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Dec
25
A Very Zimon Chanuka
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Looks like we could use another batch of sugar cookies.
Three chanukiot on the first night of Chanuka. The candle standing alone, either higher or in front of the others, is called the shamash and lights the other candles. We place the candles in the candelabra from right to left, adding one each night. But when we light them, we light them from left to right
Break open your piggy banks, kids! Mom’s gotta win back the money she spent on your presents.
By Jill Miller Zimon at 11:19 pm December 25th, 2005 in Politics | Comments Off
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Dec
25
O Chanuka O Chanuka, come light the Menorah
Filed Under Politics | 3 Comments
The festival of lights began this evening and finally, after twelve years of celebrating Chanuka with my kids, everyone was happy with their presents – Mom and Dad included.
We began the holiday after a not so traditional supper of souped up french toast and fruit. We were supposed to have latkes, blintzes, bagels and matzo ball soup but The Chronicles of Narnia ended later than we expected. Nevertheless, I made a few special adjustments to the preparation and presentation. Given my kids’ eagerness to get to the main event – present opening – I probably didn’t need to even cook the food. Still, raw eggs dripping on soggy bread…nah.
After my husband lit our three chanukiot, we sang the three prayers intended for the holiday. I tried to find new chanukiot for our children – tradition says that each child should have his or her own – but we used the three we own already: one that my husband and I received as a present from my in-laws, one from my husband’s Grandma Flora, and another one that we received as a gift. My husband polished them earlier and their silver and gold stems glistened in the flames, dining room lights out and tinfoil underneath.
Chanuka candles are made to burn for about 20 minutes. Many Jews use Chanukiot that use oil and in Israel, most memorably for me in Jerusalem, these candelabras are placed either literally on the outside of the house or prominently displayed in windows and doorways. I have a cassette tape I made and sent to friends in the states from when I lived in Israel and recorded this sight as I walked down alley after alley in different Jerusalem neighborhoods during Chanuka. I hope to dig it out and, if I can handle it, listen to what I said 21 years ago about the holiday in that city.
Although many people refer to the candleabra as a menorah, it’s actually a “Chanukiah, ” special for Chanuka (chanukiot is the plural). A menorah, representative of what was used in the temples, holds seven candles. A Chanukiah holds nine – eight to represent the eight days and nights during which oil that should only have lasted one day and night actually burned, and the ninth to light those eight.
(Coincidentally, I never knew why I prefered the spelling Chanuka to the more often seen in the media Hannuka or even Hanukkah, but now that I know how chanukiot is spelled, I can see why I’ve stuck with Chanuka all these years. I’m also partial to the “ch” pronounced like you’re clearing your throat, rather than the bland “h.”)
My youngest son’s hebrew name is Mattitiyahu, which is a derivative of Mattathias – the father of Judah Maccabee, who led the Jews to victory over the Greeks who’d been forcing the Jews to abandon their traditions in exchange for Greek traditions and so this holiday gives me good nachas (that gutter “ch” again – not like nachos) because I think about the Hebrew connection of my children’s names.
After our french toast and prayers and candle-lighting, the present hunt began. I hid everything – and of course, I’d bought everything too (except for my gift from my husband).
Jeff got to search and find his new set of Martini glasses after unwrapping the house gifts I’d bought – a solid olivewood handpainted dreidel (the spinning top used as a game and decorated on each side with one of four Hebrew letters: Nun- nes or miracle, Gimel – gadol or great, Hay – hiyah or happened and Shin – sham or there) and a songbook of Chanuka music (kids and Jeff play piano). (Not to digress yet again, but that saying on the dreidel – a great miracle happened, is Nes Gadol Hiya PO in Israel because Po means “here” and that’s where the miracle happened, but I can’t recall if the dreidels in Israel actually have Po on it.)
Then I easily detected a large gift bag under the dining room table and pulled out a beautiful wool cardigan sweater (the better to write in the cold basement, my dear).
Last, our three Maccabees bounded up the stairs to their rooms and found one piece each to a family gift: Gamecube. Unbelievable that the Zimon family of Ohio, which owns just one television and no iPod (yet), has joined the fold. But, after weighing the pros and cons, talking to numerous other parents and taking out extra mental health coverage to deal with how to parent kids with affinities for gaming, it’s a done deal.
