Preparing for Passover

In just a few hours at sundown tonight, Passover will be here. Like a good Boy Scout, I have done all I can to ensure that I am well prepared. Last week I spent over $300 on food for just this week at the only local kosher grocery store. Remember that I am just a single person. Imagine that kind of investment spread across the entire kosher community in New Orleans or, if you will, the entire kosher-keeping community nationwide. That is a significant amount of money. Also, I have placed all of my non kosher for Passover food in inaccessible or blocked off areas so that I will only be eating food deemed appropriate for the next eight days. This is a bit of an ordeal, but there is a method to this madness. It is intended to bring to mind the period of redemption that came about when the Hebrew slaves were freed from their Egyptian masters. We are commanded to recall the time as if we ourselves had been freed. It is a period of celebration, but also a period of introspection. Starting on the second night of Passover is a 49-day period of privation similar to Lent called the counting of the Omer. Certain events like weddings and certain grooming habits like haircuts are prohibited except for one day, Lag B'Omer, which literally means the 33rd day of the count. This period, which traces back to the agrarian society that worshipped at the Temple, leads up to the holiday of Shavuot, which commemorates the giving of the Law at Mt. Sinai. Meanwhile, it is time to prepare myself for lots of matzah (unleavened bread), matzah balls, gefilte fish and a delicious mixture of nuts, apples, cinnamon and wine (or grape juice) called charoses. So, while it won't be a culinary event, it will be spiritual. Speaking of spirits, all grain alcohol including my favorite rye used in Sazeracs, Bourbon and Scotch whiskies are forbidden. That means only tequila made from agave or vodka made from potatoes are the only allowable spirits. Because it is distilled with grain spirits, rum, made from molasses, has also been deemed as not acceptable. All beers are out too. That just means there's more emphasis on drinking kosher wines. As a matter of fact, it is a tradition that four glasses of wine are consumed at each Passover seder meal. So, all in all, it's not that bad. At the seder table, the youngest child asks "why is this night different from all other nights?" This question and three others that follow it concern the practices of dipping greens (like parsley), eating bitter herbs (like horseradish or romaine lettuce), and eating matzah. So I will leave you with the modern interpretation of the Four Questions that probably should be asked by the oldest member at the seder table. "Why me? Why you? Why us? Why not them?" Chag Samayech or Happy Passover to you all!

New Passover Poem

Starting in 1998 and again in 2001, I composed poems that were aimed at injecting a bit of humor into the Passover celebration. The first poem, "The Night of the First Seder" actually won first prize in a competition sponsored by MSN's Israel and Jewish Singles Froums. The second poem, "The Lost Matzah" was never submitted to a competition, but proved to be a favorite through the years with the younger set. I was struck by my muse this weekend and came up with a rather lengthy entry that I thought I would share. It is simply titled "The Seder." I hope you like it. In case you don't know any of the Hebrew or Yiddish words, here is a glossary. Seder means "order" and is the Hebrew name for the religious readings and the order in which the particular rituals are practiced. Bubbie and zadie are the Yiddish names for grandma and grandpa, while tante is the Yiddish name for aunt. Abba is the Hebrew name for father, not the Swedish rock band. The haggadah is the book of prayers and commentaries from which everyone at the seder table reads. Matzah is unleavened bread commanded to be eaten during the period of Passover. Charosets is a delicious mixture of nuts, apples, cinammon and wine or grape juice. Gefilte fish is a combination of pounded whitefish and pike that is cooked and served chilled as an appetizer. The afikoman is a piece of unleavened bread that is hidden and returned by children late after the meal to be consumed as dessert. Two of the most well-known songs sung during the Passover meal are Dayenu ("It would have been enough!") and Chad Gadya ("One only kid"). As I indicated earlier, you are welcome to enjoy, but please do not reprint or copy this without my permission as it is copyrighted material.

The Seder

My mama called out to my brother and me

“Please wash your hands now. Turn off the TV.

