Category Archives: Judaism

Unchanging Change: Passover Cooking

imageI’m obsessively organized when it comes to Passover.  On my hard drive are lists, schedules, and menus.  I make slight updates every year, but there are no radical changes.  While a tremendous amount of work is involved, Passover prep here is a fairly well-oiled process.

The first thing that happens is the caramelizing of the onions.  Once the 14 or so onions are caramelized down to about 3-4 cups of flavor-packed richness after hours of cooking, the real cooking can begin.  The first thing to get cooked is the leek-artichoke kugel.  The ingredients for the kugel get sautéed in the big caramelizing pot  as soon as the onions are done so that they absorb all the flavor of the onions.  There’s a method at work here that’s been developed over years of making seders.

And yet, while I may have the prep process down to a science, in truth the recipes change every year.  With the exception of baking, I cook by intuition, not recipes.  When I made the leek-artichoke kugel this year, I looked back to see the blog that I had written about it last year.  I was surprised to see that what I wrote here last year was was different from what I cooked this year.

We change from year to year and so it seems appropriate that not only menus change but recipes do as well.  Inspiration strikes differently from year to year.  Tastes change, as do dietary needs.  Available ingredients change depending on whether Passover falls in late winter or deep into the spring.  Today I use as much whole wheat matzah products in my recipes as possible, which is not something I thought about some years ago.  This year the seder will include a few wheat-free vegetarian dishes alongside all the matzah-meal-based kugels and the farfel-laden stuffing. Even if your guest list never changes from year to year (and when does that happen anyway??), the people around your table this year are not the same people who sat there last year. What’s unchanged about our tradition is continual change.

When I became a vegetarian years ago, my mother switched to a meat-free tzimmes for me, which has since become the family tradition.  Then one year, after I started making my own seder and thus my own tzimmes, I learned that my father’s mother had made tzimmes with prunes, which he had loved.  So I began to add prunes to my tzimmes for him, and I added dates as well.  He’s no longer alive, but I still think of him when I cook tzimmes (even though I now also add brandy which I know he would not have liked). When my grandmother was alive and well, she made the annual gefilte fish from scratch. It was a major ritual that included a trip to the fish store in Boro Park to get the fish properly ground. Today I use my sister’s recipe for tricolor gefilte fish terrine instead.  Change happens, and traditions evolve.

I try to write the recipes down for posterity (ok, because I hope that someday my children will want them) but the real message I want to impart is to be flexible.  The point of the seder meal isn’t perfection or achieving a culinary ideal – it’s about history, memory, pleasure, and being together. It’s about the unchanging nature of Jewish tradition bumping up against ongoing change as our lives continue to move forward and evolve.  If the recipes change a bit from year to year, all that matters is that it’s good, and that it builds part of a positive Jewish memory of observance.  Passover about is about freedom, and so too are we free to be flexible and creative, to keep changing and growing from year to year.

imageVegetable Farfel Stuffing

2 peppers, diced (use orange, red or yellow for color)

1/2 cup chopped onion (if none are available, increase to 1 cup)

3 cloves garlic, chopped

2 cups chopped butternut squash

2 cup cooked, peeled chestnuts (make it easy on yourself and buy them vacuum packed, ready to use)

2-3 cups chopped mushrooms

fresh sage, rosemary and thyme

1/2 carmelized onion

6 cups whole wheat matzah farfel

8 eggs

4 cups vegetable broth (use more if too dry)

salt and pepper to taste

1. Sautee peppers, fresh onion, garlic, mushrooms and chestnuts until soft.  Chop herbs and add.

2. In a large bowl, beat eggs; add farfel and broth and let farfel absorb the liquid.

3. Add vegetables to farfel mix.  Add caramelized onions, if using. Add salt and pepper.

4. Mix well until all ingredients are blended.

5. Glaze pan with 1/4 broth or water and pour over mixture, blend well.

6. Pour into large greased pan.

7. Bake at 350 for 1/2 hour.  Freezes well once cooled.

Note: Because I am a vegetarian, I do not actually stuff the stuffing into meat.  However, it could be stuffed rather than baked as above.

