The Power of a Donut

Tonight we begin the Yom Kippur holiday, a day of fasting and atonement. The story of Jonah and the Whale is always told during the services. There are several speculations why we do this. The story has all the elements of personal struggle, feeling vulnerable, mercy and redemption - timeless themes to which we can all relate.

I had just started college and lived at home in New York and as always, I went to Congregation Shaare Zedek with my parents. I knew everyone but there had not been any interesting social connections for me there. There were few kids and they were all either older or younger.  Until that year – 1978 – when SG suddenly appeared and my heart raced.

SG was in my Hebrew School class in 5th grade and I had a strong crush on him. After that I lost track of him, until to my extreme delight, he ended up in the seat next to me in a lecture hall on my first day of college. Woo-hoo!  We’d be in class together all year!  And then it got even better!  His parents joined our synagogue!  Now the holidays and long services were exciting!

During Yom Kippur, there is a Yizkor service to remember the deceased. You stay inside to pray if you have lost a parent, sibling or child. Everyone else gets to go outside on break for 20 minutes.

I met SG outside. It was 11:30am and the last time I had eaten was at 6pm the night before.

“Well, I’m off to do my morning ritual,” said SG. “Want to join me?”

“What?” Where?

“Come on, follow me. We don’t have much time!”

I would have followed him anywhere so I stopped asking. We walked 7 blocks down Broadway and he stopped at Biba’s Donuts.

“You can’t go in there!  Not today!”

“Sure I can. I have a blueberry donut every day and I’m not missing it today.  I’m going to have my donut. I can buy you one if you didn’t bring any money.”

God was testing me.  Oh, the anguish!  Love! Hunger! The sweet smell of donuts and coffee. Partners in crime.

I waited outside, staring through the large glass window at all the people sitting at the counter, facing the wall of donuts in their trays, waitresses refilling coffee cups, people wiping away crumbs with little paper napkins from dispensers. SG turned towards me, looked through the window and took a huge bite stuffing half the donut in his mouth, grinning and wiping powdered sugar off his lips. The bastard consumed 2 donuts in 2 minutes and then we raced back to synagogue. 

I retell this story every year to my kids, even as adults. When tested, what do you do?  Would I have gone with SB if I had known where we were going?  Was I afraid of getting caught? Who am I betraying by eating a donut on this day?

Ultimately, we have to make decisions – sometimes in a few seconds - when the only witness is ourselves.

SG is happily married and lives with his husband in NY.

Biba’s Donuts closed decades ago and there is now a Banana Republic in its place.

Shaare Zedek is holding their last service in their magnificent sanctuary. In order to survive, the congregation sold the air rights above, the building will be torn down, condos will be built and the synagogue will occupy 3 floors in the new space. 

I think it’s time I add blueberry donuts to our family table to break the fast. For me, they became the symbol of doing the right thing.

G’mar Hatimah Tova!  May you be inscribed in the book of life! 

Rush-Hashanah

The Jewish High Holidays sneak up on me every year. 

I came back from visiting my mother in New York on Labor Day weekend. It was 110 degrees and smoky when I landed in Santa Rosa. I realized the holidays are happening in less than 3 weeks and I really ought to do something about it.  Get the cards out. Figure out logistics. Plan a menu. 

Rush-hashana has begun.  

Instead, I ate cold watermelon, unpacked and tried to catch up on the mail. 

The office roared back to life in September. The inbox that was almost normal was suddenly filled with unread messages and the desk soon covered with post-it notes. 

My closet became a mess. It was 44 degrees in the morning, 80 degrees in the afternoon but dips to 50 in the evening and I pulled out a few winter clothes. With summer and winter clothes all mixed together, it takes me half an hour to decide what to wear every morning. Too many choices. None of them work. I have nothing to wear. 

Hobbies that were on summer break are starting up again. If I don’t show up, they’ll think I dropped out. I don’t want to be a flake. I leave the pile of New Year’s cards untouched. I go to the hobbies. 

