lifestyle

What “Jewish food” means

(photo from levhaolam.com)

Summer this year brought me an unusual experience. My twins went to stay with grandparents in Virginia and work as CITs (counselors in training) at a Jewish day camp. My husband dropped them off and then attended a conference. After a flurry of paperwork, packing and arranging, my family had left. Suddenly, I was alone with the dog. I’d made no solid plans while I’d spent so long getting everyone else ready. I settled into household chores, dog walks and routines that still needed to be done, even though there was no one else home.

Eating by myself for 10 days felt daunting. Previously, I’d spent a lot of time procuring healthy food and cooking for teenagers who eat a lot. I hadn’t been alone for this long since before having kids 15 years ago. I started off strong, cooking myself eggplant for salads, potato gnocchi and apple crumble. I prioritized things I like that other family members don’t. After awhile though, I was relieved to get two invitations for dinner and one helpful ride to pick up my car, which had been in the shop.

One dinner invitation was from neighbourhood friends. The other was from synagogue friends. In both cases, the people inviting me were Jewish retired professionals, and at least my parents’ ages. There were many differences – one intermarried, one person who chose Judaism long ago, one secular and some deeply committed to Jewish religious life. Yet, part of the conversation at both meals and during the car ride was “Jewish food.” What was Jewish food? What did I want to eat? Also, there were discussions on how beloved relatives’ and friends’ North American recipes shaped our cooking and eating.

All my hosts discussed North American versions of Eastern European Jewish food in detail. They had specifics: a long-lost recipe for kasha, a brisket, a “New York” cheesecake, homemade pickled beets, cucumber pickles and horseradish. In each conversation, they seemed surprised that my understanding of Jewish food didn’t mean exactly what they thought it meant.

I tried to explain childhood foods I ate at home in Virginia: Southern (American) cooking, mixed with both Eastern and Western European foods, occasional New York Jewish deli items, plus other influences like Israeli, Middle Eastern and Asian foods. This, too, was Jewish food. The foods my friends called Jewish were also Eastern European, often shared by our non-Jewish Ukrainian, Polish or Russian Winnipegger neighbours. We’re a product of family and ethnic ancestry and our environment. Winnipeg’s colder climate means that those with Eastern European backgrounds have every reason to eat the ways their ancestors did: hearty meals with root veggies and long cooking times.

Comparing this life experience with what I’ve been studying lately in Daf Yomi (a page of Talmud a day) has been interesting. While kashrut evolved over time and has precise requirements, it also has many differences from one household or community to the next.

I was taught as a kid to appreciate whatever was served to me, eat it, and say thank you. Not much was different with these recent meals. None was kosher. All were carefully prepared for me, with affection. I ate with gratitude. I appreciated being fed and included at the table. This contrasts significantly with the detailed analysis of kosher slaughter that I’m reading about in the Babylonian talmudic tractate Chullin, but it’s not as different as one might assume.

When discussing the kosher slaughter details, the rabbis are concerned with proper health and safety, as they understand it. Today, we’re lucky to have laws around food security and safety and home kitchen hygiene. In a sense, these laws do some of the same work, as the concepts were understood 1,500-2,000 years ago.

Due to wider travel and modern communication, we now recognize a diversity of eating habits and cultural traditions. What’s considered a normal diet or food consumption varies significantly. So, too, things differed throughout the Jewish world, according to the Babylonian Talmud.

There’s an understanding among the rabbis that people were keeping kosher differently, according to different rabbis’ rulings. That is part of what’s discussed in Tractate Chullin. On page 59A, Rav and Shmuel debate the kashrut and safety of a deer that had its back legs cut off. Their concern and care for each other means that, even if they debate many rabbinic rulings, they want to protect each other. (Rabbi) Shmuel worries that they might be poisoned by bad meat, because the deer might have been bitten by a poisonous snake. The two decide to cook the meat in a particular way. They will be able to tell if the meat is poisonous by whether it falls off the bone when roasted. They discover through this experiment that the meat is unsafe. They don’t endanger themselves by eating it.

There’s a lot to unpack here. Scholars, leaders and others can disagree on many things in a civil manner and care deeply about one another’s wellbeing. Our heartfelt discussions about food, recipes and preparations are how we nurture each other, show affection and protect each other from harm, whether it’s poisonous venom or loneliness. Further, Jewish traditions teach us that, while we may be absorbed in the details – Is it kosher? Is it safe? Is it your favourite? Is it vegan, vegetarian, non-allergic, gluten-free? – it’s not what we eat that matters, but rather how we show our care for others as we feed them that counts.

When I contemplated being alone, friends asked what my favourites were – and, to be honest, I couldn’t even tell them. After cooking meals for others for so long, I just appreciated the invitations, conversations and any food that was different than what was on my table. If pressed, I’d say that I love salatim (Israeli salads), fruit, cheese and dessert. In the end, brisket and turkey meatloaf were just as good. I understand that being included at someone’s Shabbat table and being part of a community is the important part.

If you’re Jewish, and you’re thinking about food carefully, with gratitude and care towards others, it’s all Jewish food, no matter what you put on the table. So, please extend that invitation. Welcome guests!

As a guest, remember to say thank you for the opportunity to share someone’s companionship, no matter what they feed you. It’s the (Jewish) thought that counts.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Have a cookie, schnitzel too

If you want cinnamon twists and schnitzel for dinner – yes, in that order – go for it. Life’s short. (photo by Shelley Civkin)

Nothing screams Jewish baking quite like kichel (aka nothings), kuffles and rugelach. Unless it’s cinnamon twists. My friend Debbie graciously brought over a fabulous selection of her pastries one day and I immediately fell in love with her Bubby Florence’s Twists (aka cinnamon twists). Begging for the recipe, Debbie offered to show me firsthand how to make them. Naturally, I jumped at the chance.

We had a bake-a-palooza date, banished our hubbies (they went out for brunch), donned our Donna Reed aprons and got to work. We made two different kinds of cookies that day: cinnamon twists and shortbread. Both über-yummy. Full disclosure: no calories were spared in the making of these treats.