On the other hand, what would you, as a parent, do to hear your daughter say, “It’s a dream come true!”
I cannot recall ever saying that to anyone about anything in my life. I hope my daughter remembers that she said it, because her birthday is in three weeks and she won’t be getting any Gamecube caliber items from us.
One night down, seven to go.
Chappy Chanuka ya’ll.
By Jill Miller Zimon at 10:06 pm December 25th, 2005 in Politics | 3 Comments
Print This Post
Dec
25
A Very Zimon Chanuka
Filed Under Politics | Comments Off
Looks like we could use another batch of sugar cookies.
Three chanukiot on the first night of Chanuka. The candle standing alone, either higher or in front of the others, is called the shamash and lights the other candles. We place the candles in the candelabra from right to left, adding one each night. But when we light them, we light them from left to right
Break open your piggy banks, kids! Mom’s gotta win back the money she spent on your presents.
By Jill Miller Zimon at 8:19 pm December 25th, 2005 in Politics | Comments Off
Print This Post
Dec
25
O Chanuka O Chanuka, come light the Menorah
Filed Under Politics | Comments Off
The festival of lights began this evening and finally, after twelve years of celebrating Chanuka with my kids, everyone was happy with their presents – Mom and Dad included.
We began the holiday after a not so traditional supper of souped up french toast and fruit. We were supposed to have latkes, blintzes, bagels and matzo ball soup but The Chronicles of Narnia ended later than we expected. Nevertheless, I made a few special adjustments to the preparation and presentation. Given my kids’ eagerness to get to the main event – present opening – I probably didn’t need to even cook the food. Still, raw eggs dripping on soggy bread…nah.
After my husband lit our three chanukiot, we sang the three prayers intended for the holiday. I tried to find new chanukiot for our children – tradition says that each child should have his or her own – but we used the three we own already: one that my husband and I received as a present from my in-laws, one from my husband’s Grandma Flora, and another one that we received as a gift. My husband polished them earlier and their silver and gold stems glistened in the flames, dining room lights out and tinfoil underneath.
Chanuka candles are made to burn for about 20 minutes. Many Jews use Chanukiot that use oil and in Israel, most memorably for me in Jerusalem, these candelabras are placed either literally on the outside of the house or prominently displayed in windows and doorways. I have a cassette tape I made and sent to friends in the states from when I lived in Israel and recorded this sight as I walked down alley after alley in different Jerusalem neighborhoods during Chanuka. I hope to dig it out and, if I can handle it, listen to what I said 21 years ago about the holiday in that city.
Although many people refer to the candleabra as a menorah, it’s actually a “Chanukiah, ” special for Chanuka (chanukiot is the plural). A menorah, representative of what was used in the temples, holds seven candles. A Chanukiah holds nine – eight to represent the eight days and nights during which oil that should only have lasted one day and night actually burned, and the ninth to light those eight.
(Coincidentally, I never knew why I prefered the spelling Chanuka to the more often seen in the media Hannuka or even Hanukkah, but now that I know how chanukiot is spelled, I can see why I’ve stuck with Chanuka all these years. I’m also partial to the “ch” pronounced like you’re clearing your throat, rather than the bland “h.”)
My youngest son’s hebrew name is Mattitiyahu, which is a derivative of Mattathias – the father of Judah Maccabee, who led the Jews to victory over the Greeks who’d been forcing the Jews to abandon their traditions in exchange for Greek traditions and so this holiday gives me good nachas (that gutter “ch” again – not like nachos) because I think about the Hebrew connection of my children’s names.
After our french toast and prayers and candle-lighting, the present hunt began. I hid everything – and of course, I’d bought everything too (except for my gift from my husband).
Jeff got to search and find his new set of Martini glasses after unwrapping the house gifts I’d bought – a solid olivewood handpainted dreidel (the spinning top used as a game and decorated on each side with one of four Hebrew letters: Nun- nes or miracle, Gimel – gadol or great, Hay – hiyah or happened and Shin – sham or there) and a songbook of Chanuka music (kids and Jeff play piano). (Not to digress yet again, but that saying on the dreidel – a great miracle happened, is Nes Gadol Hiya PO in Israel because Po means “here” and that’s where the miracle happened, but I can’t recall if the dreidels in Israel actually have Po on it.)
