There are deadlines, and then there are deadlines. I’m the Writer in Residence this month over at BrooklynTheBorough.com, and I was supposed to turn in my column Friday. How I feel about deadlines is best expressed in an email that my (other) editor (at Scholastic) just wrote me in the form of an epic poem beginning “O deadlines! How I hate thee” and spiraling from there.

But sometimes deadlines can be fun. Nicole, who runs BrooklynTheBorough, asked me to write “a piece just about being a Hasid in Brooklyn…you know, a slice-of-life sort of thing.” I know she wanted me to write about the conflict between Hasidic and hipster worlds, but I just couldn’t stomach it. (Sorry, Nicole.) It’s just that I live that way 24/7, and there really isn’t much of a conflict.

Some people go to yechidus for love or financial decisions. I go for fashion advice.

The broken deadline got me writing about everyday life in Hasid-land, which I don’t often do — mainly because I hate getting too garish or showy about it. I can write fiction, and I can write about what I think about things, but if I started getting blog ideas from walking down the street? Well, (a) I’d be here till tomorrow, but also (b) I’d feel like I’m faking it among my family-in-law and my friends even more than I already feel.

Even so, a deadline is a deadline. And so I wrote, and this is the pastiche that came out. I’m actually sort of proud of it.

The bar mitzvah was a totally crazy affair, as might be expected. In one way, Hasidic Jews are unfailingly, unflinchingly conservative. In another way, it’s an anything-goes scenario. The party started at 9 pm, an hour away from Brooklyn, which isn’t crazy until you remind yourself that the target audience is 11-to-14-year-old kids — and that these parties often go for four, five hours. The mechitza was in full force with a wall dividing men and women, which meant that I couldn’t even play arm-candy to my wife. Our cousin Shmop was there, who’s just about the nicest, most magnetic and fluid guy you could think of. He’s Orthodox but modern, clean-shaven and he wears a tie – both things that make him stand out in this crowd – but he’s got this lackadaisical, no-stick personality that makes him able to get along with anyone. Seamlessly. Five minutes after we hook up, he’s gliding through the crowd, shaking hands and kissing the hairy cheeks of every rabbi in the room, coasting straight to the women’s section as I struggle to keep up with him, dodging furry hats aimed at the level of my head as the crowd threatens to rip the umbilical cord by which I have attached myself to him.

Yeah: the women’s section.

Hasidic Jews are pretty strict about this stuff. And if you missed it right there, that’s the understatement of the century. Half of the family is pretty cool with these casual social interactions. The other half — well, there’s one Hasidic dynasty, of which many of this family are members, that has a custom of men and women eating in separate rooms. The mechitza is properly only for the dancing which will take place later that night, and so that men and women don’t sit at the same tables and, I don’t know, accidentally bump into each other or get into food fights or something, but when Shmop whizzes me across the floor to the other side, my anxiety squeezes a huge rubber band around my stomach and my eyes pop half out of my head. Not from looking at women. Possibly from watching Shmop’s overwhelming casualness. Mostly from the realization that, one way or another, I am probably about to be kicked out of the family, the social hall, or, possibly, Judaism.

Here. Read the whole thing on the BtB site.

I’m getting pretty tired. It must mean that Shabbat must be around the corner. Or I don’t go to bed until the wee hours of the night. And there is daylight savings time this week? Fantastic.

Kids don’t like to share (right? I actually have no idea. I haven’t seen a kid in years). Why not teach them the values of tzedakah from an early age. You don’t want them to turn out like me.

The best part of our new contest? You don’t actually have to do anything. Just tell us a story about your best seder ever. It’s already happened. If you have an awesome story, you’ve already one!

Finally, don’t just give your excess bread to the birds before Passover. Try some cool recipes that will help you rid your house of hametz.

Shabbat Shalom!

The cool thing about Google Maps isn’t that it gives us a chance to browse a map of pretty much anywhere the world, from downtown Jerusalem to the cool museum down the street from MJL that I’ve never been to.

True to form, the first (and, for a while, only) people to take advantage of the technology are geeks. A few months ago, Wired started a fan-generated map of Thomas Pynchon’s Los Angeles. My family, true geeks that we are, started a private map of our favourite day trips around Melbourne. But this is actually mainstreaming the technology (and actually making it helpful, in an academic/class projects/cool stuff to know sense): Our friends at the Jewish Women’s Archive have started an interactive, user-generated guide to physical landmarks in Jewish women’s history.

And, refreshingly, it’s not one of those old-world Jewish-nonprofit “innovation” ideas — you know, the kind where it’s one person’s property or where nobody else can see what’s going on. The entire thing is accessible on Google Maps and on JWA’s website. Using their online form, anyone can propose their own content to be added, making it a truly collaborative work. (I just added the Central Library in Brooklyn, where the last Lubavitcher Rebbetzin was known to spend much of her time.) (I hope it makes the cut!) The map is still in its infant stage; most of the locations are in North America (and most of those are near New York), but already Europe’s starting to be populated, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the Middle East and Northern Africa followed suit.