I’m still getting used to my new induction stove and convection oven, so there continues to be some trial-and-error involved. I know that my oven underheats by 10 to 15 degrees, so I cranked up the temp. The cookies turned out a bit darker than Debbie said they should be, but they were perfect for me. I’ll let you decide what to set your oven at, but the recipe calls for 350˚ F.

CINNAMON TWISTS

1 cup brown sugar
3/4 cup canola oil
3 eggs
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
3 cups flour
1/2 cup white sugar (approx.)
2 tbsp cinnamon

Mix the brown sugar, oil and eggs in a large bowl, and mix the baking powder, baking soda and flour in another bowl. Add the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients and then put the mixture into the fridge for about one hour. (This is just a rough guideline.) After it’s chilled, form the batter into little “logs,” about the size of your baby finger, but slightly longer.

On a flat plate, mix the white sugar with the cinnamon. Roll the “logs” in the cinnamon and sugar until they’re well coated, then twist them into little twisties.

Bake at 350˚ F on a parchment-lined cookie sheet till the cookies are golden brown, approximately 20 minutes. Remove them onto a wire rack to cool – pour yourself a glass of milk and stuff your face until you feel like you’re going to explode. Wait an hour, then repeat. The recipe makes approximately 58 cinnamon twists. They freeze beautifully and they’re super-delicious with all that cinnamon sugar adorning them. Dipping in milk, coffee or tea is also recommended.

DEBBIE’S SHORTBREAD COOKIES

1 cup butter or margarine (I used vegan)
1/2 cup icing sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla
2 tbsp cornstarch
2 cups flour

Cream together butter or margarine and icing sugar. Add vanilla, cornstarch and flour, mixing for three to five minutes. (You can refrigerate the dough at this point if you want to make the cookies the next day. Up to you, but not necessary.)

When ready, spoon out half tablespoons of the dough and roll them into small balls. Place on a parchment-lined cookie sheet and flatten with a fork.

Bake at 350˚ F until golden brown on top, 15 to 20 minutes. Cool on a wire rack.

Could it get any easier?

After our bake-a-palooza was over, we sat down with a big glass of milk for me and a strong cup of coffee for Debbie, and gorged ourselves silly. Soon after, our hubbies got home from their male-bonding experience over panini and lattes. Laying their eyes on the bounty before them, they forgot they were stuffed from lunch. Need I state the obvious? Within seconds, each of the guys had wolfed down at least four of each cookie. And, once again, said they were stuffed. That lasted for 15 minutes. Our 100 cookies soon became dozens fewer. My friend’s suggestion for how to ensure that our husbands don’t eat the rest of the cookies in the future is to put them in a white container in the freezer and label it “Calf’s liver.” Pretty clever, don’t you think?

My next act was to make a recipe I found on Instagram by Shanie Amir, called Crispy Oven-Baked Eggplant Schnitzel. Simple, scrumptious and sort of healthy. Not.

CRISPY OVEN-BAKED EGGPLANT SCHNITZEL

1 eggplant
2 eggs
1 tbsp mayonnaise
1 1/2 cups golden breadcrumbs (or Panko)
salt & pepper

In a bowl, whisk the eggs and mayonnaise together.

Slice the eggplant into half-inch rounds and peel it so stripes of the skin show. Season lightly with salt and pepper.

photo - Eggplant schnitzel — Eggplant schnitzel *(photo by Shelley Civkin)*

Dip each slice of eggplant into the egg mixture, then coat them well in the breadcrumbs. Put the pieces on a parchment-lined baking sheet, spraying both sides with avocado oil.

Bake for 25 to 30 minutes at 400˚ F, flipping halfway, until golden and crispy. Make a dip to go with it. I like Ranch dressing, but a tahini dip would be delish. You’re welcome.

On a completely different note … I turned 70 years old awhile ago, and I’ve finally reached the stage of life where I’m gaining some perspective. I grew up with a mother who always told me to “Save it for good,” which translated to “Save it for when you go out somewhere fancy” or “Save it for when you have a nice dinner party” or “Save it for when you lose some weight.”

“Save it” was an exhortation to be careful, be cautious, be thrifty and, most of all, be scared of living in the moment, be scared of having too much fun, of throwing caution to the wind. As a result, I have fancy clothes in my closet that I’ve never worn, because I’ve been “saving them for good.”

I finally have realized that “good” means now. I don’t have to wait to go somewhere fancy just so I can wear my new dress. If I want to, I can wear it out grocery shopping. Turning 70 means not waiting for a better day. Today is the best day – for anything and everything.

I think I’m going to wear my fancy white blazer tonight. Because I can. And, if I feel like eating cookies, and eggplant schnitzel with dip for dinner, I will. Turning 70 has its advantages. My advice to you is this: have fun now – this is not a dress rehearsal!

Shelley Civkin, aka the Accidental Balabusta, is a happily retired librarian and communications officer. For 17 years, she wrote a weekly book review column for the Richmond Review. She’s currently a freelance writer and volunteer.

Cutting grass with scissors

Nine years ago, I was walking with my twins, then age 6, to synagogue, when we passed an older woman in her yard, using scissors to cut the grass along the boulevard. At that moment, herding Grade 1 kids along, it felt hard to imagine why anyone would do this. It became a discussion topic. Why was this lady using scissors to do this? Was this a sign she wasn’t feeling well (in “kid” talk, aka mental illness)? Did we have to do something to help? We passed this person and her lawn several times on Saturday mornings that summer.

Recently, I, too, was using scissors to cut the lawn. I wanted to plant some runner beans along our chain link fence. Cutting the longer grass thatch away from this small space before planting was hard to do with our manual reel lawn mower, but the scissors made quick work of the problem. Within moments, I’d cleared away a strip of two to three inches on each side of the fence. With a satisfyingly large pile of thatch and grass for the yard waste, I was ready to start planting.

This morning, during a heat wave, I was using our mower, which is powered only by human efforts, no gas, no electricity, just a quiet whirr as it works. It struck me that people would look at me the way we looked at the neighbour cutting grass with her scissors. We choose a more environmentally friendly, retro, way to mow. Yes, it’s slower and more work. Yet, cutting the lawn is remarkably Zen. It’s an exercise in meditation, even when it’s hot out.

