyn’s sweet and comforting almond scent – the first “fancy” body products I purchased for myself. However, when I became addicted to Nelson DeMille novels, I learned that deadly cyanide also has an almond scent. A scent that was once comforting, I now know may be dangerous. One of my friends from college told me that the smell of a special homemade vegetable soup always reassures her that she’s going to feel healthy. However, her sister, a dedicated raw foodist, grows ill just with one whiff of the cooked broth and dumplings. One sister’s medicine is the other’s poison.

Moreover, smell is always about control, whether or not it’s contradicting. As approximately 90% of taste, it controls how we perceive our food and it also controls the emotional pull on our memories. When I smell tuberose, I am brought back to Atlanta in 2005. After so many years, I wish the memories that get stirred with that one simple scent would stay dormant. Even though those memories aren’t negative, they’re emotionally charged, and the tug of tuberose from years past can spend my emotional energy in the present. The trouble is, I can’t help it – tuberose is permanently stored in my emotional archive.

What scents control you?

This past week my voice went missing.
Without warning she decided to pack up and leave.
I feared I had permanently lost her in the woods, just outside of Traverse City, Michigan.

I looked for her on my long runs, but she was hiding.
I searched for her at night as I lay down to sleep, but she was absent.
I longed for her, needed her, wanted her.
She avoided me.

I had so much I wanted to say, but nowhere to put my thoughts, my feelings, my hopes, my dreams. I was overwhelmed by a sea of moments, but was unable to capture and share them.
My heart and mind swelled with emotions, yet I was unable to find the words to release them.

I was ashamed that after all these months of clinging to my voice, and reclaiming her, I let her wander off.
Was she ok?
Would she find her way back?
Would she return looking, feeling, and sounding the way I had remembered her?

This past week, as my voice quietly explored the world around me, I found myself lost in days that have become over-programmed, over-stimulated, and overwhelming.

After spending months in hibernation, I feel a sense of urgency to do everything at once, and as fast as humanly possible. I may have initially tiptoed into this new chapter, but now I am sprinting.

Remember when I said I wouldn't do this?
I need to not do this!

I believe this urgency is rooted in the belief that I need to take full advantage of today because I (we) are not guaranteed tomorrow. At the same time, as I continue to say yes to new projects, events, plans, relationships, I am feeling stretched thin. I am doing everything yet nothing at all.

As I left my house tonight feeling pulled in a hundred directions, I wondered when and if my voice would decide to return. As I unexpectedly watched my good friend perform with his band The Sons of Susan, a woman my age bravely left her table, got up in front of the band, and started "spontaneously" tap dancing.

Her feet provided the beat.
Her heart was there on the floor.
Her soul was exposed for all to see.

As she pitter-pattered her way through the song, I watched her, marveling at her talent, her skill, her bravery.

The beat she created was the calling I needed for my voice to return.

And so here I am, with the words I have been longing for, searching for, hoping for. As it turns out they were there all along, I just didn't know the song and dance I needed to unlock them.

As my days continue to fill up, and I try to negotiate how to live each day mindfully, I hope I can remember the sound of her tapping, the face of her bravery, and be reminded that my voice is never missing, it lies here within.

Every summer when my kids were young, I spent months gathering supplies for my kids to take to camp. In the early years, I actually ironed name labels in all of their clothing and painstakingly labeled all of their sunscreens, bug sprays, flashlights and other camp necessities. I thought that I was being Super Mom and that surely an award would be mine.

Well, a couple of visitors’ weekends and tours of cabins cured me of all of my obsessive labeling. Clothes heaped in corners, scary debris strewn showers and orphaned t-shirts and sweatshirts left hanging on tree limbs left me wondering why I had bothered.

At the end of the camp, the kids would arrive home, sunburned, bug bitten and happy and all of my fanatically labeled clothing was either lost or so scary that I would not allow it in the house.

This summer I packed myself up to go to Camp Chi. I am teaching Culinary Camp to groups of eager-young gastronomically inclined minds. I did not label my clothing, but I did pack sunscreen (which I have actually worn— unlike my children), bug spray, and a ton of recipes. I forgot my flashlight and did need it one night during a storm when we lost power, but other than that and a massive heat wave, I am having a blast. Camp is awesome!

The spirit at camp is amazing. The people running the camp are models of everything right in a world where many professionals are unhappy or dissatisfied in their jobs. These people rock! There is an infectious CAN DO attitude and a MAKE IT HAPPEN theme that pervades every corner of the camp.

I have been blown away day after day when challenges that seemed daunting were handled with cheerful enthusiasm. Storms and power outages— no problem.  Prolonged suffocating heat wave— no problem. One by one, difficulties are met and throughout everything, the campers are treated with respect and TLC.

 They are learning how to have fun without the day-to-day technology so pervasive in their lives. The kids are learning important life skills, making new friends, tolerating differences in others and just plain, being kids. I love it!

I urge everyone who has a chance, go back to camp. Go to a Jewish camp. Go to Camp Chi and hang out in the woods with some great people. Turn off the world for a week or two, teach some classes,  stand tall and proudly belt out the Birkat Hamazon after a meal , sing and dance your way to the lake, tie dye some t-shirts and come to culinary classes. We are making some great camp food— my way.

Take the heat out of summer: 

Sorbets are one of my favorite treats. I make them all year round, but especially in the summer. The farmers market offers inspiration for my flavors. Recently, the stalls were abundant with gorgeous tempting blackberries. Typically eaten out of hand, blackberries are fragrant and complex. Simple to make and a crowd pleaser, sorbets are perfect for summer or anytime.

Blackberry Sorbet 

1 pound fresh or frozen blackberries
12 ounces granulated sugar
2 cups water
1 tablespoon lemon juice
Pinch of salt

1. Puree the blackberries, sugar and water in a food processor or blender. Try not to blend the seeds completely of the sorbet will be bitter. Strain out the seeds and any solids through a mesh strainer and discard the seeds.

2. Add the lemon juice and salt and mix completely. Chill the sorbet mix for at least 4 hours or overnight.

3. Process the sorbet in an ice cream machine according to the manufacturer’s directions.

4. Store the sorbet in a container with a tight fitting lid in the coldest part of the freezer.

Garnish with cut up fruit, chopped mint, whipped cream, nuts.

Blackberry Cobbler 

I like simple rustic desserts in the summer and am not interested in fussing too much in the kitchen. This delicious cobbler is the perfect summer old fashioned dessert. Crispy crust and sweet tangy fruit make this a wonderful way to end a meal. Serve the cobbler with a big scoop of Blackberry Sorbet. 

1 ½ cups flour
1 ¼ cups sugar + ½ teaspoon
½ teaspoon salt
8 tablespoons chilled butter or non-hydrogenated shortening (for pareve)
¼ cup ice water
3 pints blackberries
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 tablespoon lemon zest
1 teaspoon cinnamon
⅓ cup all-purpose flour

1. In a food processor, pulse the flour with the ½ teaspoon of sugar and the salt until combined. Add the cold butter and pulse 5 or 6 times, until the mixture resembles peas. Add the ice water and pulse 5 or 6 times, just until the pastry is evenly moistened.

2. Transfer the pastry to a lightly floured surface and knead just until it comes together. Flatten the pastry into a 6-inch disk, wrap in plastic and refrigerate until firm, at least 30 minutes.

3. Preheat the oven to 375°. In a large bowl, toss the blackberries with the remaining 1 ¼ cups of sugar, the lemon juice, cinnamon and ⅓ cup of flour. Let stand at room temperature, stirring gently once or twice, until slightly juicy, about 15 minutes. Transfer the fruit to a round 2-quart glass or ceramic baking dish.

4. On a lightly floured surface, roll the pastry out to a ¼-inch thickness that is slightly larger than the baking dish. Drape the pastry over the berries. Trim the overhang to ½ inch and fold it under itself, pressing the pastry onto the rim of the dish. Crimp the edge decoratively and make several slashes in the center of the pastry to allow steam to escape.

5. Bake the cobbler for 1 hour, or until the filling is bubbling and the pastry is golden. Cover the edges with foil if the crust browns too quickly. Let cool for 20 minutes before serving.

In case you’ve been living under a rock for the past several years, let me update you on a few things.

First, cellular phones can now do more than just send and receive phone calls and text messages.

Second, wireless internet capability has allowed anyone to share with the public not only what they like or do, but also when and where they do them. That way, one can see where people are in real time and even seek out the hippest and coolest places to hang out.

Third, we now have the capability of rating and critiquing places we visit and frequent, so we can aide others seeking similar journeys through urban nightlife and spend less time sifting through magazines, newspaper articles and other traditional information gathering sources.

Starting this past weekend, Chicago is showcasing a new Android and iPhone powered application called “SceneTap”. You may have read about it in RedEye last week or heard about it from a friend, but in case you haven’t, here’s the scoop. SceneTap is a mobile application that monitors bar, restaurant and nightclub scene activity in real-time. As their website and advertisements detail, users can track athlete and celebrity movement, win vacation packages and other prizes, observe how crowded or busy a place might be at that moment, or even check out the guy to girl ratio. Chicago will be featuring 50 bars in the launch party tonight, but I can guarantee you that more destination places will capitalize on this innovative form of real-time networking in the very near future. Each destination will also be equipped with a giant spotlight, so you literally cannot miss seeing it on your journey around town. Just look up at the sky and follow the white beams of light!

Here are some of the lucky 50 that will be lighting up Chicago’s skyline and cellphone activity (and some were even on my top summer restaurants list!). You can get the full list at http://scenetap.com/r/chicago.

• Wrightwood Tap
• Cans
• Benchmark
• Kirkwood
• STATE
• Big City Tap
• Vertigo Sky Lounge
• Timothy O’Tooles
• Sheffield’s
• O’Donovans
• Shenanigans
• Duffy’s Tavern
• Redmond’s (Badger bar!)
• Casey Moran’s

So Chicago, keep your eyes peeled during the nighttime. With the help of SceneTap and Batman-like spotlights piercing the night sky, you will know where the best times can be fully enjoyed. Plus, you’ve got more than one reason now to lift your eyes to the sky! I know that I will be sure to use SceneTap over the coming weekends, whether I am seeking out bars with a particular brew on draft or try to find out where Jay Cutler might be dining. Who knows, you may even bump into a few fellow Chicago Jews out on the town!

L’Chaim!

I really believe that my daughter Fray has no idea that we took a homeland journey to Ethiopia this past February. (Click here to read part one.) For all she knows– despite the repeated back and forth of:

Me: “We are going to Ethiopia!”
Fray: “Yes!”
Me: “You are FROM Ethiopia!”
Fray: “Yes!”
Me: “We ADOPTED you FROM Ethiopia!”
Fray: “Yes!”

We simply took a long ride to the park. I fanaticized we would get off the plane in Ethiopia and Fray would look around and proclaim she was home! She would se herself in all the faces that were similar to her own! She would weep tears of gratitude that her adoptive mom was so insightful, sensitive and courageous with assisting her in her adoption journey! No such luck. Fray was unfazed. She clung to her doll Mimi, as usual, pooped in her diaper and ate her goldfish snack.

We arrived at our hotel in Addias Ababa late at night. My mom and I sat in the hallway outside of our hotel room while Fray cried in the pack-and-play refusing to accept the pitch black sky as night-night time. I was crying too, because I had hauled a huge green duffel bag filled with donations of medicine, bandages, DVD’s, candy, soccer balls, crayons, markers, teddy bears and clothing that had been lost in the shuffle of people and bags in the airport. (Thankfully found a few days later with all its contents!) I think I was also crying because I was disappointed Fray wasn’t having some Lifetime Movie Moment, a connection with the African culture/people/soil. She was just pissed off in her pack-and-play like when we were on vacation in Michigan with my parents.

In the following days we got out and explored. The Ethiopian people were very loving and engaging with Fray. They were impressed with my preschool “mastery” of Amaharic. (It’s not often they hear white folks speaking their language.) My spirit started to rebound, I felt like I was doing right by Fray in their eyes. We went to the Mercado (the main shopping market) where I sifted through rows and piles of crafts looking for the things that would make our home in America feel more Ethiopian. I chose baskets and dolls and animals made of gamey smelling wool. I found bigger handmade dresses to replace the now too small dresses I had bought the last time I was in Ethiopia. It made me think about how much time had gone by and how much Fray had grown.

We took a trip to the care center Fray had lived in for three months. It is a beautiful, well maintained building with floor to ceiling glass in the main sitting area. This was where we sat with several other families one year and eight months ago, waiting to meet Fray. I remember feeling almost embarrassed— like arriving for a blind date, scanning the room and hoping you aren’t the only one looking for a match, feeling vulnerable, hoping you’re going to meet expectations. She was in overalls, all wide-eyed and silent.

Now Fray sat surrounded by kids watching a “Little Rascals” DVD I brought to the orphanage. The kids were fascinated that Mimi’s eyes opened and closed. I was fascinated by the ease of the interaction between Fray and the children. When it was time to go, she cried. Her tears filled my heart with joy. This had been a good place for Fray when she lived here. Somewhere inside, Fray could feel or remember this. She had belonged. For a time, it had been her home.

At some point during this journey, I realized there would not be an “ah-ha!“ moment for Fray in Ethiopia. She was not even three, yet. And that maybe the people that were saying she was too young to go back, too young to appreciate the experience, may have been right. But I also realized that maybe this time around, the “ah-ha!“ moment would be mine. Following my dream to my child, returning with her to her homeland, aware of what I hoped the trip would be and modifying it to what it in fact became. It was an adventure. Fray will have her moment with Ethiopia someday. And I will be there with her, hand-in-hand.

Everyone here at Oy!Chicago would like to say mazel tov to Ron Krit and his wife, Erika, who are now proud parents of a healthy baby boy. Little Henry was born on July 18. What a cutie! He'll be doing push ups in no time. Congratulations Ron and Erika!

Any longstanding institution— from countries to heroes, from The White House to Coca-Cola— is going to be the subject of popular speculation and, ultimately, myths. Religions, including Judaism, are no exception.

As an avid partaker of such fare at The Straight Dope, Snopes.com, and MythBusters, I am well aware that such myths, even once “busted,” can persist for generations.

The Protocols of The Elders of Zion, for instance, is a forgery that has been proven to be one dozens of times, yet its virulent message is just that— virus-like in its ability to resist the serum of truth. Or even credulity. Say, for argument’s sake, that the Jews have been trying to take over the world. Well, we have been around for 4,000 years, and we are still not in charge… so maybe the world can let its guard down?

It’s not hard to see why we haven’t. Have you ever been one of four Jews trying to order a pizza? How could anyone even think we would have the cooperation it would take to dominate a planet?

There are persistent myths about Judaism that beggar belief, like that we have horns (thanks, Michelangelo!), and I hope those are finally dying off. And some, like the “blood libel,” that are mostly known by fringe fanatics. When Sarah Palin used the term recently, the media had to explain what it was before they could explain why it was offensive, which in a way I guess, is progress.

But there are some myths about Judaism and Jewish life that even many Jews believe. Like that you are supposed to put an orange on a Seder plate as a matter of tradition (as opposed to a symbol of protest against certain long-held attitudes, which it is).

Or the myth that kosher wine sucks, simply because the most widely available ones do. This would be like saying that some pop songs suck, so everything on the radio must (maybe not the best example). In fact, there are dozens, if not hundreds, of award-winning kosher wines from around the globe that stand up to any standard wines. Not surprisingly, many of these outstanding wines come from Israel, especially the Golan Heights… which some might say makes that spot worth fighting for almost as much as its strategic military importance.

Speaking of comestibles, some believe that food is kosher because it is blessed by a rabbi. Nope and nope— not blessed and not by a rabbi. The process is more like an FDA inspection than anything else. And the experts involved do not need rabbinic ordination to carry out their task, rather a deep knowledge of food science and production as well as the laws of kashrut. More details here.

The Internet is a double-edged sword in this regard. While many sites exist to debunk such myths, many other sites and individuals continue to spread them, probably more out of ignorance than malice. “A lie will go round the world while truth is pulling its boots on,” as Mark Twain didn’t say. (In a rich irony, this great quote about lies is frequently misattributed; it was popularized by a Baptist preacher named Charles Spurgeon in 1855, who himself said it was an old proverb he’d heard.)

One of Judaism’s key strengths is its drive to ask and investigate. One thing we do at our Seders, even those without oranges, is encourage our children to ask questions and seek answers. So, when confronted with a stereotype or generalized statement or wild accusation that sounds just plain “off,” honor your tradition by asking, “Really?” and looking into it yourself.

My mind is wrested, entangled, and unsure of how to fit this one together with the rest of my inner philosophy and understanding of the world. Thoroughly disgusted of course, trying my best to grapple with the reality while I simultaneously try to expunge those violent, repugnant images from my head of the murder of Leiby Kletzky allegedly by a religious Jew in the Jewish lands of Borough Park, Brooklyn.

How do we understand this? How do we walk away from this? Who do we turn to, who do we blame, who do we TRUST most importantly, when the one who allegedly victimized the victim was “one of us” was, even more so, a card carrying Shomer Shabbos religious Jew?

Where do we go from here?

A generalized decision could be come to, of course, such as, “Those religious people (in general) are messed up” or “those religious people (from the sect that the alleged murderer belongs to) are messed up” or “New York is super dangerous don’t move there” or…

And that would alleviate a certain feeling of discomfort, for we would have some type of conclusion that would help us understand the workings of the world. But is that all? Is there more action that we can take? A growing idea that will strengthen us at the end of the day? Allow us to sleep at night? Allow us to trust again?

At the end of the day, there is the interior and the exterior of the Jew. The body and the soul. The philosophy and the internalization. Don’t confuse Jews with Judaism, the statement goes.

As Rav Solovietchik, the famous brilliant leader of Modern Orthodoxy in America in the mid 1900s, resolved, when you don’t know what to do, wrap yourself up in the four cubits of Jewish law and hide out there. 

I go, when I have nowhere else to go, to the safest place in the world, the Book of Books, which is not corrupted by infallible human resilience. On this Friday morning, I’ll look within, because that’s all I can do, to strengthen my own understanding, my own values, and my own commitment. 

Corruption is everywhere. I know this is a freak accident, a freak occurrence. It’s nothing to do with Jews, or religious Jews, or New Yorkers. There are those who allegedly corrupt the system and the philosophy at every level, every stratosphere of human and Jewish existence.

I’m not pulling out my card carrying membership yet, because I didn’t join this group because I believed its members were infallible. I joined (well, okay, I was kind of inducted at birth, but I suppose in terms of my religious connection and association) because I believed in the cause.

In terms of our public image I am relieved that in general Jews are a good bunch, a supportive, encouraging, inspiring bunch who are behind so many revolutionary things going on in the world, and in general, I am deeply impressed by the Jews that I meet and I am proud to be called one. But that again, is a fringe benefit.

Will I feel so comfortable accepting a ride from a random Jew on the street? Will this play out in my head henceforth? Can a small minority of corrupted Jewish individuals change the trust factor of a vast nation?

Regardless, that’s not the point, though it would be quite sad if that was the case. I like feeling like I can trust fellow Jews. But I didn’t join because of the fringe benefits of free Shabbos meals and inside jokes. I joined because there was a root there.

What can we do? Mourn the loss, set up preventive measures, teach our children the right way, and dig down deep, into the deepest of deeps, the Book of Books, wrap ourselves up in the four cubits of Jewish Law. And stick around people and trust people who internalize the deepest of our values.

We’re not divided anymore than we were before, at a spiritual level. At a physical level, cracks may be starting to show. The alleged murderer wore a kippah and looked like a religious Jew, but it doesn’t mean he embodies what it means to be a Jew, or a religious Jew, on a deeper level. And that is an important distinction.

I suppose, at the end of the day, when the shame and the shock of an alleged murderer from our own ranks shows up on file that is all we can do. Strengthen ourselves from within. The deepest place within us. And do the only thing that will make us spiritually stronger; learn more Torah, keep more mitzvoth. Connected from within. Even if I’ll think twice before taking a Shabbos meal from a random, Jewish stranger.

May the memory of Leiby Kletzy strengthen the Jewish people from the most important place, from within. And may us Jews, be cleansed from within so that we can feel safe superficially and intrinsically.

May this be a reminder that it’s not the clothes that we wear or the words that we say that make us who we are. It’s not the clothes that we should trust; it’s the deepness, the richness, the values, the Torah within. That’s the heart, the soul, of it all. That’s where our security lies. Who can we trust? The same God we’ve been trusting all of these years, through trials, tribulations, shock, awe, and ultimate joy and glory. And we don’t trust God because of what he’s wearing. We trust God because of who He is, who He stands for. Let us stand for the same thing.

May we never have to experience this lesson the same way again.

My “Cleansweep 7,” one of the dodgier brooms of the wizarding world, at a midnight book release for (I believe) Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. 

The ones we love never truly leave us: this may be the most fundamental message of the Harry Potter books. Right about now, hundreds of thousands of people – millions, I’m not even kidding – are gearing up and bracing themselves for one final round of hoopla and goodbyes as the last film of the last book stampedes into theaters. We had a lot of valedictions and encomia in 2007, when Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was published. But even then, we told ourselves that at least we’d have the movies. Moment of truth, readers: the time is now. Let’s get going with some Potter nostalgia.

I was introduced to the books in high school. It was the very beginning of my sophomore year, and one of the girls in the year below me showed me The Prisoner of Azkaban, which had just come out that summer. That was actually the first one I read, and I was naturally, totally hooked. Like any teenager, I did the most reasonable thing I could, which was get on the internet and immediately begin talking to strangers about it.

The thing about strangers on the internet is that they can create some wonderful, wonderful conversations. For instance, did you know that some clever person coined the term “Potterdämmerung,” a sly twist on the finale of Wagner’s Ring Cycle, to describe the ending of the series and the inevitable flame-out from distraught and disappointed fans? Have you heard about the Knight2King theory, in which wise and wonderful Hogwarts headmaster Albus Dumbledore is actually one and the same as ordinary, fumbling Ron Weasley? Were you ever tempted to try your hand at the food lucky non-Muggles feast on, only to find that butterbeer recipes actually exist? 

Phenomena and fandoms like Harry Potter can bring out the best, most inventive, generous and creative sides of people. I love the books and the movies, and certainly always will, but the community that formed around loving these stories is a marvel in and of itself. The energy, intellect and skill that I’ve seen poured into exploring J.K. Rowling’s world would floor both Hollywood and the finest universities. For the pure pleasure of talking with others about a story, people create videos, write fiction, draw comics, build models, design costumes, organize conventions, publish scholarly articles, animate cartoons, form bands, compose musicals and use any number of other outlets that many never thought they’d ever explore or accomplish before. The fact that Harry Potter and the internet did so much growing up together only intensified the process.

So, the series is complete and the movies are all here. But there’s a takeaway: just because it’s not about Harry Potter in the future doesn’t mean it’s not awesome to get excited about things like this. (I’ve totally got my ‘40s-style outfit ready for the Captain America premiere next weekend!) We shouldn’t limit ourselves. If Potter has changed anything, I hope it’s that the world realizes it’s great to get excited and engaged and inspired by what we love. And that it’s awesome to read an inches-thick book in one sitting.

I’ve seen a lot of my friends posting on Facebook or Twitter about how their childhoods have come to an end, how dressing up and lining up for the midnight showing last night means the real end of an era. I’ll admit, I got a little heart-clenchy reading all those updates. I’ve stood in line for a midnight book release or two myself; I’ve dressed up to see movies and met up with strangers from the internet to talk Hogwarts. But here’s another thing I hope Harry Potter has taught us: that it’s normal to be outstandingly passionate about the things you love, that there are many others like you and that it’s good to celebrate what you enjoy. All those skills and friendships you developed, all those conversations you’ve had, those are yours for life. So is this story we’ve gathered around. Magic is real, guys. How great is that?

What is the daily inner work of the contemporary Jew? How do we, as the Passover Seder demands of us, become liberated human beings? How do we use our things, like our precious hard-earned money, to prove our dominance over the burdening pressures of the complexity of this world?

Entering the store yesterday, I felt confident, with an internal sense of clarity and aloneness. The type of aloneness that is so satisfying because you feel absolutely sure of what you want and what direction you want to go.

For there is nothing more frustrating than that sense of inner confusion, indecisiveness, of when you have these two dresses in front of you and you must pick one, but you don’t know which, and the detailed scenarios try to offer their opposing arguments to you simultaneously in your brain, erratically uncooperative with one another:

“Well, you know… That wedding is coming up…”

OR

“You have the PERFECT earrings for that one”

OR

And back and forth. And forth and back.

Until your mind in desperation, unable to reconcile the two, shrugs hopelessly, “I don’t know! I can’t decide!”

And you randomly grab one, ferociously approaching the cash register, hopelessly despondent.

“Yes, this one” you growl at the woman, unsettled, uncertain, and defeated by your own indecisive mind. “Just charge it,” you say.

I don’t know. The three most painful inner words of the English language.

Perhaps this is the real daily challenge of the contemporary Jew. We are not bound in chains. We can read our Torah in the streets and dance around. And laugh loudly. And declare we are Jews. And be powerhouses in the workplace and, etc and etc. The world is our oyster (the mock kosher version, of course).

That is not our avodah, our work, our task in this generation.

Of course, it would be easiest to just say- who cares? What’s the big deal? Just choose anything. But if we can be confident in the littlest of decisions that we make, in our daily, quaint and seemingly insignificant interactions with things and people, how much more so with the enormous decisions and values of our lives. To live as a Jew from the bottom up. To be careful and certain and confident about every little seemingly inane thing.

Money exists in a potential state and we, overcome with glee or crippling ferocity, are forced to decide what to do with it. A Jew and his money. It is not how much he has, but how he uses it.

The things that you own, after all, own you, the doctrine goes. But must it be true? How does a Jew remain dominant over his possessions?

Is it your divine responsibility to buy things that make you happy? Do you look heavenward and ask for more? Do you find it in unexpected places? How much do you indulge? How much do you scrimp? How much do you give to others? Where is your balance?

Perhaps our work is that subtle sense of empowerment, that ability to make those small, gut decisions, to be led by that inner light that says- pick this, drop that. Use it. Enjoy it. Be satiated. Indulge. But not one more drop than necessary. And to find the real, permissible, extravagant balance within ourselves. To walk out of the Target triumphant rather than overtaken. To own our things and not have our things own us. To feel certain of what we want. To be able to listen. To ourselves. To know how much to keep to ourselves and how much to give to others.

Perhaps therein lies our (sometimes unglamorous) triumphs. Perhaps therein lies our inner liberation.

In the early days of this blog, I addressed one of the most obvious friendship questions: Can a man and a woman be best friends? 

At the time I was staring down the barrel of a year-long friend quest. Actually, by the time I wrote this post, I was almost through month three and had no new male friends to speak of. I was on the fence regarding the whole When Harry Met Sally debate.

Over a year later, I’m still unclear. It seems a question worth revisiting, at least in the wake of my search. In all my friending, I made one—count ‘em! one!—platonic straight male friend. I met him when I joined LEADS, the JUF social group for young Chicago Jews. He was the leader of my group and lives around the corner from me. So we hung out at our meetings, which were weekly for about two and a half months. These days we see each not more than every couple of months, but I’d certainly consider him my friend. We text every now and then, and have lunch sometimes when he works from home. It’s all very exciting.

There’s absolutely no sexual tension in this relationship. He’s met Matt, he’s only known me as a married woman, and, most importantly, we’re just not each other’s type. Being friends is a no-brainer. And Matt’s certainly not jealous. (As I mentioned in the previous post, Matt’s not the jealous type. So much so that sometimes I have to ask “aren’t you at least a little jealous??” I mean, come on.)

The only other guys I’ve become independently friends with since moving to Chicago were either 1) co-workers or 2) gay. I had a few “work husbands” during my 9-to-5 days, though it’s perhaps worth pointing out that each one switched jobs not long after our office-marriage began. Coincidence, I’m sure.

Despite these friendships, I still don’t think I could have met a straight man this year who could have become the kind of best friend I’m looking for. Daily phone calls or emails, weekly playdates? What I know is that when I hear of a woman whose best friend is a man, I wonder. I’m not saying they’ve all had, you know, relations, I’m just saying that it’s the natural question. And I’m not sure I want a friendship surrounded by that much speculation and grey area.

