lifestyle – Page 2

A tofu dish worth the effort

A tofu dish worth the effort. (photo by Shelley Civkin)

As far as my husband Harvey is concerned, tofu is a four-letter word. Spoken only in hushed tones. And for sure not in mixed company. If given a lie detector test and asked if he believed tofu was evil – as in, unforgivable and heinous – he would reply unconditionally in the affirmative. And he would pass the test. I, on the other hand, think quite highly of tofu. I have great respect for its versatility, inexpensiveness and health benefits. Granted, it’s undeniably bland when left to its own devices. But zhuzh it up with some seasoning, cover it in sauces and marinades, pair it with rice or noodles, and you’ve got yourself a very respectable, even snazzy, lunch, dinner or snack. Think of it as the tabula rasa of the food world.

The other day, as I was contemplating what to make for lunch, Harvey was busy frying a couple of eggs on his little Proctor Silex one-burner cooktop. (He can’t go near our induction stove because of his pacemaker with defibrillator, so he was on his own.) It was the perfect time for me to indulge in a tofu-forward meal.

Enter garlic sesame tofu from eatwithclarity.com. Sweet, salty and tangy, this recipe is delicious when freshly cooked and hot, and tastes even better cold the next day. The recipe calls for it to be served over rice with steamed broccoli, but I think it would be just as yummy over rice vermicelli noodles. It’s a bit labour intensive – not baked Alaska intensive, but do set aside about one to one-and-a-half hours to make this dish. It’s not a lunch you can throw together in 10 minutes like say, a PB&J sandwich. But, if you have the time, it’s totally worth the effort.

GARLIC SESAME TOFU

tofu
1 tbsp low-sodium tamari or soy sauce
1 16-ounce block of extra firm tofu
1 tbsp cornstarch
3 tbsp breadcrumbs

sauce
5 cloves garlic, minced (I used only 2)
1 tbsp oil
1/3 cup low-sodium tamari or soy sauce
2 tsp toasted sesame oil
2-3 tbsp honey or maple syrup
1 tbsp rice vinegar
1 tbsp cornstarch
4 tbsp water, divided

Preheat oven to 400˚F and line a cookie sheet with parchment paper.

Drain excess liquid from tofu by wrapping it in paper towel, placing it on a plate, covering it with another plate and pressing it down with a heavy object on top (I used a cast iron pan). Let it sit for about 30 minutes. Pressing the tofu makes it crispier.

Cut the pressed tofu into one-inch squares and put the squares in a large bowl. Toss with 1 tbsp tamari or soy sauce. Add 1 tbsp cornstarch, then 3 tbsp breadcrumbs (or Panko), until all pieces are evenly coated.

Put all the tofu squares on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and bake for about 30 to 35 minutes or until golden brown.

During the final 10 minutes of baking, prepare the sauce.

Mince the garlic and sauté it with 1 tbsp oil in a large non-stick pan for 2 to 3 minutes or until lightly browned. Be careful not to over cook it or it will become bitter.

Add in 1/3 cup tamari or soy sauce, 2 to 3 tbsp honey or maple syrup, 1 tbsp rice vinegar, 2 tbsp water and 2 tsp sesame oil.

In a separate bowl, whisk together 1 tbsp cornstarch and the remaining 2 tbsp of water and then add this to the fry pan.

Heat over low heat for 3 to 5 minutes or until the sauce starts to bubble and thicken.

When the tofu is done, toss it in with the sauce. Garnish with sesame seeds and serve over rice with steamed broccoli (or rice vermicelli noodles). Enjoy!

You could likely make this same recipe using slabs of tofu, instead of cubes, essentially turning it into a fake-steak, but you’d still have to cut it so it’s not too thick. Different presentation, similar result, I’m guessing. Don’t quote me on that.

I’m told you can substitute tofu for all kinds of other proteins in dishes like lasagna, spaghetti and meat sauce, chicken casseroles, etc. That is, unless you have a husband who’s like a police sniffer dog. I tried it once, and Harvey busted me from 10 paces away. Luckily, I got off with a mere warning that time.

Since we’re on the topic of health foods, if you haven’t already discovered hemp hearts (also called hemp seeds), you’ve got to give these a try. For me, they’re the equivalent of Frank’s Red Hot sauce – “I put that sh*t on everything.” These little gems are deliciously nutty tasting and packed full of protein, omegas 3 & 6, amino acids and important nutrients like iron, magnesium, fibre and zinc. Plus, they’re gluten-free, vegan, paleo- and keto-friendly. And, if that isn’t enough to convince you, they’re grown in Canada! Oh, and they’re kosher! Manitoba Harvest is a big producer of hemp hearts, and you can buy them practically anywhere.

These little nuggets of nuttiness are an equal opportunity food – you can put them on salads and on toasted bagels, in smoothies, sprinkle them on casseroles and cereal, and even eat them straight out of the bag by the spoonful. You can bake with them, cook with them and substitute them for breadcrumbs in some recipes.

