About Shabbat Video Updates: Many of our readers (namely the Ohio State folks) got their weekly Kopans kids fix on Shabbat at Hillel. We're going to make that fix easy for you to continue to get each and every week, move to Kansas City be damned. Shabbat Shalom Umevorach from the Kopans bayit to you!
Friday, August 27, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
To Catch and Keep a Perfect Morning
Here in Kansas I've managed to find some (part-time) gainful employment,
and so I actually find myself quite busy in these weeks leading up to the start of a new Jewish year.
While, in part, it feels deliciously normal to be doing rabbi-work,
the juggling act of being home full-time with the children and trying to get any work besides housework done is not going as smoothly as I might have imagined.
It is so easy to feel swallowed by the stress.
My head tells me to write those sermons that are knocking around in my head.
My head tells me the kitchen floor is disgusting (it is!) and needs a good scrubbing.
My head tells me that the boys' preschool bags really, really need to be assembled. Yesterday.
My head tells me I should get some challah baked while it's not so humid.
But my heart is saying something completely different.
My heart tells me that, one day, I'm going to miss the children being small enough to scoop up,
kiss on the head, and swing around till their baby belly laughs fill the room.
It tells me if I don't hustle them into some shoes
and pack them into the car for an unplanned trip to the park this morning,
(when, miraculously, the morning temperature is below 80 degrees for the first time in months,)
that years from now, I'm going to wish I had.
My heart tells me that ten or fifteen years down the road,
when the last place they want to be is tromping through the park with me,
searching for frogs, and examining earthworms and cicada shells,
slinging handfuls of gravel into the lake,
and lazily swishing a stick through pondwater debris
screaming with joy as we pound along a bridge with unruly feet,
getting muddy without worrying about it,
and dozing in the gorgeous late-summer-morning fresh air,
playing hide-and-seek behind the trees,
and munching on last week's stale challah that was intended for the ducks,
when they are too old to while away a morning at the park with their annoying old Ima
(And certainly far too fast to miss out on mornings like these.)
and so I actually find myself quite busy in these weeks leading up to the start of a new Jewish year.
While, in part, it feels deliciously normal to be doing rabbi-work,
the juggling act of being home full-time with the children and trying to get any work besides housework done is not going as smoothly as I might have imagined.
It is so easy to feel swallowed by the stress.
My head tells me to write those sermons that are knocking around in my head.
My head tells me the kitchen floor is disgusting (it is!) and needs a good scrubbing.
My head tells me that the boys' preschool bags really, really need to be assembled. Yesterday.
My head tells me I should get some challah baked while it's not so humid.
But my heart is saying something completely different.
My heart tells me that, one day, I'm going to miss the children being small enough to scoop up,
kiss on the head, and swing around till their baby belly laughs fill the room.
It tells me if I don't hustle them into some shoes
and pack them into the car for an unplanned trip to the park this morning,
(when, miraculously, the morning temperature is below 80 degrees for the first time in months,)
that years from now, I'm going to wish I had.
My heart tells me that ten or fifteen years down the road,
when the last place they want to be is tromping through the park with me,
searching for frogs, and examining earthworms and cicada shells,
slinging handfuls of gravel into the lake,
and lazily swishing a stick through pondwater debris
screaming with joy as we pound along a bridge with unruly feet,
getting muddy without worrying about it,
and dozing in the gorgeous late-summer-morning fresh air,
playing hide-and-seek behind the trees,
and munching on last week's stale challah that was intended for the ducks,
when they are too old to while away a morning at the park with their annoying old Ima
I will regret the perfect sermons,
the shining toilets and floors,
and the homemade challah
that I allowed to take the place
of one perfect morning at the park with these little ducklings
who I know perfectly and painfully well
will grow up and away from me far, far too fast for my liking.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Happy Birthday, Abba!*
Just like last year, the kids are broke.
But it is Abba's birthday this Shabbat,
and he is a really, really incredible Abba.
So they made him this video.**
And while I
have a serious problem with writing a novel and calling it a blog post
can be a little *ahem* wordy sometimes,
they prefer to let the video and accompanying song do the talking.
Enjoy!
(*We're counting this as this week's Shabbat Video Update,too.)
But it is Abba's birthday this Shabbat,
and he is a really, really incredible Abba.
So they made him this video.**
And while I
can be a little *ahem* wordy sometimes,
they prefer to let the video and accompanying song do the talking.