I guess my new take is that a man and a woman can be just friends, but it’s the rare case. A true deep, meaningful friendship between the sexes is tricky and might be asking for trouble. What you may think is platonic, after all, he might think has the potential to be more.

(Though, to be clear, that’s not the case in my new friendship. That’s for real platonic. Just to clear that up.)

What say you? Man, woman, newly acquainted, just friends. Possible? Or no?

People’s neuroses truly reveal themselves in the bathroom. For such a dirty place, it is quite sacred. The bathroom is a temple where the walls have ears and people go for confession. They go to think, listen, talk—and if they cannot talk—write it down—on the walls, stalls and everywhere in between. The public bathroom is where neuroses go to live and privacy goes to die. Peeing in the potty is a marker for socialization when we are young, and talking by the potty is a tool for tolerating adulthood.

You might call me a water closet anthropologist. I am not sure if I am a pioneer in my field, but I have been contemplating WC’s for some time. I have always found them to be odd composites of social anxiety, yet refuges from all that is self-conscious—after all, we do do our business in there. Lately, I have been contemplating them because the women’s bathrooms in my office building are perplexing.

I have spent about a year observing the comings and goings of a dark-haired girl with too much perfume and her strange behaviors in her natural habitat, a.k.a. the bathroom. A trip to the women’s bathroom in our wing rarely failed to ignite a story about Dark Haired Girl. Before pushing the swinging door through a full rotation, one first acknowledged her presence through scent. Dark Haired Girl was often found either preparing food in the bathroom sink, or preparing herself. For what? We will never know, but imagined scandals ensued.

Dark Haired Girl works for a company in the office adjacent to ours. She often could be found draining tuna cans in the sink. She might otherwise be spotted with enough makeup and hair products laid out on the counter to supply a professional makeup artist, complete with a curling iron. Often, my co-workers and I observed her curling her hair and hair-spraying, applying perfume, applying a full face of makeup from foundation to mascara, or changing into booty clothes or booty gym clothes. The time of day and her actions rarely proved predictable, which left a few female officemates and I utterly confused—particularly because she works in a small office, which appears to consist mostly of pudgy, middle-aged men. For whom was she dressing? Why did she make lunch in the bathroom? The story of Dark Haired Girl became an ever-evolving, oral folklore, repeated each time with new conclusions drawn. Why is Dark Haired Girl putting on full makeup at 11 a.m.? She must be meeting her lover for lunch somewhere? Why is Dark Haired Girl curling her hair at 3 p.m.? Her secret lover-boss must be coming in.

Recently our company moved offices within the building to a different floor and we already miss Dark Haired Girl. She has been replaced in our new bathroom by a woman who repeatedly sprays the bathroom stall and wipes it down with Lysol before and after she sits down. It is just not the same. Toxic? Yes. One of the stalls also has a shady lock and more than one of us have had a traumatic moment when we could not exit the stall.

Now, I understand some level of germaphobia in the bathroom. You won’t find me preparing tuna sandwiches at the bathroom sink. I won’t touch the toilet brush in my apartment with a 10-foot pole—thankfully, my roommate will. I had a friend in college who would not keep her toothbrush in the bathroom because of its proximity to the toilet. We have all got our shtick.

I am amazed, however, at what people will do in public bathrooms, from stripping down their clothing in the common area and offering tampon instructions through the stalls, to revealing their deepest, darkest secrets and having a good cry, nervous breakdown or temper tantrum. The entire life cycle of a female-female relationship can be witnessed in a women’s bathroom, from inception over a lent tampon, to destruction over a drunken bar mistake revealed.

Due to gender restrictions and social mores, my knowledge of public bathrooms is almost completely confined to the female experience. My knowledge of men’s bathrooms is limited to what I see on television shows, to stories about politicians foot-tapping in airport bathrooms, to local anecdotes and my occasional sneak into men’s bathrooms when the women’s bathroom line is too long—an inevitability. (I could go into a diatribe about male foot-tapping as evidence that men don’t communicate as effectively in bathrooms as women do, but I digress.) My male coworker reported that men’s bathrooms tend to be dirtier, which I can confirm. He said he went through his boyhood with a fear (perpetrated and perpetuated by television) of having his head dunked in a school toilet. He also said men’s bathrooms are prone to their own share of awkward conversations, particularly when men try to talk to each other while at the stalls. For instance, he recalled entering a men’s bathroom at a Mexican restaurant and being grilled by his stall-mate about his Mexican heritage in Spanish. He’s Jewish.

However, I still believe women reveal more in the bathroom to strangers and to each other. Men, while they pee side by side, are afraid to really talk. For instance, this past weekend I went to a local bar to meet a friend and stepped into the women’s bathroom. As I walked the short distance to the stall, I witnessed one female bartender comforting another who had been wronged by her man. I listened to her tears as I entered the stall. When I returned to the then-vacant sink to fix my contact lens, a new drunk girl entered the bathroom. Without asking my name or what was wrong, she proceeded to lecture me on the benefits of Lasik surgery, which led to ramblings about her leg vein surgery. After emerging from the stall, swaying, she tapped me, and told me her male friend cheated on his girlfriend with one of her friends. “Can (I) believe it?” No, I cannot.

In junior high and high school, the girls’ bathroom is where you caught up on your vital news or became the subject of it. In adulthood, women share news with you that you wish they would keep to themselves.

Also in grade school, and in college, you could read the news on the walls and on the stalls. In high school, bathroom walls were Sharpie-scribbled with “Jenny *hearts* Bobby” and “Tina is a slut!” In college, my favorite stalls were in the library bathrooms. At the University of Wisconsin-Madison, the orientation tour guides touted our undergraduate library for its ranking as one of the best pick-up spots in the country by Rolling Stone magazine. As such, I used the ladies’ bathroom to touch up my makeup, fluff my hair and catch up on my reading in the stalls. The stalls produced the likes of 20-something Harlequin novels or Judy Blum books about girls losing their virginity, calling each other out for their wrong-doings and revealing sad details about their personal lives. Each visit to the girls’ bathroom felt like I had spent an hour on the Post Secret site.

Snarkiness aside, women need this space, this private time, this forum to vent their issues, let it all hang out, adjust their bras and Spanx and complain to their girlfriends. Sometimes you just need a mirror, a tissue and a friend. The women’s bathroom is the last frontier, the last public girls’ tree house with “no boys allowed.”

I’m used to the jetlag by now. After all, I’ve traveled to Israel four times over the past 18 months, each trip about a couple of weeks. When I got back most recently—about 10 days ago—my body sprung back almost right away, after only a couple of days in the sleep-for-12-hours mode.

But my mind seems to be in Israel mode, still. If you’re like me, you’ll know the symptoms of Israel withdrawal—sometimes, they don’t leave you for weeks.

Here’s my top 10 list of ways your friends and family will know right away that mentally, you’re still in Israel:

1. You want to say slicha & todah instead of excuse me and thank you to strangers who are blocking your way onto an El train or who kindly held the door open to you. Actually, skip the last bit—door holding isn’t exactly Israel’s national sport. That would be eating (see point #4).

2. You want to eat everything with your hands. Israeli street food notwithstanding, scooping up that mascarpone with your fingers might not go over well with your hosts.

3. You expect a stranger to stop you in the middle of the supermarket aisle to give you the third-degree about your life—and give you sound practical advice about it, too.

4. You think it’s weird that hardly anyone shops at outdoor markets. While at Mahane Yehuda in Jerusalem on a busy Friday afternoon, my colleagues and I managed to procure a full Shabbat lunch for 37 people: pitot (30 for just 10 shekels), several kilos of cream cheese, labane and hummus, fresh locally grown veggies, the ripest plums, apricots and cherries you’ll ever taste, and a wealth of burekas and rugelach at world-famous Marzipan bakery.

5. Your fingers keep forming themselves in that unmistakably Israeli wait-just-a-minute gesture—no, not the middle finger. For those not in the know, “rega” is one of the most useful gestures: It works for every situation, from keeping a conversation partner from responding in the middle of your soliloquy to stopping a car while your group of 32 17-year-olds slowly crosses a busy intersection. (In this case, you also have to employ another unmistakably Israeli gesture – spreading both hands wide on your sides to express the classic “nu, what can I do?”) Here’s how to rega with the best of them: reach out your hand, with thumb, index and middle finger pinched together. Couple this with a stern look.

6. You wonder at the lush green grass and trees in your neighborhood park. Having been to Israel in practically every season, I know that it’s a land that can be lush and blooming. But mid-summer isn’t exactly a green season. Still the desert is a beautiful place, and Israel’s early kibbutzniks recognized the potential of the land.

7. You turn off the water as you’re lathering up in the shower. Water is a major issue in Israel: Wars have been fought over this precious natural resource. With just two major sources of water—the Kinneret and underground aquifers—Israel depends on its citizens and visitors to help conserve water.

8. You have to remember to put on a suit to go to work—if that’s the kind of job you have, of course. Only the people in the Foreign Ministry wear ties to the office, and that’s because they deal with diplomats from more rigid cultures. Israelis tend to be carefree about their office attire, with casual ruling the dress code.

9. You are still searching for at least one sidewalk café that’s as welcoming and yummy as Café Bograshov or Café Oliv or Café Amelia in Tel Aviv. The cafés open early and welcome hungry visitors late into the night. You can laze about with your paper or your computer or just people watch or hang out with friends. As a friend pointed out, the best cafés are where a waiter will take your order and bring the food to you and leave you alone without jumping on you to vacate the table for the next customer. (Chicagoans: any recommendations for this erstwhile café dweller?)

10. You don’t even notice but you keep steering every conversation to the topic of Israel. Even if you’d been there multiple times before, there’s much to discover about the land and its people in each subsequent trip.

Look closely at the photo and you will see the only room left standing in Paul’s house, where he and his family survived the deadly twister that tore much of Joplin, Missouri apart, was just a closet.

Paul was among many who lost their homes that fateful Sunday afternoon. And like many in his community, he’s deeply grateful just to have survived. But there is one thing that makes Paul different from many of his neighbors: he’s Jewish.

Yes Toto: there ARE Jewish people in Joplin, Missouri. And it’s a swell community, too.

For three years, my husband served as a student Rabbi at United Hebrew Congregation in Joplin—a reform Jewish congregation with about 40 families. (Congregations that cannot afford full-time clergy may employ a student Rabbi who visits the congregation once or twice per month & fulfills other duties.) And during that time, I had the privilege of coming to know the community—which I can only describe as extraordinarily committed to living, learning and being Jewish.

And as you can imagine, in a place like Joplin, that’s not always easy.

It’s not easy when you come home to swastikas scrawled on the front of your house, or that your local baker chooses to decorate his store with neo-Nazi paraphernalia.

It’s not easy when your kids grow up and permanently leave—lured away by opportunities in big cities, where having matzah for Passover doesn’t require special advance ordering—places where it’s just not as ‘hard’ to be Jewish.

And it’s not easy when classes of students from the local Ozark Christian College attend Friday night services (always graciously welcome) to ‘study’. They try and do mean to be respectful—but how do you explain to a curious Christian bible student that it’s never really ok asking if we fear hell.

For three years, I saw first-hand how members of Joplin’s Jewish community were determined to practice Judaism—no matter the challenge, far the drive, or easier not to affiliate. And I was humbled.

For those of us that live in big cities with sizable Jewish populations, it’s seems incredible that Jewish people are found in cities and towns that we’ve never heard of—let alone been to. But it is not the existence of Jewish communities in these places that is incredible, but that in them you can find some of the most dedicated people committed to Jewish life, learning and community.

In McGee, Arkansas—where my husband had his first pulpit—I met people who literally drove 300 miles just to be able to attend high-holiday services, or say Kaddish for a loved one.

In Joplin, I saw near 100% turnout whenever the Rabbi was in town to attend Friday night shabbat services.

And now, I’m watching from afar the strength of a community that—despite some having lost their homes, their jobs, their very way of life—somehow pull together to help those that lost more.

I believe most of us know on a superficial level that it’s “easier” to be Jewish in a city like Chicago where we have access to Jewish community, culture, and education. There are numerous advantages to living with a large Jewish population. But what we might not know is what we might also be missing.

There are times when I long for the intimacy that comes with a smaller community, and the increased importance that everyone has as a community member—just by identifying with that community. In that respect, it’s easier to feel closer to the community.

And while I confess, I do not have the desire to live in a small town, or small Jewish community, I wish I could bottle the enthusiasm, appreciation, and pride found in the small reform Jewish communities of McGee and Joplin. Big city life has left many of us too jaded, dull to the privileges we enjoy.

Soon after I learned about the twister in Joplin, I emailed the congregation. Paul was the person to write me back, and in his email was not one word of his own loss, but his assurance that no lives were lost, the building remained, and that they would—as a community—go on.

I think that says a lot to the values and priorities of the Joplin community—values that I wouldn’t mind seeing more of here, and maybe embracing more of myself. (I know, shocking, I’m not perfect.)

However, the jaded, city girl in me does hope that the afore-mentioned local bakery was wiped out. That would be my silver lining.

Last night I gathered up the courage to go on a date. It wasn't my first date, but maybe my third or fourth.

Dating before Cancer was tough. Dating after Cancer is a whole new obstacle course. I'm new at this— really new at this.

Can someone pass me the rule book?

At what point do you share that you had Cancer? At what point do you admit you’re bald? At what point do you admit you could have died?

Is this first, second or third date talk?

What about those who already know? If you Google me, you will see me bald— put the pieces together and realize that I used to be sick.

Anonymity isn't really an option and I am ok with that.

I have been front and center about my disease from the beginning, and I believe it has given me a tremendous amount of strength in the process. I don't regret for a heartbeat that I have been open and honest about my hopes and dreams, fears and frustrations— it's who I am.

But getting ready for a date is different. Sure I stress (briefly) about what to wear, where to go, what to do, but what is the main focus of my anxiety is my wig.

Is he going to be "weirded out" by what is on the top of my head? Can he see past this $20 banging number or is he hung up on the color, the length, and the fact that it’s fake?

Cancer survivors don't choose to get Cancer, and we certainly don't choose to go bald. But this is our lot and we must deal with it.

If I don't wear a wig, and choose to go bald, will I scare my date? Baldness for many represents sickness, weakness, and defeat as opposed to victory, strength, and resilience. The way I view my baldness today is still constantly changing and evolving.

So where do I fit and how do I navigate this new world of dating?

Last night, my date couldn't get past what was on my head, and failed to see what was in my heart. I was admittedly upset about it, but here is the great thing about Cancer, it leaves you with no room for bullshit. Before Cancer I would have gotten upset about the disparaging comment and replayed the scenario over and over in my head. Now, I realize that the comment was not only insensitive, but it's just nonsense.

Stressing about dating, as opposed to death, is what a 29-year-old single girl should be worrying about.

So here's to nonsense, here's to bullshit, here's to life— I missed you.

Congratulations to our blogger-in-chief, Stefanie Pervos, who got married this past Sunday to occasional blogger, Mike Bregman. Mazel tov, Breglettes!

Every day I come home from work and one of the first things I do is check Twitter or Facebook to see if she has been found.

Lauren Spierer has been missing since the early morning hours of June third from Bloomington, Indiana. She is 4’11, 95 pounds, blonde hair, and blue eyes. She was last seen wearing black pants and a white tank top. She has a heart condition that requires medication.

Reading Lauren’s story during the first days of press coverage, her name and her face immediately inspired me. My first instinct was to post something on Shorashim’s Facebook page to be one of the thousands of people who were spreading the word via social media. Shorashim has many IU Alumni and the thought crossed my mind to try this method.

Lauren’s story became even more compelling to me, when we realized she had participated in a Shorashim organized trip during her spring break this year. There she was, on Facebook, with her sister, working the soil in Israel. We contacted her Israeli guide who had already heard that Lauren was missing, and was stunned and shocked by the news.

Still, 28 days later, after the massive searches by the kind Bloomington community have ended, I check every day to see if she has been found, to read what the latest news is about her, to see if any more of her friends have talked to the police.

And I am affected, really, I am thinking about this all the time when I’m not working. And I wonder, where’s Lauren? I feel terribly for her family. I wish I could help them.

I’ve tried to understand my own fascination with Lauren. It isn’t out of malice or even like a “rubber necker” watching an accident on the Kennedy.

Just now I looked at Facebook. Fifty of my friends, I’m assuming very few of them know Lauren, are fans of the “Find Lauren” page.

So what’s the deal? People go missing all of the time, why is Lauren keeping me from sleeping? Why am I thinking about her when I have a big trip coming up this week to Germany and Poland? Why are my friends and acquaintances also seemingly thinking about her? Why is there a woman, who has never met Lauren, who is dedicating hours to posting tweets on Lauren to keep her in the social media sphere.

Some have suggested that’s it’s because she’s a pretty white girl, and if she was a minority, less people would care. I don’t think that is it.

I think it’s because many of my Facebook friends at some point or another were some version of Lauren Spierer partying at a large university. Many of us went to IU, and remember the poor decisions we made and how our only saving graces were good friends, and even better, luck.

We all hope Lauren is reunited with her parents and that they can return home with peace in their hearts.

http://newsonlaurens.blogspot.com/ 
http://www.findlauren.com/ 

It is early, but I’m already excited about 2013 World Baseball Classic that will feature Israel. Baseball is rapidly growing in Israel. The now defunct Israeli Baseball League still carries momentum with all the books being written about the experience. Also, there is a growing percentage of Jewish MLBers making the 2013 WBC a realistic and natural time for Israel to have a team. The Great Rabbino decided to take a quick peek at who will be on the team and lineup for the 2013 Israeli WBC team and also, what a team would look like in a perfect world.

DREAM TEAM  

1) 2B – Ian Kinsler (Rangers)

2) SS – Danny Valencia (Twins)

3) 3B – Kevin Youkilis (Red Sox)

4) LF – Ryan Braun (Brewers)

5) 1B – Ike Davis (Mets)

6) RF – Gabe Kapler (Free Agent)

7) CF – Sam Fuld (Rays)

8) C – Brad Ausmus (Recently Retired)

PITCHING ROTATON  

P – Jason Marquis (Nationals)

P – Scott Feldman (Rangers)

P – Aaron Poreda (Padres Minors)

RP – John Grabow (Cubs)

RP – Scott Schoeneweis (Recently Retired)

RP – Eric Berger (Indians Minors)

RP – Michael Schwimer (Phillies Minors)

RP – Craig Breslow (As)

BENCH  

Jason Kipnis – 2B (Indians Minors)

Josh Whitesell – 1B (Japan)

Ryan Kalish – OF (Red Sox Minors)

Ryan Sadowski – OF (Korea)

Adam Stern – OF (Brewers Minors)

Our Dream Team looks amazing and a team that could legitimately compete for the WBC title. But here are some things to consider.

1) Braun, Youkilis, and Kinsler will very likely be asked to play for the USA team, which they will accept. Youkilis might not make the cut for the USA team. If so, he would could consider playing for Israel. Breslow and Grabow will also potentially get calls from Team USA.

2) Some of these players will most likely not play for an all Jewish team. In that category, are Scott Feldman, Scott Schoeneweis, Sam Fuld, and Ike Davis. Davis and Fuld might consider it for the opportunity to play in the WBC.

3) There will more than likely be a few actual Israelis or Jews who have lived in Israel on the team. We will leave three bench spots open for them.

4) Some players might not want to play due to fear of injuries or their MLB team not allowing them to play.

REALISTIC TEAM (Projected Team)  

1B – Shawn Green (Retired) – Green has already gone on record saying he would consider playing for Israel in the WBC. Green would be more of a symbolic player and it would make a great story for his second book.

2B – Jason Kipnis (Indians Minors) – Kipnis most likely is too young for a spot on the USA team. He grew up in a Jewish area. It will be a great way for him to make a name for himself.

SS – Jake Lemmerman (Dodgers Minors) – The highest 2010 Jewish draft pick is just in AA. By 2013, he will be peeking and will be a vital part of this team.

3B – Danny Valencia – Valencia will be heavily pursued by the Israel team. As one of the only major leaguers on this team, it would be a good opportunity for him to can some spotlight.

LF – Gabe Kapler – Kapler just loves playing baseball so it seems like a natural fit. By 2013, he will be out of baseball and this will give him one last shot to prove himself.

CF – Ben Guez (Tigers Minors) – Guez is a solid minor league prospect who will have a spot on the Israel team if he wants it.

RF – Josh Whitesell – The WBC will give him great exposure to get back to the majors.

C – Brad Ausmus – While he retired a year ago, something tells me Ausmus laces up the pads to play in the WBC.

P – Jason Marquis – Marquis is key if Israel wants to compete. I am sure Israel will ask him to play.

P – Aaron Poreda (Padres Minors) – Poreda grew up with a strong Jewish upbringing. I would say he is the 1st player to sign on.

P – Ryan Sadowski (Korea) – Like Whitesell, it gets him great exposure.

RP – Eric Berger (Indians Minors) - AAA prospect should see the Majors soon. He lands on the team.

RP – Michael Schwimer (Phillies Minors) – Should have some MLB experience by 2013, but not enough to make team USA.

RP – Craig Breslow – Breslow could get be asked to play for the USA. But if he doesn’t, Breslow will be approached by Israel and I believe he would welcome the opportunity.

RP – Jason Hirsch (Yankees Minors) – Helps solidify a solid rotation.

RP – Jason Knapp (Indians Minors) – While he does not have a ton of experience yet, he is a top prospect in the Indians organization.

RP – Lenny Linsky (Rays Draftee)

BENCH  

Ryan Lavarnway – C (Phillies Minors)
Adam Stern – OF (Brewers Minors)
James Rapoport – OF (Cardinals Minors)

MANAGERS  

Head Coach – Art Shamsky – Shamsky will probably be the skipper. He has coaching and playing experience.

Hitting Coach – Ron Blomberg – The first DH of all time knows a thing or two about the art of hitting. The New Yorker had a great experience with the International Baseball League.

Pitching Coach – Larry Rothschild – The current Yankees pitching coach will for sure be asked to coach, why would he say no?

Honorary Coach – Sandy Koufax – Koufax will need to be honored and involved in some way. Well…he better be!

Thanks for reading. Feel free to comment.
And Let Us Say...Amen.

I love graduation season.

That might surprise you considering most people dread attending graduations—the bleachers, the sweat, the boredom, the caps. But work with me here.

Graduation is that time of year when millions of students are given a fresh start in life. Commencement speakers impart their wisdom to grads eager and trepidatious to take on the world. And whether you’re graduating or not, it’s a fitting time to reinvigorate and take stock of our lives and where we’re headed.

Now that graduation season has just passed, I thought I’d dish out some of my own advice to this year’s crop of Jewish graduates.

In a 1997 Chicago Tribune article by Mary Schmich—usually wrongly attributed to an MIT commencement address delivered by author Kurt Vonnegut—Schmich’s number one piece of advice to grads is “wear sunscreen.” She says that the long-term benefits of sunscreen have been scientifically proven but that the rest of her advice really only stems from own “meandering experiences.”

Indeed, wearing sunscreen is smart. Here are three other nuggets of wisdom that I’ve accumulated along my journey so far.

1) You catch more flies with honey than vinegar. This Russian Jewish proverb whispered to me by my mother throughout my life and passed down from her mother and her mother’s mother applies to everyone you encounter in life. We make a choice in the way we approach the people in our lives, both the primary players and the strangers we come in contact with each day just making cameo appearances.

Sometimes I’ll stand in the checkout line of a grocery store and watch a customer and clerk never smile at each other or even make eye contact, the shopper not even glancing up from an iPhone. Contrast those moments with, say, my recent visit to a shoe repair store where I shared a warm exchange with the man shining my shoes about Chicago politics and bad 70s sitcoms and we acknowledge one another as people. What an impact a human moment between strangers makes on the rest of the day.

2) Appreciate the blessings in your life, no matter what hand you’re dealt. I’m always amazed by the sense of perspective that certain people in this world possess, even those who face many hardships. I once read a study revealing that Africans are more optimistic than inhabitants of almost any other locale in the world, despite their poor living conditions.

Closer to home, my cousin, Ron, a brilliant Cornell University educator, received an honorary degree from Penn State this spring. In his commencement address, he spoke about his son Eric’s long battle with brain cancer, who died in his late 30s. Despite his health struggles, Eric maintained a bright outlook and sense of humor throughout his life, and managed to complete college and law school, work as an attorney, get married, perform comic improv at hospitals and senior centers, and have a daughter, and then a son—who was born after Eric passed away.

“The happiest people are not necessarily the people who are lucky enough to avoid problems,” Ron told the graduates, “but rather the ones whose ability to cope increases at a more rapid rate than their problems do.”

3) Tell the people in your life what they mean to you. I took these words of wisdom to heart during my interview with Jewish author Bruce Feiler, who recently spoke for the Chicago Jewish community about his book called The Council of Dads in which he asks six men in his life to act as father figures to his twin daughters in the event that Feiler succumb to his cancer. Thankfully, Feiler recovered from his illness and has been in remission for two years.

Why must it take a near-death experience or dramatic roadblock in our lives to take stock of our friends and family? Drop a note or have lunch with the people you care about and tell them why they are important to you.

Whether you choose to follow or ignore any of my advice, Graduates, do be sure to stock up on SPF 70 before hitting the beach.

Mazel tov!

This past weekend, at the Gay Pride Parade, Chicago got a taste of what it is like to see, breathe, and live in hyper-color.

This day, this parade, this experience, is the ultimate celebration of life. People from all over the world gather to celebrate diversity, difference, vulnerability, strength, and love. It's a day where we embrace our alter egos, which enables us to connect with our true selves.

As I have struggled to reemerge into the world, and become reacquainted with normalcy, I have also learned how to let my freak fly.

I have started to become more creative and perhaps bold with what I wear on my head, what I wrap this body in, and what I choose to present to the outside world.

Living in Boystown, a neighborhood that is predominantly gay, has allowed me to feel a sense of "normalcy" during a period that is far from normal. The more eccentric my appearance becomes, the more embraced and accepted I feel by the community around me.

Yesterday, as our float slowly made its way through the thousands of people gathered at the parade, Mel Malka, a fellow survivor, and I twisted out Cancer. We danced, jumped, and moved because we can, because we should, because we must.

Three weeks earlier, we were at a very different type of celebration. We were at the Lurie Cancer Center Survivors' Walk, wearing purple shirts, and celebrating our dance with cancer. Sunday, while wearing somewhat different attire, we continued to dance, to celebrate, to live loudly— because this is how we survive.

As we danced together and separately, I knew we both were thinking about how blessed, how lucky, how "blucked" we were to be there—together— in this sea of moments.

As the parade ended, and the overstimulation began to subside, I decided to take off my wig and publicly reveal my baldness for the first time. I no longer felt vulnerable or ashamed of what lies beneath, but rather felt ready to celebrate my difference, my journey, my alter ego, and my true self. I felt ready to unveil my baldness because those around me were so boldly embracing their own uniqueness.

I feel grateful to the brave souls that showed me how to celebrate and reveal what lies beneath. I will remember and cherish this day for the rest of my life. 

I have to drive past the Taste of Chicago everyday on my way to Spertus. While I am glad that the taste brings business to Chicago and that vendors have an opportunity to lure locals and tourists with their tasty fare, I have to wonder, what does the taste have for a Jew? I do not drink beer, I cannot eat the food. So, other than traffic nightmares, what does the taste do for me?

Well, it has provided me with some inspiration for summer recipes. As we prepare for one of my favorite holidays, July 4th, I have come up with some great Taste of Chicago-Jewish style recipes. The 4th of July is the holiday that we, Jewish Americans, should truly celebrate. This great country of ours allows us to live, pray and eat the way our religion dictates. That is truly something to celebrate. And, how do Jews like to celebrate? We eat!

While the lakefront fills this weekend with crowds swigging beer and eating corn on the cob, I will be enjoying the patriotic holiday, Jewish style.

Borscht Pasta Salad  

This healthy and riotously colored salad started out as a sort of food joke. It turned out to be as delightful and refreshing as its namesake ethnic soup.