“It’s time for the seder, come downstairs, behave”

And in three little seconds we had started to lave.

No sooner had we finished, we heard the door open

It was Uncle Morey, the bachelor, in from Hoboken

Next came the neighbors, the Cohens and the Franks

Then the widow Mrs. Goldberg, who offered us her thanks.

Bubbie and zadie came in with two shopping bags

Full of gifts for us kids, some still with store tags.

We hadn’t had a chance to play with those toys

When mama disapprovingly said to us “Boys,”

“Put those away now and come to the table.

Ask Aunt Rosa if she feel’s she is able.

She’s not been well lately and could use your support.”

So, the two of us went to the den with a snort.

There we found Aunt Rosa – she was fast asleep

Laid out on the coach and counting sheep.

“Wake up, Tante Rosa! The seder’s almost here.”

She was startled at first, but then said “Dear,”

“I wasn’t asleep. I was just resting my eyes.

Now help get me up you two little guys.”

The two of us helped her move to her chair

It took quite some effort, but soon she was there.

Then in from the kitchen daddy came in with a grin

It wouldn’t be long before the service would begin.

He poured our four glasses of good kosher wine

He inspected each setting and then he said “Fine.”

“Open your haggadahs and turn to page three

And hold up your glasses and sing Kiddush with me."

After drinking our grape juice, we washed hands once more

Then daddy passed the parsley and we knew what was in store

We had to dip the greens in salt water twice

The taste on our tongues was not very nice.

Next he held up three matzah and broke the middle one

He wrapped it in a napkin and got up when he was done.

When he returned to the table, it was not in his hand

With cunning he had hidden it, just as he’d planned.

Abba turned to my brother with a wink and a tease

“Chant the Four Questions for us all, if you please.”

When my brother was finished, mama complimented him

All the praise from friends and relatives made my head spin.

Now I love my little brother, that statement is true,

But I would’ve liked it more, if they’d complimented me too.

Somewhere around here we had another glass

Of wine or some juice for the underage class.

It wasn’t long after that, the plagues we were learning.

The waters of the Nile into blood G-d was turning.

Then next came the frogs, the gnats and the flies

Dead cattle, large boils, and hail with a surprise.

It had fire inside it that burned the ground black

Locusts and darkness set all Egypt aback.

The last of the plagues was one most forlorn

It was the slaying of all the Egyptian firstborn.

That was the reason Pharaoh told Moses to get out

And the reason the slaves praised G-d with a shout.

Dad had us drop grape juice, the others dropped wine

To commemorate the plagues, which made us feel fine.

We read in the haggadahs about unleavened bread

What bitter herbs meant and our speed when we fled.

Then daddy pointed to a lamb bone and held it up high

He spoke of a sacrifice and the reason he said why

The children of Israel were the ones G-d had spared.

I looked at Uncle Morey and I wondered if he cared.

He was starting to nod off and I nudged my little brother

Who giggled so loud, he got looks from our mother.

Then daddy got up and washed his hands one more time

But this time he said a blessing with no reason or rhyme.

He said another blessing this time for matzah bread

And when he had finished “Amen!” we all said.

Then finally, my favorite – charosets – was combined

With bitter herbs on matzah; it was less than refined.

Then all of a sudden, the haggadahs were replaced

With plates of gefilte fish having exquisite taste.

Then to throw Mrs. Frank and Mrs. Cohen for a loop

My mother brought out bowls of her matzah ball soup.

The soup was so savory and the matzah balls were so airy

The faces at the table were so happy it was scary.

But then came the brisket and the turkey and potatoes

Although Tante Rosa only wanted a salad with tomatoes.

It was a meal fit for a king or a queen or a prince

I don’t recall as festive a feast we’ve had since.

Then after dessert, daddy asked us to find

The afikoman he’d hidden somewhere behind

The painting of Big Zadie that hung in the hall

I found it quite easily and showed it to all.

Rewarded with some gelt, I felt very proud.