Enjoy!
(*We're counting this as this week's Shabbat Video Update,too.)
**I made David something too - a fabulous cheesecake
(thanks, Deb)
that I labored over for longer than I did with his firstborn child.
It probably weighs more than Ashi did at birth, too.
(Not really. But this is a pretty serious cake.)
Happy Birthday, my love!
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Pineapple Squares
My grandmother makes pineapple squares.
Most of you will not fully appreciate the gravity of that sentence.
But my sister (Auntie Al) and brother (Uncle Steve) and my cousin (Auntie Amanda)
will read it and suffer the appropriate reaction.
A slight groan of longing - "ohhh."
An uncontrollable watering of the mouth.
A recline back in the chair, reflexive from the memory of uncomfortably full bellies.
Full of pineapple squares.
A hazy memory replayed in dimmed color -
climb the lattice to unhook the back porch's inside latch
bang open the creaky screen door and burst into the cramped kitchen
stop for a moment to greet Gram -
she laughs at the sheer pleasure of seeing you,
"Oh ho ho, how's my best girl?!"
(You really and truly believe at that moment that you must be her most favorite granddaughter, although she has three of them. What has Alicia got on you, anyway?)
cradles your face with loving hands,
kisses you and says, "It's so nice to see you, sweetheart."
Over the years she's gone from reaching down to your face to reaching up.
But it's still the same soft-skinned, flour-dusted arms, and gentle fingertips cupping your cheeks.
This greeting is the sweetest part of the whole visit.
Followed very, very, very closely by what you will find
stored on top of the dryer,
flanked by laundry detergent on one side,
a family-sized drum of potato chips on the other.
Space is tight in this kitchen that fed her husband and two boys three meals a day for years,
and now miraculously holds those boys' families as well
also, Rick and Cora, the neighbors, are usually over
and Beverly, who loitered at the house almost every day after school as a girl
and her kids (of course)
April Jones - a second or third cousin and a year older than me - was usually there as well.
It was a magical table that sat four but always found room for everyone my grandmother loves.
(Anyway - there was only space at the table for hungry mouths, hands, and elbows
so the pineapple squares lived on the dryer.)
Pineapple squares, like manna,
cannot be contained by any one meal category
and thus it is an unspoken rule that, regardless of the time of day,
they are up for the grabbing.
You can waltz into the kitchen from a post-swimming summertime TV coma at four in the afternoon,
kiss Gram on the cheek while she is busy
to fill your chlorine-scented, grubby hands with pineapple squares,
and drift blissfully back to TV land along with siblings and cousins,
your mouth filled with the sweet comforting familiarity of this moment,
which tastes of pineapple.
Presently, as I find myself solidly in the years of adulthood,
a lump rises in my throat
at the sudden realization that I will most likely never experience that feeling again.
Gram doesn't really bake pineapple squares anymore.
Everyone's concerned about their waistline.
The living room's couches no longer overflow with grandchildren
because everyone lives in Ohio or, now, Kansas.
And anyway, I'm too big now to eat half a tray of pineapple squares
while lounging the afternoon away in front of MTV,
only giving kisses as payment.
Because now I have my own kitchen to mind,
my own gas prices to worry about,
my own children to care for.
And my memories of pineapple squares are stacked high and deep enough
that by now I know that those pastries were worth far more than a kiss.
How do you repay your grandmother
for something so simple and so rich?
A gesture made of flour and sugar and baking soda
that says,
"I so glad you've come. I've prepared something special for you. Please sit down, relax, and enjoy it."
The real richness, of course, is in the memories cloaked in that cloyingly sweet taste of pineapple sandwiched in cakey pastry dough
and how they all come crashing back to me in waves when I taste the pineapple filling,
roll out the dough, and tuck it under itself
with the same tenderness that I use to tuck in my little ones at night.
My answer is to pull out the handwritten recipe cards and cracked "measuring cup" (1940s coffee mug)
she gave me at my wedding shower
and to assemble Gram's pineapple squares
step by step
even though she's not standing at my elbow
to lecture and to correct (because I'll never do it perfectly, as she can).
I can only hope that my children and their cousins (God willing)
will one day gather in someone's living room
languorously lounging around and chewing pineapple squares
which they will take (almost) completely for granted.
Most of you will not fully appreciate the gravity of that sentence.
But my sister (Auntie Al) and brother (Uncle Steve) and my cousin (Auntie Amanda)
will read it and suffer the appropriate reaction.