Serves 6

2 pounds red beets + 1 pound for cooking the pasta
2 pounds golden beets
1 pound rotini pasta
3 large cucumbers, peeled and diced 
⅓ cup chopped fresh dill + extra for garnish
1 large red onion, diced
¼ lemon juice
¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
¼ cup sour cream (optional)

Preheat oven to 350

1. Rub the beets with olive oil, and wrap them individually in foil. Roast the beets for about 45 minutes or until a paring knife can be easily inserted. Set aside to cool.

2. Grate the 1 pound of red beet into a large saucepan filled with water. Bring to a boil and cook the pasta until al dente (about 8 minutes). The grated beet turns the pasta a “celebratory” red color.

3. Peel the roasted beets, their skins should just slide off. Dice the beets. *chef’s hint: peel and dice the yellow beet first so your cutting board and hands will not be stained red from the intense “celebratory” red beet’s color.  

4. Toss all of the salad ingredients into a large bowl while the pasta is still warm. Chill the salad.

5. Before serving dollop with sour cream, if using, and chopped dill.

Chicken Noodle Salad  

Hot summer nights on the patio and sipping hot chicken soup is just so wrong. Digging into a plate of cool, refreshing chicken noodle salad is just so right!

Serves 6

2 cups chicken stock, (prefer homemade!)
1 pound boneless, skinless chicken breasts
1 pound favorite pasta, I like to use a healthy whole wheat pasta for this recipe
3 celery ribs, peeled lengthwise into ribbons with a vegetable peeler
3 medium carrots, grated
¼ pound fresh green beans, cut into ½ inch segments
½ cup fresh or frozen peas
2 shallots, minced
1 medium zucchini, sliced
1 small hot pepper, minced (yes, I put this in my chicken soup!)
For the vinaigrette
3 tablespoons red wine vinegar
2 teaspoons Dijon style mustard
½ cup extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper
Garnishes: chopped parsley, chopped dill

1. Bring the chicken stock to a simmer in a medium sauce pan and gently poach the chicken breasts until firm and cooked through (about 8 minutes). Remove the chicken.

2. Add the pasta to the chicken stock, carrots, green beans and peas and cook until the pasta is al dente, about 8 minutes. Drain the pasta and the vegetables.

3. Place all of the salad ingredients in a large bowl. Whisk together the vinaigrette and drizzle over the salad. Chill and garnish with parsley and dill before serving.  

A little while ago, my brother wrote a provocative article assessing the current climate of young Jewish leaders. You can read the full article here. I was thoroughly impressed with his commentary on young Jewish leaders and our generation’s declining Jewish engagement. There are several reasons why I like this article and why it’s so important to pay attention to what my brother is trying to say.

First of all, I have to say that growing up with him and my sister in our Conservative and Kosher household was very different than many of our friends and neighbors. We grew up a block from school and synagogue. We sang, read and wrote in Hebrew twice a day. Jesse and I wore kippot on our heads and learned prayers starting in third grade. At home, we lit the Shabbos candles as a family. Starting in high school, my father would email his weekly, “Two Minute Parshah” returning from services to enlighten us about the Bible’s lessons and make meaningful connections to our condition as a people.

The point is that all three of us (Me, Jesse, and Hayley) were fully immersed in our Conservative upbringing, and yet, Jesse never felt connected to his religion through these traditions and rituals we observed every single day. As young children and adolescents, Jesse was by far the most agnostic in the family; he once boasted of breaking Kosher his first week in high school by calling up my mom at work and asking her, “Guess what I’m having for lunch?” while waving around a turkey and Swiss sandwich. He would attend services and bar or bat mitzvahs like the rest of us, but I’m not sure if he saw them as anything other than obligations and disconnected rituals. I know for a fact that he truly enjoyed and loved his bar mitzvah, but unlike myself, he did not stay actively connected to the synagogue or the Jewish faith afterwards. He may not know this, but I was genuinely concerned that Jesse would grow up and marry either a very agnostic Jew or even a non-Jew and build a family completely divergent from our childhood. It would not only break my mother’s heart, but my own as well, because we were so connected as a family through our Jewish faith. The Jewish connection did not seem to matter to him as much, other than the family ties it created.

Then, Jesse went to college. At first, not much changed. He didn’t join a Jewish fraternity and he remained somewhat distant from the university’s Hillel. However, things began to change, when with my dad’s encouragement, Jesse decided to attend Passover services in Florence, Italy at one of the oldest synagogues and Jewish congregations in Europe. Okay, Jesse was very impressed. After graduation, Jesse then moved to New York City, far away from our family and our families’ synagogue— Anshe Emet. Coincidentally, Rabbi Elliot Cosgrove also moved from Anshe Emet to the 5th Avenue Synagogue around the same time, so Jesse had some connection to Chicago and Judaism when he couldn’t make it home.

Then, without any pressure from the family, Jesse became actively involved in the UJA Federation in NYC. At first, I was pleasantly surprised. I heard about how much fun he was having and how many more people he was connecting with and building relationships with. I thought to myself, “it’s about time.” I knew Jesse would be able to find something Jewish to connect himself to and feel good about in New York. All is not lost. As his connections to UJA grew, I noticed his commitment to the movement was stronger than ever. He definitely eclipsed my perception of his faith when he signed up to staff a Birthright trip, rather than simply attend. Not only did he return with a stronger faith and connection to Judaism, but he found on that very Birthright trip a very intelligent, sweet and caring girlfriend whose faith in Judaism was much like his own.

He went on to speak at an event with Mayor Bloomberg and Matisyahu in attendance, and even had the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Charles Bronfman in his own home at a private fundraising event. I have never seen him happier, other than when he comes home to the family.

Jesse has experienced much of what we all hunger for in our journey towards connecting to God and to Jews in America and across the world. His volunteer work and dedication to UJA only proves that young, emerging Jewish leaders like him can make a difference. Yes, a deep-seeded Jewish upbringing does help shape perceptions a bit more, but organizations and groups like JUF and UJA provide opportunities for people like me and my brother to connect to young Jewish people wherever we are.

Oy!Chicago has provided for me a wonderful opportunity to engage with the young Jewish crowd here in Chicago, and I could not be happier or more proud of my faith and its strong, emerging generation.

“Wherever we stand, we stand with Israel.” At first, I don’t know if Jesse fully believed in this idea growing up. Now, I cannot imagine him feeling otherwise. However, Jesse would take it a step further and use this mantra to build meaningful connections to young Jewish leaders and strongly encourage them to volunteer, to get involved in a meaningful way. It is clear to me that Birthright was a life-changing experience for him and should remain that way for future young Jewish adults.

To my brother Jesse: I love you, and I am so proud of you for everything you have accomplished and everything you plan to achieve in the future. Your connections to the Jewish faith and your commitment to volunteer and help those in need is a remarkable characteristic that you have developed. You are an inspiration to me and to other young Jews out there - Chicago, New York and elsewhere - that want to believe that they can make a difference, that their voices matter. Keep it up.

Jesse found his place in his community and strongly urges all of us to do the same. I know I am. Are you?

L’Chaim!  

After the question, “Can I eat anything I want if I workout?” and “Do I do cardio or weights?” I get the question, “What do I do with my exercise ball?” My answer is a video. With help, I previewed a few easy exercises you can do with a ball. If you have a favorite exercise on the ball that I left off, please write about it below.

Life, death and life - mourning loss and building new nests at once.  

This past spring, if you looked beyond the white curtains and protective iron bars lacing our kitchen window, you would have seen a pair of mourning doves making their nest atop the storage cabinet on our back porch. Last year, they made a home in the same spot and their eggs fell. Cleaning up the crushed potential of a life was depressing. However, those hopeful birds came back and made their nest in the exact same spot. Does their name seal their fate? Will they always be in mourning? We watched closely as they prepared to lay their eggs. Autumn and Violet, now 18 months old, sat in their booster seats at every meal and were entertained by the fluttering, cooing, and flying away. We all learned the sign for bird. Now every time the girls hear one, their little thumbs and first fingers meet in repetition, pulling me out of my thoughts and reminding me to pay attention and notice the birds, too.

Last week, my uncle Chris fell from a bridge to the end of his life. He was only 45 years old, with two sons in elementary school. He coached both of their baseball teams. He and my aunt were still in love like they were teenagers, as one of his friends described at the funeral. My grandma is one of my closest friends. That she knows the loss of a child tears at my heart. That my aunt, a woman who embodies the word grace, knows the loss of her soulmate makes my throat contract. That my cousins know the loss of a parent, well, the sadness is great. There is no way to prepare for such a tragic accident. Unlike the egg shells I cleaned up from the porch, Chris was in the midst of a loving, generous, fun, and full life.

Around the same time the mourning doves were building their nest, I started to teach my daughters the skill of a deep, calming breath. I want to give them the tools to deal with the inevitable anxieties of life, and breathing deep seemed like a good place to start. We’re still working on remembering how to take that audible inhale and exhale when they can’t have the toy their sister is playing with at that exact moment, but we’ll get there. Connecting to this breath is healing, rejuvenating, centering. Now more than ever, these deep breaths remind me that I am alive, that my daughters are alive, and that there are no guarantees that we will go on breathing tomorrow. It reminds me to be in the moment, and each moment of life is a blessing.

When we came back home after my uncle’s funeral, it seemed wrong for the buses to keep rumbling down Broadway Avenue and the stores to keep selling on Clark Street, when someone we love is no longer there to witness it. But the world keeps running. We keep breathing. Life is still happening here.

This year we watched the mama mourning dove sit with dedication on her precious eggs, never leaving them alone in the nest. We watched those eggs hatch to reveal slimy little birds. We watched those babies grow fluffier and eventually we saw them fly away. They grew up so fast. I wish that Chris could come back and learn to fly like those birds. Instead, we are all looking at ways for his spirit to live on. To start, Mandi and I now tell our daughters every night how lucky we are to be their moms, just like Chris told his sons that he was lucky to be their dad.

All of these things – the birds on our back porch, the deep breaths by Violet and Autumn, and tragically losing a member of our family – all of these things remind me that life is meaningful yet small, short yet broad. When I am deep in my own thoughts of sadness and loss, my girls do something to remind me that it’s the people in our lives that make your life great. That paying attention and appreciating and offering something positive to the people around you – just like my uncle did – is what it’s all about. We make the best nest we can, in the place of our choice, and then one day we will fall or fly and either way the world will go on and we will become part of something much larger than ourselves. 

As early as 1923, the movie East and West depicted the stereotypes Chasidic and more modernized Jews had toward each other. In her earliest known film role, Yiddish acting legend Molly Picon portrays an assimilated American teen visiting her family in the Old World. Cultures collide and hilarity ensues, but it’s only funny until Molly’s prank “marriage” turns out to be a bit too legit for her to quit. One side seems not to take Judaism seriously enough… but then, those Chasidim just can’t take a joke.

Fast-forward to 1979. In one of his most under-appreciated roles, Gene Wilder plays an innocent, bumbling rabbi in the Wild West comedy The Frisco Kid. As our rabbi is forced to travel over land from New York to his shiduch in San Francisco, Harrison Ford’s Indy-like desperado takes pity on him and escorts him to his destination. Along the way, this bandit discovers his soul, and the rabbi finds tremendous inner strength due to his unshakeable faith. Captured by a tribe of Native Americans, he explains his relationship with God to them: “He gives us strength when we’re suffering. He gives us compassion when all that we feel is hatred. He gives us courage when we’re searching around blindly like little mice in the darkness... but He does not make rain!” (And, on cue: a thunderclap and downpour). “Of course, sometimes, just like that, He’ll change His mind,” the rabbi concludes. Despite the injustices he faces, he acts with dignity and within the bounds of the Torah. Still, we only see him alone, apart from the Chasidic world.

Not all Chasidic fathers choose to give their sons the silent treatment like the one in 1981’s The Chosen does. In this case, the dad ends up driving his potential-rabbi teenage son into a career of psychology (no kidding). The strictures of the ardently religious do not sit well with the freedom-loving youth/Americans/Hollywood. Sadly, this portrait of Chasidic life has unfairly colored the public’s view of Chasidism for decades.

Chasidic men fare a bit better in Yentl. While he cannot permit her certain freedoms, Yentl’s rabbi father does care about his daughter’s intellectual and spiritual development. And the man she falls for, Avigdor, is a decent, loving guy. But “rules is rules,” and Yentl can only embrace her driving intellectual curiosity about Jewish text if she escapes her Jewish context. She loves it so much she must leave it, and the Chasidic community loses a potential Nechama Leibowitz.

A more nuanced view of Chasidic families comes in an otherwise substandard film, A Stranger Among Us (1992). Melanie Griffith’s acting job— as a streetwise cop!— is nowhere near her Born Yesterday heights, and the murder mystery she has to solve is far less compelling than anything on the average cop show these days. But at least the Chasidic community is shown to be welcoming, multi-faceted, and if strict, at least not hypocritical. Also, even if it’s still not an entirely accurate rendition, the Kabbalah is explained here much better than in most places.

But A Price Above Rubies (1998) is an entirely vicious attack on Chasidism as being replete with men who are either ineffectual nudniks or predatory schmucks. And who suffers? The women. Poor Renee Zellwegger doesn’t get to pursue her dream of being a jeweler until she leaves their serpentine embraces for those of a decent, hardworking, non-Jewish man.

Kadosh (1999), an Israeli film, is even worse. A Chasidic couple is torn by their infertility (in an era in which medical intervention is available), and both the woman and her sister are victimized by the crushing patriarchy of their society. While A Price Above Rubies at least implies that maybe some Chasidic men, somewhere, may be redeemable, Kadosh insists that the very nature of Chasidic culture makes all of its men overlords and all its women servants.

The hero of 1998’s Pi is calculating, on a supercomputer he built, the last digit of that slippery number. He is being harassed by mathematicians and stockbrokers for inside info that will grant them fame and/or fortune, but also by Chasidic kabbalists, whose desperation to reveal the nature of God drive them to dog our poor hero into madness. They beg him to turn the Torah into an algorithm, believing that its pattern of letters, once decoded, will be the combination that unlocks the door to the Other World. Or something. Anyway, they are relentless and clearly care more for personal enlightenment than treating another human being with compassion or even decency.

The very premise of the Israeli film The Holy Land (2001) would be laughable if it were not so offensive. Faced with a yeshiva student distracted from his studies by a surplus of horniness hormones, a rabbi instructs him to find a prostitute and get it over with already. Yes, really, that is the premise of the movie. Avatar was more realistic.

Luckily, Israel would produce, only three years later, the luminous film Ushpizin. Here is another Chasidic couple beset by infertility, but rather than turn on each other, they seek comfort in their faith and friends. They are further tested by the return of unsavory types from the man’s past. But the overall depiction is of a loving marriage in a caring community, in which hardships are willingly shared and mistakes easily forgiven. It’s easily the kindest depiction of the Chasidic community ever put on film, and should replace The Chosen as the go-to movie about Chasidism.

There is a Chasidic character in the 2005 stoned-Seder movie When Do We Eat? but that movie was as willing to make fun of everything as Blazing Saddles was, so to complain that this character was unrealistic is beside the point… or, perhaps, the point.

The under-known 2007 film Arranged has two women bound by, yes, arranged marriages; they meet each other as teachers in a public school. But one is Jewish… and the other, Muslim. If this film implies that forms of Judaism can unfairly control women, at least it makes the same accusations of other faiths, arguing that not Judaism itself but certain attitudes that span across cultures and countries are to blame.

The 2009 Belgian film Rondo is the Chasidic version of the classic “precocious child melts heart of grumpy old man” motif (seen from Shirley Temple films through Up). Thrown together in refugee camps during WWII, an assimilated youngster and his religious, crotchety grandfather slowly learn that the Holocaust has destroyed everyone in their family except each other. Then they learn how to be a family of two.

The movie that sparked this look into portrayals of Chasidim on film is the new release Holy Rollers. It is based on a true story about yeshiva students who became unwitting, then willing, drug mules. But which is the sadder part? That these kids were raised in such an insular environment that they had no clue they were committing a crime? Or that once they knew, they loathed their boring, restrictive yeshiva life so much that they kept going, just so they could have an adventure and a sense of accomplishment?

Coming in 2011 is the goofball comedy Curly Oxide and Vic Thrill. This time, it is not sex or drugs but rock ’n’ roll that gets the yeshiva boy to leave his smothering community and find himself in the big wide world. Evidently, the filmmakers knew nothing of the thriving world of Chasidic music, which has for decades supported dozens of successful rock and pop acts who also maintain their Orthodox lifestyle, from Piamenta to Matisyahu.

When looking for a plot involving a character shaking off a confining cocoon to emerge as a beautiful butterfly, a Chasidic setting seems to almost too handily suggest itself. In most films about it, Chasidic life is something to flee.

But where are the on-screen stories of the thousands of ba’al-teshuvahs who flee secular life for the Chasidic world? Who find the secular world empty, and the Chasidic one fulfilling?

Where are the stories of people who are born into Chasidic life and happily live in it? Where are the stories of Chasidic women who love their husbands and children, their communities and practices? Where are the Chasidic male characters who treasure their wives and treat women fairly?

And why do so many movies pit Chasidism against secularism, as if those are the only two options—what about other denominations of Judaism? Or within Chasidism?

Movies that unfairly depict Chasidism are still, after all, attacking a form of Judaism in the public arena, and this should concern us. Movies that mock Chasidic Jews are still denigrating Jews, and that should bother us as Jews.

What we still need is a good, mainstream, English-language movie that shows Chasidic Jewry fairly. Warts-and-all, fine… but more of the “all,” and not only the “warts.” Chasidim don’t need to be shown as perfect, just not perfectly imperfect.

Somewhere in between, like the rest of us. You know… human.

Facebook—some of us curse its very existence, while some of us let it consume us. Oh, I LIKE your last status about going to the post office. Yes, I am a FAN of my high school and I WILL ATTEND your birthday happy hour next weekend. Those of us who are on Facebook all have our reasons. It helps us keep in touch with friends in faraway places. It helps us keep tabs on those that are close to us. It keeps us from missing all the important social events and breaking news of the week. Do you know why I keep up on Facebook? Babies!

Whoa! Hold on, Mom! We are not going to have a baby anytime soon, but man, I love those Facebook babies! I guess it is my way of feeling like I am involved in the lives of all the children I could ever want without having to change a single diaper. I’m not baby crazy in the way that many folks my age want to have a baby because all of their friends are busy having babies. It’s just that from time to time (well really all the time) I need to smile and laugh out loud in a way that only those innocent souls under the age of five can make me do.

Post a status about your friend’s bachelor party and I kind of yawn, show me a cool video mash-up of your favorite song and I’m a bit intrigued. But show me a baby, and I’ll watch your latest video post of your baby dancing in the living room. Next thing I know, I’m poking my wife to wake her up in the middle of the night to make sure she saw this video of a baby splashing in the bathtub. Oh and I can’t LIKE enough of those posts about young children’s fantastic critiques of Mom’s driving habits from the car-seat.

When Facebook hit the big time, I was one of the first to jump on that “Facebook is a pathetic time-suck and complete waste of my precious time” bandwagon. I have to admit, though, I think my allegiance has shifted to the other camp. The other day, a friend of mine posted the latest (and most precious photo) of her three-month-old child sitting with her 98 year old great grandmother. I melted all over my keyboard gazing at this awesome expression of family and love.

But, my favorite baby to keep tabs on through Facebook is my one-year-old nephew in action! 

Growing up in the northern suburbs of Chicago there was one athlete everyone knew, his name was Ryan Hogan. Hogan played basketball at Deerfield and was a stud. I still recall stories of Rick Pitino arriving in a limo to Deerfield High School to get Hogan to commit. I played pickup against Hogan once, right around the time he left Iowa (transferred there after Kentucky). He was awesome, although I did take him off the dribble a few times. But since Hogan, athletes have been coming out of the area and making noise. Jon Scheyer and Jason Kipnis are perfect examples. Now meet Wes Braun. Wes, no relation to Ryan Braun, is the younger brother of my friend Jen. I saw on Facebook what Wes and the Fighting Illini baseball team had been doing and I knew I had to get an interview. Turns out Wes is a good guy, smart, a fraternity brother of mine, and becoming quite the pitcher. Below is Wes' story. It is safe to say The Great Rabbino will be following his progress. Maybe Israel's WBC team has found its closer.

1) Tell TGR a little bit about yourself.
I was born and raised in Deerfield, Illinois. I was always pretty good at baseball and played it from the time I could physically hold a bat and throw a ball. In high school I played soccer for three years and baseball all four years. I was never the greatest athlete or most talented but always worked hard to earn playing time. I didn’t receive any division one college baseball offers so I went to University of Illinois for the education. I walked on to the varsity baseball team as a sophomore. I received my Bachelor’s degree in communication, which I had finished in three and a half years and am now pursuing my Masters in Business Administration degree. I am scheduled to receive my MBA in spring of 2012.

2) You went to Deerfield High School, like other great athletes including Colt Cabana and Jessica Gitles (my wife). How was your high school team and when did you know you had a chance at playing college?
My high school teams were up and down. We were always the underdogs even when we were a pretty good team; I guess that comes with being a small school. For example, my senior year we won our conference and still had to play in a play-in game to get into the state playoffs. We ended up winning the play-in game, but then lost to Stevenson in the first round of the playoffs. Personally, it was always an ambition of mine to play baseball in college, but it never looked like I was going to. Even though I was all-conference my senior year and went to the junior all-star game my junior year, I never seemed to be in demand for college programs. When I was going through the recruiting process, I did not get a lot of interest from large programs— specifically, no division one teams contacted me. I was in talks with a few division three teams, but I was trying to find a college that was a right fit for me academically as well as for baseball ,which was extremely difficult to find that balance. In the end, I chose to go to the University of Illinois for academic reasons instead of playing baseball at a division three school. When I got to U of I, I tried out for the club baseball team. I did not try out for the actual varsity-team my freshman year because I did not think I would make it. I was actually originally cut from the club team, but then after asking for an extended tryout I got another shot and was selected to play on the team. I did not get a lot of playing time on the club team, but I learned a lot and it was an incredible experience for me. After a year on the club team, I decided to try out for the real varsity team my sophomore year and out of the 50-plus people that tried out I was the only one to be selected. From there I was lucky enough to play for four years on the team.

3) Illinois has been known for its basketball and every five years its football---what is it like being a part of putting baseball on the map at U of I?
To say that baseball is not well known or supported on campus is an understatement. Whenever I would invite people to my games the first question was always, “where is the baseball field?” Our contribution this year has seemingly already put baseball on the map because I have seen more t-shirts and collectibles that say Illinois Baseball on them than ever before. It is pretty exciting to be a part of a team that went further than any other Illinois baseball team in the previous decade and I hope that this season just serves as a stepping stone for the improvement of our program.

4) How did the team do this season? What was your role?
After an incredibly slow start, we ended the season on quite a run, winning the Big 10 conference and then the Big 10 tournament. We advanced to the NCAA regional tournament for the first time in 10 years and made it to the regional championship by beating Cal-State Fullerton who was ranked top ten in the country and number one in our region before being defeated by Stanford. My role on the team was as the team’s closer for which I very much excelled. I was named third team all-big 10 as a relief pitcher as I only gave up one earned run in conference. That was the only run I gave up throughout my first 18 appearances.

5) What are you plans this summer?
This summer I am still looking to play baseball. It seems as if I have generated some interest in Major League teams and I am hoping to sign a professional contract soon.

6) Are you a part of any other clubs on campus?
Besides playing for the club baseball team my freshman year, I was also a member of Sigma Alpha Mu fraternity.

7) What are your future plans? Is baseball a part of them?
It is difficult to fully foresee what exactly my future plans are; however, I would like to continue to play baseball as long as I possibly can. With that being said, I only have one more year to complete my MBA program and after I have received that and no longer can play baseball, I would still enjoy being able to be a part of baseball in some capacity for my career.

8) If you could start a team with Ryan Braun, Ian Kinsler, or Kevin Youkilis who would it be?
It would definitely have to be Ryan Braun. Besides having a great name, he has proven to become one of the top players in the entire league right now in all facets of the game.

9) Favorite Chicago pizza place?
Although I am biased to Papa Del’s here in Champaign, I would have to go with Jake’s pizza in Northbrook because their BBQ based pizza is unbelievable. Although Bella’s stuffed crust pizza in downtown is a close second.

Thanks Wes and Good Luck.
And Let Us Say...Amen.

Board meetings may not be the stuff of epic sagas, but I’ve got an important and exciting announcement for you Oy!sters about something that happened last night. The Chicago Center for Jewish Genetic Disorders has just been authorized to expand its testing panel from nine disorders to 19. That sounds nice, you say. But why? What does that mean for me?  

It’s really good news. Every ethnic group in the world has some genetic mutations that increase risk for certain disorders or diseases (sickle cell disease in individuals of African descent is one; thalassemia in people of Mediterranean descent is another). Jews have a well-documented list of “our own” disorders, such as Tay-Sachs disease or familial dysautonomia (FD), which can be passed on to children with heartbreaking results. They’re not unique to Jews, but thanks to a quirk of genetics, they occur more frequently in people with Jewish backgrounds. With the pace of science and technology accelerating at exponential speed, new tests to identify these disease-causing mutations come out nearly as quickly as scientists uncover new disorders.

When the Center began offering subsidized testing in the Chicago area in 2002, we could test Ashkenazi couples and individuals for Tay-Sachs disease, Canavan disease, FD and Gaucher disease. We knew there were more disorders for which we had no tests available, but by 2006, we were able to offer screening for nine disorders. Now we’ve seen another leap forward in carrier screening technology. The ten new disorders for which we can offer testing appear in our population with similar frequencies to the disorders we already cover. Thanks to the advancements in the testing process, we should be able to easily add new disorders as tests become available. We’re also very excited about the possibility of including some tests for Sephardic disorders, which are a whole different kettle of fish from Ashkenazi disorders. While Ashkenazi disorders tend to be more uniform in the population as a whole, Sephardic disorders vary by specific country of origin. If you’re of mixed Sephardic and Ashkenazi ancestry, or if you’re not sure, our genetic counselor can help you decide on an appropriate panel.

This new technology won’t change some things. Mutation carriers are healthy individuals unaffected by the disorder itself, which means anyone of Ashkenazi Jewish descent will still need to get tested. Testing and knowing about testing can be a scary and nerve-wracking process, but it remains our best option for planning our reproductive futures. Genetic counselors are trained to help couples ready to have children figure out the best way to do that. Thankfully, that won’t be changing either.

If you want to learn more about Jewish genetic disorders, hereditary cancers, and screening and counseling options, including our subsidized education and screening programs, visit jewishgenetics.org and, if you haven’t already, sign up for our bimonthly newsletter. If you have any questions about the Center’s new expanded screening panel, including which disorders will be included, check back over the coming days and weeks for more information, or give us a call at (312) 357-4718.

So yeah: more than doubling our ability to help Jewish families have healthy children. Pretty exciting board meeting, right?

Last night, I witnessed one challenge that I will never choose to take part in. Ever. They called it the 999. Nine innings, nine hot dogs and nine drinks.

Now I love a good Hebrew National hot dog with a cold beer at a baseball game. But this, as Emeril would say, kicked it up a notch (or nine). To sum it up in one word: yucky.

Let’s rewind for a moment to give a little context. My darling husband is wrapping up his last week as a full-time graduate student. Final exams are finished, all-A’s have been earned, and with graduation now only a couple days away, everyone wants to spend as much time together as possible since they’ll be heading their separate ways in a few short weeks to resume their lives in the real world.

For most people, this means going out for coffee, going to dinner or even getting a few cocktails. When I heard that the entire graduating class of 2011 was taking a trip to the Cubs game during grad week, I was excited—it would be my first game of the season.

But in Business College, they are known for upping the ante. So when I heard about this challenge, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Fourteen boys (men? boys? last night it was hard to tell…) gathered in the living room of our apartment instead of at Wrigley Field and took one last test before graduation. The crazy test.

Because this is a widely-read and classy blog, I will spare you the gruesome details (let’s just say that I am the best wife ever for simply tolerating this event in our brand new apartment), but I’ll give you the rules of the game, for anyone crazy enough to tackle this challenge, be it with beers or sodas (icky either way).