Manitoba Harvest has an extensive lineup of hemp heart recipes at manitobaharvest.ca/blogs/hemp-resource-hub and I’ll definitely be trying some of them soon. The point is, I used to sneak these tiny protein warriors into our dinners without my hubby knowing until, one day, he relented and agreed to try a “test” spoonful (for the first time, or so he thought). Alert the media: he was instantly and completely culinarily hooked!

Moral of the story is this: don’t try to sneak in a known verboten food unless your partner is even slightly flexible in his/her culinary adventurousness. And, know this: there is absolutely no way to disguise a Brussels sprout. You can purée it, hide it in soup, barbeque it and smother it in maple syrup and feta, but it’s still a Brussels sprout. Like Sarah Palin said: “You can put lipstick on a pig, but it’s still a pig.” I respectfully submit that this is true of that mini cabbage-like vegetable that Harvey wouldn’t eat if it were the last food left in an Israeli bomb shelter. In all fairness, I feel the same way about okra. I’m only human, after all.

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.

Seeing the divine in others

I recently participated in a conference panel on hope in a time of divisive politics. A friend in the Jewish community couldn’t do it, so she asked me to help instead. I won’t lie, I felt nervous.

I worried that I wouldn’t measure up to some of the speakers, who had big job titles, awards and experience. This was compounded by a few missteps that left me feeling embarrassed and humbled. First, my friend’s name was left on the conference program and mine wasn’t listed, even though organizers had ample time to update the panelists’ names. Second, social media amplified the panel on Facebook and Instagram, but listed my name with incorrect, made-up undergraduate degrees. I’d provided my graduate degrees in religious studies and education because I felt they were relevant. Somehow, five years of education went away due to clerical errors.

The weird part was that my brief talk, and my presence at the panel, was to elevate Jewish experience and Jewish hope in an approachable way. Two academics spoke, using big concepts and bigger words, while minimizing their personal approach to the issues. Then, an amazing African Canadian legal professional spoke of her family’s journey and deep roots in Canada – it was personal, compelling and important. I was up next.

I’d prepared my notes in advance. I spoke from them, but, first, I changed gears. The night before the panel, held at Winnipeg’s Canadian Museum for Human Rights, I encountered members of the Persian community, holding up their lion flags to represent the Iranian people and their opposition to the Islamic Republic. I stopped to tell a young woman holding the flag that our hearts were with her, and we were thinking of her, and hoping the people of Iran were safe. She seemed shocked. Surprised that I saw her, knew what she represented, and embraced this message against extremism and violence of the Islamic Republic of Iran. She asked where I was from, I smiled and only said, “Winnipeg.”

The day of the panel, I struggled with a parking meter. Then I crossed a street, sharing a warm smile with an Indigenous man on a bicycle who passed by. My heart thumped hard. Though I’ve done plenty of public events and teaching, I felt on edge. Maybe it was because I was one of the only representatives of the Jewish community in that multi-faith gathering. Maybe it was because I’d been checking on where the Iranian missiles were landing in Israel right before I came. I worried about repercussions following me into the Canadian Museum for Human Rights.

Pretending to check if the microphone was on, I said, “Welcome. Thank you for coming …” and, looking at the crowd, I greeted everyone with a “Hello y’all!” After that informal start, I made sure to mention the Jewish concept of the world as a broken pot, in which the vessel’s shards, our souls, are in each of us. I talked about tikkun olam, repairing the world, and putting those shards back together, as an act of hope that we work towards, as an act of ongoing creation – a human and divine partnership. Throughout the morning, I took time to look at people, greet them and try to see G-d in each of them. I decided that the way to confront my feelings of embarrassment, and the erasure of my name and credentials, was to fully see others the way I would want to be treated.

At this conference, there were many references to reconciliation. An Anglican bishop who is also a residential school survivor spoke during our panel question period. When I recounted all this later to my family, we recognized an important theme.

As a professor, my husband often attends events with a land acknowledgement. Working with a group of Indigenous students last year, he asked them how they feel about the “workshopped” statement the university uses. They said it was often done by rote and perhaps lost its meaning as a result. They didn’t feel seen by it.

Almost immediately, I recalled that our congregation had changed its Prayer for Canada. The new one feels genuine to me. It includes aspects of a land acknowledgement by mentioning by name the first inhabitants of the land. It also includes the current Canadian political infrastructure. It’s a prayer to maintain our diversity, so that never again will Canada say, “None is too many,” in reference to the antisemitic exclusion of Jewish refugees fleeing Europe during the Second World War.

My husband will meet again this summer with a new group of Indigenous students. He’s considering a different discussion. What does it mean when society suggests that some people’s innate connection to the land must be acknowledged, but others don’t deserve a similar acknowledgement of their homeland? This issue isn’t “just” about Israel, either. What about the Kurds? What about the Druze? The dispossessed list is a long one.