Everyone at the table sang out their prayers loud.

Daddy poured out glasses three and then came four

I heard Mrs. Cohen scold her husband “Nothing, more!”

It was very late now and I felt kinda drowsy

Mr. Cohen looked like he was feeling quite lousy.

My little brother and I joined in the energetic singing

Of Dayenu and Chad Gadya. Our ears were left ringing.

We ended the evening with a pledge very clear

In Jerusalem we would gather for the seder next year.

Except for Mr. Cohen everyone left feeling well fed

So, the two of us went upstairs and climbed into bed.

We had done so many things. We had had so much fun

That we hated to see the seder end its short run.

Then a thought happened to me as I started to doze

My mind was still racing as my eyes went to close.

We would do it all again at the seder, second night!

Then, alas, Mama and daddy turned out the room light.

©2010 Alan Smason

Selling out bloggers

There's something new from the Google folks who essentially bring you this blog. They have initiated a partnership with Amazon.com that will allow bloggers like me to recommend items for sale on the Amazon website. Links to the Amazon.com site will be automatically generated and click-throughs that generate sales will be credited to the accounts of those bloggers who have installed the Amazon Integration template on their blog site. Ever since I started blogging, I have been fighting the temptation to commercialize my site and make money rather than to write on items that interest me. Ethically, I only want to write. I'm not interested in test marketing, recommending or endorsing products, no matter whose site they are sold over. As a journalist, it is my credo to write for an audience in an honest and fair manner. Oftentimes I am objective in my reporting for established publications. This blog does allow me the leeway, the luxury if you will, to be more subjective in my writing. I am writing to please both my audience and myself. As an objective reporter, it sometimes becomes irksome to have to seek out both sides of the story. It would be so much easier to make up the facts or enhance them in some way to make them more salacious or intriguing. Why let the truth disturb a reporter from getting out a good story? Unethical editors and publishers have been guilty of promulgating just such a philosophy. That is why yellow journalism, so called because of the xanthous sheets on which they were printed by rival publishers Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst, sprang up in the first place. Today it exists in the form of so-called publications like the National Enquirer and Tattler. I'm sorry, but I am not going to write about Elvis sightings or alien babies no matter how many financial inducements there are out there. Just like Alfred Nobel, Pulitzer had a late in life epiphany that brought about the creation of the Pulitzer Prize, considered one of the highest marks of achievement a journalist can be awarded. So corruption and degradation can be transmuted into decency and virtue. Apparently, though, one must wait until he has become wealthy and can see his way clear near the end of his life when morality means more than money. The sad truth is that this is a horrible time to be a journalist or writer. The economic downturn has slashed the advertising budgets of most businesses that still survive. Without advertsing revenue newspapers and magazines have been forced to reduce staff and numbers of available printed pages have decreased exponentially. That means more competition for less and less space. A timely story that might have seen the light of day a few years ago is now doomed. If it is accepted for publication, it undoubtedly will be slashed by an editor down to a more manageable size. When one considers that most journalists are paid by the word, lowering the final tally allowed means less money for writers to support themselves and their families. So the lack of finances means the temptation of selling out to Amazon, Google or Yahoo has never been more alluring. As a budding journalist in high school and college, I wrote humor columns ("With Pen in Hand and Foot in Mouth" and "Quotations from Chairman Smason"). One of my secret hopes was to take over as a column writer for a major publication or syndication circuit one day. Little did I suspect that my dream job would be a victim of corporate downsizing and economic bad times. There is little room on newspaper staffs for humor writers these days, but it could reasonably be argued these are the times when levity and comedy are probably most needed. So, dangle those links in front of me, Google and Amazon. I shall be firm and resolute, a beacon of journalistic integrity for all to see. While I bemoan the lack of available printed space and the loss of revenue for all writers, I understand these are tough times. I resolve I will do all I can to write ethically and beyond reproach for as long as I can. It's a good thing, too, because I thought I just saw Elvis walking with his alien love child.

