Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Binging and Purging, but this time in a really nice way
Let’s get out of the “gross body function” mode and into something a little - no, a lot - more elevated.
I really look forward to passover every year, but it’s been many years since I’ve looked forward to it so much as I did this time around. I kept bumping into people who knew something about it (with a shout-out to my new chaverim in the finance dept - you know who you are), and discovering little tidbits that would spice up my experience of it… but even with all that, I could not have anticipated how profoundly this year’s redemptive feast hit me.
A big piece of that probably has to do with my having been made ready for it by a wave of work and workplace stress the likes of which I don’t think I’ve experienced since my days in litigation. I don’t wish to make this site *that* kind of cough*dooce*harrumph confessional, so suffice it to say that last Friday was a very difficult day for me and for everyone with whom I work closely. I’d been building toward it for months - for years, in some ways - and it felt as if it took as long to endure as it had taken to arrive in the first place. And that’s about enough about that.
I was also primed for action, however, by the fact that the family that’s hosted a passover celebration (seder) that we’ve joyfully attended for several years, and provided me my only seder for the last two years, is out of town, out of state; out of country, continent, and hemisphere. It’s hard to be farther away than they are right now, and that really put the onus on me and my other friends to make something happen or live with (that is, without) the consequences.
This was a galvanizing set of circumstances that led us to celebrate a very powerful passover with the true core corps down at dear Helena’s place in Palo Alto. Shariar was, unfortunately, out of the country (though not quite as far gone as those others I mentioned above), so we had to party on his behalf - and let’s admit it, we really accomplished that, and a great deal more.
First, a word for the neophyte: “pesach.” It’s the Hebrew word for, among other things, the festival celebrating redemption from bondage, when Moses led us (yes, *us*) out of the narrow place and eventually to Zion. I mean, if you buy that kind of story. But regardless, it’s the kind of story that certainly analogizes well, and every year I try to immerse myself in it with the complex, multi-modal celebration of it that comes, not coincidentally, just around Easter. In English, we call it “passover.” I’ve written a guide-book to the celebration - a typical sort of thing that many people have done, but of course, mine is hut-full of chuckle and ergo a work of scholarly erudition as well as literary pretension, nearly 50 pages long and getting longer almost every year. I have made a practice of leading these celebrations for quite some time, and having skipped a few years now, I had a lot to bring to the seder table, as it were.
Speaking of which, our contributions to the actual meal were the first and last items consumed, which is a handy way to make sure that everybody appreciates one thing you brought (the soup is served when everybody is very hungry and ready for supper) and remembers one thing you brought (with four mandatory glasses of wine, dessert is sometimes - though not this time - what people recall most clearly). My soup was a clear broth distilled from a chinese roast duck, from which I’d only pulled enough meat to mince up into the matzo balls. I used onion, celery and lemon-grass for additional flavor, and strained the broth to a rich golden color. I knew it was a hit when six-year-old Kaleb expressed disappointment that there was no soup left, but still went back for more matzo-balls. Dessert was Kel’s time-tested chocolate-chip banana bread, which works very well indeed with passover-friendly matzomeal cake flour. It was served under a dollop of freshly whipped cream, and atop a puddle of strawberries that had been pureed, sweetened with powdered sugar, thickened slightly, and then simmered for 40 minutes. The flavors all complimented each other, they looked good together on the plate, and it was a winner all around.
That is not to say that either dish was significantly better than the taters, tzimmes (with sunchokes!), sephardic eggs (the only hard eggs I ever eat and for damn good reason), green beans (with pinolas!), charoset, prepared horseradish, or the FREAKING AMAZING BRISKET which honestly probably has to take the kosher-l’pesach cake as the finest piece of proletarian meat I’ve ever et. The wine was delicious, staggering in its profusion, and richly appreciated, and even the parsley in salt water seemed unusually refreshing and poignant. But even with all of that, there was one item that I had been responsible to bring, failed to remember to pack, had sent others out to fetch, and that wound up showing up unexpectedly anyway - that completely changed my whole idea of what passover was even about. But first, as the man says, a bit of fun.