When we moved to Winnipeg 16 years ago, celebrations for Canada Day included enormous festivals and bombastic firework displays. Over time, due to the pandemic and to a change in how we perceive the day, this has changed. Many Indigenous Canadians don’t celebrate Canada Day.

Having my name left out and hard-earned credentials jumbled was difficult, but it reminded me of how acknowledgement works. We can choose, as Canadians, to look up from our phones and really see one another. We all deserve to take up space and be here, recognized for our special contributions, in this land of plenty. We may not be able to control the huge geopolitical events around us, but we can see one another and pray for our loved ones and our neighbours, too, both here and elsewhere. Recognizing the divine, individual spark in each person is crucial.

I’m hoping for a family cookout at home this Canada Day. We might talk about how we connect to Canada, and how we fit in the Jewish diaspora and homeland. It’s a complicated equation, worth talking about during a war. We should also choose to see, greet and value all those we walk with on this land and in the world. Let’s recognize everyone’s names, identities – and souls – as meaningful, too.

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.

Complexities of celebration

My family’s in the middle of a month of celebrations. June is always this way at our house, but it’s even more intense this time around.

In a “usual” June, we celebrate two family birthdays and a wedding anniversary; it’s also the end of school for our kids. This year, we started off with a bang. Our twins had their birthday on Erev Shavuot. In the morning, we joined the huge Pride Parade festivities. In the evening, our community, in Winnipeg, had a Tikkun Leil Shavuot (a traditional night of study at the beginning of the holiday) with hundreds participating from four congregations. While we ate dairy foods and celebrated, to our surprise, the whole room sang our kids a rousing version of Yom Huledet Sameach (Happy Birthday). It was something to remember – they were surrounded by smiles and learning.

Shavuot is celebrated in a lot of ways. It’s a first fruits and first wheat harvest holiday. It’s also the day that we celebrate the giving of the Torah and read the Book of Ruth. Some observe this holiday as a day of radical inclusion, when everyone, no matter your age or gender, should hear the Ten Commandments read.

Radical inclusion is something I think about a lot. This year, my nephew in Virginia, LJ, who has cerebral palsy and uses a power wheelchair and assisted communication device, celebrated Shavuot with his confirmation class at Temple Rodef Shalom, a Reform congregation near Washington, DC. He gave a speech at the service, carefully planned, about the intersection of his identities as a Jewish and disabled person and as an advocate for accessibility. He spoke eloquently about how Judaism teaches us to pursue justice, and how he works to help make that possible. LJ has given many speeches: on how others can learn about assisted communication, on how to teach math to those with visual disabilities, and on myriad other topics. At 16, LJ is already an accomplished advocate who rolls into rooms filled with adults and shows them new ways to help learners with disabilities.

During his recent speech, LJ mentioned how his religious school helpers have gone on to helping professions: speech pathology, special education, and more. It’s true that some see people with disabilities as having high needs, but all people have things to teach others and to give the world. LJ’s need for physical support results in a huge net positive. He positively affects the lives of many others around him.

At the Tikkun Leil Shavuot I attended, Rabbi Yosef Benarroch (who served in the 1990s as spiritual leader of Beth Hamidrash in Vancouver) gave the keynote. Benarroch is retiring from Congregation Adas Yeshurun-Herzlia here in Winnipeg and moving back to Israel to join his family. His address reminded us about all the ways in which we can help one another and perform acts of chesed (kindness) towards others. His summary of a day in the life of a congregational rabbi made me feel tired! However, it was filled with ways he was of service to others, while getting to do mitzvot (commandments) and sharing important moments in people’s lives.

I’d be the first to say that, sometimes, as a mom, helping meet others’ needs can be exhausting. There are years where I look ahead to June and think, “Wow, I’ll be making a lot of birthday cake – and how many holiday and celebratory meals?” Yet, hearing these two different perspectives, on Jewish advocacy and acts of kindness, really raised me up. It reminded me of how much there is to do in the world, and how lucky we are if we’re healthy, capable and able to do it.

Right now, in Manitoba, we’re coping with huge wildfires and many evacuees. As the bossy mom, I forced everyone to go through their closets so we could participate in the donation drives, because something like 17,000 people have been forced to flee their homes. One of my family members said, “We just donated stuff! We probably don’t have anything to offer!” Three bags of clothing (women’s, men’s and teens’) and blankets later, we were dropping off what we could find before Shavuot started. I reminded my 14-year-olds that this was their birthday mitzvah – the traditional extra commandment that they took on – and we celebrated it through the smoky morning.

If you’re like me, it can be a struggle to relax into a wholehearted celebration while holding so much in our hearts at once. Whether it’s the hostages in Gaza, the war, the wildfires, antisemitism worldwide or issues closer to home, it’s understandable if it’s difficult to be completely joyful. Yes, we are commanded to celebrate at certain times, but I am reminded of the traditions of Jewish weddings. At every Jewish wedding, we break a glass to remind ourselves of the loss of the Temple in Jerusalem. We hold a bittersweet feeling of grief and pain even at our most meaningful moments. This acknowledgement doesn’t keep us from continuing to hope, to celebrate, while including everyone.