Each challenger must complete nine innings, with each inning composed of one hot dog and one carbonated drink. If you have nine drinks and two hot dogs, it only counts as two innings. This must be completed by end of the ninth inning of the game—extra baseball innings do not extend the time limit. First to the finish line wins (although really, does anyone actually win in a game like this?) Finally, no Tums and no getting sick for at least one hour after you finish.

Suffice it to say that our new Lakeview apartment survived (mostly) unscathed, but I’m not certain that we made many new friends in our building. The sheer volume of testosterone was astonishing, the strategies entertaining and the stories from the night ridiculous.

What baffled me most was that when other friends heard about the 999 challenge, they were actually jealous that they weren’t invited to participate (read: male friends only—no girl I know would willingly submit themselves to such disgustingness). And as word spread, many vowed to host a similar party later in the summer.

Are you game? I know I’m not.

The more I learn about pregnancy and labor, the more I am amazed at the process of the human body and the incredible strength of the woman who puts it all together and pulls it through.

How did I not hear of any of this before?! I wonder. And I tell the information I am learning to young, twenty something women in my community in Israel, and they breathe deeply in astonishment. Really? That is what our bodies can do? That is what happens? The baby is doing somersaults in your stomach? Can listen to us? Sucking its thumb? What?! And I wonder why this is the first time they are hearing this too, I wonder who is keeping all of this information from us, or why we are keeping it from ourselves.

I think we’re all ignoring the obvious facts; we’re watching that pregnant woman walking down the street and all we’re seeing is a shuffling, cute little lady with a big belly, breathing deeply, possibly glowing, if you catch her at the right time. But that is not it, not it at all.

The problem is that we are only seeing a pregnant woman. We are not seeing what is going on within the shifting blood cells and elongating intestines, the dynamic process that goes from a small egg composed of a combination of forty six chromosomes to an organism that hosts a beating heart. Where did that liver come from? And yet, there it is.

Spiritually speaking, Jewish thought says that an angel is inside of the womb, teaching the child Torah, which the child “forgets” once it exists outside of the womb, only to be rediscovered in the process that is the education of life. Beneath that “bump” is a real live creature, chilling and furiously expanding in nerve cells and cosmic leaps of intelligence. What is going on there? We don’t fully question it, because all we see is a belly.

Until you stop your friend in the street and you ask her what week she is in, and she responds 31 weeks, and she tells you before you even asked that at 31 weeks you can figure out exactly what position the baby is just by feeling around. Here, she takes your hand, see here is the back, and here is that elbow! And here… and you don’t want to be rude and take your hand away so you oblige politely, shocked, chagrined, amazed, and revolted, glancing around furtively out of the corner of your eye, uncomfortable with the squeamishly private information being disclosed.

Pregnancy is not consciously secretive or feared in our culture, but it sure seems like it is, with the amount of hush hush that surrounds it.

Because who knows anything about birth, who wants to know anything about birth, until you have to?

Yet, if you look at two highly grossing films in the last few years, two birth related flicks “Juno” and “Knocked Up” did astoundingly well, despite their very peculiar premises. It is as if the movie industry stumbled across a well- kept secret, that not even our conscious minds are aware of- that we are desperate to tap into this unbelievable phenomenon that is existence. You know it, I know it, we all went through that birth canal, we all want to see it to believe it, we all want to talk about it and yet…

If you really learn about birth, and you watch those hair raising live videos as the babies slide timidly or proudly into existence and watch the cells divide and conquer and grow and become a dynamic, brilliant, creature that is ever-changing. At those moments, it is much more difficult to be uncertain about the existence of a higher power.

Why is pregnancy education lacking until a woman enters the prenatal world? Would it not blow our minds constantly, make us appreciate human existence, focus our centers even more?

There’s something that that pregnant woman is carrying, and you better believe it is more than skin deep. You better applaud her in the streets next time you see her, at this incredible magic act she is performing that we are all witness to if we dare to think about what we are really looking at, below the surface.

Women are impressive creatures indeed.

Perhaps after the feminist movement proved what women can do (which is basically everything that a man can do), they also must go back to reemphasize what most women do do, which is that incredible, muscle churning, meditation breathing, laborious, incredible job we call “motherhood”.

For months now, I’ve been anxiously awaiting Mindy Kaling's upcoming book Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns). Then, a couple of weeks ago, as if someone up there was looking out for me, a hearty excerpt of the book was posted online.

Also, because perhaps I needed further proof that Mindy Kaling and I should be besties (she and I have both cried to Paul Simon's Graceland!), there is a chapter entitled "The Best Friend Rights and Responsibilities." Basically it's a list of everything that is expected of a BFF, and everything best friends deserve. Said rights include: "I Can Borrow All Your Clothes," "We Sleep in the Same Bed" and "I Can Ditch You, Within Reason."

My personal favorite, though, is "I Will Hate and Re-Like People For You." Kaling writes: "But don’t get mad if I can’t keep track. Robby? Don’t we hate him? No, we love him. Okay, okay. Sorry."

This is real. Yes, of course, we all form our own opinions about the people in our lives. But if my best friend tells me that we love her coworker, and then one day tells me we hate her because she stole a promotion, and then we love her again because she was responsible for a raise? Sounds good to me. I can praise her or talk smack, just tell me how we feel today.

You can read the full excerpt here. The BFF section starts on page 15.

I've been thinking about it, and here are a few other best friend rights and responsibilities I would add to the list. You know, in case Mindy is asking:

• When you are wasted, I will make sure you get home safely.

• I will be at your wedding. I will do all the bridal activities I possibly can, and I will be excited about it. And if I'm not, you will never know.

• I'll try to help you see when you are being unreasonable, but I won't call you unreasonable.

• We might hold hands sometimes or walk arm in arm, but I am not so into that thing where BFFs kiss on the lips. Just seems unnecessary.

• I will dig into a pint of Ben & Jerry's/french fries/bottle of wine with you whenever you need to vent/wallow/celebrate/gossip.

What else? Take a look at Mindy Kaling's list, then let me know. What do you think are the most important best friend rights and responsibilities? 

When my husband called, I knew immediately from the tone of his voice that something was very wrong, and it would be very bad. And it was.

Our friend David—a man who can only be described as one of the 36 righteous people in the world—had suddenly collapsed that morning at work, and died. Gone. Gone the day after his son’s high school graduation. Gone the day before his son’s confirmation, and his daughter’s grade school graduation. Gone three days before he was to be installed as our Temple’s President.

Gone at just 50 years old, with so much to live for.

“Just 50.” If you had said that to me just 10 years ago, it would not have sounded so young. Perhaps if I were 27, and not 37, David’s death would not have rocked me to the core of just how fragile and fleeting life is. How young 50 is.

David was not in poor health. He was not overweight. He was not a smoker, drinker, drug or risk taker. Sure, he knew he could be healthier, maybe work out more. But where would he find the time?

In other words, he was just like me. Just like my husband. Like most of us, who never think such a tragedy would happen to them.

“You always think this stuff happens to other people, not to you. Take nothing for granted.”

Those were the word uttered by David’s 18-year old son during his eulogy.

“Live a healthy lifestyle, learn CPR, and be an organ donor,” was David’s wife’s message of love, care and concern to the more than 1,000 friends and family who came to say their goodbyes to David—a testament to his great kindness and generosity of soul.

Death is not fair or just. Some people will live to be 100, no matter what they do to their bodies. Genetics are a card you are dealt in life, and you have to play with it the best you can to stay in the game. Most of us have will need to fight to stay at the table.

There are no words to explain why. Why David? Why now? Why is life snatched away from good and pure souls, and given to those black of heart? Why this of all weeks when there was such happiness to look forward to?

There are no answers. There is only anger, shock, sorrow and fear. Anger at a world that is so out of order—at a God that feels so unjust. Shock that there will forever be an empty chair at every event, every meeting, every service, where David used to sit—and an empty place in our hearts. Sorrow for his family, friends, and all who knew him who will forever mourn their loss, that the world lost one of its brightest, kindest stars.

And fear. Fear that it could just as easily be my husband, my daughter, or me in that casket. At anytime, from anything: a heart attack, a car accident, or simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Take nothing for granted.”

The morning that David died—before I had even gotten the call—a friend told me the story of how, at the age of 28, she discovered she had an 8-pound tumor in her body. Doctors gave her a 20 percent chance of making it through the surgery alive. When she was released from the hospital, she quit the job she hated.

“Take nothing for granted.”

Soon after September 11, and the death of his friend Marnie Rose—who died at the age of 28 from brain cancer—my husband decided to leave behind a successful career in politics and go to Rabbinical school. He’s never looked back.

Life is just too damn short to be in a job you hate, no matter how much it pays. It’s too damn short to spend it with people who don’t treat you well. It’s too damn short to spend it the way someone else thinks you should live it—and not how you really want to.

“Take nothing for granted.”

Don’t take your life for granted, or the people in it.

Take care of your health. Learn CPR. And be an organ donor so others may have a chance to live.

May David’s memory be for a blessing.

In the last 29 years, there have been a handful of occasions where I have felt fully present, fully alive, fully in the moment.

Yesterday was one of those occasions.

It is impossible to describe the magic that occurred June 5 at the 18th annual Lurie Cancer Survivor's Walk. Instead I will try to show you.

To introduce all of you Oy!sters to my story, here is my speech from that day:

Magic  

It feels so good to be here.

I am going to do my best to hold it together, but I make no guarantees, since I am fresh off of chemo, I am hypersensitive, I am emotional, and this is the most magical day of my life.

It is nothing short of miraculous that I have the opportunity to stand before you to share my story, to open my heart, and to let you into my world. Northwestern—thank you for the opportunity, I am forever grateful.

First, let’s a take a look around. Have you ever seen a more beautiful crowd?

To my cancer crushing warriors, adorned in purple, we know what it’s like to go to war, to fight with every last strength, and to face our greatest fears. I am honored to stand with you, and I am overwhelmed by your strength and your courage. My heart goes out to you.

To our family, friends, and loved ones, who have lifted us up, held our hands, wiped away our tears, and have served as our cheerleaders throughout our fight—we couldn’t be here without you.

And to the Lurie Cancer Center’s remarkable staff, you are angels who work tirelessly to help us survive, to make us comfortable during our darkest moments, and to give us hope that tomorrow will be better than today.

My Name is Jenna Benn, I am 29 years old and I am a proud survivor of Grey Zone Lymphoma.

Grey Zone Lymphoma, is a rare blood disorder that affects less than 500 people in the United States. This Cancer has features of both Hodgkins and Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.

In December 2010, after months of fatigue, weight loss, flu like symptoms and night sweats, I knew in my gut that there was something very wrong. I went to the gym, thought I had lifted a weight improperly, and quickly went to my orthopedist to be checked out….A couple hours later over dinner at my favorite childhood restaurant, I was told that I had cancer. They had found a large mass in my chest.

For those of us that have heard the three words, “You Have Cancer,” we know what it’s like for time to stand still, and for our lives to be profoundly changed in just one moment.

That night, I decided that I was going to fight this disease with the tenacity in which I wanted to live.

I was determined to kill cancer in the butt. There was no other option. Later that evening I started a blog called Kill it in the Butt, which became a space where I could process my thoughts and feelings, communicate with family and friends, and connect with all types of survivors—not just cancer survivors.

While waiting for results from a biopsy, I was desperately looking to regain some type of control. During my wait, I scheduled an appointment with Northwestern’s Oncofertility Consortium to explore my fertility options. While I knew that cancer was going to rob me of many things, I was unwilling to accept that it could also rob me of having children. I want to be a mother. I want to have children. By exploring fertility treatments, I was able to think about life after cancer, which not only gave me hope but it helped fuel my fight.

On January 21, I began an aggressive non-Hodgkin’s regimen called R- Epoch, requiring a five-day in-patient stay every 21 days, for six rounds.

On May 10, after multiple surgeries, scans, four blood transfusions, and over 720 hours of chemotherapy, I completed my sixth and final round.

Ten days later, as my immune system began to rebound, I was eager to reenter the world and return to work for good. On May 20, six months to the date from my initial diagnosis, I came down with mind numbing pain that started in my abdomen and radiated down to my toes. I was told that I had contracted Gram Negative Rods, a potentially fatal bacterial infection, where minutes mattered. I urgently returned to Northwestern Hospital, the institution that I trust with my life.

There I was again, at what I refer to affectionately as “Hotel Prentice,” on the 16th floor—on the floor I swore I would never return to. Thankfully, I was once again surrounded by my medical team. These miracle workers were again at my bedside, this time working on overdrive.

Fighting against the clock and fighting for my life, I remained at Prentice for another five days. I left on May 23, for what I sincerely hope will be the last time.

It has been an emotional journey.

While I willingly accepted the fact that cancer would cause unavoidable physical changes, I was unwilling to allow the disease to rob me of my voice. For the past six months, when I could not talk, I was communicating. There were moments when I was quiet, but I was really screaming.

As I desperately tried to find my voice and struggled to be heard, I realized that I needed to embrace cancer in order to beat her.

I learned that is impossible to beat cancer without holding on to hope.
I learned that in order to overcome this disease I had to use all of my past experiences, all of my triumphs and disappointments, as ammunition in my fight.
I learned what it feels like to be so close to the finish line but unable to actually cross it.
I learned what it feels like to repeatedly fall down, and still continue to get back up.
I learned that I love and appreciate my family and friends in a way that I didn't think was possible.
I learned that there is a fine line between vulnerability and strength.
I learned that my desire to live is stronger than my pain.
I learned that my mind is stronger than my body.
I learned that just because I faced death once, doesn't make facing it for the second time any easier.

Throughout this journey I had to figure out creative ways to hold on to my spirit. I held on to my spirit through writing, through singing at the top of my lungs, and through dancing every day alone in my room. In my blog, I opened up and wrote about my deepest fears, hopes and dreams; yet still found myself disconnected from the world around me. I felt that while I was on pause, everyone else was on play.

So I decided to change the rules. I chose to twist my way through cancer. During the days when I was immuno-suppressed and I couldn't be out in public, I admittedly was feeling incredibly lonely. I decided to post a video of myself doing the twist alone in my room, and challenged my readers to meet me halfway. I asked them to send videos of themselves so they could join me on the dance floor. Sure enough, they videotaped themselves, welcomed me into their homes and offices, and joined me.

As we twisted, I was able to tiptoe out of the shadows, reconnect with my body, and eventually reclaim my spirit.

Today, I hope you will join me in twisting out cancer. I hope you won’t leave me hanging all alone on the dance floor.

I hope you will twist with me, because together, we have the power, to inspire, to provide hope, and to one day find a cure.

Thank you.

To read more about Jenna and twisting out cancer, check out her blog http://killitinthebutt.blogspot.com/ 

It is full blown wedding season and nervous brides and grooms all over the world are tying the knot. Many more are planning nuptials and are making themselves, their families and friends absolutely crazy.

The details for planning the perfect event are mindboggling and the options these days are abundant. Planning your fantasy event needs some TLC and since you only get to do this dream day once, you really want to do it right.

I have the pleasure (and sometimes pain) of sitting down with families and listening to their ideas and visions. Sometimes parents and engaged couples agree, but more often than not, they are in polar opposition of each other.

I have had parents request a traditional Ashkenazi Jewish menu and have the kids begging for modern, more global food selections. I had a European Ashkenazi bride marrying an American Southern Sephardi groom, the parents not speaking to each other during the menu planning because one wanted schnitzels while the other wanted bold flavored Sephardi cuisine. We compromised and had stations brimming with both styles of food instead of a seated dinner.

I have many brides who aren’t interested in the traditional wedding cake, only to have their mothers secretly emailing me for cake flavors and design options. Last summer, I had a father waving frantically at me from across the room wondering why there wasn’t any lettuce on his salad course, which was not a salad at all, but a gazpacho trio!

Basic Boot Camp for planning the perfect wedding menu:

1. Have a conversation, or two, with all the parents before meeting with the caterer or any of the vendors. Even if the engaged couple are paying for the event, it is nice for everyone to be “heard” and for some compromises to be made.

2. Attention all brides and grooms! You two need to be in agreement before you start the planning process. I had a tasting with a couple who fought the entire time about the menu. It was like two different wedding concepts were being tossed around. I ended up giving them a time out before we finished the tasting. I was afraid we were never going to get to the wedding.

3. Often, in order for everyone to be happy, you need to alter the style of the event. Instead of a sit down dinner, you do stations. You can switch from a traditional wedding cake to a dessert buffet. You can add a small symbolic cake instead of a full blown cake. There are so many ways to do a wedding; there is room for everyone to feel comfortable and happy.

4. That being said, it is the couple’s wedding and they get the final decision. Sometimes, not everyone can be happy!

5. Have fun with it. Personalize the event with your own touches. You do not have to do the same wedding as all your friends. Create your own theme and do something that is as unique as your relationship. Chef’s note: I like it when the couple asks me to write a menu for them based on their vision. Trust me, chefs like to create menus and will add some TLC to their own creations.

6. Enjoy the process. There are many details and minutia, but the end result will be spectacular.

A perfect marriage of flavors
Chick Pea Tagine with Crispy Chicken Schnitzel

Crispy chicken schnitzel marries seamlessly with fragrant chick pea tagine. A casual summertime supper that weds 2 delicious cuisines. Serve the duo with a crispy salad and bread.

Serves 4

For the tagine

1 small red onion, sliced
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 medium carrots, diced
1 medium fennel bulb, julienne
2 cups cooked chick peas
¼ cup chopped pitted dates
¼ cup chopped dried apricots
¼ cup sliced dried figs
2 teaspoons ground coriander
1 teaspoon ground cumin
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground cardamom
Pinch of crushed red chilies
3 tablespoons tomato paste
2 cups chicken stock or water
Kosher salt and pepper
Garnishes: cilantro leaves, mint leaves, preserved lemons, crushed cumin seeds

Preheat oven to 325

1. Sauté the onion, carrots and fennel, in batches in a large sauté pan, lightly coated with olive oil, over medium high heat until the vegetables are browned (about 5-7 minutes). Transfer the vegetables to a Dutch oven.

2. Add the remaining ingredients to the Dutch oven and stir to combine. Cover and cook for 1 hour until the liquid is mostly absorbed the vegetables are soft.

For the schnitzel

4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, pounded to ¼ inch thickness
About ½ cup
1 cup flour, placed in a shallow pan
2 cups panko bread crumbs, placed in a shallow pan
2 egg whites, whisked with 2 tablespoons water, placed in a shallow pan
Zest of 2 lemons
¼ cup chopped parsley
Kosher and freshly cracked pepper

1. Heat a large sauté pan with ½ inch of oil over medium high heat. Season chicken breasts with salt and pepper.

2. Dredge the chicken breasts in the flour, then the whisked egg whites and finally into the panko bread crumbs.

3. Gently put the chicken breasts in the oil and cook on one side until they are golden brown and crispy (about 3-5 minutes per side). Turn the breasts and cook the other side until brown.

4. Transfer the browned chicken breasts to a parchment lined pan. Sprinkle with chopped parsley and lemon zest.

5. About 7 minutes before serving, cook the chicken breasts in the preheated oven until cooked through.

6. Serve the schnitzels on a platter with the Chick Pea tagine and garnish with lemon slices. 

In the next month or so, I will have a “roommate.” And although I have had roommates before, I haven’t had one in seven years and never one of this sort.

To prepare, I have been going through old things and throwing out what I need and don’t need to make room for said roommate and his belongings. However, he won’t have many belongings, so this task isn’t actually physically necessary, but more spiritually so.

Cleaning for me is like losing weight. If I plan to do it, I never will. So I take advantage of spurts of energy and motivation (which is usually just procrastination of something else I don’t want to be doing) and go through the large plastic cartons I must have bought from Target years ago.

I hate moving, and for someone my age who is not married, I haven’t moved all that much. But when I moved seven years ago I felt like a fugitive. Very quickly, I had to leave a place where I was living with roommates (one of which was my brother who was getting married and moving into a house with his wife) to find somewhere to live and settle in. The funny thing about this is that for at least six months prior, I knew I’d be moving, but I thought I’d be moving to Israel with my then fiancé.

So when I moved out of my brother’s condo in June of 2004 I didn’t clean out much of anything, just placed unnecessary remnants in plastic containers, and I have maintained this pattern since. I’m not a hoarder or anything, but as I sort through the big plastic boxes of documents, bills and sometimes random items, I’m forced to confront my past.

Since I started cleaning (which was embarrassingly enough last August—I know, I know, like I said, it’s not my strength) the boxes are (not surprisingly) stacked in order of years like an archaeological dig. This is accidental, because if I had an organizational prowess, I wouldn’t have the stacks in the first place. So today I cleaned 2007. What I found (of interest):

1. My parents’ trusts
2. All of the manuals to my kitchen appliances and car
3. A pearl necklace. The box makes it look like it’s valuable. Who gave me a pearl necklace in 2007?
4. A wrist radio that I worked out with (I know that sounds like 1997, but it was in there).
5. The medal from riding the M.S. 150.

Recently, my roommate-to-be explained to me the process of construction in Israel. (I knew this already, but because he is a tour educator he sometimes adds interesting facts, which he did.) Because there are so many artifacts, all construction is stopped and delayed if any antiquities are found during the process of digging. Once the site has been properly excavated and recorded, construction can continue. This makes the process of building anything in Israel long and arduous.

So, it makes me laugh to hear people complain about the amount of time it took to open a Trader Joe’s on Clark and Diversey, just as it makes others laugh that it’s taken me seven months to go through four years of boxes.

What can I say? I guess I’m on Ramses II's time table.

I am filled with glee in anticipation of Chicago’s Printer’s Row Lit Fest June 4 and 5. I can’t wait to smell the books, sift through rows of old postcards and albums and surround myself with a bunch of lit geeks, just like me.

Admittedly, I’m a bit like that blonde in the Amazon Kindle commercial—I am stubborn about retaining my right to fold down the pages—and I don’t care if “there’s an app for that” or will be soon. I’m not yet ready to cave and buy an e-book-reader.

I worked for a large-scale newspaper and experienced, first-hand, the growing pains newspapers are grappling with as they adapt to new technology. I now work for an online publishing company editing food sites, and we don’t even bother with a print edition.

In fact, I attended BlogHer Food 2011, a food bloggers’ conference (nerdy, yet delightful) in Atlanta, GA last week, and food writing giants such as Molly O’Neill talked about the future of magazines and cookbooks: The future is in e-zines and e-cookbooks, and this history is being written right now. I could bore and/or inspire you with why the Internet has democratized how we consume information and all you need to do is start a blog; or I could lend you my sob story that every journalist is telling about how we’re befuddled and upside down about the whole thing. But, I won’t. If you’re already reading Oy!, you understand at least some of the bigger picture that is modern media.

On one hand, I embrace all of this change. Want a news story on five platforms? Sure! The nerd in me actually gets excited when I overcome new challenges in HTML coding. My manager smiles and nods when I do a little happy dance in my desk chair.

However, I still love my books—actual printed books, with pages—and my cookbooks, for that matter. No Kindle, iPad or cell phone is going to fully replace the relationship I have with the actual printed word. And while the book’s demise is imminent, I’m still holding on.

The sensory experience of handling an actual book is very dear to me. I love the moldy smell of old books. I could pick out the smell of a synagogue prayer book amidst a sea of smells in a second. As a Bat Mitzvah, I cherished watching the ritual unraveling of the Torah; handling the wand on the delicate parchment and reveling in the Torah’s artistry. Are we going to eventually use e-readers instead of prayer books in synagogue? I certainly hope not.

I have affectionate childhood memories of going with my mom every summer to sift through damp, musty books at the Brandeis book sale at Old Orchard mall (now called Westfield) in Skokie. I’d find odd poetry collections or random books from the 1960s and 1970s with overly dramatic titles. Just last year, my friend returned from the sale with a 1970s’ era edition of Joy of Sex and I was so thrilled for her—disturbing as that edition now is to a modern reader.

I grew up in a household filled with tenderly-worn, hand-me-down books I’d receive from my two older sisters. I also loved going to my elementary school book sales and picking up books with crisp pages and vibrant pictures for my mother to read to me before bed.

To this day, I am protective of the sense of ownership I feel in handling a book’s pages, folding them down to hold my place, feeling through pages read and eagerly anticipating a book’s ending with the weight of 300 pages in one hand and two pages in the other.

I have an emotional connection to the library I’ve collected. I feel that it tells its own story about me. I held on to many books from college courses that I felt shaped my thinking today. I want to display those books proudly on a shelf for others to see. I also collect cookbooks, and love the story they tell with my scribbled notes, cooking stains and photographs. An iPad or Kindle just won’t do.

Just as my bookshelf is a record of my history, so too is the actual printed word a record of our collective history. Call me old fashioned, but computers, hard drives and servers fail. What if backing up ultimately fails us? And, don’t even get me started on photographs…

I understand the benefits of the e-reader devices for their light-weight handling and portability. I don’t deny the value of wasting less paper and placing fewer burdens on the environment with production and printing presses. I also know that we live in a world in which everything must be accessible all the time and the book is no different.

But, what kind of readers are we becoming with this technology? Will we skim everything like we skim articles on the computer? Is there no time to pause and soak anything in, just for an hour? Will we all be far-sighted from these screens by the age of 30? Perhaps.

Meanwhile, I’m going to soak in that musty smell this weekend, and fold over those pages until I can’t anymore. 

My single friends and I often complain about the limited selection of single men in Chicago. In reality, there are plenty of them, but it can take what seems like forever, and several heartaches and breaks, to meet the right ones. The trouble isn’t meeting men, we meet them all over—at the gym, at the bars, through friends—but after the first couple of dates or even several months of dating, the relationships usually end due to lack of chemistry, commitment phobia, or lack of communication. I can continue rattling off the list of reasons for break-ups and sometimes, there doesn’t always have to be a clear reason, that’s just how dating goes. But, I have started to wonder, how and when should we expand our dating pool?

We spend quite a bit of time complaining about the selection of singles in the city, but perhaps it’s our long list of dating requirements that is significantly narrowing the dating pool.

I am certainly guilty of being selective, but recently, I have started to further consider the criteria for my own selectivity. Frequently, people choose to search for the perfect match within their same religion, culture, or past marital status (divorced? children?) due to familiarity, comfort, and acceptance within their family. This makes a lot of sense and perhaps seems to promise a smoother, more seamless marriage. However, I have seen first-hand that there are still plenty of homogeneous couples who, regardless of these similarities, struggle. In fact, just like any other pairing, only a portion of these marriages last. It’s well known that 50 percent of all marriages end in divorce, so even if we wind up in a homogenous marriage, our odds will always be 50-50. Marriage is hard work. Which makes me wonder: Do we sometimes set such firm boundaries for ourselves that we inadvertently de-emphasize other important traits that Mr./Mrs. Right should possess and share with us to ensure lifetime happiness? Furthermore, should we be willing to widen our pool and date beyond initial religious and cultural boundaries to expand our options in finding the perfect emotional and intellectual equal?

Of course, it’s possible to find someone who matches up religiously and culturally, and fulfills all of our other relationship needs, such as shared morals, hobbies, ambitions, sense of humor, intelligence, respect, and sense of accountability, too. But considering that marriage is a challenge no matter what, as we date and search for our life partner, if we are lucky enough to have the rare experience of meeting someone who loves and accepts us for who we are, does it really matter if they meet that long list of requirements? Maybe it’s time we all take a leap of faith. 

After several months of tumultuous and unpredictable weather, from the unforgettable snowstorm in late January to the periodic flood watches and warnings that carried us through most of spring, we have finally reached summer’s doorsteps. You know what that means: beer gardens, retractable roofs and outdoor BBQs galore!

Indeed, Chicago is ripe for some outdoor activity, and you can tell by the excitement and good feeling that permeated most of Chicago yesterday. As every Chicagoan awoke to a cloudless, beautiful, 80 degree morning, I bore witness to the Memorial Day beach and lakefront mobs that descended on Lake Michigan’s downtown beaches and outdoor cafes. I joined in the excitement as I passed Oak Street Beach and saw all the umbrellas, beach towels and volleyball courts packed with Chicagoans bursting with summertime energy. After much thought, I decided to create a list of restaurants, cafes, and places to be seen this summer in Chicago. Some are old favorites that will never see the fading sun, while the newcomers are sure to turn heads and create a buzz. So whether you’re in the mood for a fancy cocktail to sip outside or kibbitz with your friends at a chic rooftop lounge, I am sure you will find good times and sensational sips at any of these places!

