HOLIDAYS IN THE HOLY LAND
My internet connection evaporated the day before Rosh Hashana, which I blamed on all the troglodytes who, liberated from school or work, leapt onto their computers to play inane games and/or hunt up dirty pictures.
After Yom Kippur I began to wonder if perhaps there was a problem with my computer, so two days were spent in trying to reach a human at HOT, our IP. Finally someone answered who actually spoke English, albeit bymushingallthewordstogether. She ultimately diagnosed the problem as my not having an ETHERNET cable. I’ve never had one, so how did my e-mail function all these years?
And wasn't it fun trying to decipher the words ETHERNET CABLE, spoken in Mush? Finally I resorted to E-for-elinor, T-for-tachat (bum) and by the time I reacheds N-for-nudnik, I shouted Ah! Ethernet! That'swhatIsaid, she said. A quick trip to the computer guy for the cable and I'm back in business. But how did I send e-mails before that? Never mind, this is Israel, Home of the Occasional Miracle.
So. Most people know about Rosh Hashana, the Head of the Year, but the bubbling chaos beneath the approach to the holiday is revealed to those who watch it up close. It’s a doozy. The very very observant will serve all kinds of things that symbolise heads (such as eyes of a lamb, no kidding), and fruits like pomegranates which, with their tens and tens of ruby red seeds, represent blessings (we should only have that many).
There’s a problem here in Israel: Few kitchen pantries, mostly unique to new flats. People make do by sacrificing a cupboard, or the largest drawer. I’ve lived in half a dozen apartments in Israel and I’ve never had a pantry. As a result, mine host shops and cooks and shops and cooks. Freezers are emptied a priori, it is otherwise impossible.
For days and days before the holiday, pedestrian traffic is thick with people (mostly men), rushing around in buying frenzies, trying to acquire their favourite symbolic foods. I have only once had a fish head at my table, lovingly brought by a Romanian lady who was fairly certain I wouldn’t provide one, and she was right.
At least ‘Rosh Hash’ does not require all the stuff that comes with Succoth. What it does require is that everyone you know either invite you or, better still, that you invite them. ‘Where are you for Rosh Hashana?’ is heard everywhere, in all the current languages of the Middle East, like French. I haven’t figured out quite why the question is asked, for if the answer is mumbled and there is no remarkable destination, one would expect the questioner to issue a hearty invitation, sincere or not. However, the mumble seems to suffice. Next topic.
Problems can arise when tradition has not yet been nailed down and the argument carries forward: ‘This year we’re going to my family for First Night.’ ‘No, we’re not. I promised Mother…’ I, who do not like to argue, traditionally settle for Second Night. Confidentially, it’s easier, everyone’s stuffed to the gills from First Night and it gives me an extra day of preparation. With half my family vegetarians, the meatless tsimmis should be gone by Chanukah.
I hunt up the menu from last year, examine it critically and wonder why I continue to make that every year. Eliminating that always causes someone grief but hey, taste this! I invented a new cucumber salad this year! And, as cucumber salads go, it went. (I am trying not to say Big Deal. We do our best.)
Shul services are lengthy and dinner is not served until 9 o’clock at night. It’s a real problem for people with young children but the youngest around here is 17, and he’s the sous-chef. No problem there. The adults can barely stay awake and I find myself silently remonstrating, YOU MUST NOT FALL ASLEEP UNTIL AFTER I SERVE DESSERT! In retrospect, is dessert all that important? (Hint: Yes.)
I just want to go on record: If another year comes around when Rosh Hashana starts on Wednesday evening, count me out. With food for two holiday dinners and Friday night to prepare, I will not be available. I will have been invited elsewhere.
cross posted Israel Thrives