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Instagram as a Spiritual Practice

IMG_1292Before my identity as Rabbi, there was my identity as Photographer.  For many years now my days (and nights) have been filled with words – the reading, writing, interpreting, and editing thereof.  But there was a long period when photography was at the center of my place in the world. 

I became a photographer in high school and photography remained at the center of my experience in college as well.  After college I worked in the photo lab and visual department at Kiryat Moriah in Jerusalem, and then studied photography at Camera Obscura in Tel Aviv.  Though I had had stray thoughts about rabbinic school since age 10, they stayed on the back burner and I returned to New York to for graduate school in Fine Arts in a program specializing in photography.

IMG_1308I loved printing almost as much as I loved the taking of photographs: the smells, the equipment, the math, the artistry, the power to coax forth magic out of shadows and percentages of light.  And I loved it equally – the hands-on aspect of black and white printing on rich, velvety matte stock, and the more mechanized color printing, turning dials to achieve evocative, deeply saturated yellows and blues, creating drama and stories from shades and hues.  Photography was a language I understood, a way of speaking truth into the world. 

IMG_1234The program offered only one class in digital, this being 1988-1992, and none of us took it seriously.  We were studying with master printers and artists – digital photography seemed irrelevant, even boorish.  But when I got pregnant with my first child, I stopped printing.  Worried about the toxicity of the chemicals, I stepped out of the darkroom and never went back in. Around the same time I made the decision to apply to rabbinic school.  Photography receded into the background.  Between school and my children and working, I had little free time to begin with, and what spare time I had cam to be used for writing.  Writing required no equipment (other than a computer) or chemicals, and could be done at any hour of the day or night.  There were no chemicals to buy, no darkroom time to rent, or schedules to work out.  

IMG_0785For years my photography has been limited to family pictures and shots that could be used in books I was editing.  I have never taken the time to learn Photoshop – I rely on the designers I work with to do that for me.  That girl rollerblading on Yom Atzmaut in the curriculum about Israel? That’s my photograph.  The plate of kubbe in the Jewish history textbook?  That’s mine.  The photo of a family on the cover of a book about synagogues? Yup, mine.  The photos used for the posts on RavBlog – yes, often those are mine too. 

Eventually I made the switch to digital because, after all, it’s so much easier and more practical.   And then about eight months ago my son encouraged my to try Instagram.  It sounded like a silly waster of time – why in the world would I need one more form of social media?

IMG_0794Turns out he was on to something.  Through this silly app called Instagram, I’ve found a way, however circumscribed, to reconnect to photography.  The filters give me some small amount of control over the image – not like when I did my own printing, but more than I’ve been able to achieve for a while. 

These photos I’m taking on Instagram have been a way to re-access visual language.   But actually it’s more than just that.  These little squares of images enable me to express a form of  spontaneous awe and gratitude.  They’re my modah ani – a daily reminder that life can be beautiful and sweet, and that I have much to be thankful for.

These beautiful sunsets, the snow on the tree in front of my house, or the sunflower at the farmer’s market verge on cliché – I know that.  They’re IMG_1083not the masterpieces that I aspired to in art school.  These cell phone lacks the mastery of photos taken on my battered old manual Nikon or Leica.  But they have become a way of reclaiming my old practice of experiencing the world visually, while also enabling me to savor splendor. 

I have much to be grateful for, and my struggles are certainly fewer than those of many, many others.  Yet life constantly surprises all of us with challenges that lay heavy on our souls. Sometimes it’s hard to look beyond the everyday pain or the quotidian slog of living. Like everyone, I have my share of stress and worry and heartache.

IMG_1325My Instragram images are my form of Heshel’s radical amazement, a visual response to the daily blessings.  It’s an easy and do-able way, within the parameters of my life, to truly see the world.  Wherever I am, and whatever I’m doing, if beauty or wonder jump outs at me, I can respond.  These photos have become part of a spiritual practice that grounds me and reminds me that not all is difficult, not all is complicated – that joy and amazement exist if I take a moment to look around me and see. 

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Rosh HaShanah in the Pines 6 – A Poem for the New Year

Since 1999 I have served as Rabbi of Congregation B’nai Olam.  B’nai Olam is a unique and special congregation in Fire Island Pines, a beautiful summer community on Fire Island, a barrier island off the Coast of Long Island, which meets only  for Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur.  In 2007 I began writing a new poem every year for Rosh HaShanah – feel free to also read 200820092010 and 2011.  Here is the sixth, from 2012.  Shanah tovah u’metukah.