Ari’s Favorite Summer Sips for 2011 (in no particular order)

• Piccolo Signo - Not enough can be said about this River West Italian gem. It’s one of my parents’ favorite places to take clients and family friends alike because of its amazing food, thanks to former Coco Pazzo executive chef Tony Priolo, who has truly created a Chicago gem year round. But it makes this list because of its virtually unbeatable outdoor patio setup.

• Big Star - If you haven’t heard of this Wicker Park playground, you better make your play-date arrangements now before the sea of hungry and thirsty Chicagoans pounce on the popular tacos and throw back some seriously tasty craft brewskis. Prices are reasonable and the food is outstanding, but what makes this place truly unique is its heavily sought-after outdoor seating. On busy nights with reasonably good weather, you can expect to put your name down and be prepared to peruse the Wicker Park neighborhood as you wait for that hostess to call you to your table. On the brighter side, at least you picked a trendy and chic neighborhood to eat.

• Terzo Piano - Just when you thought you would only venture to the Art Institute to check out some new and exciting exhibits, think again! Many Chicagoans have sung Terzo’s praises for quite some time, and there is no better time to echo those praises than now. I love the arts and will always promote and encourage skeptics to go see for themselves, but now I have another reason to send them there. So get up, go to the Art Institute, marvel at the amazing exhibits, then go treat yourself to a great meal, a gorgeous view and of course, some great weather.

• The Dock at Montrose Beach - This brand new eatery has caught the attention of many avid outdoor dining lovers simply by its word of mouth (which is how I came across it). It’s so brand new, it opened this past weekend and has yet to even update its website or upload a finalized menu. Even though I have yet to experience everything that is “The Dock,” I have my eye on this particular lakeside property and hope it lives up to the hype. As the sunny summer days approach, I would put this one on your list of places to satisfy your appetite.

• ROOF at the Wit - Two years ago I signed on to bartend at the newly-opened family style State and Lake Restaurant at the Wit Hotel, and while I don’t work there anymore, I still sing the praises of its chic, ultra hip counterpart ROOF. Two years later, ROOF is still one of the most frequented rooftop bars in the city, with its gorgeous views that span nearly 360 degrees, or its outdoor fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows. The Mediterranean-style small plates will keep your tummy satisfied while you sip some deliciously original cocktail creations and marvel at how magnificent this city truly looks at night. There are alternative rooftop lounges that perch themselves on top of hotels and other downtown landmarks, but few offer the amenities that ROOF provides. It’s not everyone’s scene, but it sure hasn’t stopped Chicagoans from talking it up in the past and certainly won’t stop them now.

• The Wiener Circle - Yeah, I put it here. What, would you really object to having this notorious Chicago landmark on this list? Wiener Circle’s classic red wooden picnic tables accompany classic Chicago food—hot dogs, burgers and fries—for a perfect al fresco dining experience. Not to mention all the fun you’ll have watching the throngs of nighttime partygoers stumble and mumble up and down Clark Street. If you have one place to take a first time Chicago visitor this summer, day or night, take them here. They won’t regret it, admittedly enough, neither will you.

Some honorable mentions that nearly made my list of al fresco dining are: Citizen Bar, Duchamp, Nightwood, NOMI, C-View, Epic Sky, Volo, and Terrace at the Conrad. If you’ve got some great spots that I didn’t mention, feel free to add to this list.

So as you take a sip of that deliciously cold beverage, feeling the drops of condensation traverse your fingers on the glass, remember to savor every moment and enjoy every sip, because you never know when that doggone weather will take another turn for the worst.

L’Chaim! 

Strawberries are my favorite fruit. They are available all year round, but are really only in season in the North and Midwest in May and June.

There are roughly 30 different varieties of strawberries, the most common being a hybrid. Most people who love the bright red berry have never tasted a wild berry. Wild strawberries are drought, frost and disease-resistant and if you love berries like I do, seek out wild strawberries at your local farmer’s markets. They are available June through November.

I only use organic strawberries. The berry is delicate and does not have a skin that can be scrubbed, so any spray that is used in farming cannot easily be washed off.

Strawberry Shortcakes  

My favorite spring dessert is simple and classic. I do not want any bells and whistles in my old fashioned shortcakes, just butter and juicy berries. This recipe is only really delicious with butter and real whipped cream. It is simply not the same with margarine and non-dairy whipped topping. The best berries deserve the best ingredients and this recipe delivers. Short on time? No problem! Make the shortcakes ahead of time and freeze them. Allow them to thaw at room temperature before serving.

Serves 8

2 cups flour
4 teaspoons baking powder
Pinch of salt
1 tablespoon sugar
4 tablespoons butter
¾ cup half and half
Melted butter to brush the cakes
Strawberries
Freshly whipped cream

Heat oven 450 degrees.

1. In a large mixing bowl, combine flour, baking powder, salt and sugar.

2. Cut in butter and shortening. Mix in half-and-half. Drop by large spoonfuls onto a baking sheet.

3. Brush with melted butter and sprinkle with sugar. Bake for 15 minutes or until brown.

4. Cool and eat with berries, ice cream and/or whipped cream.

Strawberry-Rhubarb Crisp  

I love homey fruit desserts. Nothing says comfort like the smell of a fruit crisp baking in the oven. This dessert can be made for Shabbat and can be served cold or warmed for Shabbat lunch.

Serves 6

3 cups strawberries, hulled and sliced
1 cup rhubarb stalk, cut into 1 inch pieces
3 tablespoons tapioca flour
1 cup white sugar
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 tablespoon lemon zest
Pinch of salt

1. Stir all of the above ingredients together in a large bowl and transfer to a greased 10 inch baking dish.

For the Streusel topping  

2 cups all purpose flour
½ cup white sugar
½ cup brown sugar
2 teaspoons cinnamon
Pinch of salt
½ cup chopped pecans
¾ cup cold butter or non-hydrogenated shortening

1. Place all the ingredients into a large bowl and rub the fat into the flour mixture until large clumps form.

2. Liberally cover the berries with the streusel topping. Save any remaining topping in the freezer for another crisp. Bake the crisp until the streusel has browned and the berries are juicy and bubbling (about 35-45 minutes).

3. Serve with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream, when I make this pareve I serve the crisp with strawberry sorbet.

Crispy Pan Roasted Duck with Strawberry-Rhubarb Chutney  

Strawberries and rhubarb team up again to create one of my favorite combos. This is a spring time favorite. The assertive duck is complimented by the sweet and sour chutney. The dish is mouthwatering, delicious and pretty.

Serves 4

For the chutney  

Olive oil
2 red onions, thinly sliced
1 clove garlic, minced
2 cups rhubarb, cut into 1 inch segments
¼ cup rice wine vinegar
3 tablespoons brown sugar
Pinch of crushed red chilies (optional)
1 cup strawberries, hulled and sliced
¼ cup chopped mint

1. Place a medium sauté pan, lightly coated with olive oil, over medium high heat and sauté the onion until it is dark brown (about 5 minutes). Add the garlic, rhubarb, vinegar, brown sugar and chili flakes if using. Reduce the heat to a simmer and cook for 10 minutes until the rhubarb has softened and the liquid has reduced to a glaze.

2. Add the strawberries and mint and stir to combine. Turn off the heat and allow the strawberries to soften.

For the Duck  

4 duck breasts, skin scored in cross hatches to allow the fat to render

1. Place a medium sauté pan over low heat. Place the duck breasts skin side down in the pan. Gently render the fat from the breasts, pouring the fat into a container as it renders.

2. When the skin is completely rendered and crispy (about 15 minutes), turn the breasts over and place the pan in the preheated oven for 5-7 minutes for medium rare.

3. Slice the breasts and spoon the chutney over the duck.

Homemade Strawberry Jam  

Easy to do and nothing tastes better than homemade!

2 cups of sugar
1 large lemon, zested and juiced
4 cups of strawberries, hulled and sliced

1. Combine the sugar, lemon zest, and lemon juice in a small saucepan and cook over very low heat for 10 minutes, until the sugar is dissolved.

2. Add the strawberries and continue to cook over very low heat for 20 minutes, until the strawberries release some of their juices and the mixture boils slowly. Cook until a small amount of the juice gels on a very cold plate. (I keep one in the freezer.)

3. Pour carefully into 2 pint canning jars and either seal or keep refrigerated. Use immediately, or follow proper canning guidelines.  

I fell in love—with chocolate chip granola! Not just any brand, but Jessica’s Natural Foods granola. I was in Michigan with my wife visiting family and I ran into a Plum Market. Someone, possibly Jessica, was handing out samples of this awesome tasting treat. I thought, no way is this stuff healthy. I then do what I always do in this situation, I read the label. Not bad! The fat wasn’t high and the sugar wasn’t either. It’s also gluten free, so perfect for those who have celiac disease.

At first I could not find the granola in Chicago, then after checking out a few Whole Foods, I found the product. I use it when I have a chocolate craving or when I want to mix something with yogurt and some berries. Usually when I find a product I love, I contact the owner of the company. My wife beat me to the punch.

Since the world is a small place, and everyone is on Facebook, my wife realized her friend from high school is Jessica! She was looking at a status update and put two and two together. As soon as I found out, I contacted Jessica to talk about Detroit’s top-rated granola. Don’t take my word for it—check the Detroit News.

Here’s the scoop from Jessica:

How does an engineer become a baker?
I have always loved baking. I like how you add a dash of flavor and it effects the taste and texture. With a background in science I like to experiment and see if I add more brown sugar than white sugar, will my dessert turn out chewier? What happens when I substitute baking soda for baking powder…

Why gluten free granola?
A few years back my husband discovered that he has a gluten intolerance. He couldn't find any gluten-free granola so I started making it for him. As other people tasted it, I was encouraged to start selling it. And now it's available at several grocery stores and online. It's also sold at all the Whole Foods in their Midwest region.

What else do you like to bake?
I like to bake cookies, brownies, bars, muffins. I love comfort foods! I have a few recipes online. My favorite recipes that I posted are the apple crisp and the granola pie. You would never know they are gluten free. When baking cookies and muffins, I enjoy using recipes from Elana’s Pantry. They're healthy and gluten free.

What’s next for Jessica’s Natural Foods?
We are already all natural, handmade and gluten free. Now I’m working on getting our kosher certification. I would also like to add another flavor of granola.

A quick game of word association with Jessica:
Gluten: Free
Cereal: Granola
Cookies: Chocolate chip
Work: Play
Relax: Sleep

If you like granola, try Jessica’s, it’s awesome! Currently the flavors are:
• Chocolate Chip
• Almond Cherry
• Vanilla Maple

If you have other favorite foods, send them my way. 

As we start to plan my baby’s first birthday, I think about all the things we have learned over the past year that, despite our being up on the latest research, came as a surprise…

1. There will be drool. Teething morphs your baby into a rabbit who will chew on anything from the coffee table to your finger. So we were ready with teethers in every room. But we were not ready for the torrent of spit that came with teething. We kept having to buy bibs, because otherwise we would run out in two days. My mother-in-law even complained that she has no photos of the baby wearing cute tops—they are all obscured by bibs. Some bibs say, “Spit Happens.” But none speak the truth: “Spit Never Stops Happening.”

2. As much as we talk to friends and family, we talk to doctors and pharmacists. The baby has had colds, off and on, for the whole year. Mostly on. Kids get sick even when kept at home— their undeveloped immune systems just can’t handle the onslaught of germs, viruses, and other invasive species our non-womb world offers up. But we try not to overdo the anti-bacterial soaps and such, either, as we do want his immune system to develop… and we don’t want to help foster the generation of drug-resistant “super-bugs” the anti-bacterial industry is unfortunately encouraging.

3. Statistically, there likely will be something physically wrong with your kid. Bowed legs, a flattened spot on the back of the head, a torticollis-tilted neck. And you will likely freak out when you discover it. The good news is: Your kid is not the only one, it’s more common that you realize, your doctor has seen it before, it’s treatable, and the baby will be fine by the time he’s out of diapers. So do the physical therapy as much as you have to, and enjoy the kid the rest of the time.

4. No home is baby-proof. A home may be burglar-proof and fire-proof, but it is never fully baby-proof. That is because it is not fool-proof, and you are the fool that forgot that babies like to chew on cords. And that they are strong enough to weaken child-proof latches simply by trying them 173 times in one minute. And that he has been practicing standing for awhile now, and today is the day he figured it out, but never thought to send you a memo… unless you count the tablecloth and everything on it accelerating floor-ward.

5. Comparison with others’ children is not helpful. I mean, if everyone else’s kid that age can do something that yours cannot, you might want to look into it. But if the next kid over is crawling and yours is not, and you are worried about it, please know that her mom is looking at your kid’s grasping ability with envy.

6. You will buy a cup specially shaped to keep bathwater out of the baby’s eyes when rinsing his shampoo. And you will get his face wet anyway. And he will laugh like you are Daffy Duck. So then you will use this $15, special-order cup to just splash the kid right in the kisser, which you could have done with an empty sour-cream container. But that night, you will dream of taking your splash-happy kid to the pool, the beach, and the water park.

7. Not something to seal the baby’s nether cheeks together— although sometimes that might seem desirable— “butt paste” is instead a brand of diaper-rash cream. Other terms that are now part of your vocabulary: Boppy, Bumbo, Baby Bjorn, Jolly Jumper, Excersaucer, Pack-n-Play, Snap-n-Go, Angel Care, and Diaper Genie. Just register for them, even if you have no idea what they are.

8. Resistance is futile—you will join Costco. Also “Amazon Moms,” as in amazon.com. This is because diapers cost their weight in plutonium unless you buy them in bulk. And by “bulk” I mean the way the Chicago Bears buy laundry detergent. Oh, and you will buy laundry detergent at that level of “bulk,” too, because you will want the baby in clean clothes and the baby will want to finger paint them with sweet-potato mush. (If you do go with cloth diapers— something I did with my older kids— you will want a diaper service for them. Unless you want to live in the laundry room. Seriously, the condo board president called me “Laundry Man.”)

9. Make friends who have babies three months older than yours, but the same gender. Baby clothes are sized in three-month increments. So if your baby is growing out of her 0-3 month clothes, you need the 3-6 month ones, which your friends’ babies are just outgrowing. If you don’t have friends like this, I suggest doing what I did, which is to have a sister with five children.

10. Some people have the strength and stamina to wrestle crocodiles. Some have the precision hand-eye skills of a neurosurgeon. No one has both. Which is why no one can clip a baby’s fingernails. We use a file.

11. Bonus advice for those with pets: Get the pets used to toys that are very distinct from your baby’s toys. Anything that is small and squeaks says, to a dog or cat: “Hi! I’m a rodent! Kill and eat me!” Also, if the baby’s toys are soft and animal-shaped, the pet’s should be ropes and rubbery things. You can also find toys that both baby and beast can enjoy together; the best one we have found is a yoga ball. This summer, we’ll see if they’ll share a backyard sandbox. 

I was running down the lakefront path. To my right, LSD and the whirl of buses and cars rushing up and down the highway. Just beyond that was the parking lot and main entrance to the Lincoln Park Zoo. I spent about a dozen Shabbat afternoons every year walking down from Lakeview to the zoo. “The zoo is free, so you can even go on Shabbat!” I would tell all the new people at shul. What a novelty it was for me to have Lincoln Park, the conservatory, and the zoo all within a short walk and completely accessible for those of us who tried to avoid spending money or driving in cars on Saturdays. I breathed deep and looked to my left.

I looked out to Lake Michigan, North Avenue Beach and Cast-Aways. It was early May, so there were some boats on the lake, dedicated sailors hoping to get a head start on the season. The beach, the path, the people watching down here were all reasons I moved here. I smiled and looked up ahead.

Hancock, Aon, Trump and Willis jutted up and out of the skyline. From my time as a tour guide in Chicago, I could list off unusual facts, past owners and architects for each of these testaments to the genius of modern construction. Chicago is home to the architects and engineers that built 80 of the top 100 tallest buildings in the world, and I was looking on at least 10 of them right there, across the sky. The skyline was the picture from a postcard that I got to say was the view from my backyard. I sighed and closed my eyes for a moment to help remember the entire panoramic view of my run, one last time.

This was my last run by the lake. I was grateful to get out and run as much as I could, but it still, at this very moment, did not seem like it had been nearly enough to take full advantage of what I had here. Dear Chicago, I thought, you are the biggest little city in the U.S.— rich, classy and cosmopolitan while holding on to your welcoming and warm Midwest charm. You taught me the importance of community and the strength of your Jewish community. You brought me the finer things in life like afternoon games at Wrigley, meals of the most delicious deep dish pizza and the smell of baking chocolate when you step off the train on days when the wind is just right. I learned a lot about love and met the love of my life in Chicago.

Most of all, I think I will miss my time on the lake. Running down the path at all times of the year and all temperatures of the seasons. There were days that I remember riding home on the bus and seeing the runners and bikers and bladers on the path. I was practically ready to jump off the moving bus to join them. For all of these reasons and others I can’t quite put my finger on, there were few things I loved more and few ways that I could find more peace than a run down the lake.

In early May, I took my last run down the path. On May 12th, I boarded a plane and moved to Washington D.C. It was the end of an era and the beginning of so much more.

My toddler son said “Oyoyoy” the other day.

My inner Jewish mother kvelled. Not only was Ben starting to talk, he was starting to talk Jewish! My mom and I immediately set to work teaching him “oy vey,” which he had not yet mastered at the time of writing.

Upon further reflection, after hearing Ben say “oy” over and over due to the possibly overenthusiastic response he continued receiving from us, it became clear that there was only one possible way he could have learned such a phrase: Mommy.

Apart from a general resemblance to me, Ben had never actually done anything that could be connected with Mommy alone, and it struck me (and thrilled me, and terrified me) that he already was observing and so clearly imitating me.

I immediately began to wonder what other Alyssa-isms I was unwittingly passing along to my child. I watched him closely as he ate cheese quesadillas the other night, to see if he would start dancing. Sometimes, when I really love what I’m eating, I do a little “happy happy joy joy” dance, and am not even aware I’m doing it (though my husband enjoys pointing it out). I took a bite of his quesadillas, which were definitely dance-worthy; he did not seem to agree, as they mostly ended up on the floor. No happy dance, though that’s not to say he won’t pick up the habit later on.

The happy dance is a pretty harmless habit to imitate, and one that we’d probably encourage anyway, since Ben looks pretty darn cute when he dances. More worrisome are the tics and crazies that we’re in a constant battle to stop, even though they’re part of what makes us who we are.

I am stubborn to a fault, and can’t admit when I’m wrong, even when it’s increasingly obvious to everyone involved (usually my husband) that I am, in fact, wrong. Perhaps in trying to set a good example for my son, I will not continue insisting to Joe that The Bangles sing Roam, even after the DJ tells us it’s the B52s. I certainly don’t want Ben’s future wife to look at him in exasperation and wonder how he became so pig-headed.

In my quest to become more self-aware, I hope that by curbing some of my less desirable impulses, they’ll eventually just stop being impulses. Alyssa as Ben’s Mom will become an emotionally healthier person than any of the previous incarnations of Alyssa. Bonus for Ben’s Dad, who also will enjoy the benefits of the self-aware me.

The only thing that worries me is that these traits aren’t taught, they’re in our genes—in which case Ben’s wife is in trouble. 

Do dreams come true?

Do great epics have great sequels?

All these questions may be coming to a head. Dan Sinker, the Columbia College journalism professor behind the foul, hilarious, gripping Twitter epic, isn’t saying a word one way or another. But ardent followers of the dormant account have been getting some hints, and there may be reason for us to hope—and be worried.

The Trib reported this week that momentary tweets have been spotted from @MayorEmanuel, deleted almost as quickly as they’re seen. They’ve been preserved through retweets and screengrabs; a wise few have set up their cell phones to text the tweets when they arrive. Of course, the tweets are in binary code— long strings of 0s and 1s—and backwards. Once deciphered, they reveal a troubling tale: just after Election Day, @MayorEmanuel disappeared into a time vortex. We assumed he was gone for good, as the rules of the universe dictate that only one Rahm Emanuel is allotted to each universe at a time. (There are multiple universes. Physicists think it’s likely, and more to the point, writers love it, so just go with me on this.) Now, however, something seems to be amiss. @MayorEmanuel seems to be sending profane entreaties to faithful Carl the Intern to “[mess] with the signal,” because there’s something wrong with time itself.

Skeptics, of course, will come up with more prosaic explanations. The real Mayor Emanuel was inaugurated earlier this week, which is a great event to piggyback for attention. Dan Sinker is also, to my great delight, publishing an @MayorEmanuel book with an unprintable title in the fall. The book will be thoroughly annotated and cross-checked, and it’s my great hope as a comic book nerd that it will be illustrated too.

Count me among the straight-up devotees, though. I’m a writer of fiction myself, and I can’t help imagining all the various ways this story could have continued after that final, incomplete tweet that thundersleety February night. In my mind, @MayorEmanuel crossed over into a Chicago without its own Rahm, but it was a wrong Chicago. It was a Chicago with Wal-Marts and thin crust pizza and championship-winning Cubs. It may even have been a Chicago without easy access to coffee, and anyone with more than passing familiarity with @MayorEmanuel knows that his love for coffee is outdone only by his love for elaborate curses. Of course he’s going to come back. He belongs here.

If you’re interested in the entire @MayorEmanuel saga and want to catch up before, fingers crossed, any more tweets come barreling our way, I advise you to check out quaxelrod.com. All the tweets are collected in chronological order, so you can read the whole thing from the beginning. (Be careful at work, though: you may not want to explain all the swear words on your screen or the reason you’re laughing so hard to your boss.) If you’re still waiting to be persuaded, let me leave you with a summary from another Tweeter, as quoted in The Atlantic: “It was a story about love all along, wadnit? Glorious […] cross-species time-bending Chicago-style love.” That should sell anybody, I think.

I’m the first to say it: We all love a good apocalypse. (Heck, we’re scheduled for the Rapture this weekend.) The end of the world is a great way to get our attention, and if time itself is falling apart, I want a guy like @MayorEmanuel on my side. Keep an eye out, Oy!sters. I can’t wait to see what happens next. 

I love Facebook. But I also kind of hate it. One of my “friends” on Facebook—a girl from my college sorority who I have not seen or spoke to for over six years—posted something this week that really resonated with me and really got me thinking about whether Facebook is something positive or negative in my life and the lives of others:

“Sometimes I look at my FB newsfeed and think, 'gee, look at all these people I used to be friends with in real life.' What the hell happened?”

I joined the Facebook bandwagon when it was still www.thefacebook.com and hadn’t reached all of the universities across America, much less my great aunt Susan or my 16-year-old cousin Samantha. It’s hard to think back to the time before Facebook News Feed, when news actually arrived via telephone or in person, and being “friends” meant that you actually spent quality time with someone on a semi-regular basis.

There are certainly things I love about Facebook—reading articles and blog posts shared by friends that I would not have seen otherwise, watching YouTube videos that would not have otherwise made it onto my radar, and reconnecting with old friends who live in remote places. I like being able to keep tabs on old acquaintances and have birthday reminders for those who I would otherwise forget. And of course it was amazing to see just how similar William and Catherine’s wedding clothing was to Cinderella’s!

But for all the joy that cyber-stalking on Facebook provides, I’m noticing more and more that having access to all of this information can sometimes have a negative effect, even for a relatively well adjusted and happy 26-year-old with fairly-decent self-esteem (if I do say so myself).

As most men and many women will admit, women (and I should note that I include myself in this gross generalization) can be a little bit…crazy. We are incredibly critical and judgmental, of ourselves and of others, and oftentimes we hold ourselves to impossibly high standards. For me and others I know, it seems that Facebook only amplifies our insecurities, giving us a whole new wealth of opportunities to feel bad about ourselves.

Examples abound. All of your friends seem to have that something (insert one: boyfriends, fiancés, husbands, pregnancies, children, vibrant social lives, tons of friends, great jobs, etc.) and your life pales in comparison. You notice that a friend is attending a birthday party of your mutual friend…and you’re not invited. An intentional exclusion or an accidental omission? Your friend posted pictures from last weekend’s event, and wow—how did no one tell you how incredibly fat you looked in that dress that you thought was fabulous? And how dare they tag you in such an awful photo!?

Most of us are able to handle this overload of information without too much stress, but more and more often, I’ve heard friends saying that they are no longer using the site. Some have gone so far as to deactivate their account.

What do you think? 

I’ll never forget the day I stood, in deeply perplexed contemplation, the book “The Tao of Pooh” clutched tightly in my hand.

Rushing to speak with my roommate, gripping the book that she had lovingly loaned me to read, I charged, bewildered: “Arielle, do you think I’m a busybacksoon?”

She threw her head back and laughed, and it was all over.

“Yes!” She exclaimed, overjoyed that she could finally express her frustration at my hectic lifestyle , which differed so much from her own free- spirited saunterings through the streets, spending hours reading poetry and digging into explosively outrageous conversations, which I would always need to cut short, showing her the door. “I have a lot to do,” I would explain with an apologetic shrug.

A busybacksoon is a personality-type affiliated with “The Rabbit” from Winnie the Pooh, someone rushing from one task to another, always determined to accomplish. Yet, in her struggle to succeed, she spill things all over the place on her way, too busy for people, never having enough time even though she tries to make the most of every moment. “Sorry… busy…I’ll be back soon,” the Rabbit will call over his shoulder when invited to the latest social gathering or requested for a favor. In his vain efforts for successful, productive time consolidation, he becomes a busybacksoon.

And now Arielle was telling me, and “The Tao of Pooh” was telling me, and I was trying quietly to break the news to myself...that I was a busybacksoon.

Mostly it’s a crime to oneself, an obliteration of the self, a codependent unhealthy relationship with one’s ego, that leaves one’s soul whimpering in the corner, obediently and dutifully being a slave to the taskmaster, which lies within and balks orders. “ You have ten pages of science homework to do!” it exclaims, throwing up its hands and glaring. As the soul stands dutifully at attention, nodding fervently in agreement. “ And then you must call your friend Alice and wish her happy birthday, but you can’t talk long because the packages are at the post office, the children are hungry, the bills are piling, and you need to find another job. “

And these things are so important and there’s not enough time in the day, so you must brace yourself and resolve to get it all done and as quickly as possible and schedule in frivolous things in your life at two o’clock next Friday. Frivolous things such as lying in the grass and looking at the clouds, or exposing your deepest dreams and feelings to a friend in the corner of some eclectic coffee shop.

I stared at Arielle, my mind reeling, trying to figure out how to change my busybacksoon ways.

But old habits die hard, and I struggled with busybacksoon syndrome for years, a constant struggle.

Once Shabbos hit, I would light the candles and be hit by the holes in my life as the sun descended and it was all too late. What art had I done that week? What Torah had I learned? What people had I loved deeply? And my soul at last was heard in the Sabbath silence, crying out for attention and demanding proper upkeep.

But Sunday would come, and I had things to do, and that was that.

In my vain efforts to get things done and be accomplished, forever busy without any time, I was missing out on the essence of life, the magical, glorious, beautiful and delicious juicy quality of existence that is what we are meant for. The world is not an office and your friends are not your business associates. The world is a carefully orchestrated, operatic symphonic melody, and we are to listen for it and to dance to it. While we work, we are meant to dance. This dancing can and must happen in all places—in the study halls, the stock market, the gym, and the wedding canopy. The trick is to enter all of these arenas and know that this is what you are there to do—to dance.

It has been six years and counting since the busybacksoon revelation made a mark on my emotional history, a powerful lesson to gradually undue the stubborn resolve of a confused mind.

Life is changing for me now, but the struggle remains the same. “Do I have the time to speak?” I might be found, responding assuredly to a friend. “For you, of course!” And in those gradually increasing moments of triumph in choosing life, I breathe and I know. I know I am living.

I’m sorry God for not dancing as much as you wanted me to before. I didn’t hear the music. You were playing it loudly, but there was too much white noise. But I’m hearing it now, faintly. My hips are starting to shake free.