Modern spirituality often uses words like Zen, flow, meditation, spiritually alive and “finding deeper meaning” to help us access these experiences. These buzz words are supposed to differentiate spirituality from religion. As is, “I’m not religious or observant, but I’m spiritual.” Still, there’s nothing new about the concepts behind these terms. Our ancestors also worked to find flow or a Zen state of “being nothing” (a Buddhist/East Asian concept) in their lives.

I pondered this while attending an after-Kiddush lunch learning session on Shabbat. The speaker, a therapist, introduced the notion of mussar to the crowd with words like “journey” and “spiritual growth.” He spoke for 45 minutes. I wished I’d gone home to nap. The speaker, recently trained to discuss this Jewish concept, quoted a saying of the Kotzker Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk (1787-1859), but didn’t even give his name.

To summarize the core concepts of mussar to a friend later, here’s what I knew before the talk:

Mussar was invented in the 19th century in Lithuania based, in part, on medieval Jewish texts. It focuses on moral conduct and positive character building from a Jewish perspective via specific values such as humility and gratitude. Practitioners explore these values via self-reflection, meditation, pair and group dialogue. This growth is intended to be an ongoing self-improvement effort to draw the individual soul towards the Divine.

Aside from concluding that I may not be destined for these 45 minute after-lunch sessions, I also summed this up in four sentences without using any buzz words to express it. There’s nothing wrong with learning mussar. It’s an approximately 170-year-old form of modern group and individual self-betterment and therapy, through a Jewish lens. This presentation offered it in 21st-century lingo.

Summer is a great time for celebrations, but it’s also a time to embrace the meditative moments of just being, like hearing the water hit the shore at the ocean, swinging in a hammock, laying in the grass watching clouds, digging in the dirt or pushing the mower back and forth in straight rows. Some of my most transcendent Jewish prayer experiences have happened at Jewish summer camp, outside, singing in harmony while overlooking the lake. The sunshine and the bugs and birds singing – it’s all a chance to slow down and enjoy amazing moments of wonder and observation in the natural world. It’s a moment to express gratitude for the divine creation we get to experience.

I, for one, feel wrought up over wars, constant misinformation, concern about relatives and friends in Israel, and in need of more calm. Closer to home, the recent data about the rise in Canadian antisemitic incidents can put a Jewish person’s nervous system in high alert. It’s legitimate to feel anxiety. Still, that’s not healthy all the time.

For many, big gatherings in the sunshine are not what helps us relax. It’s the quiet state that comes from “being nothingness,” according to the Buddhists, our own Jewish traditions and from being alone outdoors and celebrating G-d’s creation.

Maintaining wonder comes in different forms for all of us. It’s OK to find that flow state, or, as Rabbi Sari Laufer expressed it in a recent Torah commentary about the parsha (portion) Naso: “Flow is the mental state where we are deeply immersed, focused and energized – so much so that time disappears. We forget to eat and sleep. Flow is a peak experience of purpose, creativity and connection. Crucially, flow is not meant to be permanent. We are designed to move in and out of it. A person living perpetually in flow would burn out, would find it utterly unsustainable.”

Settling down our nervous systems, escaping that adrenalin-fueled anxiety, is essential to maintaining balance during difficult times. One way to do that is through flow-state activities, whether grounded in mussar, daily routines, knitting or attending minyan. It’s sometimes found in a long walk to shul. Still others find it by trimming the grass by hand, a few blades at a time, with scissors. I think back on that woman, sitting on the ground, rapt with concentration, and marvel. In the Babylonian Talmud, in the Tractate of Berachot, on page 62a, the rabbis recount stories of students following their mentors to the bathroom and even the bedroom. Why? Everyday activities can be holy and essential to our wellbeing. Like cutting blades of grass, staring at the clouds, or finding one’s flow state – this is also Torah.

Zionism as a solution

(internet photo)

On May 17, Tafsik Organization and Stop Antizionism hosted a full-day World Symposium Against Antizionism. With justifiable pride, the organizers declared that this was the first conference in the world specifically dedicated to combating antizionism. Keynote speaker was Ben Shapiro, co-founder of The Daily Wire, along with Gad Saad, Eve Barlow, Leora Shemesh and a packed A-list of inspiring Jewish leaders from around the world.

The fire of Jew-hatred has been ravaging the Jewish community across our country, and elsewhere, and absolutely every option must be considered to put it out. At the same time, I wonder, What if this conference had been organized around the topic of Zionism, where these same speakers focused on all the many visions, projects and ways that Jews everywhere could support the cause of Zionism?

Whether you identify more with Zionism, Jewish peoplehood, Israel or Judaism, if we really want to declare war on antizionism and antisemitism, I think it is by embracing everything that makes us proud to be Jewish and to live Jewishly. For every action each of us takes to combat antisemitism/antizionism, imagine the impact if we also did an equal action that deepens our Jewish identity. Consider it a one-to-one combating antisemitism, promoting Zionism challenge.

As Canadian Jews, we have endured longstanding discrimination. Many of us remain vigilant, knowing our lives will be shaped by the latest surge of “protesters” in Jewish neighbourhoods, or by flash mobs of such protesters at Toronto subway stations or at public forums like Phillips Square in Montreal. where effigies were hung.

When, in Vancouver, someone sets fire to the entrance of Schara Tzedeck Synagogue and the Jewish Federation of BC reports that 62% of Jewish community members have experienced at least one antisemitic incident, wearing Jewish symbols in public is an act of pride and defiance against any of our fellow Canadians who secretly, or openly, hate us for being Jews.

Even before Oct. 7, 2023, B’nai Brith recorded that, in Canada, in 2021, for the sixth consecutive year, records were set for antisemitic incidents in the country, reaching 2,799 that year. In their recently released 2025 Annual Audit of Antisemitic Incidents, B’nai Brith found there were 6,800 incidents of antisemitism documented that year.