Rosh HaShanah in the Pines, 2012/5773

 

WaterWe emerge, quiet and subdued,

into the darkening night of new year.

Across the dunes the ocean roars into the wind.

 

The tide tugs at our souls, a beckoning.

The pounding surf calls us to attention

and we turn, alert and yearning.

 

Tomorrow, under the bright sun of a fresh day,

seagulls will grab our handfuls of transgressions

tossed with great hope into the foamy spray.

 

But tonight the sea is dark, roiling and rough.

Waves beat against the shore,

then release, churning, back out to the horizon.

 

We are small, inconsequential in the infinite universe

yet even in the dim light of the setting sun

we cast a shadow on the sand.

 

As evening descends the air is crisp, bristling with possibilities.

Above, the sky fills with bright bursts of monarchs

making their annual pilgrimage home.

 

Copyright © 2012 by Hara E Person

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Rosh HaShanah in the Pines 5 – A Poem for the New Year

Since 1999 I have served as Rabbi of Congregation B’nai Olam.  B’nai Olam is a unique and special congregation in Fire Island Pines, a beautiful summer community on Fire Island, a barrier island off the Coast of Long Island, which meets only  for Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur.  In 2007 I began writing a new poem every year for Rosh HaShanah – feel free to also read 20082009, or 2010.  Here is the fifth, from 2011.  Shanah tovah u’metukah.


Rosh HaShanah in the Pines, 2011/5772

 

IMG_0251Darkness settles, slowly, across the horizon.

The new year rises before us,

its fragile moon awaiting our embrace.

 

Heaven and earth entwine

in their annual dance of re-creation.

A fissure appears in the firmament tonight,

an entranceway into new beginnings.

 

Out beyond the swales

the sea expands and contracts,

keeping time to the thrumming of the universe.

 

Under this Rosh HaShanah sky

the path before us is uncertain.

All we can do is hold each other tight

as we make our way home.

 

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Rosh HaShanah in the Pines 4 – A New Year’s Poem

Since 1999 I have served as Rabbi of Congregation B’nai Olam.  B’nai Olam is a unique and special congregation in Fire Island Pines, a beautiful summer community on Fire Island, a barrier island off the Coast of Long Island, which meets only  for Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur.  In 2007 I began writing a new poem every year for Rosh HaShanah – feel free to also read 2008 or 2009.  Here is the fourth, from 2010.  Shanah tovah u’metukah.

 

Rosh HaShana in the Pines 4

Fire Island 2010/5771

 

IMG_3272The taste of summer is still

sultry yellow, bright and sparkling.

Seasprayed and sunsoaked,

sated with pleasure,

we move with reluctance

as change quietly beckons.

 

The water has its own cadence

a rhythm under the surface

pulling in and releasing with an outstretched hand.

 

The quickening of the moon calls us to return

and we gather, seam-dwellers on the edge of the earth.

As the sun lowers itself into the sea

introspection rises.

A sliver cracks the heart of the firmament,

the vast blackness an invitation

to write ourselves anew.

 

@ 2010 by Hara E. Person

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Rosh HaShanah in the Pines 3 – A New Year’s Poem

Since 1999 I have served as Rabbi of Congregation B’nai Olam.  B’nai Olam is a unique and special congregation in Fire Island Pines, a beautiful summer community on Fire Island, a barrier island off the Coast of Long Island, which meets only  for Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur.  In 2007 I began writing a new poem every year for Rosh HaShanah.  Here is the third one, from 2009.  Shanah tovah u’metukah.

Rosh HaShanah in the Pines 3

Fire Island Pines, 2009

 

IMG_3121Under a cerulean sky

we gather together

cloaked in the warmth of mid-September sun.

 

Renewal comes heralded by the screech of seagulls.

Houses decked out in summer finery

offer dappled turquoise pools for self-reflection.

 

The still-rowdy sun of early fall

is tempered only by the vigor

with which we approach our appointed task.