Today, I’ve had the honour of visiting a longtime family friend in the hospital. I brought her snacks and flowers from our garden. She’s just undergone surgery after a fall. I was relieved to find her in good humour. I’ve gotten to cook a bit for her family, as well as mine, and found time to work, walk the dog and even pull up copious weeds. Every handful of invasive greenery removed showed me the flowering plants underneath. I celebrated the riotous colour of both the weeds and the irises.

There’s no guarantee that every moment will be happy or every summer a celebration. Still, we have so many opportunities to do kindnesses, perform mitzvahs and be there to advocate for one another. If Shavuot sticks with me long after it ends, it’s not because of cheesecake or even first fruits. During a month of family celebration this year, Shavout also offered the opportunity to celebrate our tradition, which offers us great gifts if we make the most of them: learning, Torah and radical inclusion, too.

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.

Welcoming by example

Shifra Sharfstein and her husband, Shlomo, run Georgia Tech Chabad House with the help of their children. (photo from Shifra Sharfstein)

My parents invited countless people into their home over the decades and fed them on Shabbat and Passover. Little did we know that their acts of kindness would inspire one of their grandchildren to bring Shabbat dinners to hundreds of Jewish students at Georgia Tech in Atlanta each year.

Shifra Sharfstein grew up in Vancouver until she was in Grade 7, going to school at the local Chabad House and also learning about Judaism with her parents, Tzvi and Nomi Freeman, and grandparents, Joyce and Bernie Freeman.

“We went every Wednesday night for a special dinner,” Shifra recalled. “Grandma would spoil us with our favourites each week. She would read us a book and chat with us. She would listen to us talk and let us help make desserts in the kitchen. It was a space that was just all love, pure unconditional love.”

Shifra also gives credit to her grandfather, who supported my mom’s efforts to bring what seemed like the entire Jewish community into our house to feed them.

My mother grew up in India and her parents were from Iraq. Shifra remembers the Sephardi tomato soup with potatoes and meatballs, which took Mom a whole day to make.

“My cousin Ariella and me would talk all night about how much we loved that soup!” she said.

When Mom passed away, Shifra compiled a recipe book for family and friends called With Love from Joyce.

She remembers Mom’s international food.

“Baked Alaska coming out of the oven with cold ice cream inside always seemed like magic,” she said. (And then there was the cherry pie, which I can still taste.)

She remembers gathering together with her cousins before every Jewish holiday, making hundreds of hamantashen.

“I do the same with our college students, today,” she said.

Shifra runs Georgia Tech Chabad House with her husband Shlomo, and with the help of their eight children.

“I could go on forever talking about how much my grandmother and grandfather inspire me,” she said. “Whenever I’m in the kitchen for awhile, especially the week before Pesach, which is grandma’s yahrzeit, I feel her there with me. Sometimes, the powerful work we do is overwhelming, especially when we’re helping students deal with tragedy, and I close my eyes and see Grandma’s smile and feel the beautiful love she had channeled through me, her granddaughter.”

Recently, the couple threw a dinner for 500 Jewish students and dedicated it to the memory of Shifra’s grandparents. It was the first time so many people had dined there.

“Thank G-d we have lots of help and an amazing community of beautiful Georgia Tech students!” she said. “But we keep it all homemade at Chabad and I always incorporate Grandma’s flavours in it.”

Shifra said she also was inspired by the way her grandparents had so many guests who were welcomed like family.

“Grandma always said that what mattered was that we all got along,” Shifra explained. “She told us stories of Jews from different backgrounds and how what was most important is that we all came together, no matter our differences, with love … she truly loved every Jew with zero judgment. I think I absorbed that from her. She looked past the outside and saw that each person has a beautiful soul. She taught me how to do the same and I truly try to make that my focus every time I meet someone new.”

Shifra considers herself a feminist, running the Chabad House they live in and taking care of her children side by side with her husband. She is an accomplished speaker, as well.

“Knowledge is power,” she said. “I grew up being taught to always ask questions. My father and mother spent time learning with me as a young girl in Vancouver and the more I learnt and [the more] I asked, the more I realized how much I could accomplish.”

She added that she is inspired by the late Lubavitcher Rebbe’s teachings about women.

“As a Chabad leader, I know my Rebbe taught me that Jewish women in leadership have a unique power as nurturers who can change the world with love,” she said. “It’s the same message [now] and I intend to take it with me and change my part of the world with that feminine loving touch.”

Chabad Georgia Tech has seven Jewish classes each week, a weekly BBQ, social events, events where they counsel students and, of course, the highlight of their week is Shabbat, with anywhere between 80 and 130 students who come and then stay, chatting late into the night after dinner.

All this activity has had an impact. For example, there have been three weddings in the last 14 years and, right now, another couple is engaged to be married.

Shifra says their success is due, as well, to their dedicated team of students, who run many of the events. There are about 1,000 Jewish students on campus.