Zach Bodner, chief executive officer of the Palo Alto Jewish community centre and the head of the Zionism 3.0 movement, declares: “We have to stop pretending that anti-antisemitism will keep Judaism alive for the next generation…. We have to stop believing that fighting against antizionism will keep our kids loving Israel.”

Rabbi David Hartman, in his 1982 essay “Auschwitz or Sinai?” challenges us to examine if we will live our Judaism shaped by trauma, persecution and hatred, or if will we be shaped by covenant, responsibility and moral purpose. “It was not Hitler who brought us back to Zion, but rather belief in the eternal validity of the Sinai covenant,” he wrote.

Recently, as a simple test, I went to the Jewish Independent archives and clicked on the antisemitism tag, I found 45 pages of articles. When I went to the Zionism tag, I found only four, but the tag for Israel had 111 pages, while antizionism/anti-Zionism had three pages of results combined.

I then decided to compare the number of articles published in 2026 between the antisemitism and Israel tags. I found about 30 articles in the former and roughly 25 in the latter. Of those 25 Israel stories published in 2026, at least four dealt with antisemitism and included that tag search as well. Of the 21 remaining Israel articles, most could be construed as some form of cultural connection, solidarity with or interest in Israel, more than enough to classify as Zionism.

While close in number, so far in 2026, antisemitism stories are outpacing stories about Israel and/or Zionism. I have no doubt this same test could be used with any other Canadian Jewish publication, with similar findings.

I’m sure we can agree that there is so much more we can do to inspire ourselves and pass the torch from Sinai to our future generations, rather than allow so much of our creative and intellectual drive and energy to be focused on those who hate us.

We are living in the aftermath of 1948, the year when we Jews finally transformed the seemingly impossible dream of reestablishing statehood into reality. We have a strong North American Jewish community and representative organizations that make us an undeniable political force.

With these resources that were unimaginable to previous generations of Jews, we have new goals to set, new visions to dream, new swamps to drain, new heights to achieve – as Jews.

So, I ask every one of you reading this: What inspires you about being Jewish? What about Judaism, Zionism or Israel inspires you? What leads you to live a Jewish life and gives you strength during tough times? What drives you to be the best Jew you want to be?

For every statement, action, rally or event you attend where you roar with defiance against our haters, please take a moment to express why you are the Jew you are; how you live Jewishly; and why you are proudly part of the Jewish nation. Your words, your ideas, your vision can and will inspire many others.

Alan Herman has lived in Israel twice, including when attending Ben-Gurion University, where he completed his master’s degree in Middle Eastern studies. He participated in the Quebec-Israel Committee’s parliamentary program in Montreal, and organized many Israel and Zionism related events as a co-chair for the Toronto chapter of the Canadian Institute for Jewish Research from 2013 to 2025. He is a proud member of the board of Upstanders Canada.

Ishai energizes, unifies

Anat Ishai, aka Challah Mom, energizes the crowd at Beth Israel Synagogue June 13, at an event spearheaded by National Council of Jewish Women of Canada, Vancouver chapter. (photo from NCJWC Vancouver)

Anat Ishai swept into the hall at Beth Israel Synagogue the night of May 13 in a twirl of silver, dancing exuberantly as Israeli music played loudly on speakers. The room, filled with 300 Jewish women and children of all ages, exploded with sound and energy as Ishai enticed onlookers onto the dance floor.

Ishai, known on social media as “Challah Mom,” was in town at the invitation of the National Council of Jewish Women of Canada’s Vancouver chapter. Attendees gathered around tables to bake challah using Ishai’s recipe, to reflect on the meaning of challah-making and to hear her story.

Ishai describes herself as a digital content creator and blogger who “shares her Jewish life through challah, dance, hair-wrapping tutorials, Israel and Jewish wisdom.” Born in Israel to Russian-Israeli parents, she grew up in a secular home and the family moved to Toronto when she was 5 years old.

Ishai – who is now married and has kids – started the Challah Mom social media account during the COVID lockdown. It was an attempt to find happiness during a sad time, she said. To date, Challah Mom has a global platform with 300,000 followers across Instagram, Facebook and TikTok.

Ishai and her family made aliyah in September 2023, but she flies all over the world for Challah Mom events in different Jewish communities. In May alone, she appeared in Toronto, Winnipeg, Washington, DC, and Vancouver.

“I allow my Challah Mom community to enter my world and to see Judaism and Israel through my eyes,” writes Ishai on her website. “I share my insights, my perspective and my thoughts about Judaism, growth, Israel and everything in between. In courageously showing up as a proud Jewish woman, I hope to inspire my community to unleash their Jewish soul within.”

Jordana Corenblum, president of NJCWC Vancouver, said the goal of the recent event was “to create a community-wide, grassroots gathering, free and accessible, where women and children from different backgrounds could come together in a warm, inclusive environment.”

The event was supported by many Jewish community partners, including Congregation Beth Israel, Congregation Schara Tzedeck, Chabad Lubavitch of BC, Chabad Richmond, Community Kollel, Congregation Beth Tikvah, Temple Sholom, Or Shalom, PJ Library and Bitachon, a Jewish Federation of BC security volunteering initiative.

Yamila Chikiar, a member of the local NJCWC board and a Jewish Federation staff member, said the Challah Mom event was incredibly moving. “It was filled with energy, music, and a real sense of togetherness,” she said. “There was such diversity in the room, women and children from different walks of life, ages and levels of connection to Jewish practice, all coming together with a shared openness.

“That translated quickly into a sense of belonging,” she added. “What might have started as a large gathering very quickly felt intimate, connected, and a moment of genuine community-building. Through baking, music and storytelling, Ishai creates an experience that feels joyful, nonjudgmental and unifying.”

While NCJWC Vancouver has hosted impactful programming in the past, this event stood out for its scale, accessibility and cross-community collaboration. “It reflects the kind of programming the organization hopes to continue building,” Corenblum said.

“This event was a reminder of what is possible when community is built intentionally, when it is open, collaborative and grounded in shared values. It brought together people from different backgrounds in a way that felt both simple and meaningful,” she continued. “At its heart, it wasn’t just about baking challah. It was about connection, inclusion and creating space for people to come together.”

Lauren Kramer, an award-winning writer and editor, lives in Richmond.