It is in the delicate balance between making a living and making a life that the dance of our existence really takes place.

Choose life.

And Arielle, thanks for your honesty. It has changed everything. How about a trip to a coffee shop, you and me?

“None of what we must overcome will be easy, but in my heart I know this: The challenges for the city of Chicago are no match for the character of the people of Chicago.”

So said Mayor Rahm Emanuel, Chicago’s first Jewish mayor, during an inauguration ceremony at Millennium Park in downtown Chicago Monday, May 16.

Emanuel succeeds Richard M. Daley, who retired after 22 years in office. Daley’s father, Richard J. Daley, was mayor for 21 years until his death in 1976.

“We are a much greater city because of the lifetime of service that Mayor Daley and First Lady Maggie Daley have given us,” Emanuel said. “Nobody ever loved Chicago more or served it better than Richard Daley. Now, Mr. Mayor, and forevermore, Chicago loves you back.”

While reflecting on the education, public safety, and financial difficulties the city faces, Emanuel offered a strong message of hope, based on in part on the city’s diversity.

“I believe in our city. I believe in our city because I know who we are and what we’re made of — the pride of every ethnic, religious, and economic background, and nearly three million strong,” Emanuel said. “Look at the three of us being sworn in today. Treasurer Stephanie Neely and Clerk Susana Mendoza….An African-American whose family came from Grenada, Mississippi in the great migration north; a daughter of immigrants who came from Mexico; a son of an Israeli immigrant from Tel Aviv…

“The three of us have achieved something our parents never imagined in their lifetimes. And while our three families traveled different paths, they came to the same united city for a simple reason – because this is the city where dreams are made.”

Emanuel’s connection to the Jewish community is a source of great pride to that community, according to Steven B. Nasatir, President of the Jewish United Fund/Jewish Federation of Metropolitan Chicago, who was among the invited guests at the inauguration.

“In my meetings with Mayor Emanuel and listening to his inauguration address today, it’s clear that he intends to be mayor of the entire city. Thank goodness it doesn’t matter in 2011 whether you’re Irish, Jewish, African American or Hispanic, leadership comes to the front depending on what the job is, and what skills and talent it requires,” Nasatir said.

“Notwithstanding that fact, the Jewish community is—and should be— proud that a person who is involved in our community—in terms of synagogue membership, Jewish education, connection to Israel, and as a donor to the Jewish United Fund—has been elected. In that connection we are very pleased and supportive.”

“I have big shoes to fill,” Emanuel said in his inaugural address. “And I could not have taken on this challenge without Amy, my first love and our new First Lady, and our children, Zacharia, Ilana, and Leah. And I want to thank my parents, who gave me the opportunity to get a good education and whose values have guided me through life.

“As your new mayor, it is an honor to fight for the change we need and a privilege to lead the city we love," Emanuel said. 

Recently, I feel like life is moving extraordinarily fast. It seems like just a couple of days ago it was April. Okay, that is actually true, so let’s try that again. It seems like just a couple of weeks ago it was February. Even so, trying to remember what February was all about, on the other hand, is a dubious task. When I go back into my Oy! archives, I can see that I was clearly enjoying my first winter in Chicago walking down Lake Shore Drive and racing turtles. That was back in the innocent times, with weather too cold to worry about missing anything exciting happening outside and most people hibernating in their mole holes.

It seems like the annual rite of passage for springtime is the completion of my favorite holiday— Passover. I view it as a transition in the types of things we complain about. All winter, we complain about the cold and the slush and closed beaches. But on Passover, we forget all that - we have to spend a billion years cleaning our bear dens and the only reward we get is to not be able to sit down and have a beer (chametz) when it is all done! At least there’s matzah pizza and Netflix, but that’s hardly consolation.

As spring has moved in, the opportunities for fun have become a lot more abundant. Joining an Ultimate Frisbee group, running in the Cinco de Miler (destroying my mile with a 35 sec./mile improvement!), and actually enjoying hanging out on the streets of Chicago have all put some spring in my step. What could be better to top it off than heading over to Wrigley to take in a fresh dose of America’s past time and get some chametz back in my system, salted peanut and cracker-jack style. This ballgame, however, was the beginning of a crazy journey.

Sitting in Section 229-3, Row 23, Seat 10, I was being blown at by a fierce wind from all sides and then drifted down to a closer seat - Row 15. The trip down to Row 15 was not an easy one. I was kicked around, thrown about, and pushed aside by an usher. At that time, I had only made it down to Row 20 when I quickly realized I was positioned in Someone Else’s seat and that Someone Else, who was not a small individual by any definition, was quickly moving towards me on his way back from the concession stand. Someone Else was getting closer and closer and I finally got up. Before I could get far, he tried to step on me to teach a lesson, but his corpulent self could not outwit me! Just as I was about to be flattened, he tripped over me and dropped his soda and soft pretzel on the chair in front of him. While trying to rescue his snack, I was able to sneak away and resettled myself seven rows down to my more-permanent resting place in Row 15, Seat 7.

You’re probably waiting to read about how I got through this unscathed...don’t worry, we’ll get there!

Seat 7 turned out to be the most exciting though. The guy sitting two seats down from me got in a shouting match with a seagull after the bird wanted to add a little bit of flavor to his nachos but missed, hitting his sleeve with something that went “splat!” Seriously though, what are the chances of getting hit by bird “leftovers” at the game? Probably about the same as catching a foul ball, which I might add, happened to the same guy two innings later!

After the baseball game, which the Cubs lost, I figured I would stick around for a little while and relax, but the baseball gods had something different in store. Finding me in Seat 7, an usher picked me up and threw me in an alley outside Wrigley alongside a dumpster. After wandering the streets of Wrigleyville for a few hours and getting shoved aside and kicked around by anyone who came my way, I eventually found my way over to Lake Michigan, where the only logical thing to do after such a journey was to jump in and let the current take me away.

The story I just described to you really never happened to me, but it is one that could have happened to a piece of litter in a public place like a baseball stadium. Recently, I was able to participate in and help in leading an Alliance for the Great Lakes beach clean-up at Montrose Beach along Lake Michigan. I’m not trying to gather your sympathy for the long and hard journey that trash takes, but to gain awareness for our local natural resources and to instigate thoughts about where our trash ends up!

Our drinking water, our beaches, forest preserves, and parks are all made less enjoyable by the things we pour down the sink, flush down the toilet, or leave behind without cleaning up. Among the trash that was found at the beach, most of them were items that can be traced back to activities based at the beach: broken glass, bottle caps, fishing line, and cigarette butts. However, there were plenty of items that we found which you would have to come up with an outlandish story (like the one above) to figure out how they got there: a fake Santa beard, personal hygiene products, and a fake finger nail.

In addition to protecting our natural resources so that we may be able to enjoy them more, we should protect our natural resources so that they can be healthier and safer for other species and life forms to use, too. Raccoons, normally preferring to live in woodlands, are attracted to the beach by leftover food waste, creating an unsafe environment for them and for human beach visitors, too. Other animals that spend their time in coastal areas are also attracted to food waste and cause other problems in coastal ecosystems when their increased droppings cause chemical and bacterial imbalances and funky smells along the beach.

The natural resources that we treasure so dearly, especially in the springtime and summer, are so important for us to protect. Last year, 10,000 residents of Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Minnesota, Ohio, and Wisconsin picked up 31,295 lbs. of trash at beaches along the Great Lakes through Alliance for the Great Lakes’ Adopt-a-Beach program. While there are many ways that beaches become unhealthy, our actions can contribute to having healthier, cleaner, happier beaches this summer and beyond.

Enjoy the sun! 

With the exception of a brief fellowship at an Indianapolis newspaper, my entire—albeit not too long—career has been as a professional Jew. That’s altogether different from being a Jewish person who is also a professional. In fact, as a professional Jew, I’ve been steeped in Jewish undertakings in both my work and home lives.

Recently, I switched between two Jewish organizations. I’m still getting used to my new position—and my new office, which has a beautiful, 29th-floor city view!

But as I’m adjusting, I can’t help but think about the transition. I’m also realizing that a few key steps helped me (I think) make it as comfortable for everyone involved as possible.

When I left the Jewish Federation to start working at the American Jewish Committee, I tried to make sure that I was leaving on good terms. This was the first time when I left not because I was moving to another city, but because I got a different job in the same city. I rehearsed my “I’m leaving in three weeks” speech several times before actually going into my supervisors’ offices to make the announcement. All four of the conversations were tough. But I had to think about what was best for my career ambitions—and I’ve got a whole slew of them.

Leaving my colleagues was bittersweet. Over the past 2 years and 8 months, I’ve shared more than early morning magazine proofing sessions and marketing strategy meetings with other professional Jews.

My new job involves building relationships with other communities—something I’ve been keen on for some time (see my old blog post about finding non-Jewish friends). But I want to think that the relationships I’ve built with my Federation colleagues, whom I respect tremendously, will endure this change. After all, we’re all in the same business of making this world a better place, as cliché as it might sound.

From my recent experience, here are some tips to make transitions sweet rather than wholly bitter:

1. Finish your work. I was in the middle of two big projects when I found out about and took the offer for my new position. It’s a given that they needed to be completed—or tasks handed off to appropriate people—before I left. And as much as finishing all tasks sounds like a given, I imagine it might be hard to concentrate on current projects when you’re already looking ahead to future ventures in the new job.

2. Be truthful about why you are leaving, but be diplomatic about it. I loved working for the Federation and with my colleagues. But I wasn’t using my graduate degree or many of my other skills and talents. My new job gives me more of a chance to do so.

3. Offer to help the new person when the position is filled. I have no reservations about fielding a call from whoever is my replacement about the job—whether it’s about who to contact for what or how to upload a document to the website.

4. Keep the connections with former colleagues going. I’m the first to admit that I can be lax in this area. Since my new office is just five blocks away from my previous one, I’ll be checking out all our old haunts to have lunch or a coffee date with former colleagues. And who can say that building relationships with other local Jewish organizations is bad for business? 

I realized yesterday that I turn 27 in two months. Twenty-seven seems like an incredibly big number. That’s definitely out of the mid-twenties, and it’s definitely closer to 30 than I’m used to contemplating. People who are 27, in my rather skewed view of the world, have their lives together. Considering that I now have less than two months until July 10, I have started keeping records and making lists. I have an act to get together.

This has been a while in coming. A few months ago I accidentally fell into a Borders liquidation sale and accidentally fell out with a significantly slimmer wallet. One of the treasures I picked up was an honest-to-goodness little black book. I’ve written about my dangerous love affair with blank notebooks before. This one, however, I’m trying not to lionize. It’s a place for lists: to-do lists, grocery lists, lists of links to send friends, lists of projects to organize. If anything grandiose happens here, it’ll be by happy accident. (Dada poetry, perhaps?)

It’s funny, how quickly this urge to organize my life came on me. Like many of my decisions, it happened in fits and starts, with plenty of melodrama. I think I spent an entire weekend alternating between feeling frustrated at easily fixable things and furiously congratulating myself for solving all my problems in one glorious sitting.

This is not to say that there’s been no progress, that I set my goals too high and have given up on all of them. I’m actually pretty pleased with how well I’ve been sticking to the goals I’ve set. One new development has been my slow integration of a regular workout schedule. I’ve had many friends do Couch to 5K over the years. It’s worked for some and not for others. It turns out I love it. I’ve had a longstanding antipathy to organized exercise. The reasons are, by and large, irrational, but all the same, I’ve never belonged to a gym and I haven’t been on an athletic team since middle school summer league softball. When the weather started getting nicer, or at least bearable, I made my first attempts, supremely confident in my own overall fitness.

Ha. That was a fun start! Lesson in humility: learned.

Through the power of perverse persistence, though, I’ve started to get tastes of the legendary runner’s high. It’s a nice reward in and of itself, but it’s also nice not to feel so reactive. Somewhere in one of the creative writing blogs I follow, someone made the observation that the Sears Tower didn’t spring up fully formed all at once: all sorts of little rivets and bolts had to come together, and that huge building is the result of many small actions that accumulated over time. That could be the wisdom of the ages talking: people over the age of 27 surely understand that and go through life perfectly in control of their world. Being an adult is absolutely just like being the Sears Tower.

Well. I’ve got two months to get my routine straightened out. If anything comes up, no worries: it goes straight to my book of lists.

Photo credit: Bob Kusel

Until today, I had always thought of soup kitchens as gloomy establishments where the impoverished stand in line for hours to receive food rations in a method similar to the one employed in Oliver Twist. In high school, I avoided soup kitchens and found other ways to do service because I didn’t think I could handle seeing mass poverty up close.

But today I took a trip to the JUF Uptown Cafe with Northwestern Hillel’s Tikkun Olam Task Force, and all of my perceptions changed.

The JUF Uptown Cafe is Chicago’s first kosher anti-hunger program and is housed in the Dina and Eli Field Ezra Multi-Service Center in Chicago. The feeding program, which offers four meals a week to its registered clientele, is housed in a well-lit room with blue and white tiling and a diner-style layout. Volunteers act as waiters, taking drink orders from customers and carrying food to the table.

Jake Adler, who is the case manager for many of the attendees, said that the restaurant style gives people more dignity. They feel as if they’re going to a meal with friends because they enjoy the atmosphere, not because they are desperately in need of food. I saw this to be true as I watched large groups of people laughing and telling stories as they ate a full meal at a table decorated with flowers for Mother’s Day.

But the man that I was serving was sitting alone, eating his eggs and orange juice in silence. It wasn’t until I sat down to speak with him that I discovered he was deaf in one ear, and had trouble participating in group conversation. For the next 15 minutes, he told me all about his career in the restaurant business and his run as head chef in a Chicago establishment. He said can’t cook anymore because he doesn’t have a stove.

Another man that I served ate his meal and took another to go, asking for an extra bagel because he was “really hungry.” It was heartbreaking to have to deny him, but resources are limited and Jake had explained to us a fair rationing process. It really made me stop and think about what happens to these people when they leave the cafe, about what they do for every other meal.

The Ezra Multi-Service Center provides not only meals, but also movie nights, musical groups and health programming. The program caters to Jews and non-Jews alike and provides them with a case manager who monitors their physical and emotional health. According to Jake, everything that the JUF Uptown Cafe serves is kosher, being that about 40 percent of the people who attend meals are Jewish. He discussed with us the difficulties of trying to keep kosher when just finding food is a problem. It’s not something I ever thought about before today.

On the whole, I found my hour and a half of volunteering at the JUF Uptown Cafe a positive and enlightening experience. I feel informed about the struggles of the impoverished Chicago population and also grateful that programs like this exist. I appreciate JUF for all that it does in terms of outreach, and I commend the Tikkun Olam Task Force for getting Northwestern involved in the service opportunities available. I encourage everyone to find as many ways possible to combine faith and philanthropy, as being Jewish is not an individual identity, but a communal one.  

One of the reasons I love working at Shorashim is that I get to work on cool projects in addition to Taglit-Birthright Israel. One of them is called Classroom to Classroom: an initiative to help Hebrew high school classrooms and religious schools make their Israel curriculums more innovative using social media. Through a fellowship sponsored by the iCenter and the Jewish Education Project called Project Incite, I was coached through creating a brand new educational project that will rock the Jewish world, and most importantly to our organization’s mission: connect Americans and Israelis.

With the help of Shorashim’s Executive Director Adam Stewart, we designed a pilot social media platform and invited classroom teachers to join us on a trip to Israel to meet with other teachers from Kiryat Gat to be trained on the program and put their already existing curriculum to use.

The trip, thanks to our P2K hosts Niva Vollman and Susan Peled, was a success beyond my imagination. The teachers from the Chicago area (Hanna Pashtan—Highland Park High School, Semadar Siegel—Evanston Township High School, Ezra Balzer—Congregation Am Yisrael) hit it off with the four teachers from the Kiryat Gat high schools and picked up the program quickly.

After follow up visits to most of the schools, the program was launched and the students from the Chicago area and Israel were connecting with each other within (and sometimes outside) the framework of the Classroom to Classroom platform. Perhaps one of the most poignant exchanges came from the following question: What do you think is the hardest thing about being a teenager in the United States and Israel?

One Chicago area teen wrote: We have many pressures on us. Most of us are involved in many after school activities. It is very hard on American teenage students to manage our time. A typical school week day for me is going to school, staying three and a half more hours for dance rehearsal, then going home to do all the homework I have that night. The homework level we get can be very stressful. As a junior in high school, another pressure is the ACT, which is a standardized test. All colleges you apply to look at your ACT score to help them determine if you should be accepted or not. Many students spend a lot of time studying and practicing for this test throughout the whole year. It adds even more pressure than just keeping up with school activities and homework.  

Another Chicago area teenager wrote: The hardest thing about being a teenager in America is the constant fake personalities of people and the nonsense that people say to you to try and make you feel bad. 

An Israeli teenager wrote: I think that the hardest thing of being a teenager in Israel is the wars, for example ‘Oferet yetzuka.’ We were supposed to stay at home all day long, afraid from the missile, even very late at night! But despite all the pain and fear we are proud to be Israeli teenagers. In times like this, it's important to support each other and be united.  

Another teenager from Israel wrote: For my opinion, the hardest thing of being teenager in Israel is to be able to manage all the hatred and hostility from the world ...it took us so long to build this whole state, why can’t we just live in peace without all the wars and the fear in our eyes? Although it sounds very depressing, I wouldn't change my origin for any penny in the world! It who I am, who we are, the Israeli citizens... and we have our special quality. 

Shorashim’s mission is our belief that students (and adults) best learn about Israel from her people, and that the same is true for Israelis learning about American Jewry. While the absolute best way is to visit Israel until a student can get to Israel, perhaps Classroom to Classroom is the second best way.

If your school or congregation in interested in participating in Classroom to Classroom 2.0, email me at sharna@shorashim.org.

“Have you practiced your cello yet?” It’s a question, but growing up it was the answer to my questions about watching T.V., playing at a friend’s house, having a sleepover, you name it. Some days I responded with a groan, other’s a happy “Yep! Can I go now?” It took a while, but over the years I grew to love practicing. I struggled through those junior high years when I wasn’t allowed to quit, and as I improved my technique and my sound smoothed out and became full, my practice sessions stretched into the hours. Even though my cello practice changed over the years and has waned almost completely, it has marked my life forever. The lessons I learned from playing the cello keep coming back to me in other ways.

Lesson 1: Discipline
Put your butt in the chair and do it. Play your scales and etudes, repeat. Write your 500 words of the day. Draw something and mix your paint. Unroll your yoga mat and lay on it until you are ready to do some sun salutations. Breathe during all of the above.

Lesson 2: Focus
Pay close attention to what you’re doing; how else will you recognize when the art happens? Tune out the background noise and voices of doubt. At first this focus will be on finding the correct pitch or selecting the perfect word, but eventually you will forget about the individual notes you are playing and the story will pour out of you.

Lesson 3: Repetition
Do it every day. Develop cello calluses on your fingertips and wear them with pride. Play the difficult sections of your piece over and over and over. “So, you want to be a writer and a painter?” I ask myself. “Then write and paint every day. Then you will be a writer and a painter.” (Yes, I talk to myself sometimes.) So, you want to play music? You want to be a fill-in-the-blank? Well then sit down, dig in, and repeat.

I no longer have a daily cello practice, but I do have a writing practice, a painting practice, and I would like to revive my yoga practice. Having a practice is a little different now that I have two 16 month-old girls running around, but the same lessons still apply: Discipline to keep working on my personal goals despite sleep deprivation and a million baby-related distractions, focusing on one thing at a time, and regular, if not daily practice. Most days there is time for one, maybe two practices during a nap time or after night-night, in between cooking and paying bills and showering.

I read somewhere that at work you should always dress like your boss. Dress like the person you want to become and you will be that person. Same with decorating your house. Surround yourself with the furniture and artwork of the person you want to be and you will be that person. Same with your practice, whatever it is that you choose. A friend once gave me a card with this quote from Van Gogh. “If you hear a voice within you say, ‘you can’t paint,’ then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced.” Creating the life you want is all about the practice.

Last week I saw this Ira Glass video where he talks about being an artist and pushing through those times when you are making stuff that you know isn’t good – films, radio, music, etc. It is only by making that stuff that you improve and make the work you know you are capable of creating. I had been thinking about this idea of having a practice and the video inspired me to keep going.

Whatever the practice, I’m finding that the concepts are the same as those I learned growing up with my cello. With gratitude, I offer up a big shout out to my cello standing in the corner, my parents who gave it to me, and the teachers that pushed me. Thanks for teaching me so much more than how to pull a bow across some strings. 

The week was filled with outside dentistry. Our days were spent under the shade of a mango tree, helping the community with much needed dental care.

Under the Mango Tree  

Under the Mango Tree,
It’s always more fun doing dentistry.
Tools spread out on the table,
Something you couldn't even read in a fable.
Leaves shade the patients waiting in chairs.
One extraction after the next and no one cares.
No need for appointments, the weather is nice,
If you need a snack reach up without thinking twice.
Children wander in and out,
Many sit in the dental chair without even a shout.
People sitting in observation,
Others watching in anticipation.
They just relax the day away,
Under the Mango Tree. 

Chicago has had its share of great athletes—Michael Jordan, Frank Thomas, and Stan Mikita to name a few. The Bears have probably been the richest of the Chicago teams, with players like Walter Payton, Gayle Sayers, and Dick Butkus. But it has been a while since any Chicago team has had a great Jewish athlete. The Cubs had Ken Holtzman and Steve Stone but besides those two it has been hard for Chicagoans to rally around a top Jewish star. The one Chicago Jewish athlete that has Hall of Fame status is Sid Luckman. Luckman retired in 1950 and Chicago Jews have been searching for a star ever since. And with the 29th pick in the 2011 NFL Draft the wait might have ended. The Chicago Bears selected Gabe Carimi out of the University of Wisconsin.

The last two NFL drafts have seen three Jewish football players drafted. In 2010, Tampa Bay took Erik Lorig in the 7th round. The other pick was Taylor Mays who was a projected first round pick. After getting snubbed by his own college coach Pete Carroll, Mays fell to the second round. But this year Carimi was selected in round number one. Jewish football fans finally have a player to cheer for. Over the last few years there have been a bunch of up and coming Jewish athletes in other sports including Jordan Farmar, Kevin Youkilis, and Mike Cammalleri. But Carimi comes in immediately and is arguably the top Jewish NFLer. His numbers will not be flashy and he won’t be catching touchdowns, but he has the opportunity and potential to be a perennial Pro Bowler.

Carimi will play for an offensive line that is anchored by Olin Kruetz. He has one objective in the Mike Martz style offensive: protect Jay Cutler. The Bears have invested a lot of time and money in their quarterback and have done a poor job giving him time to throw the ball. So, Carimi needs to keep Cutler off his back and allow him to throw touchdowns.

In college Carimi won the 2010 Outland Trophy for the nation’s top interior lineman. He had 49 starts at left tackle and played in the 2011 Rose Bowl. He was also a unanimous selection 2010 Consensus All-American and the Big Ten Offensive Lineman of the Year.

That is what he has done on the field but in the synagogue he has been much more impressive. He grew up in a Reform synagogue where he was bar mitzvahed at Temple Beth-El in Madison. He had a bar mitzvah project that helped Habitat for Humanity. While in high school he helped in his synagogue’s Hebrew School. According to a JTA article, this past September, Yom Kippur coincided with an afternoon game. Carimi wrestled with whether he should play at all, even going to his rabbi for advice. Ultimately, he came up with his own compromise: Instead of fasting from sundown to sundown, he started the fast early enough to give himself a few hours to recover before the game.

He is not only Jewish but he cares about his religion. Caring brings Jews more pride than just playing sports. Yes, we love Sandy Koufax for being Jewish, but we hold him on a pedestal for not playing on Yom Kippur. We love Omri Casspi for playing basketball but we cheer for him more for embracing the Jewish community. And we follow Yuri Foreman for being a champion, but we love him more because he is going to be a Rabbi. Carimi is not just another Jewish player; he will be a leader on the field and in the Jewish world.

We as Jews should celebrate this first round draft pick. Not just Bears fans, but Jews everywhere. Carimi is a public figure, one that embraces his Jewishness and can be a role model for young Jews everywhere. I know I will be watching him on a weekly basis, which is made easier by him wearing Blue and Orange. Welcome “Bear Jew” and get ready to Bear Down!

In celebration of the Royal Wedding, I offer a true Jewish recipe. A trip to London or anywhere in the UK cannot be complete without a pint of beer and a platter of fish and chips.

But, did you know that fish and chips is actually a Jewish dish? The battered and fried fish recipe was brought to England in the 1500s by Portuguese Sephardic Jews who had come to Britain to escape persecution. The crispy fish was called Pescado Frito. The history of the addition of fried potatoes is a bit blurry and may be credited to the Belgian recipe for fried potatoes. By the Victorian era, eating fried fish was very popular throughout the UK and was referred to in a Dickens novel and other popular fiction.

The first fish and chips shop opened in London in 1860 and was owned by Joseph Malin. The fish was fried in oil in “the Jewish fashion” and served with potato wedges that were rounded and resembled the fin of a fish.
Fish and chips is a delicious and crispy treat. While the recipe is easy to prepare, the timing can be tricky.

Have all of your ingredients measured and prepared and your hungry diners assembled. Once the fish is fried, it should be served immediately so that the crispy batter does not get soggy.

Fish and chips—in the Jewish style  

6 cups neutral flavored oil (I use canola or safflower)
2 pounds Russet potatoes, peeled and cut into ½ inch thick wedges
1 cup all purpose flour
2 teaspoons Old Bay seasoning
Pinch of cayenne pepper
1 cup dark beer (I like Guinness)
2 egg whites, whisked until they at soft peaks
Salt and pepper
4 6-ounce fish filets, be sure to use firm, thick fish such as cod or halibut
Malt vinegar

1. Heat the oil to 275 in a large, heavy pan. Blanch the potatoes in the oil until they are opaque and soft (about 3-5 minutes). Transfer the potatoes to a sheet pan lined with paper towels and allow them to cool completely. (this will allow the starch to crystallize and ensure a crispy chip)

2. In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, Old Bay, cayenne and beer. Fold in the egg whites. Place the bowl inside a large bowl that is filled with ice water. This will help the batter stay crispy and delicate.

3. Pat dry the fish filets, dredge them in the batter and place them into the heated oil. Cook until they are crispy and brown (about 3-5 minutes). Transfer to a pan lined with paper towels. Add the blanched chips to the hot oil and fry until the chips are golden brown (about 3 minutes).

4. Serve the fish and chips with malt vinegar, tartare sauce, horseradish sauce or your favorite condiment. 

If you polled the average American, I bet you that 75% or more would be able to tell you what the YMCA is and what the acronym represents. The Young Men Christian’s Association, better known for its notorious headline for the Village People’s greatest hit, is probably the most visible nonprofit organization that has existed for almost 160 years.

But what about USY? If you polled the average Jewish American, do you think that they can tell you what USY is and what the acronym represents? Perhaps. What I can tell you is that it is certainly less visible than YMCA, and rightfully so, since the majority of the US population is, well, not Jewish. But just because it is not as visible doesn’t necessarily diminish or discount the meaning of USY.

From April 8th to 10th, I had the honor and privilege of staffing and supervising the culminating USY convention for the CHUSY Region’s 2010-2011 year: Kinnus (key-noose). By definition, Kinnus means “convention,” but it means more than that to the USY community. It is a defining moment in both its signal of the end of a year and a time for both reflection of the past year and anticipation and excitement for the year to come. New leaders emerge, old ones pass their torches, and everyone is reminded of what it is that brought them all together in the first place: Judaism. I was amazed to see how many other USY youth resided in our region and experience their passion for everything Jewish.

I can tell you right now that I could not be prouder to be a part of this amazing experience, and I am so proud of all the SHMUSY (Anshe Emet’s USY Chapter) members and executive board, who literally turned around the chapter by raising more Tikkun Olam and social action money than any other chapter (over $9,000 and more than four times the amount of the next highest chapter). There is something to be said for what these committed and motivated Jewish high school students were able to accomplish. Through their efforts and continued participation, I discovered how vital it is for them to have USY both as an option and an opportunity, to develop new friendships and leadership skills, to reach out to the community as well as their fellow Jewish peers, to make a difference.

