Tag Archives: Hanukkah

What this Jew does on Hanukkah

December 26th 2013

My author friend, Kate Moretti, asked if I was going to write a post about my Hanukkah traditions. And even though Hanukkah has been over for a month, I figured, why not. But be prepared. Apparently, I got a lot to say.

When I was a kid, Hanukkah was a magical time. It was the only time of year, other than your birthday, where you got presents. (*calling out to my kids* Do you hear that kids? You got presents only twice a year!) And not just a present. But 8 friggin presents! My grandparents would ask for a gift list in early October, which always crazy early to my kidself. I didn’t know what I wanted for Hanukkah in October! The Toys R Us catalog wasn’t out that early. On the other hand, my mom wouldn’t ask for a list until late November, early December. (By the way, things haven’t changed much with my kids.)

At some point, my mom (never my dad; and guess what? Things haven’t changed much. He’s as surprised at the gifts as my kids) would wrap all the presents (mine and my brother’s) and stack them all the way on top of my dad’s armoire. My brother and I would sit on my parents’ bed and stare at the gifts, trying to figure out what they were. Was that Justin’s Ninja Turtle? Was that my barbie? (Best thing for my parents about not having to worry about Santa, is they could hide the gifts in plain sight.) And then for each night, my mom would ask me if I wanted a big gift, medium gift, or small gift. Did I want to get my big present right away or wait and savor it? I think I always went big on the first night.

Usually, on the first night, my mom would make matzoh ball soup and latkes. Then my dad would drive us kids around the neighborhood so we could see the Christmas lights (there was one house a few blocks away that was ah-mazing) and count the menorahs in the windows. (I always say that we were made Jewish for a reason. Because if my father had to hang Christmas lights, his OCD would kick into overdrive.) We’d come home and light the menorah before opening gifts. Then on the weekend, my grandparents would visit and we would open all the presents they brought us. My grandma would make brisket and matzoh ball soup. (It’s so good, we’d have it all week).

Coming from Queens, there was familiarity and comfort in seeing other Jews living in the area. Of course, my hometown in Central Jersey was a mecca for displaced New Yorkers. My junior-year English class was easily 50% Jewish (I counted once). So, we never felt like outsiders for being a different religion. In fact, I didn’t feel like the odd-girl out until I went to college (in-state, mind you) and was one of only two Jewish students on my floor and met other Jersey kids who had never met a Jewish person before! And don’t even get me started on the time, my mom and I went to Denver for a bar mitzvah. The hotel shuttle driver, who was a nice guy, spoke to my mom and I for 20 minutes about how he once had a Jewish boss. (We were apparently the second and third Jewish people the man had ever met!) Anyway, I digress….

Now that I have kids, I’m trying to establish our own Hanukkah traditions. Although, I am not a religious person, I want my kids to appreciate their Jewish heritage. So a lot of what we do is cultural, not Godly. I have a large collection of menorahs, but I only light one. (It’s a bicycle menorah, if you’re curious). The rest are on display. I make a point of lighting the menorah in the right order, from right to left using the Shamash (leader candle). I say the prayer, although I had to download it from the Internet to get the phonetic pronunciation because hell if I remember how to read Hebrew. My husband fries up the best latkes, but we don’t use my grandma’s recipe (we use Duff Golman’s on FoodNetwork). My boys get small gifts for each of the eight days. Because they also get Christmas gifts and my older son’s birthday is a week after that, the boys receive books. Mostly, if not all, their gifts are books. Maybe a toy car, a coloring book, a CD. But small gifts. Hanukkah is not meant to compete with Christmas. And the idea of giving them 8 medium-to-large gifts is not only overwhelming, but ludicrous and I refuse to do it. Anyway, that night, I read the boys their new books and some Hanukkah stories from the library. Earlier that evening, they might even watch Shalom Sesame. (Perhaps, we can all learn something.) We don’t drive around the neighborhood counting menorahs because there are very few Jews where I live and it’s sort of depressing.

I say we’re an interfaith family. We’re certainly not dual-faith as we don’t religiously school our kids in Catholicism and Judaism and I can’t say we’re no faith either. Although, what my husband and I know about our respective faiths could fit in a shot glass. But despite our lack of knowledge about our religions, we value our cultural backgrounds and want to instill those values in our kids.

So, ask me how I celebrate Hanukkah now…well, it’s a little of this from my youth and some new things I’m trying out. And perhaps, somewhere in between latkes and Shalom Sesame, my children are filing away these traditions in their adorable, young brains for their future families. One can only hope they are being good listeners.