Taking life a step at a time

Feeding teenage boys healthy, homemade food is no joke. It’s a marathon and not a sprint. Every time, I start with “Where did the leftovers go? Did you eat them all?” and “What else can I possibly throw together from the produce in the fridge and meat in the freezer?”

For anyone who is immersed in household routines, food production easily moves from creative enjoyment to drudgery. This morning, I pondered what to make for dinner, as I walked the dog. Just like the need to think up meals, the dog walk feels heavy, each step weighing me down. Then I hear a noise and look up to see Canada geese migrating home. It’s a sign of spring and, after a long winter, a sign of joy.

We’re experiencing what looks like a failing ceasefire, ongoing wars and, in North America, ongoing antisemitic upheaval. I feel I have that sentence on repeat. The situations change but the worry about world conflicts and about friends and family remains. I’m afraid to invest in commenting on today’s news because tomorrow, we’re still going to wrestle with these issues, but the specifics will change. I feel swamped by it, and I’ll guess that I’m not alone in that.

I continue to study Daf Yomi, a page of Babylonian Talmud a day. Lately, I’ve been trying to follow the rabbis in Menachot, as they cover the particulars of grain sacrifices and how they were carried out in the Temple. The Second Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed just under 2,000 years ago, and these rabbis were discussing this more than 1,500 years ago. On one hand, the rabbis’ debate feels important – they worried that, should the Temple be rebuilt, they would need to understand and replicate these sacrifices. On the other hand, the incredible level of nuance in these discussions feels over the top. It’s way past “How one loads the dishwasher” and up there with “How do you clean out the sink drain?” and “Do you sort coffee grounds from tea leaves in your compost?”

It’s between these extremes that a lot of spiritual discussion happens. It’s something like “We are but a grain of sand on an endless beach” and, at the same time, “Listen to your heartbeat, as its beat is the centre of the universe.” As individuals, our lives are nothing in the eternal universe and, also, we are the centre of everything all at once.

I get mired in the minutiae, particularly when it comes to household management. Societally, this is common for middle-aged moms with kids at home. This past week, we bought our kids an old-fashioned clock radio, in hopes they would wake up on their own. Despite the clock, their dad goes in first to tell them to wake up. I come in 15 minutes later, to rouse them again. This morning, something occurred to me as I sang “Modeh Ani” at high volume to my teenagers and then a little Paul Simon, “Oh, my momma, she loves me, she loves me, she gets down on her knees and hugs me, she loves me like a rock!” (I can be annoyingly loud and cheery in the morning.) Maybe, even at 7:15, my boys like seeing us do this. Maybe these will be things they remember. Maybe this is how they are reminded that their parents love them.

Slogans that urge us onwards, to do “great things,” like “How we spend our days is how we spend our lives,” can really rub me the wrong way. After the raucous wakeup, I was outside, dressed and walking the dog 15 minutes later, wondering if this meant that picking up dog poop or reminding a kid not to forget his lunch was indeed how I’d spend my life. In a “loud” world full of people who boast of big world-changing endeavours, where does that leave me?

Some people I went to school with are, indeed, in big important positions in business or nonprofits, making change in the world, and that can make a person feel small and hopeless. The notion of tikkun olam, or fixing the world, feels far off. This umbrella phrase is a concept consisting of many individual mitzvot (commandments). It’s misleading and too broad when the individual commandments (visit the sick, provide food for the poor in your community, etc.) are accessible. Example: I saw a new mom of twins feeling desperate online. I knew, from experience, how to help.

“You can do this,” I wrote. “Take it one feed, one diaper change, one snack and one nap at a time. Take all the help you are offered. Think forward but only to the next thing you have to do.”

When I was in the trenches, alone, with my twin infants, I felt furious when smiling people said, “Enjoy it! It will all go by so quickly.” It was painful and slow, like being a grain of sand on an endless beach. Now, though, as I jostle my teens off to school with their lunch bags, I’m reminded that we can do big things, like raise a whole new generation, through these small details.

The rabbis spent a lot of energy trying to reconstitute what Temple sacrifice looked like. This seems a bit much to me until a kid loses his brand new, handknit mittens. Suddenly we’re retracing our steps, calling the places where he might have left them, and getting into the nitty-gritty. These little steps, how we spend our days, are, I believe, how we find our humanity. The global conflicts and issues change, but, if we can just focus on doing these small tasks for others, we can make enormous change over time.

It’s OK to be annoyed, bored and frustrated by all of life’s mindless tasks. That’s a real feeling that many of us share! It’s legitimate. Now, though, I have to go make chicken meatballs, with onions and dill and matzah meal in them, for supper, which we’ll have with potatoes, sweet potatoes, beets and a salad.

These endless details? They’re about nothing. They mean everything.

Resilient joy in tough times

A few days ago, our beloved, big, senior dog had a limp. We went to the vet, on short notice. Our regular vet was away. It was icy and snowy. I got the dog into my 23-year-old car, backed it out of the 123-year-old garage. We made it there on time. The dog got help for what is maybe arthritis or an injury, perhaps from the ice. Driving home, I wondered if I should run an errand but decided, nope, it was windy and raw. The dog should be warm and cozy at home again.

I parked the car in the driveway, got the dog inside and then returned to put my car into our narrow garage. I heaved open the left garage door, planting it into the ice. I hoped the prairie winds wouldn’t slam it shut again. When I got back into the car, it was completely dead. Wouldn’t start.

Then I realized that the heavy garage door had come off its bottom hinge. Huge screws were hanging halfway out. I closed it as best I could and locked it. Inside again, I nearly keeled over because I’d missed eating lunch.

When I warmed up, ate, triaged my work and called the Canadian Automobile Association, I anticipated the worst. The day hadn’t gone as planned.

Yet, CAA help arrived quickly. Miraculously, the fix was simple. A terminal needed to be replaced on my battery. At that moment, the raw day tempered by a cup of hot tea and a moment to think, I was seized with gratitude. What if my car had died on a busy street, with the dog inside? What if we’d been stuck at the vet? What if I’d stopped to run an errand and then been stuck with a car that wouldn’t start and a dog hurting too much to walk home?

