Marriage of Differences
A Marriage of Differences Enriches the Holidays
“Me ken licken di finger!” my
father said.
“That means?” my husband Bob
asked, as he looked warily at the food.
“Delicious,” Dad translated.
We downed some kishka (stuffed intestines). I did not explain that to
Bob.
We spend Christmas with his
folks, but Chanukah’s with mine.
I placed our gift in front of
the beautiful antique menorah, where lights had been kindled by many
families past. Bob, wearing a yarmulke, recited the blessing in Hebrew.
Nobody made fun when he over-pronounced the “ch” in boruch, though it
sounded like a wad of caramel and sharp walnuts was stuck in his
windpipe.
Twenty-seven years ago,
before our wedding, Bob took a crash course in Judaism. My father (a
self-elected expert in all thing Jewish) instructed, “When you stomp on
the glass in the velvet bag, everyone will yell ‘mazel tov!’, so you must
make it a big deal.”
Bob, so eager to please back
then, asked, “What does it symbolize?”
Dad, in his usual manner when
he didn’t know something, raised one finger and melodramatically closed
his eyes. “This,” he said solemnly, “is an unwritten ancient mystery no
one can explain.”
At the altar, Bob stomped
with gusto (and then some), exactly as my father had instructed. Elated,
we walked back down the aisle. Then, I heard the scraping and scuffing. In
horror, I looked to see Bob frantically trying to get the imbedded velvet
bag off the bottom of his shoe. He was shaking his leg, like he had
stepped in something bad.
As I was remembering that
day, my brother Michael, who obsesses (out loud) about food additives
(making him a real bring-down to eat with), joined us at the Chanukah
dinner table. Mom brought out her signature dish. A big three pound beef
tongue. She had sliced it paper-thin and put it back together so it looked
intact, with a little curl at the end. Bob’s face was the same color as
the things in the jars they made us look at in high school biology.
Actually, so was the tongue.
Mom stood proudly, as we
served ourselves candied sweet potatoes. One fell off Bob’s spoon,
bounced, and landed on Mike’s pants.
“A shlemiel, your husband,”
my father teased, and we all, including Bob,
laughed.
Bob cleared his throat. “No,
Dad. I’m a shlimazel.”
“Shlemiel,” we said in
unison.
“And the difference is . . . ”
“A shlemiel is clumsy. A
shlimazel is unlucky,” Dad said. “You’re the shlemiel. Michael’s the
shlimazel.”
My weird brother picked up a
slice of tongue, touched it underneath and stared at his finger for a long
time. Nobody asked why. We didn’t want to know.
“Oy,” said
Bob.
The following day, we went to
my in-law’s home.
“I don’t have to impress your
parents, Bob, the way you go overboard with mine.”
“Right,” he said, rolling his
eyes.
They greeted us at the door.
I was carrying a surprise dessert.
“MER-RY CHRISTMAS!” I took a
handful of fake snow from my coat pocket and tossed it in the air above
Bob’s folks. They watched it spatter their furniture. One piece landed in
his father’s eye. Their shih-tsu licked the carpet and began choking. By
dinner, my father-in-law’s eye was swollen. He said
grace.
“ . . . and for this
food.
Amen.”
“GOD BLESS US EVERYONE!” I
beamed. Bob tapped my foot with his. I looked at him. “That’s Tiny . . .
”
“Tim,” the three said,
quietly, in unison. I nodded emphatically. His mother reached over and
took my hand. “We know all about him, dear.”
For dessert, I unwrapped my
homemade gingerbread replica of their house, that included a reindeer herd
made of tootsie rolls.
Later, we placed our gift
under their tree. It held beautiful handed-down ornaments, some
embroidered and some made of lace, from many families past. I fell asleep
in Bob’s arms, thinking of the wonder of the everlasting rituals both
families carry on, providing a thread of continuity stretching from those
behind us to those who have yet to be born, while Bob picked snow from my
hair.
