(Warning. This one hurts… proceed at your own risk.)

StillInShidduchim has this post about the pain of spending Yom Tov with the family.

I quote, partially:

And you wonder, if this is supposed to be a happy time, why am I in my room crying? Why do I feel so overworked? Why do I feel like I’m doing everything wrong, though I’m trying so hard? Why can’t I keep my cool? Why is this so hard?

Although I cannot pretend to share in the pain, I can extend my sympathy, and I/we do.

I would also be presumptuous enough to throw out a quote, if I may, from Lawrence  Kelemen’s Permission to Believe, p 94, second footnote (located in the chapter on Tzaddik V’ra Lo).

“Logic notwithstanding, people cannot be expected to accept apparent Divine injustice peaceably. Someone who has experienced real agony- or supported someone who has- will take little comfort in intellectual explanations. Suffering afflicts the heart, and reason can only satisfy the mind…

… To someone in pain we can offer only compassion.”

Compassion offered.

The more I write the less successful I know I’ll be in getting my point across. But try I must.

Yes, this is a rant against making Pom Pesachs. No, I have nothing against Pomegranate per se. Yes, if you go to a hotel for Pesach you aren’t even on the map as far as making Pesach is concerned. No, I am a RW’er who is talking out of his boich; it’s almost impossible to celebrate a koshere Pesach in a hotel. OK. Disclaimers aside, let’s get cracking.

Info Notice: For those of you who haven’t heard of Pomegranate (yes, they take email orders, according to their site), it is a gourmet supermarket located in Midwood (that’s in Brooklyn, NY) on Coney Island Avenue. They’ve got anything and everything a kosher pays merveilleux should have. Dedicated fine cheeses created exclusively  by them and for them, a high-end deli with hot pastrami that will make your eyes roll, a bakery, coffee section, valet parking and more make it a one-of-a-kind shopping experience for the kosher consumer.

To paraphrase Elan Kornblum’s tagline on TFusion Steakhouse (also located in Brooklyn):

“It is not like Manhattan; it is Manhattan”.

Pomegranate isn’t a shopping  experience, it’s an adventure.

A massive, wildly pervasive (and successful) ad campaign coupled with innovative marketing (think a Lipa concert on its one year anniversary) only fueled its meteoric rise to the top of every Flatbush housewife’s grocery grocery list.

To begin with, I’m a massive Pom chossid. I shop there, spend time there, and browse the spacious mahogany floors with wide eyed wonder like some out-of-towner who landed in NYC for a day (or a Bein Hazmanim). Slowly wheeling my heavy, exotic fruits and food laden cart through the rows of gastronomic, gluttonous gashmiyos, I freely admit to being hypnotized by the endless array of kosher food on display. Admittedly, I am only there a few times a year, and I am not certain if I would shop there on a regular basis. Then, too, there is the fact that I am not the primary shopper for my household; that responsibility lies with my Angel Mother. Personally, I am not sure I could justify spending the money on the slightly inflated prices just for the extra geshmak that shopping there brings, but who knows. Maybe I would. But I digress; the financial fressing isn’t what bothers me. Not at all.

It is the chisaron of the traditional Pesach experience that the Pom crowd is lacking. I am determined not to launch into the “our ancestors prepared for Pesach through months of hard work yada yada” speech, so suffice it to say that this is not our way…

Prepackaged seder keoros? Not our mehalech.

Buying Shulchan Aruch seudos from start to finish? Not our mehalech.

Endless plastic containers of 100% pesach’dik candy? Not our mehalech.

And the final, unspeakable horror?

The endless assortment of cakes and cookies from multiple bakeries.

Rabbosai, permit me to wax poetic here for a moment. (Or don’t- I’m going to anyway). Pesach is, and always has been, a time of going back to the basics. Of fundamentals, if not fundamentalists. Ever hear of m’mish nisht? No?

That’s the worst symptom of a society gone increasingly goyish in an insane attempt to keep up with the Goyimses. Don’t you see? We’ve got it… all. Our Pesach tradition of returning to the nuts and bolts of gastronomy, and in a more metaphorical vein, of life, was not created as a response to any need or desire on the part of G-d. It is an endgame unto itself.

People, just roll with the basics for a couple of years. Try it, and you’ll see the (candle)light.

Less is more.

(Photo Credit to Eating in Translation)

(Note that I am not endorsing this sort of behavior, as it is both fatally dangerous, and possibly (probably?) k’neged Halacha. That said, I just couldn’t resist putting this piece up. Holy Joes, introduced in the preceding story, were the chaplains/priests/ministers that served the armed forces during the War(s), jetting around the various theaters of war at great personal risk to themselves. Note: If anyone knows of a surviving “Holy Joe” (Rabbi/chaplain) who served in WWII or earlier, please, please get in touch with me via the contact form. I would greatly appreciate it. )

From “Jews Fight Too!”, by Mac Davis, Hebrew Publishing Company, 1945

One of Four

Alexander Goode was another Holy Joe. But he never got to the war! Destiny granted him but a single moment for his courageous deed.

A rabbi before the war, he left his congregation, of York, Pennsylvania to become an Army chaplain. Soon he found himself aboard an American cargo transport in a North African convoy. He was one of four Holy Joes aboard- two of the chaplains were Protestant ministers; the other, a Catholic priest.