When up is down

I got a frantic call the other night from a client who couldn't figure out what to do with her laptop display. It seems she was given a notification that the battery was about to lose all power and she reached for the AC cord to recharge it. No sooner had she reached for the cord, then the computer shut down. Hurriedly, she plugged it in and turned the device back on. To her horror the display on the screen was upside down! I asked her if it was a mirror image or reversed in some other way. "No," she replied. "It's just upside down. The start button is at the top and the picture on my desktop is upside down." While a rare occurrence, this sort of thing can happen from time to time. The really frustrating thing is that the mouse works exactly opposite which way you expect it should. If you move it to the right, it slides to the left. It's similar to trying to cut your hair in a mirror. The brain can't keep up with the information being supplied by the eyes. So what to do? The fix is as simple as pressing the Control-Alt-and Page Up or Control-Alt-Up keys all together at once. In case one wanted the display to move with an orientation to the left or right, simply choose the ctrl-alt and either the left arrow or right arrow. It's so simple, yet it makes people really crazy. Another interesting trick is for those people who inadvertently move the start button and task bar to the right or left of the screen in Windows. It is possible that it can make it to the top of the screen as well. To right this, one needs only a deft touch and a mouse. Find an "open"spot on the task bar and drag it to the right. Let go. Then grab it again and drag it to the top of the screen. Let go. Then drag it to the left side of the screen. Let go. Finally you can drag it back to the bottom of the screen where it belongs. This can come in handy if one is trying to click on an application with a button that falls below the task bar. This usually isn't a problem for most screen configurations that are set at 1024 x 768, but when using a 640 x 480 or 800 x 600 display size, it can be problematic.

Two local legends: WWL-TV news broadcaster and editorial writer Phil Johnson died at 80 yesterday followed by the passing of blues singer Marva Wright. Both had a profound influence on New Orleans in different ways. Johnson was a mainstay at the Jesuit-owned TV station back when it was struggling to get an audience away from WDSU-TV, the first television station in the state. Under his news directorship, Johnson guided the station to become one of the most decorated and respected in the country. WWL-TV still enjoys one of the most loyal audiences in all of the country and has had the major market share for most of the last 35 years. Wright became a star late in life. She first became a standout in her local church, singing in praise to God, while serving as the secretary to the principal at a local high school. She was criticized by congregrational members when she first began to perform on Bourbon Street and at the local jazz club Snug Harbor. They said she was singing the devil's music. Marva didn't care. She wanted to be a star and create a life for herself beyond that of a simple school system employee. She toured all over the world for the past 25 years singing blues and gospel, but fell victim to a stroke last summer, which deprived the world of her deep and brassy voice. She apparently suffered several other complications over the course of the last day, which led to her demise early this morning at the age of 62.