I am blessed to have been a part of such an amazing organization as a former member and now as an advisor. I was a SHMUSY member the year our chapter won chapter of the year and although we did not receive that award this year, we are proud to be a part of SHMUSY and of USY. Although I won’t be presiding as Anshe Emet’s Youth Director in the years to come, I am still so fortunate to be able to be in a position to bring the Jewish youth closer together. It’s amazing to know that there is a place for Jewish youngsters to come together and become that community that our forefathers and ancestors prayed would come to pass, a place in our minds and hearts that many people fought and died for and would only exist as a whisper.
Well, the time for whispering is over. Support USY in any way you can. Help develop and nurture our young Jewish generation to become the leaders of our communities and our society. Spread the word about USY and encourage those that qualify to get involved in their local chapters, whether as a member or as part of the executive board. I promise you, if you show them how amazing USY can be for them, they won’t regret it.

Tune in next issue where I jump head first into Chicago’s newest and hottest dining and drinking spots, you definitely do NOT want to miss my thorough and comprehensive reviews for your next exciting outing in Chicago!

Until next time! L’Chaim!  

If you workout really hard, you could burn between 300-500 calories. If you are running or biking a ton, you could get that number even higher. And then you can have one meal of 1200 calories and the calories you burned in your workout are instantly negated. That’s why eating right is so important. I harp on the fact that you need to plan your meals. If you cook often, this becomes second nature.

I highly recommend cooking, or if you’re rich hire a chef. Healthy cooking is simple. Let’s talk about marinades—everyone knows how to grill a chicken breast, but how do you make it taste good and still be healthy? In the grocery store you can find a ton of marinades, which are seasonings and sauces to add flavor to food, most of which are loaded with salt. You can easily make your own marinade with olive oil, a pinch of salt, and pepper. You put that over your chicken and refrigerate it either over night or for a few hours before cooking. That same mix is fine for fish. Beef is a different animal (pun intended) and often quality beef only needs salt and pepper.

For some tips for marinating and healthy options for eating out, check out this video where I talk to Lou Goldhaber, owner of Leo’s Coney Island in Lakeview, 3455 N. Southport.

If on Sunday night you marinate chicken with my simple mix, you can use it over several days. The great thing about this chicken, it’s like a utility belt, cut up the chicken and toss in the following:
• Soup
• Pasta Marinara
• Sandwich with avocado and honey mustard
• Toss on top of Boboli or other pizza crust
• Stir fry vegetables with some soy sauce, made brown rice, toss in chicken

The options you have are unlimited! If you over power the chicken with garlic (because you want bad breath) or another seasoning, it will taste great but then it’s harder to use in other recipes. Make it simple and you can always add flavors with each dish, that way you’re not eating the same boring meal each night.

To go along with your cooking, buy some vegetables. I buy:
• Carrots
• Celery
• Onion
• Cucumber
• Green and red pepper
• Zucchini
• Sweet Potato
• Broccoli

Buy vegetables you like. I recommend buying a new veggie each week, it’s important to vary your diet, and who knows, you might really like parsnips.

If you are looking for healthy recipes check Ellie Krieger she makes great food and her recipes aren’t difficult.

I walk back to our mudroom, where we keep Ruby’s leash and collar, and the dog is right on my heels, crying with anticipation. After I get her ready, which takes too much time because she won’t stop jumping, I turn around and call for Ben, my 20-month-old.

At this point, Ruby’s excitement dims visibly. A walk with me means a brisk pace, and the opportunity to cover lots of ground. A walk with Ben and me means slow going; Ruby runs ahead until there’s no lead left on the leash, and then waits impatiently for us to catch up.

Ben, my curious little explorer, isn’t overly concerned about letting Ruby get her schpilkes out. He is content to mosey across neighbors’ lawns as though he owns the entire neighborhood. He walks up to each door and lifts up his hand to knock, knowing it’ll get a semi-panicked reaction from Mommy, especially when she knows these neighbors aren’t particularly friendly. He turns around to see what I’ll do, decides not to knock after all, and then darts back down the path to trample another neighbor’s lawn. He picks up every rock, acorn, insect, empty water bottle, chewed gum, cigarette butt, worm and goose poop that comes across his path. He keeps the rocks and acorns to himself, but hands me the other items for identification.

Ruby, agitated because a squirrel is within reach, suddenly chases the animal to a nearby tree. As she tries to climb up the tree, barking like a maniac, Ben runs over and howls along with her, pointing up at the elusive squirrel. Sensing defeat, Ruby makes her way to the fire hydrant for a sniff, with Ben close behind. Ruby finds a good smell and decides to make the area her own, and Ben follows suit, squatting alongside her as she does her business. It’s a Kodak moment.

At this point, Ben’s hands are full of rocks, and he’s trying to squeeze in more. He can’t understand why his hands aren’t able to do what his little boy brain is directing. I ask him if he’d like me to hold some of them, and he says no. He is determined to pick up one last rock, and somehow figures out that even though his hands are both full, if he holds the last rock between his closed fists, it will stay put. He looks at me triumphantly, and I respond in kind. Toddler victory.

We are about to cross paths with a Golden Retriever and his owner. Ruby’s tail is wagging so hard her whole body is shaking; Ben is yelling “Goggie! Goggie!” I start to remind him to be gentle, but before I am even at his eye level, the dog and its owner have crossed the street. Ben and Ruby both turn and look at me, disappointed and confused, and I am left wondering how to explain that sometimes we just don’t get everything we want. Ben points across the street and says “Goggie” once more. My heart breaks a little.

We collect ourselves and move on, 20 minutes into the walk yet only halfway around the block. A school bus drives by, and the Golden Retriever is forgotten. Ben trots after the bus, and Ruby is thrilled for the opportunity to run. We all race to the corner, where the bus drops off three students. I tell Ben that some day he’ll go to school and ride the bus, too. The thought of it makes me teary, but he grins and points to the bus.

Rounding the last corner, we make our way home. Ben starts to slow down, knowing the fun is almost over, and that he will have to leave his rocks in the designated bucket in the garage. Ruby speeds up, knowing that she’ll get water and a cookie, and a nice, long nap on her favorite stair. Before Ben can argue about going inside, I remind him that there are lots of new library books to read, and macaroni and cheese for lunch, and he takes my hand and leads the three of us inside.

From left: Bela Gandhi, Shanae Hall, Amy Dickinson and moderator Jeniffer Weigel

While Chicago might not have its very own Patti Stanger, it does have its own crop of relationship experts, including Chicago Tribune and nationally syndicated advice columnist Amy Dickinson, better known as “Ask Amy.” Amy, along with relationship expert and CNN Headline News Correspondent Shanea Hall and local matchmaker Bela Gandhi recently gathered to share their expertise at a panel discussion hosted by Trib Nation titled: “Finding and Keeping your Soulmate.” Seizing on the opportunity to learn from the real experts, some single friends and I decided to attend the at times hilarious and often cringe-worthy event. Focused mostly on the speakers own dating stories often affectionately referred to as a “dis-ate” and playing to a mostly female crowd of 30-40something women, the evening was an opportunity to learn, share advice and have fun.

Dating detox.
The former wife of an NFL player, Shanea Hall spent 14 years in a rocky marriage worried about her husband cheating. When she left the marriage, she knew she needed a break from the dating scene to pick up the pieces of her life, so she went on a, “dating detox” (and I thought I’d coined the term!) She was celibate for two years as she rediscovered what, “made her happy.” She recommends that others going through similar breakups do the same, “make it plain in writing to you what it is about you that you like— what you bring to the table,” she says. “If you jump into a new relationship too fast, without getting over the last one, you risk entering another unhealthy situation where your self-esteem is centered on the man.”

Exercise of clarity.
Bela Gandhi, founder of the Smart Dating Academy, takes a similar approach with her new clients. She has them do an “exercise in clarity” to examine how their past relationships—all the way back to childhood—can influence or pattern their new ones. She says it’s as simple as making a list of, “five things you like and dislike about your past relationships and to use them as red flags to watch out for in new ones.”

Don’t be online-averse.
Once you’re ready to find that special someone, don’t be “online-adverse.” According to the panelists, more than 40 million Americans are dating online and “everybody is doing it.” But there’s a right way and a wrong way to online date. First, make sure that your profile photo is just of your face with a big, warm smile. Bela recommends shying completely away from “glamour shots’ because they can send the wrong message—you need to be rich to date me or I’m too good for you. She also recommends creating an “authentic profile,” which includes examples and stories and about five adjectives that describe you. Finally, she says to cast your net wide— even using tools like Facebook.

A well of people.
They all agreed that Facebook is a great tool to help your super connectors— married friends who know single people they should set you up with— get you dates. Look at your friends’ friend lists and scope out potential mates. Don’t be afraid to ask your friends for details about them— you might find your next boyfriend or girlfriend.

16 dates till you give it up.
Once you think you’ve found that special someone, don’t give it up quick…in fact, the experts agreed you should wait 16 dates. They say, “women develop emotional chemistry immediately, but men need time to build it and if you give it up too fast, they won’t have a chance to.” Now, I agree with them and I’ve openly admitted to my own prudish tendencies in the past, but 16 dates before you give it up is a little extreme, even for me. Don’t get me wrong, I still don’t think people should sleep around until they are in a 100% monogamous and committed relationship, but I’m not sure it takes 16 dates to get to that point. What do you think Oy!sters?

One thing the panelists and I could all agree on is that the most important thing you can do in a new relationship is to look at what the other person is doing, not just what they are saying. And trust your gut to catch those red flags. For example, if they are significantly late to a date, they might not be that invested in you because if they were, they’d figure out a way to get there on time.

And that in the end, everyone is just looking for someone nice who can be their best friend, so be nice to everyone you meet because you never know when you’ll find your next love.

TribU!, a part of Trib Nation, a new initiative of community outreach by the Chicago Tribune, hosts live gatherings on issues of importance to Chicagoans. To learn more about TribU!, and to see the schedule of future events, check out: www.chicagotribune.com/tribnation.  

Baseball player and author Aaron Pribble took time out of his busy schedule to speak about his new book "Pitching in the Promised Land."

1. Tell TGR a little bit about yourself.
I was born in San Francisco and raised just across the Golden Gate Bridge, which makes me a Giants, Niners and Warriors fan. After receiving a scholarship to the University of Hawaii, I pursued my dream of playing professional baseball, which included two seasons of independent ball and one final summer in France. Thinking I was headed to law school, I decided while in Europe to become a teacher rather than a lawyer. Three years into my new profession I learned of a baseball league being formed in Israel. Since I’m Jewish and had played a little pro ball, this seemed like a natural fit. The rest is, as they say, history—and hopefully an entertaining story.

2. What is your book about?
“Pitching in the Promised Land” is, as the subtitle makes clear, a story of the first and only season in the Israel Baseball League (IBL). Or Bull Durham in Tel Aviv, if you like. Sandy Koufax is drafted in a symbolic gesture as the last player, there are six teams attempting to play six games a week on three nearly playable fields, the league runs out of money, players nearly strike, one nearly dies, and Dr. Ruth throws out a first pitch. My teammates include a DJ/third baseman from the Bronx, a wild-man catcher from Australia, an erudite Israeli pitcher, and several journeymen Dominicans who are much older than they claim to be. But baseball is also a lens through which to view a story about the politics and culture of the Middle East, about what we’re willing to sacrifice in pursuit of a childhood dream. There’s also a little romance with a tall, slender Yemenite Jew named Yael. She was pretty hot. In the end, after a successful if bizarre summer of baseball in the desert, I’m faced with the decision to give up a career in teaching in order to become the first player from the IBL to sign a professional contract back in the US. It is a heart-wrenching decision.

3. What was your experience in the minor leagues and how did it compare to pitching in Israel?
I played for parts of two summers in the independent Western and Central Leagues. In the Western League I pitched for the Sonoma Crushers under my boyhood idol Kevin Mitchell and in the Central League I won a title with the Jackson Senators. Though independent ball is not affiliated with Major League organizations, the talent level is usually considered tantamount to Single A. Baseball in Israel was somewhat different. The rudimentary metric I uncovered was this: the more Jewish the player, the less talent he needed to posses. The IBL wasn’t quite sure whether it wanted to be the best Jewish league, or the best league in a Jewish country, so it settled on some amalgamation of the two. There were some incredible players, several of whom signed professional contracts after the season, and some other guys who might not have made a good college squad. “Bifurcated” is a word that comes to mind.

4. What was the highlight of your baseball career?
Tough one. I’d say signing my first professional contract, but that’s not really playing. Winning a championship with the Senators was the best, highest quality baseball in which I took part, but leading the IBL in ERA and finishing second in wins was also a huge thrill. Though to tell the truth, my two high school league championships are the most visceral, maybe the most sacred of them all, which is either pathetic or endearing. I still dream about fans chanting “MVP! MVP!” That’s heavy stuff for an impressionable, goofy 18-year-old kid.

5. Who is the best player you ever pitched to? What happened?
I hit several times against Mark Pryor in the California High School North-South All Star game, but that’s not the question. The best player I ever pitched to was Chase Utley of the Phillies, then playing for UCLA, which occurred during the first inning of my freshman season at Hawaii. He ripped a double to right off a loopy curve. Welcome to Division One baseball, meat. That guy can flat-out hit.

6. What are you doing these days?
I signed a contract with the Texas Rangers after my summer in Israel, and I’ve been with the Double A Frisco Roughriders for the past three seasons. Last year my ERA was—just kidding, that would be a story for Hollywood. Instead, after the IBL I returned to teaching high school history just north of San Francisco, choosing the more practical path over one last shot at my boyhood dream. (Not to give away the ending or anything.) I’m also coaching varsity basketball with my little brother Alex, former captain of the Cal basketball team, who teaches with me as well. It’s pretty awesome. The Schnitzel & Humus book tour will jump off once school ends in June.

7. Kinsler, Braun, or Youkilis?
Has to be Youkilis, that’s easy. Not only is he supersaturated with charisma, he was also a college teammate of my third baseman in Israel, the DJ/street artist Nate Fish. Both Youkilis and Fish are veritable characters, the former sans hair and the latter overflowing with shoulder-length curls. Fish once said Youkilis has never, ever, swung at a pitch outside the zone. He was not lying by much.

“Pitching in the Promised Land” is available online and at your local book store. Aaron also recommends we see “Holy Land Hardball,” A film about the summer of baseball in Israel.

Thank you to Aaron.
And Let Us Say...Amen.

Our first days in Mbale Town were filled with many “meetings.” Short-term and long-term dental goals, logistics, and schedules were discussed at length. As decisions were slowly made, we felt more than ready to hit the field running. Be prepared, Africa! We know your pace is a lot slower than the States, but we will not give in. As soon as we could, we began our work by visiting Hadassah Primary School and implementing what would be only the first of our education and sealant programs. Through the gates of Hadassah, we found the Headmaster Aaron welcoming us with open arms, sharing his learning community. Small classrooms scattered the dusty field. Each separate brick structure had a tin roof and open air windows to house the grade levels. We were greeted with interest by smiling students, some in threadbare green and blue uniforms, and others in worn clothes from the past day’s activities. In a large empty room, students of all ages were slowly gathered together.

And then, there we were.

Our first audience.

We had to pique their interest fast. What better way than starting with a science experiment? We used a disclosing tablet that turned the kids’ plaque pink. A perfect ice breaker since it catches them off-guard and evokes much laughter. Devorah was our brave volunteer.

As the students observed her colored teeth, they were asked to look and make hypotheses. Soon the conversation turned to the brushing basics: small circles, at least two times a day, two minutes in the morning and night. This was foreign knowledge to both the children and teachers, but both were quick to catch on. In all our classroom visits in the States, we’ve never seen such amazement over oral hygiene instructions. The time flew by. We covered sugar laden foods that are dangerous to the teeth and healthy foods that keep the cavity bugs away. Mango, sugar cane, and sweet potato seemed to be the children's first choices. Rice, millet, posho, and cassava were among the common staples eaten in a daily healthy diet. Throughout this time, while we spoke in our Chicago-accented English, the Headmaster translated into Ugandan-accented English. The program came to a close over a two-day period. We were blessed to meet and teach over 200 students, each instructed to become mini teachers for the rest of the community. As time goes on, we are now confident oral hygiene will go viral in Uganda. 

David and his sister, Sarah.

The recent revolution in Egypt shook me to the core. For weeks, I was glued to Al-Jazeera’s live blog of the events, and I even joined Twitter to be able to follow those on the ground. Aside from being interested in politics and history, this revolution captured my attention because I spent the fall semester of 2010 living and studying in Cairo. I attended classes in a building on Tahrir Square, the center of the revolution.

Cairo had become home for me. The adjustment from life in the States was huge, especially on the day-to-day level. The smallest things are hassles in Cairo, from negotiating the correct cab fare to asking for directions to paying your Internet bill; absolutely none of one’s daily operations in the States translate to Egypt. It is foreign in every way. As frustrating as it was at times, the smallest victories were that much sweeter. Once I figured it out, I truly began to love Cairo and all its quirks. I loved the muezzin’s call to prayer, and haggling with cab drivers became one of my favorite games. I loved to sit at a Nile-side café and smoke shisha while doing my homework. I loved the sights, the sounds, and even some of the smells.

David and his sister, Sarah, at the pyramids.

Along with the love there were also many challenges. One of the most difficult aspects of being a foreigner living in Egypt is that one is always a foreigner; there is no blending in. Regardless of the quality of your Arabic or the scarf wrapped Egyptian-style around your neck, Egyptians see you as a foreigner. As a foreigner, fortunate enough to be living abroad, knowing that the amount I spent on dinner the night before was the same amount as the average Egyptian earned last month was sometimes overwhelming.

The most pervasive foreign element was Egypt’s conservative Muslim society. I am an active Jew; a facet of my identity formed as a child attending religious school at Temple Beth-El in Northbrook and during my 13 summers at Camp Interlaken JCC, the Milwaukee JCC’s residential camp, and on my 6-week trip to Israel with camp. As such, it was a shock to my parents when I told them last spring I was going to go to Cairo. While I knew they were not going to deny me this opportunity, I knew they were worried. Aside from “Be careful,” the only other thing my father said to me was “Defend Israel.” Fortunately, the moments when I needed to defend Israel were few and far between.

David and his sister, Sarah, at the pyramids.

There were two reasons for this. First, and surprisingly, there are a large number of Jewish students who study in Cairo. The satirical blog “Stuff Jewish Young Adults Like” even posted a piece about Jewish young adults travelling to the Arab world. The second is that the average Egyptian is more worried about putting food on the table at night than about Israel. Among the wealthier Egyptians I met, few seemed to care that I was Jewish, and many were very interested in comparing and contrasting religions. Furthermore, the assumption was that if I was American, I was Christian. And since the vast majority of Egypt is Muslim, many people simply didn’t comprehend “another” religion. This being said, I did not go around broadcasting my Judaism. Most people probably did not know.

David at the pyramids.

As Passover approaches, I think of the Exodus story and now my own. While the Jews of the Bible fled Egypt to escape slavery and persecution, I also left Egypt, but for very different reasons. What I learned during my time there is that my Jewish identity is something I have internalized and always have with me, whether it’s displayed or not. We are Jewish, yes, but at the end of the day we are all people. My friends who witnessed the revolution commented on the sense of community; it did not matter whether they were foreigners or nationals, Muslims, Christians, or even Jews. For a few weeks, they were together as Egyptians fighting against an oppressive regime.  

David Korenthal studied International Human Rights Law at the American University in Cairo. He is in Chicago currently seeking full-time employment. 

Us in the Haddassa Primary School in Nabugoya Hill. We taught lessons on oral hygiene and brought in a sealant program for the students for cavity prevention.

The meeting of the minds of Mbale’s Jewish ambassadors. First impressions drew us in with the sincerity of the handshake. It’s not a wimpy, nice to meet you handshake. We are talking about a genuine excitement, one reflected in a full body handshake leading to many lengthy hugs. The magnetic energy led us to feel that if we did not let go we could be walking hand in hand around town all day.

At breakfast we were greeted with our first unexpected visitor—our fast friend Josef K, who we quickly dubbed ambassador to Uganda and the Abayudaya community. Our server at breakfast noted that Josef K began calling the guesthouse at six in the morning. Why? Because he wanted to ensure our safe arrival, and his hospitality proved above and beyond throughout our driving adventure with him.

Our journey began through the busy streets of Kampala, dodging motorcycles packed three to four people high. We smiled to each other, while inhaling the fresh humid air with a mix of kicked up dust from the road beneath. We realized something while traveling from the capital of Kampala to Mbale—the people you meet pour out kavanah, an amazing vibe and zest for life. Each one is happier to see you than the next. Abayudaya truly welcome you to a new second home, with more than open arms. 

After the hellos and hugs, it was now down to business. The exciting part—helping to build a sustainable dental health program that goes beyond teeth and approaches physical health as a whole. We hope to build more than a program with Dr. Samson of RAIN Uganda and the Abayudaya tribe. Using our foundations of education, prevention, and treatment we will help create a guide to encompass and treat all health modalities in a comprehensive and lifesaving way.

Happy Passover from the Oy! team!

If these cuties make you smile, please share this video with family and friends.

My two student escorts at Shar HaNegev High School near the Gaza strip.

When I heard the news that a Gaza missile struck a school bus in Shar HaNegev, a small Israeli community near the Gaza strip, the faces of three wholesome teenagers flashed through my mind. Because I was at that school just last week, touring the campus with those beautiful students as my guides. I gaped at the photos of the mangled bus and the pooled blood and prayed that they were not on it.

I was in Israel representing the Jewish United Fund of Metropolitan Chicago as part of a national trip coordinated by the Jewish Federations of North America. Two students had escorted us around the Shar HaNegev High School campus to see the school grounds, and to watch students using the interactive technology that we’d helped to fund for their classrooms.

The girls were a study in opposites, one tall, tawny and artistic, and the other petite, dark and athletic. Both talked a mile a minute, so excited about their studies and their extracurricular activities. Their most recent art project? Painting the school’s bomb shelters. ”We made something beautiful out of something ugly,” 15-year-old Yahel explained.

The school is in the midst of building a new, rocket-proof campus, but for now, if there is an incoming missile, students must run to one of these shelters, or one of the reinforced classrooms, where the internal walls are painted blue.

I didn’t think to ask what they did if they were on the school bus.

At the entrance to the Fine Arts building, we came upon an enormous, circular patch of grass, paler in color than the surrounding field. The girls explained that this was where a rocket had landed years before.

“It’s hard to have a rocket in our school, in our safe place,” Yahel admitted. “The kids are going to this building to learn about music, and suddenly you have a rocket. It’s scary, okay? But we don’t want the feeling to stay.” And she firmly guided us away from the awful sight and directed our attention to the programs inside.

We met the teenage boy at the end of the tour, one of several students to discuss why this school, and its focus on open dialogue as well as arts and technology, was important to them. Asher was 13, a Justin Bieber lookalike, with tousled hair and a ready grin, eager to discuss his outlook on life.

“I don’t hate anybody,” he said. “I wake up in the morning and think about what the other side is thinking. It’s not the little kids or the mothers doing this. It’s a couple of terrorist organizations. There are millions of innocent people and we know that.”

He believed peace would soon be at hand, he said, and looked forward to helping to bring it about.

The early news reports were that a 13-year-old Israeli boy was badly injured in the rocket attack on the school bus. My heart was in my throat all morning as I thought about Asher. Midmorning an update included a correction: the teen fighting for his life was 16, not 13.

But I felt no sense of relief. 

Catering to her royal highness is rough

Recently, my Facebook status updates have been filled with vodka (or any alcohol) ad ideas. Picture this: photo of screaming toddler with any of the following taglines:

“We got you into this, we’ll get you through it.”

“You need us more than we need you.”

“Yes, we come in economy size too.”

“16 more years until she’s off to college. Better stock up.”

And let’s not get started on tags with the same photo for birth control…

If you haven’t guessed, I’ve got a two-year old. My adorable, perfect, smart, genius baby seemingly overnight hit full-on-toddler stage. She’s cute and happy one minute, and then suddenly I’ve got the exorcist child on my floor, screaming and crying about some injustice that has just befallen her. Generally the answer “no” to her request to watch Little Einsteins, eat a cookie, or skip brushing her teeth.

*Sigh.* I miss the days when it was enough just to keep her alive. Actual parenting is hard work.

While it would be so much easier just to cave into my child’s demands, I know that if I did, I’d have a spoiled-rotten, couch-potato kid who ate nothing but chips and cookies. I don’t exactly see that as giving your kid the best foundation for a healthy life-emotionally, physically or mentally.

So I hang tough and say “no” to the demands, and deal with the tears and cries even though it would be easier to cave in. And it’s ok that she freaks out, because I know this is normal behavior and beyond being there to try to soothe, there is nothing I can do except wait it out. I’ve been known to pour myself a martini and watch the half hour show taking place on the kitchen floor waiting for those little emotions to run their course.

Maybe one of the benefits of being an “older” parent (according to my doctor, age 37 is ANCIENT in reproductive terms) is that I have a more laidback attitude about my kid. I know that she’s going to make a mess, spill her milk, and accidentally break things around the house. So I keep the good crystal and china out of the way, and our furniture has been scotch-guarded.

Nothing drives me insane like a parent who flips out when his/her toddler acts like a toddler. I recently witnessed this the other day at the Kids’ Museum. A mom caught her son who must have been about 18 months drinking the play water. She overreacts by immediately pulling her child away and angrily yelling at the dad about what he was doing—as if somehow the 18-month-old tot was willfully defying her. Needless to say, the poor little guy was scared and crying, not understanding what was going on. C’mon, I’m not an expert but even I know that an 18-month-old doesn’t have the capacity to defy anyone. And really, kids eat all sorts of gross and germy things—trust me, that water will be the LEAST of your concerns when he hits a public pool.

I have to say that day I realized that I’d rather spend my day with a bunch of two-year-old than some of their parents who act like two-year-olds themselves. At least the little tots are cute.

But then, I’ve been ominously warned by friends that age three is far worse than age two. And let’s not talk about years 12 to 22. And some of the parents I’ll encounter in schools and activities aren’t ever going to mature.

Mommy’s going to need more vodka.  

Today marks seven years since I was given a new lease on life. It also coincides with one of the worst and saddest days I've ever experienced. However, sometimes the worst personal calamities in the long term become life's biggest gifts. That's not to say that the pain from that that time didn't linger, it has at times mutated like an antibiotic resistant bacteria, hardly recognizable from the original disease, but clearly originating from the primary sickness. If you were to ask me seven years ago, I would have told you that for sure after the breakup that I would bounce back, fall in love again, be married, and have kids by now. For a myriad of reasons, that hasn't happened. And as I approach my 35th birthday, the gulf that divides me from my married friends and those of my parents’ generation widens and widens.

I asked for people's questions about "what it's like to be single and almost 35" because I do sometimes feel like a freak to my friends and to my parents' friends— a lovable, cute, funny freak, but still a freak. So I thought I'd answer some questions to bridge the divide. I requested questions from my Facebook friends, Twitter followers and Scarpeta readers. Here are their questions and my answers. I don't speak for every single woman, just myself.

I have a few single friends in their 30s. In my 20s I used to set them up with single guys all the time just in the spirit of going out and meeting someone new. Now I figure if they want to be set up they'll ask. Is this the best approach?  

I think one of the biggest issues with set ups is that sometimes married people set up single people based on no evidence of compatibility other than the fact that the two people are single. If you set up your friends thoughtfully, I think it's welcome whether you are 25 or 70.

I have a question...when I was single I drank a lot more than I do now that I'm married. Do you drink as much now vs. your 20s?  

I have reduced my drinking considerably over the past two years, and specifically over the past year. One is for financial reasons and two is because I found that almost every poor decision I have ever made was while inebriated. I rarely have more than one or two drinks if I go out. Not drinking also has its negative side. It has definitely made me less "fun" and I go out less. This leads to a bit of isolation, which isn't great either.