 

Faces bared to the breeze off the sea

we allow ourselves to open,

turning toward the sweetness of beginning again.

 

We stand on the shore of the new year,

feet awash in the fragile foam of creation,

cleansed and purified by the embryonic ocean brine.

 

Copyright © 2009 Hara E. Person

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Rosh HaShanah in the Pines 2 – A New Year’s Poem

Since 1999 I have served as Rabbi of Congregation B’nai Olam.  B’nai Olam is a unique and special congregation in Fire Island Pines, a beautiful summer community on Fire Island, a barrier island off the Coast of Long Island, which meets only  for Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur.  In 2007 I began writing a new poem every year for Rosh HaShanah.  Here is the second one, from 2008.  Shanah tovah u’metukah.

Rosh HaShanah in the Pines, Fire Island 2

                                                            2008/5769
IMG_3095This late in the season

decks are bare,

houses closed up until next summer.

Torsos are covered,

tattoos and piercings remaining undisplayed

until the cycle repeats itself next year.

Geraniums are gone,

eaten by deer weeks ago,

leaving gray-weathered boards

brightened only by blue tarps

of now-covered pools.

 

IMG_3159Scrub pines

rooted deeply in sand

offer occasional shelter

from the scouring late-September gusts.

The sea laps a lullaby against the shore.

 

Holy days arrive amidst autumn’s pumpkin

and apple harvest.

We make our own stark beauty

on this strip of sand

cleansing our souls in this pared down paradise.

Late this year, but never too late.

 

Copyright © 2009 Hara E. Person

 

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Rosh HaShanah in the Pines 1 – A New Year’s Poem

Since 1999 I have served as Rabbi of Congregation B’nai Olam.  B’nai Olam is a unique and special congregation in Fire Island Pines, a beautiful summer community on Fire Island, off the Coast of Long Island, which meets only  for Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur.  In 2007 I began writing a new poem every year for Rosh HaShanah.  In these days leading up to Rosh HaShanah, I will be sharing these poems here.  Shanah tovah u’metukah.

IMG_0248

Rosh HaShanah in the Pines, Fire Island, 2007/5768

Slanted light filters through pine trees,

sweet smell of resin stickiness,

rough wood of the boardwalk

— careful to avoid the nails —

moist breaths of salt air,

rusted sliding doors open grudgingly onto decks.

 

The new year comes amidst

heightened senses,

grains of sand between toes,

nearly empty gray blue beaches,

autumnal monarchs alighting on end-of-season purple buds.

 

One more year.

Who is missing from the congregation?

My father gone now four years,

the kids taller,

grumbling teenagers who crave attention.

 

An orange sun setting over the bay.

Phosphorescence outlines each crest of waves.

Flashlights in the dark

guiding us home.

 

© 2007 by Hara E. Person, originally published in Bridges.

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A Father’s Day Poem

STP baseballFather’s Day is one of those days that got dropped from my personal calendar when my father died almost ten years ago.  It’s not that I don’t want to honor fathers in general, and I encourage my children to find ways to celebrate their father.  But it lost some resonance for me when I became fatherless.

It’s not exactly that Father’s Day pierces my heart when it rolls around every year.  It was never a big celebration in our family when I was growing up, and for that matter neither was mother’s day.  I miss my father much more on his birthday, which he enjoyed with the glee of a little boy, or on his yahrzeit, always a day of sadness and what-ifs.  And I miss him on important family occasions where his absence is especially felt, like my kids’ bat and bar mitzvahs, college acceptances, high school graduations, and the like, where he is glaringly absent in the family photos.

But still, when Father’s Day rolls around there is a feeling of sadness, and emptiness.  So in honor of Father’s Day, and in memory of my father, here’s a poem about him that I wrote a few years back.

To My Father, 1934-2003

The World Series

 

While machines flashed red numerals

hope, despair, hope

your long graceful fingers

reached up from your ICU-induced sleep state

to trace figures in airborne columns of debits and credits.

 

Yiddish was your first language

but numbers were your native tongue.

Balance sheets spoke to you of nuance,

challenges mastered and tamed,

the stories and dramas of the universe.

 

Numbers talked,

and you answered.

You wrote your life story in their epic language

of plusses and minuses.

