"Another day another dinar," sighed Esther as she prepared her daily infusion of Turkish coffee before leaving for her job as an assistant editor at her Uncle Mordy's business, Megillah Publishing.
I'm not quite ready yet to shut the door on Purim. Perhaps it's my way of avoiding dealing with Pesach, and the physical and emotional effort that comes with it.
Rosh Chodesh Kislev marks the 10th yahrzeit of my father, Chaim ben Aaron-Yosef Hakohen. Lately, whenever I think of him, the image that pops into my mind is of him sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of "grishek." I think we would call it porridge - although that term seems to be outdated these days.
The fact that you are reading this article can only mean that the gut-churning, frantic, multi-tasking marathon known as getting ready for Pesach is behind you;
Walking along a Brooklyn street recently, I saw a scene that could very well be used in a dictionary to explain the word nachas.
It's erev Pesach, the house is sparkling, the chicken soup is cooking, the potatoes have been peeled (20 pounds worth) and the guests are on their way.
Young children observe and absorb even the tiniest details of their parents behaviors.
Every choice comes with potentially life damaging risks.
Looking at the story, one could argue that Mordechai was somewhat responsible for what happened and it was only through Esther’s heroic sacrifice that the Jews were saved.
Times have changed and divorced people have sadly gone from being singularities to almost a sub-community.
A recent article in The Jewish Press (Purim And The Tyranny of Beauty, Family Issues, March 16, 2012) written by writer and author Yitta Halberstam Mandelbaum generated, and continues to generate, quite a buzz.
In cyberspace, the virtual sky's the limit in the game of one-upmanship.
Divorce from a vindictive, cruel spouse can be a lifelong nightmare when there are offspring.
A young lady in her early 20’s, “Sarah” was redt to “Shlomie” a boy from her home town who learned in an out-of-town yeshiva. The families know each other well, which in today’s shidduch scene is a big plus – since it was therefore unlikely the kids would “fall in” due to misinformation and misinterpretations.
Make no mistake: in the wrong hands cars are weapons of mass destruction.
We all know them - the sad sacks who seemingly were born under a bad constellation.
Several weeks ago, there was back and forth "dialogue" in the editorial pages of the Jewish Press concerning the very subjective view as to who is the more "authentic" Jew amongst the various segments of the Orthodox community.
As Jewish festivals go, Chanukah is one of our favorites – it is quite “user-friendly.” We get a rare green light to travel and cook with no restrictions. We can drive back and forth (no need for our hosts to find sleeping accommodations) and feast with family and friends as we gleefully celebrate the miracle of a rag-tag band of heroes beating the odds. We rejoice over the improbable reality that a few overcame the many; of a bit of burning oil lasting way beyond its “shelf-life.”
Dear Readers, Charity should not just be about putting money in a pushkaor writing a check. I strongly feel that taking the initiative and offering positive and comforting words, which will in some measure alleviatie another person's pain or burden, should count as tzedakahas well. As we approach Tisha B'Av, followed by Shabbat Nachamu, we should take the lesson of the collective need for ahavat Yisrael that we are so painfully aware of.
With the Three Weeks and its social restrictions as they pertain to simchas behind us, heimishe Yidden everywhere are "dusting off" their party clothes, taking their jewelry out of the safe and getting ready to attend a multitude of weddings - with some people invited out on an almost daily basis.
It seems that whenever there is a tragedy in the heimishe olam, almost always the horrific, premature loss of life due to a car crash, a drowning, a freak accident or mindless violence/terrorism, it immediately is followed by a chorus of anguished voices screaming out the need to do teshuva.
In my previous column I wrote about an ehrlich young man (who does not live in New York) who was a college educated earner with an excellent income (his wife won't have to work if she so chooses) who learned in his spare time but was having a hard time getting an in-town shidduch because most of the girls wanted full-time learners.
Years ago, when I was in college, I took an undergraduate course in law. I don't remember much of what I learned, but the concept of criminal negligence has stuck in my mind.
Being positive and upbeat is a valuable weapon in the battle to stay healthy.
At this moment, in cities, towns and neighborhoods across the country, someone's mother, child, friend, or spouse glances impatiently at the clock, only to have flashes of mild annoyance chill into icy pricks of worry and fear.
Boaz obviously finds it necessary to reassure Rut that no one will hassle or bully her while she is gleaning wheat, and twice he admonishes his field hands not to rebuke or shame her and make her feel threatened in any way.
Perhaps the one characteristic that unites people of all nationalities, cultures and creeds is a fascination with weather, especially bad weather.
He stood his ground despite the intense pressure to do what everyone else was doing. His integrity was more important to him than "fitting in."
Having been raised in a home where Yiddish was spoken as often as English, I can say with some confidence that I understand mamaloshen quite well. But I have to admit that the first time a friend, "Chaya" in a tentative, hushed voice, stated that a mutual acquaintance had "yene machlah," I was confused. I knew that she unfortunately had cancer, so why was "Chaya" saying in Yiddish, THAT illness? Why the reluctance to use the actual medical term for the disease. Why not just say it - like when someone has a stroke or a heart attack.
"In every generation they try to kill us, and the Holy One, Blessed Be He, rescues us from their hands." Every year, for centuries, Jews the world over say these words at the Seder. I paid particular attention this year as this phrase was sung by the golden-voiced Dudu Fisher, a chazzan and Broadway star, who led sedarim at Kutcher's Hotel in the Catskill Mountains.