Cassandra Freeman is a freelance journalist and improv comedy performer living in Vancouver.

Living in a personal paradise

It is raining today in our area of Vancouver. I am specifying our area because things could be very different in other areas of our metropolis, with the variety of climatic zones it presents on the shores of our western sea.

My Bride and I are enjoying the solitude of our own company. Our various familial connections are pursuing their affairs in different parts of the planet. We are in our 90s (thereabouts), tolerating various aches and pains that time has made us heir to. Nevertheless, I am suddenly aware that we have achieved our personal paradise.

I am aware that we are surrounded with an unending list of things in our world that need corrective action. Our world can report a litany of tragic stories that require happy endings, some that personally touch us deeply, many we are aware of from afar. We know there are things to be done, some that may even require concerted action on our part.

But, at this very moment, I am overwhelmed by a feeling that those in my immediate circle are safe and secure, and I am grateful. I can look around me and see the place where I live. It may need tidying, but it is pleasing to my eye. We have pictures of our loved ones, past and present, and they cover almost every possible vacant space.

There are many beautiful things that we have collected over the years arrayed where they have found places to stand. The fridge is full to bursting and we doubt that we will be able to consume it all before we will have to discard some of it. We have money in the bank for the bills this month and as far out in time as we can imagine.

In our long history, we know that there have been many times, many places, where the scene before us was very different. Despite the whirling of issues in our minds, the horrors we know exist even around the corner, we have a place and time that is, for us, a paradise.

I remember when I endured a space that spoke to me only of finding the means to escape. I know that my Bride has faced conditions, physically and emotionally, that taxed the limits of her strength. Somehow, we’ve managed.

There were times when our offspring were off in unknown places beyond our capacities to intervene on their behalf as we would have liked. We have had personal relationships that have tried us beyond the limits we thought we could bear, and we survived them.

My Bride and I have been together for 20 years. Despite my solitary nature, she persisted nevertheless, until we were ultimately able to be open to each other as to our mutual vulnerabilities and forge a loving relationship. We glory in that every day.

We remember our triumphs, those accomplishments of which only we ourselves may be aware, jobs well done. Our present makes our contemplation of our past so much easier. And those past experiences make our present – the people, the place, the time – more like the paradise it is.

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

Birthday musings on mitzvot

It’s almost Israel’s 77th birthday! And a birthday is a good opportunity to reflect on things.

When my kids attended Chabad preschool, they celebrated their birthdays at school. The teachers encouraged them to think about a mitzvah (commandment) to take on to mark the occasion. Listening to preschoolers discuss what they’ve chosen and why is such a celebration of Jewish life! I’d invite you to try this out at the next available opportunity. You can ask any Jewish person what mitzvah they’d take on, it’s amazing to hear. Israel isn’t a person and can’t take on a mitzvah, but maybe we can help with that to celebrate its birthday.

One thread in our tradition follows certain steps: we improve the world and our behaviour, and that brings about the Messiah, or the Messianic Age, the next world and a better place. Ideas differ on how we do that and why, and even on what the Messianic Age will be like. We don’t agree on the specifics – and that’s fine. However, a recent page of Talmud that I studied in the tractate Sanhedrin, on page 98, really highlighted this concept. It’s a story, of course.

Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi asks Elijah the Prophet when the Messiah will come. Elijah says, “Go and ask him.” Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi says, “Well, where is he?”

Elijah describes him as sitting at the entrance of Rome, far away from where they are in the Galilee, at Mount Meron. The rabbi asks how he’ll recognize the Messiah. Elijah explains that the Messiah is sitting with all the other poor, sick people, but that the Messiah doesn’t untie all his bandages at once to replace them. Instead, he unties and reties them one at a time, so he’ll always be ready to bring about the redemption.

Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi goes all the way to Rome, identifies the Messiah, and asks him “When will the Master come?” The Messiah says, “Today.”

Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi travels all the way back to the Galilee to see Elijah. Elijah asks him what the Messiah said and the rabbi tells him, “Well, he lied. He said the Messiah was coming today, and it didn’t happen.” Elijah says no, this is what he really said: he said he will come “today, if you listen to his voice.” (Psalms 95:7)

Sue Parker Gerson, who wrote the introductory essay for this page of Talmud on My Jewish Learning, points out several things. First, that the traditional commentators inferred that we must do more mitzvot to bring about the Messiah. Additionally, she steps in with something that is a bit deeper: Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi visits all these sick people with bandages, talks to one person, and then leaves. He didn’t stay to help any of the people. Perhaps, Gerson suggests, we need to put the “do the mitzvah” message into practice, to help people in need and fix wrongs we see in the world. Elijah saw that Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi failed the test, so to speak, not helping when he should have.

Then, I read a Jewish advice column online. A parent is organizing a bat mitzvah and asks, “Should I invite relatives with whom I disagree politically? They also won’t like the liberal way we practise Judaism, but, if I invite them, they’ll likely come.”