Back inside, I looked again at a garage door photo I’d taken. It could have been even worse. What if I hadn’t noticed the screws hanging off the hinge? What if I’d shoved the heavy door and it crushed me underneath it instead? The possibilities were far worse once I’d thought about what happened. This has a happy ending. My husband will repair the hinge when that ice melts. My car now starts. My dog is on medicine and will hopefully be better soon. Gratitude felt like the only answer here.

This was midweek, and we stayed close to home through the weekend. Though we live near downtown Winnipeg, where the national NDP convention took place, we steered clear. At synagogue, one kid played baritone sax for the family service on Shabbat, as little kids danced along in their seats. My other kid greeted families in the lobby as they arrived. Before the wiggly kids got there, we spent a few moments at the main service and did the Birchot Hashachar, the morning blessings, where we thank G-d repeatedly for the good things, the everyday basics, happening in our lives.

On Sunday, our teens spent time on science fair preparation and on helping deliver Passover hampers for those in need, and we adults worked on the household. My husband cleaned steadily but managed to burn something in the microwave, break a pencil sharpener and a cereal bowl. I began to worry again about this weird bad luck, when I thought of the Birchot Hashachar. I remembered what to do. Being resilient meant pausing and finding gratitude instead.

Emergency services had to be called to the high school earlier this week for a student, but, this weekend, my kids are safe, healthy and doing productive things. Though I walked past slogans calling for radical protests at the NDP convention and a woman attendee wearing a keffiyeh at the café right near home, we’re safe, for now.

This year’s celebration of Israel’s birthday feels emotionally like a larger, more difficult version of our small misadventures. War is no joke. Israel is really going through it right now. Via social media, I see these extended family members in my tribe, my community, running for bomb shelters and fighting. Yet, I’m so impressed by the way Israelis strive for beauty and everyday normalcy – trips to the park, surfing and making music – with so much violent disruption. It’s been scary to watch, and I’m not there. That said, maybe the lesson in this birthday is seeing how, after these horrible, life-shattering events, it’s possible to practice that mind shift. The gratitude one, where strangers care for one another in bomb shelters, sharing food, music and space while struggling with what could have happened.

It’s unsettling to be Jewish near a Canadian political convention peddling antisemitic tropes. I’m reeling from seeing a premier who lives near me, who is also a parent I’ve spoken to on the playground, say deeply unsettling words on the NDP stage. Even if Wab Kinew’s “Epstein class” comment wasn’t intended to be antisemitic, his words, about this “dumb war” horrified me.

Jewish tradition teaches that all lives are valuable. Premier Kinew said North American lives shouldn’t be lost – to stop a repressive regime that has already killed thousands of its citizens. Our lives are no more valuable than theirs. Iranians deserve help, as do all the people harmed by the horrible regime and its terror proxies.

In precarious times, it’s helpful to seek the good. To remember that heavy garage door, still dangling off its hinge, the car that died, thankfully, in the driveway and was fixed, and the veterinary help that came when needed. Being grateful and practising joy, even when it’s a strain, is complicated. I want to be happy on Israel’s birthday, but it’s a complicated emotion, too. It requires practising gratitude and celebration even when times are tough, but that’s what we’re “commanded” to do sometimes.

This year, I wish for peace and everything good for everyone in Israel and its neighbours, as well as in other places where conflict reigns. Thank goodness Israel exists, as a place of refuge for all Jews, but it’s OK to wish for safer times at home in the diaspora, too. May the year ahead be an easier one, without war or complication; one in which we can all embrace less fear and more simple joy.

Ritual is what makes life holy

Years ago, I regularly walked with my two bird dogs on streets near my home, in Winnipeg. I had a setter-mix and a pointer, rescued from a Kentucky animal shelter as young dogs, before moving to Canada. I walked them once or twice a day. Our routines were solid. The dogs sat on street corners. They heeled while crossing streets. Strangers admired their obedience skills and called out praise. Others stopped to say hello. I said thank you, but the next question almost always was, “How did you do that? My dog doesn’t….”

The answer, every time, was the same. I walked these dogs for years. Every day, we waited at street corners for cars to pass, and I had my dogs sit. Every time we crossed in traffic, I aimed for two lively dogs who heeled at my side to make the street crossing safer. Now, I own a different dog (another setter mix from the pound) and have twins as well. My family gets complimented about those lovely teens with their good manners, and we all say thank you. How did we do it? The same way – with consistency and positive reinforcement.

Our Jewish lives are also full of ritual and routine. No matter your level of observance, some of those repetitions stick. Perhaps you say a blessing when you wash your hands or do blessings before eating. Others may light Shabbat candles, attend a family seder or use Yiddish phrases of endearment. Some hum Jewish music or embrace Jewish values. These visible and invisible parts of our identity are so ordinary that we may not think about them much.

I’ve heard rabbis express their congregants’ disinterest in the specifics of how to build the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, in the wilderness in Exodus when reading the Torah portion each year. Yet these details mattered enormously to the many people who used the information as “how-to” guides. These were people with great skills, those who spun the finest linen yarn or wove the curtains, dyed the textiles the right shades using natural materials, or who worked gold and silver to create ornamentation. Later in our history, the priests who made the sacrifices in the Temple in Jerusalem needed to know how to do those sacrifices properly. The rabbis debated and recorded these routine details, even though the Temple no longer existed. The information was precious. It was a guide for the Jewish people.

The details illustrate how meaningful it was to create this beautiful “home” for the Divine. Today, we may not understand the details of how spinners, goldsmiths or hand-dyers worked. However, our texts record their efforts, these gorgeous descriptions, for a reason.

Just as our body is the “container” for our soul, our homes and synagogues are now our mishkan, our sanctuary. How we create beauty and routine matters. A house that’s functional and attractive is one where we find rest and peace to escape the outside world.

Like the daily dog walk, other routines or “sacrifices” make our houses and gardens functional and humming. It’s a pain to clean up thoroughly, whether dusting, scrubbing or sweeping. Still, these small moments add up to a clean, healthy and safe place to live. Clinging to these rituals also orders our lives when we’re mourning or stressed.