As a 35 year old never-been-married single mom, I find that I don't really fit in anywhere socially. I can't hang out with my old friends who don't have children because their schedules are completely different and we no longer have anything in common. Then the married with children couples I meet, tend to shy away from me. I'm still a little baffled by this rejection, but it continues to occur. I'm guessing people only want to be friends with people exactly like them, meaning three's a crowd. What do you think?  

I'm not sure why married people wouldn't want to hang out, but I know I'm guilty of not wanting to hang out with married couples with kids frequently. A very small part of it is jealousy induced depression. My friends are living the life that I thought that I would have. Part of it is that it's hard to have a conversation with someone who is only half listening to you because their focus, as it should be, is on their husband and kids. My friends who are married with kids are cognizant of this and sometimes I'll meet just my girlfriend out for dinner, or my girlfriend and her husband, and sometimes I come by their home to hang out with them and the kids. It's all about balance. As for married people who don't want to hang out with a single mom, I have no idea what to tell you. I think focusing on the mom friendships vs. the couple friendships would make more sense.

I do wish I spent more time with my married friends who have kids. I miss them, a lot.

To what extremes have you gone to get a date (online, speed dating, etc.)?  

I've been on JDate, eHarmony, match, some Jewish set up service. None of them were for me, but I think they are great and a lot of relationships come from them. I don't think any of these things are considered extreme anymore, though. My current relationship is with someone I was friends with first for a year and then we moved into something more.

Biological clock concerns?  

Yes, of course I have them, but I'm not driven by them. I would like kids, but I realize with every passing year it will become more difficult to have them naturally. I hope that I will be blessed with them, but I don't know that I will take it into my own hands (sperm donor) or adopt without a partner. I can't rule anything out at this point.

Why don't you just write about how being a single-ish woman in your 30s has ceased to have negative cultural cachet?  

I'm glad that you think it has ceased. In my (Jewish) community, though, that is not the case. It is antithetical to Judaism to not have a family when the first commandment in the Bible is to procreate. There also isn't room for celibacy like there is in the Catholic Church with nuns and priests. It's not that single women are ostracized, but we are looked at like we are suffering from a disability or disease.

I do think in the urban secular world, being single and in your 30s isn't that big of a deal and is even glamorized. I don't reside their much, though.

Maybe you can discuss how social media/Facebook has impacted being single. Like, how one just used to hang out with people with similar lifestyles/interests and now everyone's "friends" post annoying (well, what I can only assume is annoying to non-kids people) updates on their kids. Oh, and someone in your comment thread mentioned that the married are probably envious of the singletons. I don't think that generalization is any truer than to assume that singletons are jealous of married and/or parents.  

I know that there are people who are single who have quit Facebook because they get too depressed by seeing all of their friends documenting their married lives with beautiful children, etc. I also know married people who aren't or won't join Facebook because they aren't in happy marriages and/or they have difficult kids and do not have the energy to put up a facade. I also know people who are unhappily married with and without kids who post on Facebook to provide more false documentation of a happy life.

I personally like to see my friends who are married and with kids on Facebook. It's fun to see how my friends have evolved as parents, and because I love kids, I like to see the pictures and read the cute things their friends say. What I find most annoying from someone who is single or married is a lot of bitching about their lives.

I agree, generalizations aren't great to make. But I would guess the adage "the grass is always greener" is probably true, at least sometimes.

All I know is that there are so many women in this situation and don't want to be in it...How much of the problem is with men, in general, who don't want to commit? And, how much falls on the shoulders of women who give men too much in hopes that they will commit -- only to be let down? It's very frustrating for all my single girlfriends.  

There is an article that was written by Tracy McMillan titled "Why You're Not Married." I know it offended a lot of feminists, but I found that for myself it was pretty much dead on. I realized some of what she said before I read the article, but I wish I would have realized her points a long time ago, or at least embraced them.

As for men, I don't pretend to understand why they will or will not commit. If I were to guess, I would say that sometimes they just don't like a woman that much or find her too clingy or annoying. (I myself have been guilty of being too clingy). But usually, I would say, that the answer to that question often has very little to do with any individual woman that they are dating and rather where they are in their own lives, baggage from their parent's marriage, or other self esteem issues.

If anyone agrees/disagrees with anything I've said, I welcome your comments. Or if you have any more questions, I'm happy to answer them.

I caught Rachel Bertsche’s Oy!Chicago article, “The friend breakup aftermath,” and it propelled me to talk about my own struggle with friend “breakups.” However, I’d like to offer a counter perspective.

The old cliché goes that some friendships are meant to exist during certain periods in our lives. They help us grow and then we set them free when they no longer serve a purpose for us. Friends inevitably diverge; friends outgrow each other; friends grown damn tired of each other. All of these reasons for the “breakup” are relevant, normal, usually healthy and inevitable parts of our lives.

As Bertsche humorously pointed out, we treat these ex-friends like ex-lovers and dodge them in restaurants. I’ve also been known to dodge ex-friends at movie theaters, in ladies’ bathrooms and in the grocery store. We’re afraid of having the obligatory, “How’s life?” conversations when we either: A) Could care less, or B) Resent them for not caring less.

As with romantic relationships, friendships suffer under the weight of new hobbies, long-distance communication and sheer neglect. I’ve seen many a childhood friendship perish for these reasons, as many of us do in our lifetime. Perhaps, it’s the fishbowl that is Facebook, that makes us painfully aware of how these childhood friends are now passing through major life milestones such as marriage and having children, and we’re not there to really witness and share in their joy…and their hardships.

How is it that these cherished slumber party pals that we shared our hopes and dreams with, cheek to pillow, no longer qualify for a role in a future that we schemed with them?

What if we want to make up? Is it too late? Can there be a part-deux to a friendship story? In some cases yes, in others, it’s nearly impossible. And, the difficulty of the makeup is not necessarily proportionate to the reason for the breakup.

A childhood friend and I “broke up” due largely to distance and neglect. I recently learned that she experienced a family loss, and I had an unexplainable urge to drop everything, find her and hug the pain away, but I couldn’t. Too much time, too much distance, too much… I sent an e-mail, and words failed me greatly.

There are some friends you know (or knew) almost as well as you know yourself, and when they are suffering, the empathy pains are magnified in ways you cannot anticipate. I want to be part of her grief because I used to be part of her life, but I can’t.

Perhaps it’s a selfish desire to intervene at this time and I recognize that, but it comes from a longtime desire to know her again.

We sometimes drift from friends because of petty reasons that seem to matter when we’re younger... I want to get to know this friend all over again, here and now.

Dare I say it: I would welcome an awkward run-in.

Left: Samuel "Nails" Morton
Right: Nonna

When people hear the word "gangster" they immediately conjure up images of characters in the television show The Sopranos or in movies such as The Godfather or Goodfellas. So imagine my surprise when I found out as a young adult that my sweet, lovely Nonna had a brother who was in the Jewish mafia. Could this really be true? I had heard my Nonna speak lovingly of her brother Samuel. He had a strong devotion to his family and always expressed kindness to others, especially those in need. "He helped a lot of people", she would say. Samuel "Nails" Morton was considered a defender of the Jewish people by some, and suspect by others. While his life was cut short at the age of 29, it unfolds to tell quite an amazing story.

Samuel was born on July 3, 1893 in New York City. He came to Chicago at an early age with his Russian immigrant parents. Growing up on the west side of Chicago in poverty and without a great deal of opportunity, Samuel fell into gang warfare along with other ethnic groups such as Irish, Italians, Germans, Poles, and Greeks. Samuel got his nickname "Nails" at an early age for his involvement in gang fights.

According to Chicago writer Bill Reilly who has written extensively about Samuel Morton, he soon became a leader of the Jewish gang scene. Jewish gangs offered protection to the Jewish neighborhoods against non-Jewish gangs. During one such altercation, Samuel was brought in front of a judge and legend has it was offered either jail time or to enlist in the U.S. Army. He chose the latter and became a sergeant and then first lieutenant. He was a war hero, and was officially recognized by the French Government for his heroism with a French war cross. In the book History of the Jews of Chicago, he is listed as a Jewish hero of WWI.

Samuel in the U.S. Army during WWI (far right)

Upon his return to Chicago, Samuel was lured back to the neighborhood and its gang activities. He became a gambler, and soon the proprietor of some well-known gambling establishments. By 1920 Samuel was involved in the bootleg whiskey trade, and a prominent figure at boxing matches often gambling $5,000 to $10,000 on a fighter. He owned a number of prizefighters. He was now considered a front man for the mob and worked under the guise of floral shop owner.

While Samuel was prominent in his own right, he and his friends were no match for the non-Jewish gangs. He was surrounded by the likes of Dion O'Banion, Bugs Moran, Hymie Weiss (Polish, not Jewish), as well as newcomer Al Capone. The men in the Jewish mobs picked sides, and Samuel chose Dion O'Banion who was an old friend.

Samuel was very good to his family and bought them a two-flat on Augusta Boulevard. His parents and siblings lived here. He was also known to lavish family and friends with many gifts. My Nonna especially remembered that he purchased a dog for her.

The home on Augusta Boulevard

In August 1920, Samuel was placed under arrest along with Hershie Miller. The two were accused of shooting and killing two detectives. Research done by Bill Reilly suggests that the detectives tried to "shake Nails and Hershie down" and when they refused, the detectives made anti-Semitic remarks. This caused Samuel and Hershie to engage in gunfire. Samuel claimed his innocence, and in two trials both men were acquitted by juries. However, there were allegations of bribery and threats to witnesses.

Samuel "Nails" Morton seemed to have two sides. While much was written in the Chicago newspapers about his popularity and fame, it was also revealed that he was arrested several times. He lived a glamorous life with beautiful women and money, but one that was also filled with danger - both for himself and for others.

On May 13, 1923, Samuel went horseback riding as he often did with Dion O' Banion and Dion's wife in Lincoln Park. Samuel was an experienced rider, but while riding the stirrup strap broke causing the horse to bolt. Samuel lost his balance and fell. Frightened by what happened, the horse kicked Samuel cracking his skull and killing him. He was twenty-nine years old. His body was taken to Piser's Chapel on Broadway, and he was buried at Waldheim cemetery. His grave is next to my Nonna and Poppy. His occupation is listed as a florist on his death certificate.

5,000 people attended Samuel's funeral claiming that he was a protector of the Jewish people. It was said that Samuel made the west side of Chicago safe for Jews. An interesting Chicago legend is that the horse that was responsible for Samuel's death was kidnapped and 'bumped off'. This was later depicted in the James Cagney movie 'Public Enemy'. It was also said to be the inspiration for the scene in The Godfather when a horse head was placed in a man's bed as a warning from the mob.

Bill Reilly writes, "It seems that Nails Morton boy street brawler, gambler, and gangster had led another life - as the struggling Jewish community's white knight, its avenging angel." "While still a teenager, Nails had put together a neighborhood defense society made up of youngsters like himself, who were tired of being pushed around because they were Jewish." "Peddlers didn't have to live in constant fear of their carts being overturned, their goods stolen; old men their beards set afire, their yarmulkes knocked off; young girls insulted openly in the street".

Samuel "Nails" Morton certainly had a colorful life filled with glamour, heroism, and crime. He has been quietly forgotten by some, and for others is an unknown man. I felt it was important to tell his story to generations of Jewish people so that they could know a man who stood up in the face of anti-Semitism. I choose to see the good and am proud to say that Samuel "Nails" Morton was my great uncle. I say this because my Nonna who was the kindest, classiest, most amazing human being believed this, and that's more than good enough for me.

I consider myself a late bloomer. My first kiss took place my senior year in high school while I was on winter break with my family and I didn’t have a boyfriend until senior year in college. No one asked me to prom and I’ve only said, “I love you” to one boy.

I’ve had my share of casual dating relationships and one dating spree— it ended quickly when I started mixing up my dates’ names. I’m definitely not the most experienced relationship girl, but thanks to some good luck and determination on his part, I have been with my boyfriend Jason for five years.

We met in the fall of 2006. I’d already been in two relationships that summer and was actively trying to be single for awhile. When I graduated from college, I also graduated from my first real relationship. (I know it sounds cliché, but it was true.) He was a few years older than me and a “townie” with not much of a future and I was returning to Chicago. I knew we had no forever-after together and it didn’t take me long to rebound. A week after graduation, I went on my birthright Israel trip, where I fell fast and hard for a fellow participant. In retrospect it was silly, but Israel brought out the naïve romantic in me and I’d pretty much convinced myself by the time I got back to Chicago that I was going to marry this guy. It didn’t help that everyone else on my trip thought so, too.

Well, we got home to Chicago and tried to date for a bit, but it fizzled quickly and dramatically (at least on my end) and as a way to distract myself from the pain, I rebounded again with a guy and an awful pick up line, “do you have a piece of gum?” He turned out to be perfectly nice with a perfectly nice summer internship in Chicago that guaranteed the fling would last only as long as the warm weather.

In late August, I moved into my own apartment and set out to be single girl in the city. I’d clearly been getting into relationships too quickly with the wrong guys (even the perfectly nice one) and needed a break from the dating scene altogether— my own dating detox. But one random Friday night soon after, my cousin asked me to attend a party in the suburbs being thrown by his sister’s boyfriend’s younger sister. Did you follow that? Well, I barely did and I didn’t want to go spend a night with a bunch of random people I didn’t know in Glenview. As part of my dating detox, I was actually enjoying spending Friday nights cooking dinner at my new place for my girlfriends. But at the last minute something made me change my mind and I decided to go.

He was the first person I met that night. It was raining and he’d been outside trying to grill food for the party. He had this big, adorable grin on his face and was soaking wet, which just made him even more attractive. You could tell from his happy, outgoing demeanor that he was the kind of person everyone wanted to be around all the time, including me…but just as friends. Later that night, I learned he was single, which meant that it was my job to set him up, but not with me, with one of my friends. Yep, little-miss-matchmaker was so preoccupied matchmaking for others (and trying to be single herself) that she attempted to set up her beshert with someone else.

Fortunately for me, my set up failed— neither my friend nor Jason had any interest in the other person— and after several weeks of wooing on his part, I gave in. Best decision I ever made. Being single is overrated when the right person comes along. And sometimes your gut just knows its right even when the rest of you hasn’t caught up yet. Bottom-line, you can do everything wrong and still end up with the right person—even when you least expect it. 

It was barely Purim and my phone was ringing off the hook with friends and clients asking questions regarding Passover. What am I making? Will I share recipes? Can I come over and cook for them? Will I come over for a meal (I especially love that one)?

I felt the panic creep into my normally blasé attitude toward the holiday. I made my peace with Matzo Madness years ago and have my annual game plan in place.

But the dread is contagious and I caught it.

I started digging around in cabinets. I planned my meals for the next month, all in an effort to rid my home of forbidden food items. I started my pasta scrap bag with its load of remnants of various pasta shapes. I call the dish created with it Pasta ala Odds and Ends—YUM!

As the anxiety deepened, I went through my spices and planned an alarming number of meals containing my most treasured ingredients. I love my spices and take great pride in my custom mixes. A little of this and little of that and voila, I have a masterpiece. As part of Passover prep, I fear that the delicate nuance that I try to achieve may just become a hodge-podge of global influences all in one dish with too much of this and too much of that.

Oh well, I will sleep well knowing that the spice cabinet Pesach cleanse has been schemed.

I practically freaked out when my husband brought home his favorite dried fava beans. I demanded an explanation for his lack of calendar sense. IT’S ALMOST PESACH!

I was really starting to fret as I was planning my menus a mere four weeks before the Seders, when I realized that I have a secret weapon for the holiday. My favorite ingredient, extra virgin olive oil, is kosher for Passover. I may have to give up my pastas, rices and spices, but I still have my extra virgin olive oil.

Last year I wrote about extra virgin olive oil and how it is important to purchase the best oil you can. I am revisiting that notion with renewed vigor and excitement.

Maybe you are like me. You go to the grocery store and you know you should buy good quality extra virgin olive oil, but you do not know which one is the best. You look at prices, pretty labels and country of origin and then make your best guess. You are rolling the dice and plunking down good money for something that may or may not be tasty.

Or, you could taste the oil before you buy it. I am not suggesting you crack open bottles and take a swig at the local supermarket. But, what if you could taste the olive oil before you purchase it, just like you go to a wine tasting and sample wines before you buy them?

There is a terrific store in Chicago that allows just such an experience. City Olive is a store specializing in extra virgin olive oils from around the world. At the back of the clever little shop there is a tasting bar where you can slurp and savor your way through dozens of bottles of luscious fragrant oils.

On a recent trip to City Olive, I tasted buttery oil from France that I am using for my Pesach baking. I also tasted oil from Spain that smells just like artichokes and tomatoes. I am using that oil for drizzling on finished dishes and for making pesto and vinaigrettes. I found my workhorse oil from Morocco that will be used for just about everything. That oil is complex and fruity.

You don’t have to be like me and purchase separate oils for everything. But why not? All extra virgin olive oils are kosher for Passover and year round, even with out kosher supervision. How awesome is that? We may give up our breads and cakes for eight days, but we will emerge from the holiday having feasted on foods made with delicious and healthy extra virgin olive oil. You cannot say that about Kosher for Passover oil which tends to be harsh and bitter and not healthy like extra virgin olive oil. How much cooking time and how many ingredients do you need to cover up the taste of bad oil?

My nerves have been calmed and I am cool as a spring day in Chicago knowing that my Passover plan has been executed. I can approach the holiday with excitement.

Roasted Halibut with Green Olive Pesto 

This sprightly flavored dish will remind you of warmer days. Halibut is my favorite springtime fish and the buttery flavor of the fish pairs well with the tasty and easy to prepare pesto.

Serves 6

For the halibut 

6 6-ounce skinless halibut filets
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 350

1. Place a large sauté pan over medium high heat. Season the filets with salt and pepper.

2. Place the filets (presentation side down-this is the side that did not have the skin on it. It is the prettier side!) into the pan. Allow the filets to brown (about 5 minutes). Transfer the filets to a sheet pan and roast in the preheated oven until the filets are firm to the touch (about 10-12 minutes depending upon thickness)

3. Spoon the pesto over each filet and garnish with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and mint leaves.

For the Pesto 

½ cup best quality extra virgin olive oil
½ cup almonds, toasted
½ cup golden raisins
2 cups green olives, pitted (I like the product from Israel)
3 tablespoons freshly squeezed orange juice
2 cloves garlic
Zest of 1 orange
Pinch of crushed red chilies, optional
¼ cup fresh mint leaves + additional leaves for garnish
2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

1. Place all of the ingredients in a food processor or blender and process until the mixture is a very thick paste with some chunks remaining.

2. The pesto can be made up to 3 days ahead of serving and can be stored, covered, in the refrigerator.

Olive Oil Cake 

Luscious olive oil, saffron and almonds are the foundation for this fragrant Passover dessert. The cake is light and airy with a moist crumb. The saffron gives the cake an earthy honey flavor that complements the olive oil and almonds. I like to spread Olive Oil Ganache over the cake layer and garnish with toasted almonds for an elegant dessert.

3 eggs
2 ½ cups sugar
1 cup white wine
½ teaspoon saffron threads
½ cup fresh squeezed lemon and/or orange juice
Zest of 3 oranges
1 vanilla bean, scraped
1 ½ cups best quality extra virgin olive oil
1 ½ cups almond flour
½ cup potato starch
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon baking powder
pinch of salt

Preheat oven to 350
Line a 9 inch spring form cake pan with parchment paper.

1. Beat the eggs and sugar to a ribbon stage using the whisk attachment.

2. Combine the wine, saffron, citrus juices and zest, the vanilla bean and the olive oil and set aside.

3. Combine the almond flour, potato starch, baking soda, baking powder and salt and whick together. Set aside.

4. Alternate the wet ingredients and dry ingredients into the egg mixture. Pour into the prepared cake pan and bake for 30-35 minutes until the top springs back when lightly pressed. Cool the cake on a cooling rack.
Invert the cake layer onto a cake board or decorative platter. Garnish with Olive Oil Ganache or Passover powdered sugar.

Olive Oil Ganache 

8 ounces bittersweet chocolate (during Passover I Schmerlings)
2/3 cup brewed coffee
½ cup of Passover confectioner’s sugar
3 tablespoons best quality extra virgin olive oil
1 vanilla bean, scraped
2 teaspoons Fleur de Sel (the sea salt has a sparkly flavor that brings out the best in the chocolate and the olive oil)-optional

1. Melt the chocolate with the coffee over a double boiler in a bowl suspended over simmering water. Remove from the heat and allow to cool slightly.

2. Add the remaining ingredients and whisk to combine.

3. Pour over cakes while still warm and garnish with Fleur de Sel.

Our parents counted out eight crisp singles. We are now ready for our trip, but are hoping not to need the eight bucks. Erica and I have officially been hired as mitzvah messengers, shaliach mitzvah, in hopes of returning home safe, in one piece. This time our trip feels different, the comfort we normally get from a secure wad of singles just isn't as comforting. We have taken many trips together both short and long, and many times those singles might have helped to ensure a safe return. However, on this journey we will be carrying these singles to a Jewish village on the western slope of Uganda's mountain range. We will not need our singles, because we are traveling with one hundred pounds of dental supplies to help the Abayudaya one tooth at a time.

As we embark on this journey, there is a feeling of excitement, anticipation, but mostly anxiety.

Anxiety for Erica and me tends to be normal before any new adventures. We try to ease the tension with encouragement, but that rarely works. So we resort to this heightened tension that turns to a rush of adrenaline. During our marriage, dubbed “the newlywed experiment,” the normal stuff like packing, reservations, and transportation have always stressed the nerves the weeks before a big trip. This trip we have a bit more hanging over our heads. Are we bringing the right supplies? Collecting enough tzedakah? Will we be given the courage to justly distribute the minimal resources that we will be sharing? Our few answers have led to many, many more questions.

It is our hope this journey does more than sate our appetite for adventure. We pray that this time, we won't need our stack of singles, because we hope to be bringing a higher level of tzedakah to the people of Uganda. Right now we have a surreal feeling, like we really aren't packing, we really aren't training for safari dentistry. But we are, and we hope to share our trials and tribulations as we embark on another adventure in the newlywed experiment called marriage.

I recently sat down and interviewed a fellow health nut and owner of Protein Bar, Matt Matros. This was very exciting for me, as I love Protein Bar. It’s not too often I find a spot that offers amazing food that’s low in fat and calories, high in protein, and for a great value. The funny thing is, I sent Matt an email when he first opened with a few suggestions and he remembered me! While chatting, I realized just how passionate Matt is about nutrition and his staff.

How did you become a health nut?
My whole life I was fat. I got all the jokes, the nicknames, and being named Matt did not help. When I was 22 I decided, enough. I changed my diet to low carb- high protein and started exercising. I dropped 50 pounds in one summer. The items we sell are what I ate to drop my weight.

How did you research what’s healthy?
That’s a hard question to answer. The word healthy means so many different things to different people. For me, it means eating closer to the source, less processed. I worked at Kraft managing a cheese business and everything is so processed.

We also recently added a great nutritionist to our staff. Dawn Jackson Blatner is an incredible nutritionist and author. She has worked with the Cubs, USA Today, NBC, ABC, and the list goes on.

When are you not eating healthy?
I try to eat healthy all the time and fight the urge [to cheat]. I thought I could eat a little unhealthy occasionally, but it’s all or nothing. It’s hard to only eat a little. I like to go to nice restaurants with friends, and it’s challenging to be good. I try to order lean meats with veggies.

What are three healthy eating tips for our readers?
1) Read the labels. Be aware of what’s in a serving, fat, sugar, protein, calories...

2) Portion size is key. When I first started to get healthy, I would automatically toss aside a third of my food. Portion sizes are out of control.

3) Not all calories are equal. There are good fats (avocado) and bad fats (transfat) and the same goes for carbohydrates. The trick is learning which is which and eat accordingly.

What are the biggest misconceptions people have about Protein Bar?
I just received an email from a woman who said we should change our name. I wrote back, Pottery Barn doesn’t sell pottery. The truth is, we are starting to outgrow our name. When we first opened I thought we were going to sell protein shakes and some food items. After six months, we noticed a need for more food items. The customers have really taken to our food. We are slowly becoming a burrito place. We are trying to give people what they want, and fill a void in the market. 

What is Quinoa and why is yours so good?
Quinoa is the highest non-meat protein. It’s considered by many, a perfect food as it contains all the essential amino acids. It’s also gluten free and lower in calories then pasta. I feel like other restaurants are going to start selling it more.

What’s been the hardest part to opening your own restaurant?
Managing a staff is probably the hardest thing. You have to keep track of so many different things. I’m lucky the staff here has been great. We have had very little turnover the past year. Many of the people on my staff have other jobs—he’s a photographer, she’s a dancer, she’s an actress—they all need to do something to do during the day and I’m glad I found them.

You’re opening up three new locations, how are you able to grow so fast?
Again, we’re just giving the customer what they want. There’s been a void in the market and we’re happy to fill it. I really try and listen to customer feedback. Our new locations will have more space. We are hoping to expand our offerings.

Word association:
Buff: Schwarzenegger, hey I grew up in LA
Fat: Me at 22
Whey: Our best protein
Cookie: Delicious-hot-chewy-gooey (he’s still human)
Carrot: Beta Carotene, good for the eyes and skin- and juicing! We are going to do juicing in our new locations.

If you are looking for a healthy lunch on the go, check out Protein bar! The menu has a lot of great options for even the pickiest eater. My recommendation:

Bangkok Bar-rito
All-natural chicken or tofu,
snap peas, almonds, housemade
Sesame Ginger
dressing, and our Super
6 Salad Mix
455 Cal, 31g Protein, 12g Fiber, 4g Sat Fat, 3g Sugar 

Are there healthy restaurants you want to tell us about?

On March 27 I graduated with a Master of Arts in Jewish Professional Studies—MAJPS for short—from the Spertus Institute in Chicago. It’s a mouthful to say, so instead I’ve taken to telling people I’m now a “master” Jewish professional.

After giving up my Monday nights for two years, and pouring my heart and soul into my final project, I’ve finally reached the finish line. Do I really feel like a master of anything? I’m not so sure.

Does working full-time at a Jewish organization and studying Jewish life in my free time make me a master? Does reading a lot of material and writing a lot of papers about Jewish communal life, history, culture, education, leadership, philosophy (the list goes on), make me a master? What about networking with and learning from Jewish communal professionals in Chicago and experts throughout the country? I don’t know.

What I do know is that I am definitely a more educated, better connected and happier Jewish professional—and I made a lot of great friends along the way.

The MAJPS program, in addition to providing courses on relevant issues in contemporary Jewish life and links back to Jewish civilization and culture, brings diverse groups of Jewish professionals together to study in cohorts of about 15 to 20 students. We studied everything from Israeli dancing to the Jews of Early Modern Venice, from grant writing to the future of the American Jewish community.

For me it wasn’t just the rich topics or in-depth seminars with experts in the field that made the program; it was going through these courses and seminars with my cohort that created such a meaningful experience.

We are a small, but mighty, group—some of us work at overnight camps, others at day schools, synagogues, Federation, plus a few brave souls who are hoping to make the transition into Jewish communal work. Though we range in age, and are all at different points in our lives and careers, we somehow blended into a family over the past two years. We challenged each other to think deeper and reach higher, we encouraged and motivated each other—okay, sometimes more like whined and complained to one another—to keep going when we felt like we just couldn’t write another paper, and most importantly, we celebrated milestones and supported each other during difficult times.

Having this type of camaraderie in an educational setting is both a unique and wonderful experience, and I encourage everyone to take advantage of an opportunity like this one.

And now, here we are—we’ve received our diplomas and thrown our caps up in the air. But where do we go from here?

Maybe being a master has nothing to do with actually mastering material or writing papers. Maybe it’s a charge. A challenge. To never stop learning, to have a thirst for knowledge and understanding of the Jewish community that can never be quenched. To always make the time to continue learning. To strive for bigger and better.

Maybe these past two years, Monday night classes were our training wheels. They kept our minds sharp and our wheels turning. We were preparing for the real task at hand—now that we are equipped with all this knowledge, what will we choose to do with it?

And maybe, now that the program has ended and our training wheels have been removed, those of us who can somehow steer our community into the future will become the real masters.