Garden work must happen before it’s too late. I spent a lot of time last weekend tending my bed at the community garden. I picked the last of my cherry tomatoes. There were tons of tiny ones left. It took hours and I had a lot of time to think. 

I thought about how it was less than 2 months ago that I wrote Cheery Note #1 to a friend who was starting chemo. Alone in her “healing cocoon” on the east coast, the only way I could think of helping her was to write a weekly cheery note with some light news as a distraction. In Cheery Note #2 I described what I had just planted and how the first tomatoes were doing. The Cheery Note series became this blog. Cheery Note #6 was the last one she would read.

As I worked, there was the sadness of losing a friend who died too young. I also reflected on the loss of Erwin, an elderly cousin in Australia who was my father's closest friend growing up and he made a big impression on me when he came to visit back in the 1960's. There was the satisfaction of growing tasty tomatoes, sharing them with my neighbors and learning how to preserve them to enjoy this winter. There was wistfulness that I was tearing out all the vines.There was anticipation and excitement of turning the soil and planting the winter vegetables. 

This season, barely begun, has already brought many changes. 

Greg and I affiliated at a local synagogue. We’re looking forward to making new friends in this community. 

Liane came home. Her plans and adventures took a different course than she had hoped. 

Shani and Lex got married in a civil ceremony in Oakland. We had a small celebration and ate a delicious wedding cake that you’d never guess was vegan. 

The Rush-Hashanah cards, calls and emails never got done. 

But we sang Avinu Malkainu with our new congregation. We threw our sins and bread crumbs into the lake at Howarth Park. We ate matzo balls, apples and maple syrup (I forgot to get honey) and lots of tomatoes. I got the brussels sprouts, chard and kohlrabi seedlings into the bed. 

I remembered a friend and a cousin who both had a twinkle in their eye. And I became a mother-in-law. 

May you be inscribed in the Book of Life.  Happy 5778!  

All vegetables are innocent. Unless you're a cucumber.

A few days ago, I checked my work email in the morning getting ready for work. Usually there are none, but here was a note from my boss at 1am that she has a bad sinus infection and is cancelling her 7am meeting. The next email had some instructions to cancel and  reschedule the rest of her day. As I scrambled to reply and send a couple of emails, someone else from the office texted with a problem that needed an immediate solution. I had to think about that one, then we had some back-and-forth texting. I had not even had coffee yet. 

I went to the kitchen to make a coffee for the road. I do a pour-over: the plastic thing with a paper filter that sits on top of your cup and you pour boiling water over the grounds.

I poured too much.

As I held the cup in my left hand and moved it, I somehow managed to spill it on the palm of my right hand.

Luckily this happened in the sink so I could immediately turn on the cold water and let it run over my hand.  After that, I iced it for a few minutes and decided to sit quietly and let myself recover from the shock and slow down. Then I drove to the office.

Gripping the steering wheel hurt. Moving my right hand hurt.

The morning passed in a busy blur and then it was lunchtime.

I went to the break room to make myself a little something to eat. I keep a few fresh vegetables to slice up but I had not refreshed my supply and the only thing left in my stash was an unappetizing semi-withered Persian cucumber.

As I reached to take it out with my right hand, I realized it made the perfect cold-pack. Gripping a cold cucumber on my burnt palm felt really soothing. 

Since we all just completed the new and improved sexual harassment training, I was keenly aware that I may be perceived as performing an inappropriate act in the work place if I walk around holding a cucumber or if I'm seen holding it at my desk. Should I show the HR ladies next to me that this is medicinal and therapeutic?  Or would the very act of showing them “I’m innocent” be considered inappropriate?  Had I chosen a bag of frozen peas, this would not be a question.

Peas are innocent. Cucumbers are lewd.

Deep Pockets

There are two things that really bother me about going to the dentist - besides the usual fear of dentists and hating the poking and cleaning. 