A slight groan of longing - "ohhh."
An uncontrollable watering of the mouth.
A recline back in the chair, reflexive from the memory of uncomfortably full bellies.
Full of pineapple squares.
A hazy memory replayed in dimmed color -
climb the lattice to unhook the back porch's inside latch
bang open the creaky screen door and burst into the cramped kitchen
stop for a moment to greet Gram -
she laughs at the sheer pleasure of seeing you,
"Oh ho ho, how's my best girl?!"
(You really and truly believe at that moment that you must be her most favorite granddaughter, although she has three of them. What has Alicia got on you, anyway?)
cradles your face with loving hands,
kisses you and says, "It's so nice to see you, sweetheart."
Over the years she's gone from reaching down to your face to reaching up.
But it's still the same soft-skinned, flour-dusted arms, and gentle fingertips cupping your cheeks.
This greeting is the sweetest part of the whole visit.
Followed very, very, very closely by what you will find
stored on top of the dryer,
flanked by laundry detergent on one side,
a family-sized drum of potato chips on the other.
Space is tight in this kitchen that fed her husband and two boys three meals a day for years,
and now miraculously holds those boys' families as well
also, Rick and Cora, the neighbors, are usually over
and Beverly, who loitered at the house almost every day after school as a girl
and her kids (of course)
April Jones - a second or third cousin and a year older than me - was usually there as well.
It was a magical table that sat four but always found room for everyone my grandmother loves.
(Anyway - there was only space at the table for hungry mouths, hands, and elbows
so the pineapple squares lived on the dryer.)
Pineapple squares, like manna,
cannot be contained by any one meal category
and thus it is an unspoken rule that, regardless of the time of day,
they are up for the grabbing.
You can waltz into the kitchen from a post-swimming summertime TV coma at four in the afternoon,
kiss Gram on the cheek while she is busy
discussing the price of a gallon of gasoline with your dad,
reach over her to the dryerto fill your chlorine-scented, grubby hands with pineapple squares,
and drift blissfully back to TV land along with siblings and cousins,
your mouth filled with the sweet comforting familiarity of this moment,
which tastes of pineapple.
Presently, as I find myself solidly in the years of adulthood,
a lump rises in my throat
at the sudden realization that I will most likely never experience that feeling again.
Gram doesn't really bake pineapple squares anymore.
Everyone's concerned about their waistline.
The living room's couches no longer overflow with grandchildren
because everyone lives in Ohio or, now, Kansas.
And anyway, I'm too big now to eat half a tray of pineapple squares
while lounging the afternoon away in front of MTV,
only giving kisses as payment.
Because now I have my own kitchen to mind,
my own gas prices to worry about,
my own children to care for.
And my memories of pineapple squares are stacked high and deep enough
that by now I know that those pastries were worth far more than a kiss.
How do you repay your grandmother
for something so simple and so rich?
A gesture made of flour and sugar and baking soda
that says,
"I so glad you've come. I've prepared something special for you. Please sit down, relax, and enjoy it."
The real richness, of course, is in the memories cloaked in that cloyingly sweet taste of pineapple sandwiched in cakey pastry dough
and how they all come crashing back to me in waves when I taste the pineapple filling,
roll out the dough, and tuck it under itself
with the same tenderness that I use to tuck in my little ones at night.
My answer is to pull out the handwritten recipe cards and cracked "measuring cup" (1940s coffee mug)
she gave me at my wedding shower
and to assemble Gram's pineapple squares
step by step
even though she's not standing at my elbow
to lecture and to correct (because I'll never do it perfectly, as she can).
I can only hope that my children and their cousins (God willing)
will one day gather in someone's living room
languorously lounging around and chewing pineapple squares
which they will take (almost) completely for granted.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Shabbat Video Update, Episode 6 - "Belly Laughs"
About Shabbat Video Updates: Many of our readers (namely the Ohio State folks) got their weekly Kopans kids fix on Shabbat at Hillel. We're going to make that fix easy for you to continue to get each and every week, move to Kansas City be damned. Shabbat Shalom Umevorach from the Kopans bayit to you!
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Shabbat Afternoon Prayer
It is Shabbat afternoon and Nesi has just finished eating.
So, you can guess that I am cuddled up right next to her.
(Shabbat afternoon is a magical place in time
when snuggling is the first order of business,
followed closely by savoring a luxurious sort of laziness.