The columnist suggests that, since COVID, it has been OK to make smaller guest lists and exclude people. Also, if the kid doesn’t want to invite these relatives, you don’t have to invite them. The columnist says briefly at the end, well, families usually invite everyone, and that’s what families do, but if you don’t want your happy occasion to include these people, that’s OK, too.

My gut reaction was that this answer failed the test. The columnist fails to behave Jewishly and recommend including everyone in a lifecycle celebration. The choice to exclude could cause bad feelings for years.

But, instead of a “failure” lesson, I have been considering what I might embrace about taking on mitzvot instead. I think a lot about turning negatives into positives lately. I’m the mom-chauffeur of junior high-age twins. I hear lots of negativity from the backseat!

To begin: be the energy you want to see. If Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi wanted the Messiah to come today, he had to do more to fix the world, including caring for the sick. Visiting the sick is a positive commandment. We should take care of one another, and it’s often not enough to just visit.

Also, don’t leave people out. If we want our lives, including our Jewish lives, to be inclusive, we can’t just ditch people. Even if a Jewish person, aka a family member, has different viewpoints, votes or behaves differently, within reason, we should invite them in, rather than leave them out. Offering unity and a “big tent” approach is the kind thing to do.

I just read Amir Tibon’s The Gates of Gaza, and its anecdotes echoed this. When Tibon’s family was trapped in their safe room in Kibbutz Nahal Oz on Oct. 7, 2023, his parents raced south with only a pistol to save them. His father, a retired, secular Israeli general, spent a harrowing day attempting to save Israelis, both soldiers and civilians, on the way to Nahal Oz. After exchanging deadly fire with the enemy, he ends up with a soldier’s weapon and his helmet, but he still wore civilian clothing, which confused soldiers under pressure. A religious soldier nearby helped. The soldier took off his army issue tallit katan (an undershirt with tzitzit, ritual fringes, on it) and handed it to him. Tibon, clothed in borrowed tzitzit and a helmet, weapon in hand, was ready for battle. The soldier’s inclusivity and flexibility saved lives. Saving a life, a huge mitzvah in Jewish tradition, outweighs everything else.

Helping each other and skipping negativity contribute to our people’s unity. We may disagree with one another and vote differently. Just this week, I’ve signed two petitions and written several letters to voice disagreement; in Israel, protests are part of life. Also, this week, a cousin of ours was inducted into the Israel Defence Forces. When it counts, we’re there for one another. Regarding issues of life and death, we protect one another.

Finally, sometimes restraint is the better part of valour. Occasionally, the first word out of our mouths is no, or a defensive or harsh response. Holding back, listening and considering the situation may help us make thoughtful choices that better reflect the people we wish to be. Israel’s birthday is a chance for all of us to celebrate, listen and include. Like everyone and every nation, Israel has flaws, but embracing positive steps may change lives, or even save them, in the years to come.

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.

What your tchotchkes think

Ever wondered what your leather-bound journal thinks about you? Your menorah? The bowl you made in a pottery class? What astrological sign your keepsakes might be? How they’d like to be handled, cared for? Where they’d like to be in your home?

For most of us, the answer is probably no … to all of the above. But Elisabeth Saake has thought of all these things. And, after reading her latest book, Tchotchkes and their F*cked-Up Thoughts: The Messed-Up Minds of Your Trinkets and Treasures (Collective Book Studio), you will too. It’s a follow-up to her 2023 Houseplants and Their F*cked-Up Thoughts: PS, They Hate You, which she wrote with Carlyle Christoff.

Divided into five sections, no knickknack is spared. Saake covers the whimsical (lava lamp, rubber chicken, etc.), vintage and collectibles (antique compass, souvenir spoon, etc.), cultural and artisanal (woven tapestry, ceramic urn, etc.), spiritual and mystical (worry stone, crystal ball, etc.) and functional and decorative (novelty salt and pepper shakers, participation trophy, etc.).

About your journal, don’t worry, it thinks “your poetry is profound” and is “totally listening and deeply moved”; it only appears to be setting itself on fire.

But your menorah would like to be treated as more than a “fancy candleholder”: “Fill my branches with holy oil from trees grown on the Mount of Olives, just a day’s worth, and watch me burn for eight! Or cram in cheap candles from your big box store’s Hanukkah display. That works, too. Way to honour your ancestors, nudnik.”

And your handmade pottery is a “real bowl,” even if it “was made in a beginner’s night class at the community college”: “I’m round enough, I’m stable enough and, doggone it, people like me!” Though, it’s “a bit wobbly,” so perhaps no soup … maybe just display it on a kitchen shelf, as the “mantel is for the perfect porcelain.”

Tchotchkes and their F*cked-Up Thoughts would make a great gift to any friend (with a sense of humour) who’s a collector of things, or to any friend who has judged others’ collections of things. It’s snarky, a little dark at times, but will bring many chuckles and laughs, even if every joke doesn’t land. It’s colourful and beautifully put together. Hopefully, it will think as highly of you, its place in your home and how you care for it – and have an astrological sign that’s compatible with yours.