Then I easily detected a large gift bag under the dining room table and pulled out a beautiful wool cardigan sweater (the better to write in the cold basement, my dear).
Last, our three Maccabees bounded up the stairs to their rooms and found one piece each to a family gift: Gamecube. Unbelievable that the Zimon family of Ohio, which owns just one television and no iPod (yet), has joined the fold. But, after weighing the pros and cons, talking to numerous other parents and taking out extra mental health coverage to deal with how to parent kids with affinities for gaming, it’s a done deal.
On the other hand, what would you, as a parent, do to hear your daughter say, “It’s a dream come true!”
I cannot recall ever saying that to anyone about anything in my life. I hope my daughter remembers that she said it, because her birthday is in three weeks and she won’t be getting any Gamecube caliber items from us.
One night down, seven to go.
Chappy Chanuka ya’ll.
By Jill Miller Zimon at 7:06 pm December 25th, 2005 in Politics | Comments Off
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Dec
25
A Caprio Christmas (Part IVc, What do Jews do)
Filed Under Politics | 2 Comments
Read Part IVb here and IVa here, Part III here and here, Part II here, and Part I here and here and here.
No one cooks lasagna like Mrs. Caprio.
I’ve known this woman for 37 years and I still call her Mrs. Caprio. And her husband, I still call Mr. Caprio. Everything about their home and family looked different from mine when I was growing up, but everything about their hearts and sentiments has always said that we’re far more alike than different.
My memories of Mrs. Caprio from childhood differ from how she is today. She no longer keeps the plastic on the floor surfaces or the living room furniture. She displays an ease around her grandchildren that I don’t recall from the hours I spent in her home playing with her middle daughter and my childhood best friend, Linda, or watching television at their home. When I think of her now, I see her smile and hear her laugh.
But when I was a child, the predictability of rules and orderliness in the Caprio home contrasted sharply with how life proceeded in my home. Not that we didn’t have rules or order, but chaos reigned in my home during much of my childhood – what felt like chaos, in comparison, to me.
Linda and I attached to one another immediately upon entering Kindergarten. The tightness of our friendship induced teachers to place us in separate classrooms every other year, because together, we caused too much distraction. So we were together in Kindergarten, Second, Fourth and then, in Fifth grade, when we had three teachers instead of one, we were in the “White” group.
(In 1972, schools actively “tracked” kids and the White group led the Blue and the Red – though I don’t recall the rank order between Blue and Red. What strikes me now, in writing about this, in a way I’ve never thought of when just talking about it, is that there were no African-American kids in our neighborhood or our school, so being called the White group didn’t stick out as odd to me then. But now, as I write it and see it in print, I think, Oh My God, that’s awful. How could they call us the WHITE group? It almost seems arrogant and in 2005, would never be acceptable, and not just because tracking fell into disfavor years ago.)
Linda and I shared every childhood milestone two girls could accumulate. We played Lost in Space instead of “house,” we swooned over David Cassidy, we walked to and from school everyday. We had fights over whose street address made a better rhyme (hers did – Fifty-Five Beatrice Drive. Mine didn’t rhyme at all – Seventy Beatrice Drive. But I had to fight anyway.) We sang in choir, took ballet lessons with Mrs. Grande (how perfect a name is that for a ballet teacher) and attempted to be Brownies (she lasted longer than me). We adopted each others last names as our middle names – Linda Geralyn Miller Caprio, and Jill Amy Caprio Miller.
We even chased after the same boy in fifth grade, Marty Russo. He drew cartoons and gave us each an enormous poster-size drawing of Tweety Bird. I had a crush on him, and never realized that, in our very distinctly ethnic neighborhood (primarily Italian) the only possible dance dates for me would come from the handful of Jewish-named boys in a middle school of several hundred students. (This reality contributed to my parents decision that we should move.)
I don’t know when Linda and her family began to welcome me into their home on Christmas and Easter, but I know it started early. Linda’s dad set up the tree and I was invited over to help decorate. Squeaky, the three or four foot tall, stuffed, Stay Puft velour snowman, came out of hiding just around or after Thanksgiving. Frontlawn displays of elves and maybe even a manger graced their front yard.