Cutting its way through the rough sea, the ship was suddenly attacked. A torpedo was knifed into the heart of the ship. The cargo transport was rapidly sinking. The four chaplains stumbled across the slippery deck as they tried to help save all the fighting men. The fighting men were the sinews of war and the implements for victory and had to be saved first.

One by one the lifeboats, loaded with survivors, drifted away from the sinking ship. The ship was almost deserted now except for the four chaplains, and- yes, unmistakably, there on the deck of the lopsided ship, they spotted four sailors without life preservers. The four chaplains unhesitatingly removed their own lifebelts and forced the four sailors to put them on, then watched them jump into the water. And now, the four Holy Joes were all alone on the sinking ship. All the lifeboats had drifted off into the distance.

The two Protestant ministers, the Catholic priest, and the Jewish rabbi stood on board, side by side, and prayed. Then the four Holy Joes locked hands, and went down with the ship to their deaths, united in a common faith.

UPDATE: Read about the experiences of a frum Holy Joe (Rabbi Mayer Abramowitz) over here.

An unoriginal, uninspired joke. Call it the child in me if you like. Anyway, fear not, Yeshiva Guy is still around to shtell and shuckel for at least a while longer.

Well folks, its been a wild ride. A wild, totally fun filled ride.

From the Twitter debates with frenemies and foe alike, to the Tweetups and Blogups, I had a blast (and made more than one friend in the process). But this, like all good things, must come to an end.

As some of you no doubt know, I am in shidduchim, and Boruch Hashem I am happy to announce that I am engaged to wonderful girl. Anonymity prevents me form disclosing the exact date of the engagement, but suffice to say that it was within the last two months.

Obviously, this blog is no longer appropriate; as A) my kallah has expressed her disapproval, B) I now have a life which = no more time for games, and C) I’d have to transition to Kolell Guy in any case.

So folks, although I doubt I’ll see you guys again, who knows. Sail forward into the vast emptiness and deadliness of the internets without your able and faithful companion Yeshiva Guy at your side; but remember this- I’ll always be watching.

#FTW,

YG

Having gotten myself to the rink early morning (Friday there’s no seder), I now need a ride home. Skating is fun, but hard work. After a few hours brushing up on outside edge stops, I’m looking forward to relaxing before greeting the Shabbos queen. Today is Erev Shabbos, so a piping hot potato kugel will be greeting me upon arrival; I can hardly wait.

Scanning the few skaters going round the rink, I spot a few likely candidates. Mostly the Flatbush version of soccer moms, these types fit into the Honda Odyssey, $3K sheitel, and $2 million home category. That’s OK with me- all I need is a ride home, and for the most part, they’re nice enough. As long as there aren’t any annoying questions peppering the way home. I get such queries often from the rink crowd; apparently, a yeshiva bochur at the rink doesn’t fit the profile.

Approaching a middle aged lady with a kind enough countenance, I ask her if my home address is on her way home. It is. Wonderful. She explains apologetically that she plans on leaving in just a few minutes. No problem. I’m exhausted anyway.  I hurriedly unlace my skates, sling them over my shoulder, and head out toward the parking lot, where I wait ten minutes for the lady to emerge, kids in tow. Another young man from the rink has also decided to chap a lift with this lady, and we both slide into the back seat of the lavender ’09 Sienna. We trade names and begin schmoozing quietly betwixt ourselves (yeah, I also love that word. Betwixt. Sounds like a witch hexed the word amongst). The fine lady pulls out of the lot, merges smoothly with traffic and heads home. Status check: so far, so good. Schmooze the  bochur next to me, ask the lady’s cute seven year old where he goes to yeshiva, get a grumble in reply, don’t ask the twelve year old girl where she goes to school, check Twitter, all is still well.

Then trouble begins. With a capital T that rhymes with R and that stands for Rink. Or ride. Either way. The kind lady driving us to our respective domiciles decides to commence Inquiries. Uh oh. She starts gently. First asks me about which yeshiva I learn in, then where I live/daven, and then moves on to the more serious stuff. Size of family, yeshiva history, etc. Before you know it, she wants to know if I’m back (from E”Y) for good, and if I’m going to Lakewood. I don’t like the direction of this conversation. Non-sequituring (Ha. And you thought that sequitur couldn’t be verbed. Well, there ‘ya go. Verb too, FYI), I answer her with a soliloquy on the relative merits of learning in Eretz Yisroel vs. the USA. She doesn’t take the bait. But she does explain why she wanted to know (have you guessed yet?).

She has a cousin.

Aha.

But wait. There’s more. The cousin ice skates. She is therefore, or perhaps just incidentally (this part wasn’t clear)-and I quote- “normal”. Ah. The blessed, sought after normal. Who wouldn’t want a normal girl?

We pull up to my house just in the nick of time. Saved by the bell and the honk of the impatient Lexus wielding driver behind us, I hastily bid the well-meaning amateur shadchante farewell, and race into the safety of Mommy’s kitchen. Mommy’s warm, heimishe, homey kitchen. Where potato kugels un a shiur make their residence on Erev Shabbos.

Snatching a heaping, steaming portion of kugel and settling myself into a kitchen chair, I dig in contentedly. After exactly one lone, solitary bite of pure pleasure, the phone rings. The kitchen is abnormally empty for this time of the day and week, so I heave my aching self out of the chair and pick up the handset. It’s my aunt calling from out-of-town.

“YG, you’ll never guess what I just thought of. The PERFECT shidduch.”

Sigh. Time to head back to the rink.