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Being a Jew on Christmas

December 22nd 2013

When I was a kid, Christmas was the most boring day of the year. Of course, everything building up to Christmas was great. Making holiday decorations in school (My second-grade teacher gave us the option of decorating a Ziggy cut-out to either make him look like Santa or a rabbi, depending on your religion, before hanging them up on the corkboard outside the classroom. Try doing that now.); watching Frosty the Snowman on television; eating candy canes; Hanukkah! (it usually came before Christmas); and our school holiday party. All that holiday stuff was awesome.

And then came actual Christmas day. What a yawn fest. You see, for a little Jewish girl, there was never anything to do. My mom was a nurse (still is) and she always volunteered to work on Christmas Eve and Christmas. After all, we didn’t have a party to go to or church to attend and she got time-and-a-half (still does). So my dad stayed home with my brother and me while we surfed the basic channels for something, anything to watch that wasn’t the Twilight Zone (although that usually won out). All the stores were closed. None of the other kids were available to play, assuming they were opening gifts somewhere. Our Hanukkah toys lost their novelty. The weather felt cold and drab. My dad was probably in charge of dinner, which couldn’t have boded well for us kids. Even my grandparents went to Atlantic City every Christmas, leaving their bored grandkids behind.

It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I understood what us Jews actually did on Christmas. Chinese food and the movies?! I want in. That sounds fun. Better than Twilight Zone marathons. How do I get in on that? It’s not like I didn’t grow up with other Jewish kids. I was raised in the NYC metro area. But while other Jewish kids in my neighborhood were seeing the latest movie at the Metroplex, my brother and I were stranded at home without a way to get there (at this point, my father also worked Christmas).

Perhaps, it was all those Christmases feeling left out of the fun that I started to fantasize what Christmas must’ve been like for all those people who celebrated it. As a kid, my best friend’s house became a gingerbread wonderland. Her mom made popcorn balls and always embellished our hot cocoa with candy canes. I imaged her family went to festive parties where everyone wore snugly sweaters, drank egg nog, and sang carols around a piano. You know, a Hallmark movie.

In college, my then boyfriend invited me to his house for Christmas. Finally, a chance to get in on this magical holiday. You should’ve seen my surprise when they spent most of Christmas watching TV, only to then split immediately after dinner for the movies. Wait. You’re allowed to do that? On Christmas? Apparently, people were breaking some Christian-Christmas rules I had made up in my head and it was ruining my idolized version of the holiday.

Years later, when I was dating my now-husband, I got to experience an Italian Christmas. But then this too threw me off. Their big celebration was on Christmas Eve. And they ate nothing but seafood, until midnight when they produced a plate of sausage. I think the biggest kicker was that my inlaws did not wrap their gifts. Why? Because Santa doesn’t wrap gifts, a tradition passed down from my mother-in-law’s childhood. What’s a Jewish girl to think?

Now that I’m a grown-up with an interfaith family of my own, we get to celebrate Christmas the way we want to, the way I want to and I’m not gonna lie, I aim for some Hallmark-y things. Bob plans the seafood menu a year in advance, making adjustments and tweaks as he sees fit. (The man is passionate about food.) We hang our stockings on our mantle and for the last few years, we’ve gone out and cut down a tree. We light a fire in our fireplace and stuff our selves senseless. The boys have matching Christmas pjs this year too. And we wrap our gifts because I want to see my kids tear into the paper. (I love the suspense). After the kids go to sleep, we all take a turn opening our presents and oohing and ahing. Then the following morning, we wake and have a big breakfast. The kids open their Santa gifts and then we all get gussied up and drive to Staten Island for more celebrating.

But our celebration is no Normal Rockwell painting. We don’t always get around to hanging Christmas lights, especially this year with the weather. And this is the first year, I’ve ever bought egg nog and I’ve been drinking it in the morning before my coffee. Not very festive-like. And we don’t have a piano and I never play Christmas music.

Maybe this post should be titled ‘Being This Jew on Christmas’ because my experiences are obviously unique to me. As a kid, I never got to celebrate the Norman Rockwell Christmas, but who does? As a parent, I’m establishing traditions unique to my interfaith family. Depending on when Hanukkah falls, it could mean having latkes with our rice balls. Or egg nog with my Manishewitz. And when my kids are teens, it could mean a matinee after presents. Whatever. It’s all good because it’s ours.

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