 

Ebbetts Field was your princely realm,

a boyhood kingdom in which

the beauty and order of stats

kept the chaos away.

 

“Peppy” they called you in high school

because Pepsi’s kept you sharp.

The reliable math of poker and

the clean geometry of pool sharking

provided cool cash

stored always in serial number order.

 

Becoming an accountant

provided an arithmetic solution

to the sum of your first-generation yearnings.

Controlling the figures in ledgers and spreadsheets

supplied the way to amount

to a man of substance.

 

You would have loved tonight’s game

a four-of-four sweep for my son’s team.

As we watched, his eyes on the screen and my eyes on him,

he held forth in that language of

stats and averages, innings and outs,

that I haven’t heard since your numbers went still.

 

Copyright © Hara E. Person

July 14, 2008

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Fish Forks and Beer Mugs: Choosing the Right Technology for Publishing

fish forkThe nature of the book has changed dramatically in recent years. From the old standard of signatures of paper, in multiples of 16, 24,or 32, bound between covers and filled with typeset text, we now have ebooks, and PDF’s, and audiobooks, and apps – and that’s just for starters.

There are so many choices about how to produce a book. And yet, the essence of a book in many ways remains unchanged. They remain transmitters of ideas, containers of human experience and expression.

As a publisher, I’m often asked about how we will use technology with any given project. My answer is very simple: In as many ways as possible. For while it’s true that the technology presents us, a publisher using Hebrew text, with real challenges, and while it’s also true that we also have real financial limitations, our goal is always to create as many different versions of a book as we can, taking into account what makes sense for that particular content. For even with all the options we have available today, publishing should not be driven by technology, but rather by content development.

Publishing is no longer focused on the physical manufacturing of objects. But just as has always been true in publishing, content has to be developed carefully, thoughtfully, and creatively. That is our central goal at the CCAR Press. First we need an idea that is right for our core market, an approach that aligns with our mission, and the right team of editors and/or writers. Each project has different specifications and uses, and so allows for different formats. There are technological options we can consider today that weren’t possible last year. Surely that will be the same next year as well, and so on. Some projects, like the Daily Blessing App, are not physical books at all. Some projects, like Mishkan T’filah, exist as a physical book, an App, and in Visual T’filah, and we will continue to develop other versions as technology and finances allow. Mishkan R’fuah: Where Healing Resides, is both a physical book and an ebook. And so on.

iT'filahThere’s a lot of talk in the publishing world about how people are choosing to read today. Publishers carefully study stats about how people are reading, and which demographic is doing what in which medium. But I’m not convinced it’s a competition between formats. Rather, it may be that the more formats, the more we can customize our personal reading experiences.

The other day I was listening to a book on Audible and the voice in my ear said, “In this audiobook you will learn…” which I found rather jarring. For me, the experience wasn’t about listening to an audiobook. I had simply chosen to listen to this specific book, rather than read it. I hadn’t shopped for an audiobook, I had shopped for this particular title. The fact that it was an audiobook was insignificant. The audiobook aspect of the experience was a doorway to step through, on the other side of which was the content of the book. What mattered ultimately was the content, not the format.

Growing up I learned that salad is eaten with one kind of fork, and the main course with another. Dessert might be eaten with yet another. Later I learned that fish has its own kind of fork, and even later was introduced to such specialty items as pickle forks and olive forks.  Think too about glasses – this kind for water, this kind for white wine, this kind for red, and a frosted mug for beer. Each was created to best serve the experience of imbibing that particular food or drink, but in the end, the purpose is all the same: to convey the food or the liquid to your mouth.

So too with different book formats in this age of multiple choice. As a reader, I find myself choosing different formats depending on the content and context. I prefer printed books for poetry, for Torah commentaries, and for cookbooks. Yet I read fiction almost entirely on my iPad. I listen to non-fiction business books on my phone. It’s not a competition between the formats, but rather a matter of which one I prefer for the particular content.

The questions about how to best use technology in publishing are challenging and enormous. Publishers of all shapes and sizes are required to constantly keep learning new skills, and consider new options. But the core of publishing is still about content. For publishers, technology is not the goal, it is merely the means.

This blog also appeared on RavBlog, the blog of the Central Conference of American Rabbis.

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