And then I’d be invited over for the Christmas Day supper.
The Caprios served this meal at midday, around 1 or so. But in my house, we never had supper. We had breakfast, lunch and dinner. Interestingly, the three meals for the day of Shabbat – from Friday sundown to Saturday sundown – occur in time much in line with a midday supper. But since I was raised as a Reform Jew in a family that didn’t do much to observe the Sabbath, I never realized until I lived in Israel in my early 20s that the Caprio’s holiday and even Sunday meal schedule was so close to that of many Jews.
Calling this feast a meal insults Mr. and Mrs. Caprio’s presentation and hospitality. And, although I can’t remember all the specific courses of food, I know that few if any of them resembled anything I ate in my house. And everyone had a little bit of everything; no one scooped out too large portions.
But the piece de resistance at the Caprios wasn’t – and still isn’t – any of Mrs. Caprio’s authentic Italian cooking steeped in years of being made. Rather, the centerpiece of this meal comes from Mr. Caprio, who worked as a meatcutter his whole life until retirement at Foremost Foods. A prime rib so succulent that my husband – a man who substitutes for our synagogue’s cantor and is teaching our son his Bar Mitzvah portion – fantasizes about going back to Connecticut at Christmas just so we can go to the Caprios to eat that meat.
And so, when I read about the pressure to assimilate the holiday of Chanuka with Christmas that some Jews describe, I can’t relate. In fact, I attribute my sense of religious security to my experiences with the Caprios over the last four decades. They set the tone for me – of inviting me in, letting me partake, and never, ever suggesting that my presence was anything more than enjoying other people’s joy, and having some of my own too as I participated with them. No threat. Just exultation in one’s religious observances. That the observance was Christmas never bothered me, and they never impressed that upon me. It was always about the happiness, the fun, the being together.
What do Jews do on Christmas? I can only speak for myself: I wish people who celebrate it a Merry Christmas. And everyone else, a very peaceful day, while I enjoy my family in our way.
By Jill Miller Zimon at 1:18 pm December 25th, 2005 in Politics | 2 Comments
Print This Post
Dec
25
Read Part IVb here and IVa here, Part III here and here, Part II here, and Part I here and here and here.
No one cooks lasagna like Mrs. Caprio.
I’ve known this woman for 37 years and I still call her Mrs. Caprio. And her husband, I still call Mr. Caprio. Everything about their home and family looked different from mine when I was growing up, but everything about their hearts and sentiments has always said that we’re far more alike than different.
My memories of Mrs. Caprio from childhood differ from how she is today. She no longer keeps the plastic on the floor surfaces or the living room furniture. She displays an ease around her grandchildren that I don’t recall from the hours I spent in her home playing with her middle daughter and my childhood best friend, Linda, or watching television at their home. When I think of her now, I see her smile and hear her laugh.
But when I was a child, the predictability of rules and orderliness in the Caprio home contrasted sharply with how life proceeded in my home. Not that we didn’t have rules or order, but chaos reigned in my home during much of my childhood – what felt like chaos, in comparison, to me.
Linda and I attached to one another immediately upon entering Kindergarten. The tightness of our friendship induced teachers to place us in separate classrooms every other year, because together, we caused too much distraction. So we were together in Kindergarten, Second, Fourth and then, in Fifth grade, when we had three teachers instead of one, we were in the “White” group.
(In 1972, schools actively “tracked” kids and the White group led the Blue and the Red – though I don’t recall the rank order between Blue and Red. What strikes me now, in writing about this, in a way I’ve never thought of when just talking about it, is that there were no African-American kids in our neighborhood or our school, so being called the White group didn’t stick out as odd to me then. But now, as I write it and see it in print, I think, Oh My God, that’s awful. How could they call us the WHITE group? It almost seems arrogant and in 2005, would never be acceptable, and not just because tracking fell into disfavor years ago.)