1) I can’t tell if I should believe them

2) I don’t like getting told how to brush my teeth and floss. 

When you go to the gynecologist, does the doctor ask “So are you properly cleaning up there?  How many times a day do you do your kegels?  Well that’s not what I’m seeing…here let me use this mirror and show you where I’m seeing signs of neglect…”

When you go to the optometrist, do they ask “Are you taking good care of your eyes?  Do you wear your sunglasses every day?  Do you sit too close to the TV?  You know that’s really bad for you.”

It is only the dentist who asks how often you brush and floss. And no matter what you say, you’ll get a lecture and instructions. 

After moving to Sonoma County a year ago, I finally signed up with a new local dentist. I decided to try very hard to go without a chip on my shoulder.

At 9:00am, a very energetic lady took me for x-rays and initiated a conversation about her new music lessons; she is learning to play the saxophone.  In between the little things they stick in your mouth between clicking the x-ray button, I provided encouraging banter about beginner saxophone practice. 

The dentist saw me after that. A very pleasant fellow. He told me that everything looked good BUT….I have an old crown that he recommends replacing and one spot with receding gums…I may want to consider a graft and he’s happy to refer me to a periodontist. I kept a poker face but my mind went into panic mode. 

Now…a bit of background:  (yes, you are going to hear about my teeth)  I have pretty good teeth. When I was a kid, the dentist suggested braces. My mother thought that was expensive nonsense. She was right. I got a husband anyway.  And I never had any of the awful dental problems that dentist predicted.  

In my 20’s and 30’s every dentist insisted I get my wisdom teeth removed. They seemed OK to me, but they warned me if I don’t have them removed by 40, it would become a REALLY BIG DEAL.  Hearing the same scary predictions from 5 different dentists, at age 40, I had them removed.  

Quite the hero, sans wisdom teeth, I expected all future dentists to say “Oh…you’ve got great teeth…no problems at all!”  But no.  The minute those wisdom teeth came out, it was “You’ve got deep pockets.  You need a deep cleaning”.  You know when they measure each gum next to each tooth to see how many mm the little pointy thing goes? They should be 3s or 4s. I have 2 spots, way in the back behind my last molars, where the pointy thing is a 7.  That’s a deep pocket. Bacteria can get in. If bacteria gets in then....and…and…and…then your head will fall off.

I’ve had 15 years of nagging to get a deep cleaning and strict instructions how to brush and clean the area near those deep pockets. I’ve heard all the threats of what will happen if I neglect this. I have never gone for a deep cleaning. 

My new dentist did not mention my deep pockets EVEN ONCE.  I asked him, didn’t you find a couple of deep pockets?  Oh yes, but they are behind your molars where your wisdom teeth were removed. Everyone has those. It’s nothing. 

So who is lying????  Who is wrong??  Who do I trust????

As I was puzzling this new news, I got my new hygienist.  Very sweet and pleasant.  And while chipping and chiseling away, she told me the entire story of moving her 86-year-old mother from Alaska to assisted living in Santa Rosa this year. While the saliva pooled under my tongue, I tried not to think about drooling or grafts or crowns and instead to be a good listener and stay present and after spitting, to make supportive remarks like 

<spit>  You did the right thing.  

<spit>  Your mother would have agreed with you on this before she had dementia.  

<spit>  You’re a good daughter.  

<spit>  Yes, I floss every day. Most days.  <smile>

<spit>  OK…I’ll brush better over there in little circles, not up and down.

<spit>  That’s got to be hardest when she doesn’t recognize you. 

<spit>  She knows you love her.

I got out of there after 2-1/2 hours, most of it practicing as an unlicensed therapist while posing as a dental patient.  

So do I worry about my crown and gums?

Do I do as my mother (who has pretty good teeth for her age) and dismiss this as expensive nonsense???

I am walking around with deep pockets. And I don't know if it matters.