Kisses are mandatory, and
extra points are awarded for falling into a deep, deep sleep.)
The boys, not wishing to partake in the snuggles this particular Shabbat afternoon,
have taken Abba to try their luck at catching frogs. Or at least an ant or two.
So it is just us girls,
chatting and snuggling in the sheets
the way only girls seem to be able to do together.
(Auntie Al and I used to lounge in bed on Saturdays, as well. She would pile in under the covers in my awesome basement bedroom and we'd stay there for hours,
talking about nonsense and sharing girl-secrets.
If Nesi never has a sister, a small part of my heart will be broken, and it is 90% for this reason.)
Today, Nesi and I are talking about how fat she is.
I am admiring her rubber-band wrists,
she is tucking her chin down,
showing me how she can make it into a double - no, a triple!
I ooh and ahh. "How wonderful!" I say.
"You are fabulous."
She blows a raspberry in agreement.
I trill my lips back at her
and she coos her approval of this trick, sticking out her tongue.
I remind her what a miracle she is.
She stretches her whole body into a yawn, underscoring my point.
I squeeze her legs between two fingers.
She tucks her knees up, displaying her four-almost-five gorgeous thigh rolls.
I peel off her ruffled sock and kiss the bottom of her foot.
She giggles and curls her long lady-toes around my nose.
I am in raptures. I could keep this conversation up for hours.
"I will eat you," I tell her.
She raises an eyebrow (really!) and flashes a dimple. She doesn't believe me.
"I almost ate your brother," I murmur, "but you are particularly delicious."
And since cjane is blogging about eating her sweet baby girl, I figure it is all the rage and I just might do it.
But my appetite is ruined by a sudden protest from Nesi. Her eyebrows are arched now, angry. While I've beenblogging intent on preserving this moment, she has become hungry again.
As I settle in to feed her, a fervent mother's prayer passes my lips:
Don't ever let me forget
the milky-sweet smell of her infant breath
the divine pillowy softness of her rolled thighs
the downy velvet feel of her brand-new skin
getting to know this little soul, so darling,
mysteriously entrusted to me in this particular form
and how my heart leaps in these stolen moments.
So, you can guess that I am cuddled up right next to her.
(Shabbat afternoon is a magical place in time
when snuggling is the first order of business,
followed closely by savoring a luxurious sort of laziness.
Kisses are mandatory, and
extra points are awarded for falling into a deep, deep sleep.)
The boys, not wishing to partake in the snuggles this particular Shabbat afternoon,
have taken Abba to try their luck at catching frogs. Or at least an ant or two.
So it is just us girls,
chatting and snuggling in the sheets
the way only girls seem to be able to do together.
(Auntie Al and I used to lounge in bed on Saturdays, as well. She would pile in under the covers in my awesome basement bedroom and we'd stay there for hours,
talking about nonsense and sharing girl-secrets.
If Nesi never has a sister, a small part of my heart will be broken, and it is 90% for this reason.)
Today, Nesi and I are talking about how fat she is.
I am admiring her rubber-band wrists,
she is tucking her chin down,
showing me how she can make it into a double - no, a triple!
I ooh and ahh. "How wonderful!" I say.
"You are fabulous."
She blows a raspberry in agreement.
I trill my lips back at her
and she coos her approval of this trick, sticking out her tongue.
I remind her what a miracle she is.
She stretches her whole body into a yawn, underscoring my point.
I squeeze her legs between two fingers.
She tucks her knees up, displaying her four-almost-five gorgeous thigh rolls.
I peel off her ruffled sock and kiss the bottom of her foot.
She giggles and curls her long lady-toes around my nose.
I am in raptures. I could keep this conversation up for hours.
"I will eat you," I tell her.
She raises an eyebrow (really!) and flashes a dimple. She doesn't believe me.
"I almost ate your brother," I murmur, "but you are particularly delicious."
And since cjane is blogging about eating her sweet baby girl, I figure it is all the rage and I just might do it.
But my appetite is ruined by a sudden protest from Nesi. Her eyebrows are arched now, angry. While I've been
As I settle in to feed her, a fervent mother's prayer passes my lips:
Don't ever let me forget
the milky-sweet smell of her infant breath
the divine pillowy softness of her rolled thighs
the downy velvet feel of her brand-new skin
getting to know this little soul, so darling,
mysteriously entrusted to me in this particular form
and how my heart leaps in these stolen moments.
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