MATZO is at the heart of the passover celebration. In this festival of historical redemption, it’s supposed to bring the experience to a whole new level of immediacy. These flavorless squares get very special attention - a distinct cover is provided for them, in which three of them are displayed and acknowledged before one is withdrawn and broken in a mysterious and mystical gesture, to be hidden again in a separate special covering. Matzo is specifically identified as one of the three primary symbols of the celebration. It is blessed, consumed, and then used to make a sandwich with one of the two other key symbols, the bitter and fiery moror, together with sweet charoset. Of course it’s also used to make the dumplings in the soup, but that’s just a cultural, not a religious, tradition. During the eight festal days, you’re not supposed to eat any grain product other than matzo (or its derivatives). Matzo itself is manufactured under strictly controlled conditions: it should consist of only flour and water, and must be baked within 18 minutes of those two ingredients first touching. I’m telling you, for such a bland bit of edible cardboard, it carries a serious regulatory burden.
On the other hand, it’s said that, of all the holy deeds (mitzvot) commanded of us, only one is a consummatory act: all mitzvot must be performed, but no other mitzvah is eaten - at least, not since the year 70 when the second temple was destroyed and sacrificial rites were terminated. It’s even said, by those who say such things, that the act of eating matzo fills you with some kind of holy power - emunah, is what they call it. It’s supposed to be a direct tap into the cosmic circuit, an active ingestion of the holy spark that has energized the world since the word Go. Quite a lot to ask of a cracker if you ask me, even rhetorically. I’ve always noted these exalted matzoic qualities when leading seder celebrations, with a big fat figurative grain of salt. It’s a cracker, people. An interesting, historical, important and sometimes tasty and satisfying cracker - but still and all, only a cracker - nothing more.
At this year’s seder, in fact, the matzo began as something rather less. It was a box - no, five boxes, each filled with matzo and all wrapped together, waiting in readiness in a brown paper sack atop my kitchen shelves. Sadly, those shelves were forty miles from where we had gathered. In my rush to get out of the house not-too-late, I’d left them behind. I didn’t even realize it till we were setting up the table to get started, when it hit me like a ton of sun-baked nile-mud bricks: I’d left the bread of affliction, the symbol of the covenant, the purported source of emunah, back at home. I don’t know the Hebrew but I’m pretty sure “fayl” is the same in all languages. And lo, I was humiliated and ashamed. I believe the hebrew is shamiliated.
Helena and Kim had been looking for an excuse to take a stroll so off they went to Mollie Stone’s, as did our forebears of ancient days, returning with a box of matzo like veritable heralds of redemption. I thanked them profusely and we set about final preparations, even as our last guests, Charles and Lori, arrived.
Lori brought horseradish - moror, another of the three main symbols of the ceremony, as well as a delicious pot of tzimmes - a root and fruit stew that honestly tastes much better than I just made it sound. Charles had arrogated to himself the main meat duty, and fulfilled that obligation by bringing the finest damn brisket I have ever had the honor to eat, no question about it. But he’d also promised to bring a “surprise,” about which I was beside myself with curiosity. Alcohol? Sweetmeats? A bit of authentic ram’s blood for hyssop-dipping and lintel lamination? All fair guesses, but none came close to doing justice to the sack he unveiled to us upon his arrival - hand-rolled, home-baked matzo . Made round as was traditional before the advent of matzo-making machinery, plentifully perforated to preclude puffiness, light and airy and curled at the edges like so many quick-baked smiles, this stuff actually looked divine - in the original meaning of the word.
And even so, that did nothing to prepare me for the reality that hit me when I took a bite of one. A word escaped my mouth: “Holy - ....” My mind grasped for a referent for that adjective. Mackerel? Moses? Guacamole? Nothing in my experience was profound enough to deserve association with this matzo. The word “holy” just hung in the air, increasingly sufficient unto itself as I chewed that tender leaf of sublimity. The flavor was light but rich - harvest and heat and haste. The texture was crisp but forgiving, not drying out my mouth as matzo usually did, but rather causing me to salivate and savor even more deeply. Emunah freely flowed from the bread into my body. I truly experienced the mitzvah of motzi matzo for the first time in my life with every bite I took of that amazing creation - and I took plenty, finding room for a mouthful or two more all through the evening and even after gorging on dessert. It actually changed me as a man to eat that bread, and I remain changed still. I can’t imagine that there will ever be any going back.