The surgical gloves have come off

The hotly contested Obama health care plan has finally passed the House and will most likely be revised slightly in the Senate before becoming the law of the land. This new legislation could be the most significant passed by Congress since the Medicare Act of 1965 under Lyndon Johnson's "Great Society" and the 1935 Social Security Act of Franklin Roosevelt's "New Deal." What has been most distressing this past week is the degree of contention between colleagues on each side of the aisle in Congress and the rancor and outright hatred being expressed by protestors outside the hallowed halls. How and why could racial epithets be hurled and gay bashing become a part of the political antipathy felt by the angry mob? There were obvious deeply held sentiments that were felt by supporters and detractors of the bill, but I was appalled that the political process became an opportunity for hate both in and out of Congress. Shame on you, John Boehner. Has anyone explained to you the meaning of the word grace? How in the world do you justify railing about the Democratic "back room" deals when the same could be said for the Republicans when they controlled both houses of Congress? It does not bode well for the future of this Congress to enact any other legislation with this kind of contention between rank and file members. Whether the healthcare legislation turns out to be a godsend or a debacle remains to be seen, but the kind of rhetoric being spun by well-meaning politicians and protestors will do little to bring Americans together. In fact it will probably have the opposite effect of creating a boondoggle in Congress and maintain levels of distrust and loathing between Democrats and Republicans. I pay for my own health insurance and believe everyone should do so, but I understand the pain of those who say they cannot afford the costs. My feeling is that something has to be done to reel in the ever-increasing costs of medical care in this country. Will this bill bring about all the change that's needed? Probably not. Will it be a good start? Probably so, but only time will tell if this was well advised or a poor choice. The doctors are claiming it goes too far and the health care insurance industry is saying it doesn't do enough. Each special interest group has pointed fingers at one another. Meanwhile, the spiraling costs of healthcare have increased exponentially and several people in need of desperate care have been denied coverage. I don't believe that letting sick people die because they don't have the money is the answer nor do I feel it is right to give them an entirely free ride courtesy of the government. Being a doctor is an awesome responsibility. Along with it comes great pressure and overwhelming costs in the form of underpayments for services from the government and skyrocketing malpractice insurance. It is such a problem that orthopedic surgeons facing $72,000 annual malpractice premiums are seriously considering retiring or working for a public institution that pays their premiums rather than hang up a shingle to practice privately. We should not deny the best care to patients because they live in poverty or have to make choices between health care and putting food on their tables and clothes on their kids' backs. But we should not forget the health care professionals too. They need to make a high standard of living and to take care of their own families. Oftentimes the problem lies in the high salaries and bonuses paid to insurance industry officials and high-ranking officers of health management firms. Many times they keep costs down within the programs by denying claims from doctors only to put the profits they save in their own pockets. While that may be a simple overstatement and not true everywhere, there are enough reported instances of such practices that they need to be considered too. So, where do we go from here? Do we continue to blame each other for overspending or being intractable? Do we point figures and ascribe blame rather than try to work with the legislation and consider where to go from here? I don't expect the major players to go away with a whimper, but I would hope they would behave like grown adults and deal with the reality of the situation. This legislation for good or bad will soon be fact. Trying to help it along and fix potential problems that may occur seem like better plans for the strengthening of America and a better course of action for all Americans.

Bar none

In honor of the 43rd annivesary of my Bar Mitzvah, which occurred yesterday, I have elected to do something either very brave or very stupid. I have decided to sing the two most difficult parts of the service I sang those two score and three years ago at my regular worship services tomorrow at Congregation Beth Israel. These consist of the Maftir, or final Torah reading, and the Haftorah, the reading from the Prophets. To say these two pieces are difficult is an understatement. Without including the opening or closing prayers, the Haftorah runs over eight and a half minutes long and is marked by specific cantillation marks that must be sung exactly right. While the Maftir is not nearly as long, it must be read entirely from the Torah scroll from memory and without any helpful punctuation or cantillation marks and is an entirely different melody. I am understandably concerned about misproununciations and singing off key, which is likely to happen given my present state of mind and busy schedule. I ask myself how in the world did I do this when I was only 13? Was I that much better a singer? (Maybe) Did I have a better head for memorization? (Probably) Can I be fearless and tackle this with great resolve and determination? (Unlikely at best) It has gotten to be such a problem for me that I am now trying to think of inventive ways to bow out gracefully. Suppose I broke a leg, for example. How about being needed for some Scouting event? But no. The rabbi and the gabbi are both not letting me get out of it. After all, they remind me, I volunteered in the first place and there's no one else to back me up at this late time. So, here I stand on the precipice looking down at the valley below, knowing in my heart there is no salvation for me, but to take this literal leap of faith. However battered and bruised I will be, I'm hopeful I will survive my ordeal. I'll let you know on the other side, but in the meantime, say a prayer for me.