“Show respect to an old man who has forgotten his learning through no fault of his own, for we have learned that the fragments of the old tablets [of the Ten Commandments which Moses shattered] were kept alongside the new tablets in the Ark of the Covenant.”
–Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot 8b
Find more Wise Fridays wisdom on MJL.

Most of us go to the grocery store with a list of what we need for the coming few days or week. Some of us are better than others at sticking to that list, but if you have a list, you’re already thinking ahead to a certain extent, right?

Even if you’re not by nature a planner, I urge you to do some serious planning when it comes to Passover food. Think about what you’re really going to make every day, what you’ll probably have as leftovers, and what kinds of things you can keep around as snacks. Before you even think about shopping for the holiday, make as comprehensive of a list as you can. Then, when you go shopping, you won’t find yourself filling the cart with new and exciting (and, inevitably, disgusting) Passover products. Also consider that you want to be buying ingredients that you’ll either use up completely within a week, or that you’ll use regularly even if you haven’t finished it by the end of the holiday.

Here are some basics you’ll probably want to get, assuming you eat dairy:
Olive oil
Butter
Some various cheeses
Yogurt
Tomato sauce
Quinoa
Small boxes of matzah, matzah meal, cake meal
Milk
Sugar
Chocolate in some form
Eggs

Does that look like a short list? That’s because if you plan your week right (and assuming you’re not making your own seders) you can get through the week with those ingredients and a much more intensive trip to the produce section of your grocery store, or farmer’s market.

And here’s the real key to making your Passover successful from year to year: record what you bought, and how much you have left at the end of the holiday. Did you end up never opening that package of dried figs? Did you buy two boxes of matzah and only even opened one? Keep track of what you have left at the end of the holiday so that next year, you’ll know what you really used, and what was wasted.

Keep a notebook of recipes you used (though part of my Keep it Simple mantra means that outside of baking I rarely use recipes on Passover) and keep your shopping list and menu plans in it.

A little discipline in the grocery store, and some forethought means that when Passover arrives you wont’ have to spend hours in the kitchen slaving over elaborate meals and running back to the grocery story for more last minute potato starch. You might be able to go out and actually do some fun things, or just feel significantly less tied to your kitchen. Both of which are, I think, very much in the spirit of the Exodus.

Previously on Preparing for Passing: Keeping it Simple.

Bar Rafaeli is a beautiful, beautiful woman. She so beautiful that she was able to bag Leonardo DiCaprio (who my sources tell me is also quite beautiful). There are rumors, which supposedly are untrue, that the two are now engaged.

Whether or not this is true, it has angered a couple of Jews. Baruch Marzel, from an organization called Lehava, has written a letter to my girl Bar urging her to not marry DiCaprio. He says that he has nothing against DiCaprio, except for not being Jewish.

He writes, “Your grandmother and her grandmother did not dream that one of their descendants would one day remove the family’s future generations from the Jewish people.” OH SNAP SON! Hitting your points pretty hard Marzel.

I know what your thinking. You can just write a letter to Bar Rafaeli and she will read it? Why didn’t I know this sooner? I better get on this.

Dear Ms. Rafaeli,

I hear you are getting pretty serious with Leo. Congrats. He seems like a pretty good guy. Never mind the fact that he smokes. Oh, and he’s…actually I can’t think of anything else that is wrong with him. BUT EVERYONE HAS THEIR DEMONS. I will find something else.

I’m just thinking, before you step into such a big commitment, have you really weighed all your options? Sure, the glitz and glamor of Hollywood can be appealing. But have you looked into the world of Jewish culture blogs? We know how to party. Plus, I don’t smoke.

Just think about. That’s all I’m saying.

I’ll see you in my dreams Bar.

In her last posts, Goldie Goldbloom wrote about why she’s totally going to be excommunicated and about her cute, old stalker.

In order to research an obscure (but true) massacre which is part of my novel Toads’ Museum of Freaks and Wonders, I travelled to that part of Italy where massively heavy marble trucks roll down single lane mountain roads that look more like landslides. It’s a beautiful region. Next time, however, I want a donkey. And a parachute:

In part one, she rents a small Fiat that comes ready equipped with an overflowing ashtray, a GPS unit (more on this later) and a pair of sandy bikini bottoms on the passenger seat. “Mine!” giggles the booking agent, snatching them off the seat and wiggling her butt in a way that contrives to be both sexy and slimming.