But for a moment, let’s go back anyway, reversing time as imagination and the internet so permit and the seder celebration so encourages, back to the early stages of our services that evening. We had just begun the ceremony by welcoming strangers, thanking our hosts, and arranging ourselves comfortably. Background music - King Crimson’s watershed album, “Discipline“ - provided a contemplative backdrop. I began to discuss the tradition of the purification of the home.
On passover, we should remove all yeast and products made with grain (except for matzo) from our homes, in a ritual that predates the exodus and goes back to the wisdom and experience of the Egyptian yeastmasters who invented beer, discovered how to bake risen bread, and learned that the living organism of saccharomyces cerevisiae can go bad something fierce on a fellow. The passover observance is therefore preceded by a thorough residential cleansing of all yeasty and grainaceous products (chometz), as an analogue of our own quest for clarity and purity. Leaven, it is said, represents all base desires and impulses, and we must purge it from our midst before being ready to undertake the festival of redemption.
But our seder was being held in the home of Helena, a gracious and enlightened woman, and her husband the regrettably absent Shariar, also an avatar of wisdom and mercy - neither of whom actually adhere to the faith of Israel. The ritual dechometzification of the home had not been performed according to tradition. But its essence was still within our reach, I knew as I pronounced:
“Tonight, leaven represents all that is base. We purge it from our midst.” The assembly nodded thoughtfully; the music throbbed in the background. “David!” I turned to my friend, seated at my right hand. “What music is this we’re hearing?”
David was surprised. I’d gone off script. I was supposed to be burning a piece of cereal or something. “Um, King Crimson.” He knew the answer well enough, but he didn’t know where we were going with it.
“Ah, King Crimson. Who’s in this band?”
With this David settled back into his comfy chair, having already figured out my ploy. He started naming the players: “Tony Levin....”
“Tony Levin! Tell me, David, what instrument is Tony Levin playing?”
David paused briefly before answering: “Bass.”
“Helena, please turn off this music.” She arose and complied. I continued: “Levin is bass. We have purged him from our midst. We’ve also thrown out Bruford and Fripp for good measure. Sephardim, however, would still permit Eno.” It might not have been Mate Kudesai, but it set a nice tone anyway.
It’s now well past the end of passover so I hope you all got your redemption locked down solid. I’m busy again this week but after last week I think I’m ready for pretty much anything. We’ll catch up again in some more promising lands, I’m sure. Till then, let’s act as if we’re a holy people. Who knows, we might just fool ourselves into it despite ourselves. Oh, and for those who could use an extra boost or a little reminder, there are some photos in the extended entry. It might not show up on your RSS feed, but all I ask is that you click through manually. You know you want to.
Kim’s Sephardic hard eggs - as tasty as they are beautiful:
A bowl of charoset - the sweet, intoxicating mixture that recalls to our minds the nile mud with which we labored, and at the same time, the sweetness of our redemption from bondage:
Helena’s gorgeous seder plate, upon which are displayed all the key elements of the celebration (with the exception of matzo):
Okay, this time we need two photos and I’m still not close to doing it justice - the bread that speaks for itself:
Skipping supper, here’s a bit of tasty banana cake with strawberries and cream:
After supper, the air was full of conversation and the soul was full of emunah:
After supper the air was also full of Rock Band, but I couldn’t get anything like a decent photo of that. Instead, here’s little Jesse, working the Keith Moon thing on my face shortly before the seder began:
Now let’s not forget that we live in a multi-culti household and we closed out seder, arriving home at nearly midnight, just to awaken the next morning to Easter. Here is Jesse, blessing the See’s Chocolate egg, with Zachary impatiently waiting for him to move his damn hand:
Our Easter tradition is to take a hike out in the great wide world somewhere. The great wide world’s tradition is to rain on us. Therefore our fallback tradition is to do a bit of the 49 Mile Drive. This time we started in Chinatown and then headed up to Coit Tower, where we looked something like this:
The tower itself was more along these lines:
And though I have a lot more photos, that will have do suffice for the nonce. Get me a fresh nonce and I’ll re-suffice it. Up next: oh, maybe a story of archaic technology? Let’s not tie ourselves down. It’s springtime. There are a lot of options out there.