Many have seen social media images of Israelis, family or friends, rushing to their shelters to stay safe during the war. Recently, I saw a clip of a mom who taught her small children that, when they heard a big boom in the shelter, they should say, “Olé!” She created a quirky, positive celebration of life to respond to missiles and the Iron Dome response. That routine helps create resilience during anxious moments. We can panic when we don’t know what to do. Solid routines (rituals) create order during difficult times.

About eight years ago, I crossed a busy street in front of my home with my (new to me) adolescent, large dog. We tripped over each other. I literally fell and rolled at an intersection full of fast-moving cars. Kind people asked if I was OK as I got up from the pavement, but some stopped their cars to yell at us instead. This further panicked an already bruised and disoriented young dog and owner. My long routines of dog walks helped me get up, calm the new dog and get across the street safely. The drivers, jostled by this upsetting event, lost their calm commute. While I was bruised, I had the tools to get up again. I could proceed without yelling rude things back.

Every dog walk is an opportunity for training and reassurance. Every meal is a chance to rejoice in good, tasty food with people we love. We make the ordinary something special. When we’re faced with upheavals, a bad tumble or even a war, we can find resilience in the rituals and beauty of each day as it comes. Jewish life offers repeat performances, if we choose to embrace them.

While I sometimes dread chores like weeding, our small choices each day, what we plant or weed, can become glorious garden landscapes later. Similarly, big Shabbat meal prep for family and friends can feel overwhelming. However, when I break it down into first steps and familiar routines, baking challah or turning out salads, I regain calm. And, with each gathering, the bonds with family and friends are deepened.

We can choose resilience and ritual, meaning and beauty as daily practice even during hard moments. We can find the joy in the everyday, if we look around and see what we’ve created through those routines. The minutiae in our lives, the how-to manuals of our days, can feel like too much. Even so, a calm child or dog, a well-planned meal or a garden filled with colour are all signs of someone’s daily efforts. These household routines aren’t ordinary, but magnificent, like the ways we built the Mishkan, our wilderness sanctuary. Perhaps what’s limiting is the unimaginative person who yells negatively, for that’s the person who cannot see the countless steps that go into making the mundane into something holy.

Multiple benefits of a break

It’s been an incredibly stressful time in our community for more than two years. The relief I felt when Ran Gvili’s body, the last hostage in Gaza, was returned home, was huge. When I saw others at synagogue, all our body language said the same thing. We’re exhausted as a people. It sometimes feels like there is no end in sight to our worry – about the antisemitism, the ongoing violence.

Along with all this, of course, there are the usual life events. For example, we’ve watched the gradual blossoming of independence for our teens. This culminated for me recently when my husband took our twins on a skiing trip with extended family. I got the chance at a staycation – by myself – with our dog. I can almost hear those who would say, “What?! You didn’t join them? You didn’t want to go?”

Reader, I’m not a skier. I’m happiest at home. Staying in a ski house with 15 extended family members isn’t everyone’s idea of bliss. So, for the first time, I wrote the special letter that says I consent to my children traveling outside of Canada without me. I helped everyone pack, drove them to the airport and came home to a quiet house. Once or twice a day, I reminded our worried dog that they weren’t coming home today, while she lingered by the door, waiting.

Friends at synagogue asked what special things I would do. Are you ordering take out? What movies are you watching? What are your plans? At first, I had no answer for them. It’s been 15 years since I was actually by myself for so long. I didn’t even know what I wanted to do.

In the end, what I wanted was small, but it was meaningful. I took walks outdoors every day with my dog, particularly reveling in adventures on the frozen Nestawaya River Trail, right in the middle of the city. I dawdled outside in my crisp winter backyard looking at the stars. I listened to music my household wouldn’t have chosen and ate everyday things that my family doesn’t like. I read a whole book.

I also made inroads, each day, on routine chores that needed to be done. I vacuumed. Did a load of laundry. Cooked and polished silver. Nothing was crazy or so different. In embracing daily rituals, I kept things feeling normal and predictable. The dog got fed and walked. The lights got turned on and off. The phone got answered. The bed got made.

To many, this might not seem like a break or a particularly meaningful experience, but I had exchanges with multiple women, moms in mid-life, who absolutely knew what it meant when I said I was going to be staying home – alone. They offered smiles and good wishes. There was a wistful jealousy there, too. I recognized it well. Everyone asked if I was getting the chance to sleep a lot.

Truth is that I had nightmares more than once. There’s a lot to process. It was harder than I thought it would be to relax and rest. Yesterday though, my children, relatively new to downhill skiing, were finally off the mountain and on their way to an airport and back to the prairies, with my husband. They regaled me with what they’d accomplished. Their cross-country skiing experience, learned in Winnipeg public school gym class, had helped them. They joked that the biggest hill they’d ever gone down on a Manitoba school ski trip was small compared to the bunny hill in the Rockies. Their texts and calls showed 14-year-olds alternately nervous and boastful, a normal teen experience. They grew during their trip away, but I did, too.

Lately, I’ve thought about the many pressures parents face as we’re juggling households, kids, work and community. There are frequently calls to volunteer, donate, “get involved” and do more. This is particularly true in a (relatively small) Canadian Jewish community, in which every one of us helps keep things afloat. However, I’d gotten to a place where I kept showing up, feeling completely exhausted. Yes, I’d woken everyone up and dropped them off to volunteer, or I’d helped at another “do something to help others” event myself. The weekend break reminded me viscerally that when your own “cup” is empty, it’s hard to fill everyone else’s.

Everybody needs breaks to rest and restore themselves. Without that space – and, for this introvert, silence – there’s no way to offer our best selves to others. We often quote the famous Pirkei Avot 2:5 passage from Hillel: “In a place where there are no men [people], strive to be a man [person].” There are many takes on this, including, where there are no leaders, strive to be responsible. Another take is, when people behave as monsters, or aren’t behaving in an upstanding way, try to be a mensch. Yet, when, I woke up after several days by myself, rested and happy, I realized something else.