Home & Garden thoughts

Growth and change is Torah

In middle school, we studied the 1920s in English and social studies. It was a period ripe with new slang. I remember the long list of phrases we had to learn and interpret. The surprise was that I knew some of the expressions because my family still used them! Phrases like, “Aren’t you just the bee’s knees?” or “He thinks he’s the cat’s pajamas!” This weird phenomenon came to mind when I happened upon an ancient rabbinic discussion in the Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 62a.

Rabbi Zakkai taught a Baraita (an early teaching that was left out of the Mishnah, codified around 200 CE) in Rabbi Yohanan’s presence. It said that, when one did, in a lapse of awareness, a whole series of inappropriate things deemed idol worship, one was only obligated to bring one sin-offering sacrifice to wipe the slate clean.

Rabbi Yohanan responded with “Go out and teach outside.” It was the ancient equivalent of “Get out of town!” or “Get out!” This is the laughing or indignant response somebody makes when you say something unbelievable or surprising.

One can read this text in many ways. It’s possible that Yohanan earnestly thought Zakkai was teaching nonsense and that he shouldn’t teach that inside the house of study, because every action deserved its own separate offering to repent for these mistakes.

However, as the page continues, the importance of context reveals itself. Imagine a time when idol worship was everywhere. A person could inadvertently look like they were worshipping an idol or a person when they were just bowing respectfully as a custom or doing what they had to do to get along. If surrounded by idol worship, a person may do things that everyone else does, automatically and without reflection.

We still do this. Think about the phrases “knock on wood” or “crossing one’s fingers and toes.” These aren’t Jewish concepts, but many say them anyhow, just as we might use phrases from other religions in conversation. They’re part of the culture around us.

I was thinking about these cultural shifts recently because we had our own big moment a few weeks ago. We were driving home after middle school. I remarked that I’d taken the dog on the river trail for an amazing walk at lunch time. (In Winnipeg, our rivers freeze, allowing several kilometres of walking, skiing and skating trails, along with art installations and events on the ice. It’s like a pop-up provincial park in winter.) One of my kids complained that he hadn’t gotten enough skating in yet. The weather that day was perfect but a cold snap was coming. I suggested that they head out right away onto the ice on their own.

My kids seemed astounded by the offer, but they took me up on it. We live a block from the river and there’s a convenient ramp down the riverbank. Before we could reconsider, they were off with skates, helmets, snowpants and the loan of my cellphone so they could reach me. I told them to be back in an hour. This bought me more time to make Shabbat dinner, too.

Just before 5:30 p.m., the phone rang. My responsible kids called from the ice, saying, “We got a little too far away, we’re getting tired, but we’re coming back now. We’ll be a little late.” When they got inside, both kids were wobbly, legs rubbery from exhaustion. I had to help them get off their parkas and snowpants, but they were full of triumph. They had taken off on their own and had an adventure. At dinner, they described bumping into a classmate who was out with his mom and younger siblings. While the classmate was a better skater than them, my 13-year-olds seemed puffed up with pride that they were allowed out by themselves.

Times change. As a Gen Xer, when I was 13, I babysat for two siblings on my own. I took the Washington, DC, metro by myself. I was a latchkey kid of longstanding. As the oldest child in my family and “mature,” I had a lot of leeway, as well as responsibility. Was it always good for me? I don’t think so, but it’s just the way things were.

My kids have had a longer stretch of childhood, with more supervision. While they have always had household chores and other responsibilities, these maiden voyages of independence now happen one after the next. Since the skating experience, they’ve been on their own for a Saturday night while we went out to a neighbour’s house. They take the dog walk on their own. This week, they’re headed off to a winter camp sleepaway experience with their school.

Generational shifts often lead us to believe that things are altogether different than they used to be. Yet, when I realized that I used 1920s slang as a kid, it reminded me that, while things change, some things stay the same. We no longer do sin offerings when we’ve made a mistake as part of Jewish practice. We don’t live in a culture surrounded by physical idols and their worship. However, we still make mistakes and seek absolution. Our kids still learn and grow through graduated steps towards independence, complete with worry and insecurity. One rabbi’s “Go and teach outside” becomes “Get out of town!” – after 2,000 years, the inference isn’t that different.

For each generation, something old becomes new again, or seems new, at least. For every parent, those amazing first moments of change in their kids are important. I burst with pride, telling others about the skating adventure. I revel in being able to go out socially (down the street), while my kids put themselves to bed. These ages and stages happen for everyone, but, each time, we’re still ecstatic with the individual circumstance.

My kids told me later that they had read until 8:40 or 9 o’clock when we were out, but, when we got back, their room was silent, lights were off, with the dog on guard. It was a moment of success. I nodded, feeling impressed. Inside, I was thinking, “Get out of town! Look what we accomplished here!” “Rabbi,” I wanted to say, “check these big bar mitzvah boys out! Look at this growth! That, too, is Torah.”