Linda and I shared every childhood milestone two girls could accumulate. We played Lost in Space instead of “house,” we swooned over David Cassidy, we walked to and from school everyday. We had fights over whose street address made a better rhyme (hers did – Fifty-Five Beatrice Drive. Mine didn’t rhyme at all – Seventy Beatrice Drive. But I had to fight anyway.) We sang in choir, took ballet lessons with Mrs. Grande (how perfect a name is that for a ballet teacher) and attempted to be Brownies (she lasted longer than me). We adopted each others last names as our middle names – Linda Geralyn Miller Caprio, and Jill Amy Caprio Miller.
We even chased after the same boy in fifth grade, Marty Russo. He drew cartoons and gave us each an enormous poster-size drawing of Tweety Bird. I had a crush on him, and never realized that, in our very distinctly ethnic neighborhood (primarily Italian) the only possible dance dates for me would come from the handful of Jewish-named boys in a middle school of several hundred students. (This reality contributed to my parents decision that we should move.)
I don’t know when Linda and her family began to welcome me into their home on Christmas and Easter, but I know it started early. Linda’s dad set up the tree and I was invited over to help decorate. Squeaky, the three or four foot tall, stuffed, Stay Puft velour snowman, came out of hiding just around or after Thanksgiving. Frontlawn displays of elves and maybe even a manger graced their front yard.
And then I’d be invited over for the Christmas Day supper.
The Caprios served this meal at midday, around 1 or so. But in my house, we never had supper. We had breakfast, lunch and dinner. Interestingly, the three meals for the day of Shabbat – from Friday sundown to Saturday sundown – occur in time much in line with a midday supper. But since I was raised as a Reform Jew in a family that didn’t do much to observe the Sabbath, I never realized until I lived in Israel in my early 20s that the Caprio’s holiday and even Sunday meal schedule was so close to that of many Jews.
Calling this feast a meal insults Mr. and Mrs. Caprio’s presentation and hospitality. And, although I can’t remember all the specific courses of food, I know that few if any of them resembled anything I ate in my house. And everyone had a little bit of everything; no one scooped out too large portions.
But the piece de resistance at the Caprios wasn’t – and still isn’t – any of Mrs. Caprio’s authentic Italian cooking steeped in years of being made. Rather, the centerpiece of this meal comes from Mr. Caprio, who worked as a meatcutter his whole life until retirement at Foremost Foods. A prime rib so succulent that my husband – a man who substitutes for our synagogue’s cantor and is teaching our son his Bar Mitzvah portion – fantasizes about going back to Connecticut at Christmas just so we can go to the Caprios to eat that meat.
And so, when I read about the pressure to assimilate the holiday of Chanuka with Christmas that some Jews describe, I can’t relate. In fact, I attribute my sense of religious security to my experiences with the Caprios over the last four decades. They set the tone for me – of inviting me in, letting me partake, and never, ever suggesting that my presence was anything more than enjoying other people’s joy, and having some of my own too as I participated with them. No threat. Just exultation in one’s religious observances. That the observance was Christmas never bothered me, and they never impressed that upon me. It was always about the happiness, the fun, the being together.
What do Jews do on Christmas? I can only speak for myself: I wish people who celebrate it a Merry Christmas. And everyone else, a very peaceful day, while I enjoy my family in our way.
By Jill Miller Zimon at 9:18 am December 25th, 2005 in Politics | 1 Comment
Print This Post
Dec
25
A Caprio Christmas (Part IVc, What do Jews do)
Filed Under Politics | Comments Off
Read Part IVb here and IVa here, Part III here and here, Part II here, and Part I here and here and here.
No one cooks lasagna like Mrs. Caprio.
I’ve known this woman for 37 years and I still call her Mrs. Caprio. And her husband, I still call Mr. Caprio. Everything about their home and family looked different from mine when I was growing up, but everything about their hearts and sentiments has always said that we’re far more alike than different.
My memories of Mrs. Caprio from childhood differ from how she is today. She no longer keeps the plastic on the floor surfaces or the living room furniture. She displays an ease around her grandchildren that I don’t recall from the hours I spent in her home playing with her middle daughter and my childhood best friend, Linda, or watching television at their home. When I think of her now, I see her smile and hear her laugh.
But when I was a child, the predictability of rules and orderliness in the Caprio home contrasted sharply with how life proceeded in my home. Not that we didn’t have rules or order, but chaos reigned in my home during much of my childhood – what felt like chaos, in comparison, to me.