In part two, the author attempts to drive the Fiat up rock face that has been described erroneously as the road to her accommodations in a gorgeous but fairly inaccessible medieval village. She has read the directions which state that even thought the road looks impossible, if you keep your foot on the accelerator, you will eventually get there or die in the attempt. Halfway up, the engine burns out and the Fiat begins to gracefully roll backwards towards the non-existent safety rail. It’s beginning to look more like the die in the attempt version.

In part three, the Fiat’s GPS unit tells her (once the engine has been replaced or whatever it is that is done with burned-out engines) to drive through a concrete mixer. And through a terracotta studio. And up an insanely steep mountain and into some farmer’s chicken hutch. All in the vain hunt for a bottle of Coke. Because, you know, Coke is life, and I’m needing some at this point. Life, that is.

In part four, the GPS unit is dubbed the Navigation Bitch, because of the way she shrieks “No! No! No! You utter moron! You’ve gone way too far! What are you, some kind of idiot Australian for attempting to drive on Italian roads or what???”

In part five, the author attempts, yet again, to drive up the road to her accommodations. She notes, appreciatively, how someone has thoughtfully bent out the ten inch guard rail in the place where the road isn’t actually as wide as her car, so that there will be someplace for the tires to go when she turns the corner at that stone house that has already gouged the side of the rental car (before she figured out that the road isn’t as wide as the car…). She reminds herself not to look down on the guard rail side, because she’s afraid of heights, and she reminds herself to keep her foot on the accelerator, because the hill is very steep, but not give it too much gas, because if she presses too hard, the engine will burn out and she and the Fiat will, in fact, roll backwards and fall gracefully down that steep chasm that she isn’t looking at right now.

In part six, the author decides to drive up to Sant’Anna, location of the massacre in Toads’ Museum of Freaks and Wonders, but gives the driving over to her friend, who is an expert driver. The friend, however, freaks out halfway up the mountain, gets out of the car and sits by the side of the road and says that she is not going any further because it’s too bloody dangerous and she hopes to see me in a couple of hours but isn’t counting on it. The Fiat, courteously, begins to roll backwards, as the handbrake wasn’t quite up to the job.

In part seven, the author hires an interpreter to go with her the next day and lets the interpreter drive. As she is local, the interpreter spends a large amount of time pointing out spots where her friends have fallen off the mountain in their cars. She also screams at the drivers of marble trucks and big buses until they back up and let her go first. She knows all the best swear words and uses them frequently.

In part eight, the author decides to drive on flat coastal roads, just to steady her nerves for a little while. When she pulls out to pass a grandma, a fast Italian sports car appears on the horizon and in seconds is an inch from her bumper, beeping and flashing his lights. When the author still continues to pass the grandma, the fast car gently bumps her car in the rear bumper. They are driving at about 100 miles an hour. When she mentions this incident at an AutoGrilli, the attendant smiles and says “Lady, that lane called the spatula lane, ’cause they need spatula to pick you up off the road if you stay in there and drive slow.”

In part nine, the Coke must be helping, because I am still alive.

Goldie Goldbloom’s new novel, Toads’ Museum of Freaks and Wonders, is now available. She has been blogging all week for the Jewish Book Council andMyJewishLearning.

What’s your favorite unkosher food? Bacon? Ham? Lobster looks very appetizing. But none of those compare to my favorite.

Lox and bagels.

What you talkin’ about Jeremy? Lox is unkosher? Well, according to the Chevra Mehadrin, a group of rabbis in Monsey, NY, it is. They claim that smoked salmon contains a parasitic worm, and therefore cannot be eaten in clean conscience by a kosher-law abiding Jew.

Many of you might dispute these rabbis claims. After all, no one is forcing you to eat anything you don’t want to eat. But there is a much larger, and real issue at hand.

If you are a long time reader of Mixed Multitudes, you will remember the Jewish Food Tourney that I held in back in early 2009. Back then, lox was kosher. So, naturally I ranked it #2. It lost in a classic Final Four match against the eventual champion, challah.

But now, it just seems like the whole tournament has been tainted. This is, at least in my head, just as big as the Black Sox scandal.

I apologize to the sport of fake tournaments. I’ve ashamed my family. You can call me Joe Jackson from now on.

UPDATE: According to LoHud.com, the Chevra Mehadrin has denied to ever have made this claim. I take back my apology. I am innocent!

Passover is coming! And a huuge bucket of matzah could be coming your way, too…if you enter our Best Seder Ever contest.

Thinking about the festive Passover meal has the MJL staff in an introspective mood. (Cue the Loretta Lynn soundtrack, and the black-and-white slide reel.) Senior editor Shoshanna Lockshin had some seder memories of her own. She’s not eligible to win, of course. But we wanted to share them with you anyway:

Kishinev is famous for its 1903 pogrom. Moldova is famous for being the poorest country in Europe. Passover in Kishinev, Moldova turned out to be mighty depressing.