Wearing of the green day

Since today is St. Patrick's Day, I thought I would share a bit about it. It is a great holiday to observe, even if it only means being in a parade. Genealogically speaking, St. Patrick's Day is a day that has little to do with my family history, which has a great deal of Russian, Latvian, Ukrainian and Polish lineage. There are, of course, many devout Irish Jews, some whose family lines can be traced back for centuries. One of them, Rabbi David McLashley, married my first cousin Sharon in Los Angeles three years ago. Believe it or not, he actually lived in New Orleans and attended my synagogue, Congregation Beth Israel, back in the 1970's, when he was but a mere lad. But when one considers the history of Ireland and its religious and political split between the mostly Catholic Republic of Ireland and the mostly Anglican section of Northern Ireland, part of the United Kingdom, Jewish influence seems infinitesimally small. Nonetheless, Rabbi McLashley is a testament that there are Irish Jews who are proud of their heritage. I recall riding in a St. Patrick's Day Parade with my Uncle Harold many years ago. He never passed on an opportunity to parade. A bona fide Shriner from the clown unit, Uncle Harold was in fact my dad's very good friend and not a blood relative or related to me by marriage. He was a playful rapscallion and a great pal to a young impressionable youth. Unlike most of my parents' friends, he was a confirmed bachelor. He seemed to have a procession of different girlfriends, all of them very attractive. Although he might be considered morbidly obese, this silver-tongued rascal was light on his feet and a very good dancer. Many a night would he and my father hang out at the Fountain Bay Room of the old Roosevelt Hotel. My Uncle Harold would ask a young lady to dance and tell her he didn't know how. After a difficult time on the ballroom floor, stepping on her feet slightly, he would return her to her table. As the music was starting again, he would ask her to dance again, much to the lady's chagrin. "No, I think you taught me how to do it right," he would insist. Of course, on the second time, he would skillfully oil her around the dance floor and she would realize she'd been scammed. Most of the time, the ladies would laugh and catch on that he was a lovable scamp. From there the evening would take on new dimensions. It was rare that his face would be slapped or that the ladies in question wouldn't want to get a bit closer to this very charming and somewhat dashing figure. When Uncle Harold dressed up as a clown, he wasn't necessarily interested in making a good impression on the ladies. He was being his irrepressible self, entertaining kids and making people laugh. He particularly enjoyed blowing up long, skinny balloons and twisting them into all sorts of animal shapes and designs to delight the children. As part of his clowning, he picked up an old jeep that had been lying dormant for some time. He painted it a horrific shade of vomit green and putrid yellow and for several years invited seven or eight people to join him in the many different Irish parades which followed Mardi Gras. One evening I recall being in the parade held in the Irish Channel. My gym coach, Johnny White, happened to be in the crowd that night and he knew I wasn't Irish. "Smason, what are you doing in this parade?'" he bellowed. The sign on the jeep read "Irish Luntzmen," a reference to the fact most of the occupants in the car were Jewish. I turned to the coach and I said to him, "Coach, you've heard of Irish stew, well, I'm Irish Jew!" I don't believe he was impressed because the next time he saw me in class, he uttered his most famous of phrases: "Smason, take a lap." Another time in the Metairie St. Patrick's Day Parade, usually held the Sunday before March 17, I was dressed in a full E.T. mask. Don't ask me what E.T. had to do with being Irish. It seemed to make perfect sense to me. The mask was very large, but very confining and gave me limited view. It was hot inside, but had lots of room in front, extending at least two inches out from my face. Thank goodness, because at one point on the parade route, a drunken reveler called out to me, "Oh, E.T.?" As I turned toward him to give him a pair of beads, he reared back and slugged me in the mask with his fist. The force behind the blow had me land inside the back of the jeep as it moved on along the street. My mom was in the back with me and after helping me get righted, proceeded to launch several epithets at the man in question. Why he did what he did I'll never know. Maybe he didn't like aliens. Maybe he was by nature combative. Whatever it was, I'll never forget how lucky I was his fist only glanced off the rubber mask and that he never made full contact with my face. Perhaps that is what they mean when they say "the luck of the Irish." Or do you think I'm merely kissing the Blarney stone?