Linda and I attached to one another immediately upon entering Kindergarten. The tightness of our friendship induced teachers to place us in separate classrooms every other year, because together, we caused too much distraction. So we were together in Kindergarten, Second, Fourth and then, in Fifth grade, when we had three teachers instead of one, we were in the “White” group.
(In 1972, schools actively “tracked” kids and the White group led the Blue and the Red – though I don’t recall the rank order between Blue and Red. What strikes me now, in writing about this, in a way I’ve never thought of when just talking about it, is that there were no African-American kids in our neighborhood or our school, so being called the White group didn’t stick out as odd to me then. But now, as I write it and see it in print, I think, Oh My God, that’s awful. How could they call us the WHITE group? It almost seems arrogant and in 2005, would never be acceptable, and not just because tracking fell into disfavor years ago.)
Linda and I shared every childhood milestone two girls could accumulate. We played Lost in Space instead of “house,” we swooned over David Cassidy, we walked to and from school everyday. We had fights over whose street address made a better rhyme (hers did – Fifty-Five Beatrice Drive. Mine didn’t rhyme at all – Seventy Beatrice Drive. But I had to fight anyway.) We sang in choir, took ballet lessons with Mrs. Grande (how perfect a name is that for a ballet teacher) and attempted to be Brownies (she lasted longer than me). We adopted each others last names as our middle names – Linda Geralyn Miller Caprio, and Jill Amy Caprio Miller.
We even chased after the same boy in fifth grade, Marty Russo. He drew cartoons and gave us each an enormous poster-size drawing of Tweety Bird. I had a crush on him, and never realized that, in our very distinctly ethnic neighborhood (primarily Italian) the only possible dance dates for me would come from the handful of Jewish-named boys in a middle school of several hundred students. (This reality contributed to my parents decision that we should move.)
I don’t know when Linda and her family began to welcome me into their home on Christmas and Easter, but I know it started early. Linda’s dad set up the tree and I was invited over to help decorate. Squeaky, the three or four foot tall, stuffed, Stay Puft velour snowman, came out of hiding just around or after Thanksgiving. Frontlawn displays of elves and maybe even a manger graced their front yard.
And then I’d be invited over for the Christmas Day supper.
The Caprios served this meal at midday, around 1 or so. But in my house, we never had supper. We had breakfast, lunch and dinner. Interestingly, the three meals for the day of Shabbat – from Friday sundown to Saturday sundown – occur in time much in line with a midday supper. But since I was raised as a Reform Jew in a family that didn’t do much to observe the Sabbath, I never realized until I lived in Israel in my early 20s that the Caprio’s holiday and even Sunday meal schedule was so close to that of many Jews.
Calling this feast a meal insults Mr. and Mrs. Caprio’s presentation and hospitality. And, although I can’t remember all the specific courses of food, I know that few if any of them resembled anything I ate in my house. And everyone had a little bit of everything; no one scooped out too large portions.
But the piece de resistance at the Caprios wasn’t – and still isn’t – any of Mrs. Caprio’s authentic Italian cooking steeped in years of being made. Rather, the centerpiece of this meal comes from Mr. Caprio, who worked as a meatcutter his whole life until retirement at Foremost Foods. A prime rib so succulent that my husband – a man who substitutes for our synagogue’s cantor and is teaching our son his Bar Mitzvah portion – fantasizes about going back to Connecticut at Christmas just so we can go to the Caprios to eat that meat.
And so, when I read about the pressure to assimilate the holiday of Chanuka with Christmas that some Jews describe, I can’t relate. In fact, I attribute my sense of religious security to my experiences with the Caprios over the last four decades. They set the tone for me – of inviting me in, letting me partake, and never, ever suggesting that my presence was anything more than enjoying other people’s joy, and having some of my own too as I participated with them. No threat. Just exultation in one’s religious observances. That the observance was Christmas never bothered me, and they never impressed that upon me. It was always about the happiness, the fun, the being together.
What do Jews do on Christmas? I can only speak for myself: I wish people who celebrate it a Merry Christmas. And everyone else, a very peaceful day, while I enjoy my family in our way.
By Jill Miller Zimon at 6:18 am December 25th, 2005 in Politics | Comments Off
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