At 2:00 A.M., after attempting to lead a seder in a language we didn’t speak, for people who didn’t seem to care what we had to say, my friend and I made our own “real” seder. We sat on the floor of our hotel room, read our haggadot, and ate pickles from a can. They were our karpas, our maror, and our main course.

On the second night, we were joined by a young man from our delegation. He had never been to a “traditional” seder, and was curious what we would do. We put on a good show–singing our familiar Passover songs, sharing words of Torah, and crying about being so far from home. No need for salt water to represent the Israelites’ tears!

After a few years of unanswered phone calls and emails, that young man and I now sit together at seder again. This year, we’ll be joined by our two sets of parents and our baby daughter. We may not have known it, but sparks were flying in that dark, pickle-smelling room in Kishinev’s Hotel Dacia.

What’s your best seder ever? Check out our contest entry page, and let us know.

Last night the Jewish Book Council hosted their annual National Jewish Book Awards, and they were kind enough to invite me. I wasn’t a famous author or a famous book-buyer, but they let me in anyway.

At first my (a) shyness and (b) authory anti-social tendencies and (c) not knowing anybody-ness got the best of me. There was a (parenthetically: really fascinating) exhibit about Thomas Mann and German publishing, and the reception was mostly being held in one room (”mostly” meaning that the drinks table was in there, and therefore, so were all the guests) but spilled over into a second room that was ideal retreating space. I gave it an honorable go, checking out people’s name tags to see if I recognized anyone. The first I spied was Alicia Susskin Ostriker, whose book of poetry >The Book of Seventy I’d read last week, but what would I say? I always appreciate when people tell me that, but then there’s the deadening lack of conversation that’s like, where do we go from here?

Rabbi Joseph Telushkin whizzed by. I worked with him last year on a G-dcast episode, but he was moving too fast to interrupt, although I made a mad dash of it. So I retreated to the exhibit, where I made small talk with two gentlemen who spoke about Thomas Mann like they went to grade school with him, that familiar. After spending about five minutes (that’s long, in the context of a conversation, anyway) trying to explain what my book was about, and failing, I threw the question back at him: “So what do you do?” “Oh,” he replied offhandedly, “I’m an acquisitions editor.” He smirked. And my stomach hit the ground.

I’d kind of composed myself by the time dinner began. I saw Rabbi Telushkin again, and actually spoke to him. Randomly, he asked me where I lived. “Crown Heights,” I told him, to which he raised an eyebrow — he’s working on a book about Lubavitch. He started to grill me about my Chabad connections (I’m not, my wife is, her family is about as Lubavitch as the town of Lubavitch), and, the way that these things go, he used to live with my grandparents-in-law and wrote a book in their house.

The M.C. for the evening came on mic and called for everyone to take their seats. Rabbi Telushkin, who was in the middle of a sentence — he speaks in these long, fluid paragraphs, each like a train with a hundred cars — ignored him. Then the M.C. said something about a “welcoming word from Rabbi Joseph Telushkin” and I broke him off, don’t you have to go? He shrugged and did something with his hands. Carolyn Hessel, who’s the director of the Jewish Book Council and maybe the most important person ever to hold a book in her hands, gave a much-too-polite word. The rabbi grinned at me. I scattered.

Remember how I thought I wouldn’t know what to say to someone whose book I read? I slid into an empty seat at the table. There was one person I knew, a sometimes-editor of mine, and one person I knew but didn’t realise I knew, since we had one of those email-only correspondences (a writing/editing one, not a sketchy Internet one) — and then there was the person whose seat I slid next to, who was Dalia Sofer. Who might have written one of the best books I’ve ever read. Who is probably as close to a rock star as the literary world can offer. Who was introduced to me, and whom, upon meeting, I shrunk about 25 or 30 percent and told, in as natural and un-awkward a voice as I could muster (it was still incredibly awkward and incredibly unnatural) that, geez, The Septembers of Shiraz was pretty technically proficient. Or something. Graciously, she talked to me until I’d un-awkward-ized. And it was simply really cool, in the middle of a room where I was surrounded by people with amazing ideas, to have a straight-up conversation about writing that was pretense-free and unencumbered by all our fancy clothes (my invitation said “casual,” I dressed casual-but-formalish, and I was still underdressed) and the weight of all the grandness and potential in that room, to just talk about how hard it still is to get your ideas onto paper.

I could tell you more about the food, or the people, or the books. I wish I could tell you more about the awards ceremony — the speeches people made, and how incredible it was to take an arbitrary topic, like landlords in mid-20th century Chicago, and listen as an author gripped the microphone and talked about how it was her father’s passion and she never understood what it was all about until she researched this 400-page book about it. For someone like me, to whom reading anything but novels (stories, action, making up stuff) is hard, if not impossible, the night was nearly revolutionary. And it gave me a reading list that should take me straight up till a year from now…right in time for next year’s ceremony.