I would have to say that one of the most annoying things about having a newspaper advice column, aside from all these people writing to me and asking for advice, is that they frequently don’t tell me WHY they’re asking.
It's hard to believe that June is finally here, but one look through the day's mail is enough to convince me that the school year is almost over and summer will be here before I blink. What makes me say that? The plethora of large cream envelopes, addressed in calligraphic letters, bearing stamps with pictures of creamy white roses.
Welcome back to “You’re Asking Me?” where we attempt to answer questions sent in by people who fortunately have fake names, so they won’t be embarrassed. I don’t know how they got through school, though.
Not too many Jewish World War II survivors from Germany can say that they had the distinction of being both interned in a concentration camp and liberating the captives in that same camp. Erwin Weinberg did just that.
The date May 4th, 1945 will forever be etched in their memories, and now it will be forever etched in ours. That fateful day toward the end of World War II was the day that American soldiers liberated Gunskirchen Lager, a subcamp of the Mauthausen concentration camp in Austria.
Welcome back to “You’re Asking Me?” where we delve into questions sent in by readers. We might as well. It’s not like we can listen to music.
I stare, and I stare, trying to connect to those deep, seeing, eyes, to the wisdom and depth within that face. And all I can think, murmurs sliding in a circle through my mind - is, hadras panim... hadras panim... hadras panim...
While Pesach cleaning, I found a whole bunch of questions that were sent in at some point that I somehow haven’t gotten to. So I’m going to address them now, in the hopes that doing so will get me out of Pesach cleaning.
Recently I had the opportunity to spend some times with Bernard (Bernie) Walz and get a glimpse of his war experiences.
I get a lot of questions around Purim, and I don’t always have a chance to answer them all. So let’s get started:
Artisan gefilte fish. For some, the phrase seems like an oxymoron. While salmon, chilean sea bass and tilapia may all be in vogue, gefilte fish, the traditional ground fish mixture that is de rigueur in Ashkenazic Jewish households at Shabbos and Yom Tov meals, is like the Henny Youngman of fish: it gets no respect.
You know what I noticed since I started writing this column? That people don’t write in to ask questions so much as they write in to complain.
The blade of the penknife sliced cleanly into my thumb and a thin stream of crimson blood appeared immediately, getting thicker by the second. I dropped the penknife onto my lap and reached for the green hem of my school skirt. I pressed it tightly against my thumb. Only then did I glance up at Sister Giovanna who was standing, as usual, slightly to the right of the black board. I raised my hand and hoped that she would call on me soon.
On the twenty-fifth day of the month of Kislev, over twenty-one hundred years ago, the Temple in Jerusalem was rededicated after it was wrenched from the hands of the defiling Greeks. Thus ended a war no one planned or even dreamed could happen.
Welcome to “You’re Asking Me?” the column where people are basically saying, “This guy doesn’t know me at all. Let me ask him for advice.”
I found these sleek looking shot glasses in a number of stores. Lined up neatly, they can create simple, yet striking (and certainly sweet) centerpieces for your Chanukah parties. Here is one colorful suggestion. (Tip: When purchasing the shot glasses, stick with something simple. The simpler the glass, the more dramatic the projects will look)
I am writing this column as Hurricane Sandy is barreling through the greater New York area, after having sorted a load of clean laundry by the light of a group of yahrtzeit candles and having washed my supper dishes with the aid of a clip on barbeque lamp. My electricity went out almost four hours ago and thoughts of what I did right and what I did wrong in preparation for a one of a kind storm that ironically, bears my name are still fresh in my mind.
Chaos - that is how the world is described at its inception in the book of Beraishis (Genesis). Confusion. A lack of clarity and boundaries. Or, as I teach my kindergartners, "a mishmash".
A rose that I picked from our garden to enhance the beauty of our sukkah is so exquisite that visitors remarked that they didn’t realize it was “real” until they noticed the water in the vase.
I quit my full-time job eight months ago without another one to fall back on. In hindsight, it wasn’t one of my better decisions, but it was time for me to move forward. I was in a position that never quite suited me – like an ill-fitting pair of shoes that’s one size too small and rubs across the toes. Sure, a nagging thought called a recession cropped up from time-to-time before I resigned, but I was confident I would only be on the market for a few weeks, max. Armed with a new LinkedIn profile and a heaping dose of faith, I bid farewell to my boss and colleagues of six years to embark on my new journey.