Moving into our new condo

Living in a condominium steps away from the Seawall and the marina is surreal. (photo from flickr.com/photos/nuntz)

Nobody would deny that the concept of a new home is exhilarating. It’s the packing up a lifetime of belongings, and having to sell and give away a plethora of things that plunges you into ice-cold reality. And let’s not forget the joys of the actual move.

A therapist once advised me to “get comfortable with uncertainty.” Hmmm. That’s like saying, “Learn to enjoy having hot oil poured down your back.” I think not. Much as I strive to embrace that pithy advice (and, on occasion, even succeed), I am just not cut out for it. You can only imagine how well I did with our recent move to a new condo.

It’s been almost a month and I still can’t find my passport or oven mitts. Not that I’m planning to travel anytime soon. But I would like to cook.

Without exaggeration, I packed at least 75 boxes and countless bags of belongings to shlep from our two-bedroom apartment to our new place. And lest you assume that we did what most retirees do and downsized – our collective wisdom ushered us into a bigger space. It is a condo with a kitchen large enough to land an aircraft carrier – which has always been a dream of mine (the size, not the aircraft carrier part). But the dream turned into a miniature nightmare when we moved in and I realized that I had next to no general storage space. Hall closet? Big enough to house a miniature turtle. Bathroom cupboards? Spacious enough for an extra roll of toilet paper and some air freshener. But I do have my humongous kitchen, and you can bet that I plan to cook and bake till the cows come home.

If I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned that you can’t have it all. You prioritize and maybe get 80% of what you originally wanted. Then, you just have to swallow the 20% and move forward. And get creative. Despite my apparent whining, I am truly feeling blessed and in awe of where we live now. We are mere steps from the Seawall and the marina, flanked by gorgeous condos. We are forced to peer daily at the spectacular mountains and sparkling lights of downtown. I keep asking myself, “Is this really my new neighbourhood?” When I come home and walk down the hall to our place, I feel like I’m in a hotel. Surreal, to say the least.

I had always been fiercely protective of our rental apartment and South Granville – we had great neighbours, little coffee shops where I was a regular, we were walking distance to grocery stores, drugstores, restaurants and the beach. Having lived in that apartment building for 37 years, I was their longest tenant. It was really all I knew. I had not lived in a house since I left home in 1974 to go away to university. Owning a home was always something I aspired to do. Until it became an unreachable reality. Being a single librarian until I was 53, owning a home was a pipe dream.

Then, I married, and we enjoyed our little love nest until October 2023, when we learned that our building (along with half the neighbourhood) was going to be torn down so high-rises could be built. Thank you, Broadway Plan! At first, I freaked out. And then, I started packing. I knew not where we would end up, but the writing was on the wall. Actually, the first indicator was in the summer of 2023, when men started hammering little metal plaques on the trees in our area and spray-painting the sidewalks. It was cryptic, for sure, but the mystery didn’t last long.

In February 2024, the company hired to “transition” renters into new homes held a Zoom meeting with all the tenants in our building. No promises were made, but the starkness of the facts hit us like ice water in the face. Right of first refusal. Financial compensation. Rent top-up. Blah, blah, blah. The one phrase that stuck with me though was TRPP – Tenant Relocation and Protection Policy. Luckily, tenants do have some protection, but it doesn’t solve the fundamental issue of unaffordable housing that plagues this city.

Time passed, we considered our options, I fretted over everything. It was a maelstrom of emotions. It took me awhile to wrap my head around the possibility that buying something could actually be within reach. But, events collaborated, luck joined the party, I took my head out of my nether regions, and, voilà, the unimaginable happened! We bought a condo!

Now, I am trying to “get comfortable with uncertainty” and change (as though change is a dirty word). I got my first test when I figured out that my lovely oak desk, which my beloved father, alav ha-shalom, bought me, wouldn’t fit in our condo. Our second bedroom has a Murphy bed and, well, let’s just say that my oak desk is the size of a blue whale. Living in that big river in Egypt (denial), I hoped against hope that something would happen and either the desk or the bed would miraculously shrink overnight. Not a chance. So, I paid movers to move the desk into the condo and, two weeks later, I paid them to move it to the SPCA Thrift Store. And, while I tried to heed my late father’s advice to “cry over people, not things,” I failed miserably. I had a full-on, deep-dish cry-fest after dropping off the desk. All I could do on my drive home was to talk to my father’s spirit and tell him I love him, and tell him how much I miss him, and how much it meant to me that he got that desk for me specially.

I had to do something to honour my father. So, I decided to toast him. Knowing he liked Cutty Sark Scotch, I spent the next hour driving to three different liquor stores to find it, and was finally successful. It was only then that a sense of calm came over me. Maybe it was the Scotch. Maybe it was my dad telling me it was OK to cry over him. Whatever it was, the desk is now in its new home. And so am I. And both of us are very happy.

And I finally have a big kitchen, in-suite laundry, hardwood floors and I don’t face south.