In a place where there are no other people, self-regulate. Strive to be a good person, one who does the chores and shows up and does her work, even when there’s no one else to hold us accountable. Take responsibility. Make space for recovery, so that we can all “treat others as we wish to be treated.” In the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Shabbat 31a, Hillel says to the gentile who asks to convert, with the condition that Hillel teach him the whole Torah while he stands on one foot, “That which is hateful to you, do not do to another; that is the entire Torah, the rest is its interpretation. Go study.”

Right in one of our most popular Jewish quotes is a good answer for why a staycation – or a break when you’re tired – matters. Don’t demand something from others that you cannot manage. Instead, give space for others to learn, grow and change. Sometimes, the best restoration and learning happens in the same way we absorb and appreciate music. How do we best appreciate and learn music? In the rests between notes.

Recipes not always required

Were you part of the pandemic sourdough bread baking craze? I’ve been baking bread for around 40 years, but I’m not a sourdough baker. Maintaining the starter was something I couldn’t manage. Although I’ve made many kinds of bread, including weekly challah (twin teens eat a lot!), I found using store-bought yeast was fine. Besides, my biology professor husband disliked the colourful, dangerous things he saw growing when I tried to maintain a starter long ago. He supports our bread habit as we buy one pound of dried yeast at a time.

My approach isn’t exact. However, I produce bread that rises and tastes good even without a recipe. I don’t use all the technical terms that I saw on the internet during the pandemic bread-baking phase. I stick to basic ingredients and easy methods. Bakers have used these successfully for thousands of years.

All this seemed familiar when I started studying the Babylonian tractate of Menachot. Menachot delves into the exact ways the rabbis thought meal (grain) offerings should be measured, cooked, burnt and sacrificed in the Temple in Jerusalem. The rabbis who discussed this mostly lived long after the Temple was destroyed. They’d never seen Temple offerings but they still discussed detailed recipes and techniques for proper sacrifice.

I remember the many online discussions about sourdough science. These were often people who, while baking beautiful pandemic sourdough, had never made bread previously, as I had. Of course, all of us would be shamed before our ancestors who, using a wooden bowl ripe with wild yeast, turned out bread consistently, day in and day out, to feed their families.

You might think, well, this isn’t for me if I don’t bake bread. Perhaps you never have worried about the ancient grain offerings in Jerusalem, or the “shrewbread” that became our modern equivalent, challah. All these discussions came to a head in Menachot, page 18a.

A question arises about whether a specific offering is fit (acceptable) and why. First, we learn about a meaningful teacher-student relationship between Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua and Yosef the Babylonian.

Yosef the Babylonian learns something from Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua that doesn’t seem entirely right to him. He questions his teacher several times. After multiple repetitions of a simple answer, Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua finally gives Yosef the Babylonian more information. He recalls another contradictory teaching from Rabbi Eliezer that agrees with what Yosef the Babylonian remembers.

Yosef the Babylonian erupts in joy. Both men are emotional, moved by the experience they’ve had, where careful analysis brings them important understanding and resolution. Yosef the Babylonian is relieved – he had worried that what he’d remembered was a mistake because he couldn’t find anyone else who recalled what Rabbi Eliezer had taught. Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua cries, filled with wonder. They celebrate Torah study, which maintains an intellectual genealogy of teachers and students by the historic transmission of knowledge. It’s a careful recounting of discussion and disputes, rather than just a simple, reflexive answer.

Menachot 18a, like bread-baking, shows that, if we get bogged down in the technical details, we can also be swept up in the transformation that occurs when we get everything – that we study or bake – right. This story is about mistakes, forgetting, misinformation and complex opinions. This tractate might describe how to do defunct sacrifice recipes correctly. It’s also about how we transmit important knowledge. We need to keep the facts straight, without forgetting anything, and synthesize complex opinions.

This is relevant today. We’re struggling daily to keep track of what’s happening in the world. Is it legal? Is it ethical? How does it affect us? In an age of “instant” information, diminished international reporting, social media disinformation campaigns and simplistic interpretations, it’s no wonder that we need to work hard to figure out what’s happening. It’s just as important now to do one’s own footwork. We must ask questions and analyze information carefully, just as when Yosef the Babylonian sat with his teacher, Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua, sometime between 135 and 170 CE.

We can get swept up in the technical aspects of our lives, whether it’s sourdough baking or legal proceedings. Yet, we also have that practical compass that guides us. I know intuitively, after decades of practice, how to throw together flour, salt, water and yeast, when to add sweetness, oil or eggs, and why. It’s a gut feeling, as deep as my internal moral compass that reacts when I see something wrong happening. Perhaps it’s how Judaism, my family or my community has shaped me, just as environment shapes all of us. Perhaps it’s an innate sense of the worth of each human being, as we are made in the image of the Divine. We know when things are going off the rails, and when we need to keep asking the hard questions to make change.

You could infer that all this refers to the current US upheaval, but it also relates to many other issues. For instance, at home, recent research found that Canadian Jews weren’t wrong about the CBC’s bias in reporting on the Israel-Hamas war. Statistical analysis indicates that yes, headlines, interviewer choices and perspectives lacked objectivity. If you, like me, questioned the CBC’s reporting over the last two years, just like Yosef questioned Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua, this information is reassuring.

Farther away, Israelis care passionately about democracy. Israelis ask their government tough questions, including protesting its poor record in protecting Arab citizens and its failure to provide a sufficient inquiry concerning Oct. 7. Regarding Iran’s upheaval, the Islamic regime’s repression means protesters risk murder, injury, torture and rape. Brave questioning of authority and pursuit of truthful information aren’t specific to one culture or country.

Yosef the Babylonian doubted himself. He repeatedly nudged his teacher. He worried that he’d made a mistake, but then bravely sought clarity to understand the bigger picture. We, too, can be so persistent that authority figures, like our teachers and government officials, must answer with thorough responses. Let’s not get bogged down in the technical details. It’s not whether you say that your bread dough rests, or uses an autolyze. Rather, listen to your gut. Go for the big questions. Think hard. Act to take the moral high ground. We all deserve something better. Let’s hope soon to break bread together, in peace and safety, with emotional, deep discussions.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.