Created  

The High Holidays 2004

The High Holidays were over. We broke our fast with the children. Now it was time to walk home. Tory tried to give us a flashlight, but we insisted that the moon was so bright it would light our way home. The boys offered to escort us, but we laughingly refused. "We aren't that old, and it is such a short distance from your house to our house that we really can manage it on our own," we insisted. Obby was humming. "Flo why aren't you singing with me?" Obby asked. "Weren't these holidays just perfect?" he continued. "Perfect …that was the rub. Something about the holiday was amiss. Just what had been less than perfect? Break fast at the children's home had been perfect. The dairy meal featured David's smoked salmon. Perfection! There was gefilte fish for me and there was tuna fish for Sam. There were salads to satisfy all tastes. All the boys were home from college. As usual their conversation was serious and yet cheerful. There were a few guests. They fit right in. It must have been the services… No the services were just long enough. They were creative and appealed to us and to our children and to our grandchildren. On Rosh Hashanah there was music. On Yom Kippur there were creative modern Al Cheyts. [For the sins we have committed…] There was time for members of the congregation to speak. And they spoke powerfully. On Yom Kippur the Rabbi spoke from her heart and we wept. No the services were not the problem. Could it have been my mood? Was I depressed? No Obby and I had survived a medically challenging year. I was not depressed on the contrary I was convinced that we were both inscribed in the Book of Life. Home at last. As I walked into my house I recalled what the sour note was! There it was in my very own kitchen. My oven was the source of the discordant note. I know ovens don't sing. Ovens don't pray. Don't scratch your head and worry about me. I'll explain. I am not a once a year housecleaner. Of course I tear apart my kitchen the week before Passover and I scrub every corner of every cabinet, drawer, and appliance. But before the High Holidays, I scrub too. I scrub myself before I go to synagogue and I scrub my appliances before I cook for the Holidays. Rosh Hashanah would begin on Wednesday evening at sun down. Monday morning at 6 A.M., I began my attack on my refrigerator and freezer. I took out everything! I wiped each box, bottle and bag that I took out. I took out every shelf and piece of glass or plastic that was removable. I scrubbed them in my sink. On my knees I scrubbed every nook and cranny until my refrigerator and freezer was dazzling. Only then after I had climbed my stepladder, and washed the refrigerator top, did I put things back in the freezer and refrigerator. Then I rested. After lunch with renewed vigor, I attacked my microwave oven and my stove. Again I worked diligently until I reached the oven. I took the shelves out of the oven. On my knees, I scrubbed the shelves in my bathtub. I got them so clean and shiney that you would have sworn that they were brand new. There was only one thing left to do. I turned on the self-cleaning feature of my oven. It was then that disaster struck. The self-cleaning WOULDN'T self clean! I called my service policy company. A man answered the phone and I told him that I had an emergency. I told him that I must have a repairman to fix it on Tuesday morning. I explained that our holiday would commence on Wednesday evening at sun down. And I needed to bake my Holiday Challas early Wednesday morning. He didn't understand my problem. "Does the oven work?" he asked. "Yes," I replied "Good," he said. "The repairman will come a week from Tuesday." "No! No!" I insisted. Again I told him how I washed my refrigerator. I told him that I had cleaned the oven racks until they shone like new. I even told him what a baleboste was. I continued. I told him that I had a reputation as a baleboste [an exceptional house keeper] to uphold and my oven must be clean as gold before my guests arrived. He was a prawste [common] man. He could not understand my need. I pleaded with him. He had no heart. He kept repeating, "The repairman will come a week from Tuesday." Before I could ask to speak to his boss, he said, "Lady don't let your guests put their heads in your oven. They'll never know how clean it is! The repairman will come a week from Tuesday." And he hung up! This oven then was the blemish on my holiday. And to add insult to injury, when the repairman came the Tuesday before Yom Kippur, he couldn't fix the oven. I had to bake my Yom Kippur Challah in a less than perfect oven. Now I am still waiting for a part. I'll be lucky to have a sparkling clean oven for Succoth.