Fishin’ 4 Religion

I feel fairly certain I’ve mentioned this before, but I have a special affinity for All Things Jewish. My last four boyfriends have been Jewish. I never really thought this was significant until I was almost relieved that I married a Jewish guy – it’s not that I married him because he was Jewish, but it happened to be a nice little side bonus. I like Jewish guys, Jewish people, Jewish culture, and I have no real tangible reason other than I have a strange sort of interest and attachment to the whole shebang. What’s completely bizarre is that I grew up in a town that had all of two Jewish people in it, and they were teachers that I didn’t particularly like. One of them was affectionately known as Slutty Whore Wilson, as she had a tendency to whore it up on school trips by giving random men the Eye of Lust and Also, Mad Sex. But that had nothing to do with being Jewish or not, but is indeed a random, pointless observation.

I think it all kicked off junior year when I was in our Very Serious high school production of Fiddler on the Roof. I was, if you were wondering, Fruma Sarah, a role that allowed me to run around, throw my hands up in the air and scream a whole lot. (“Pearls!” “Pearls!” “PEARLS!”) Because my knowledge of Judaism and conveniently, the Holocaust, was limited to vague references on television and by slutty teachers (my school didn’t mention it once, which is great, just great), I finally researched the hell out of the religion, and fell madly in love – not so much with the religion as with the concept of the culture, although I appreciate both. Then, of course, I went to college at a school that is somewhere in the range of 40% Jewish, and I started falling in love with Jewish guys, too, through sheer happenstance and some degree of statistical probablity.

And somewhere along the line, I have become strangely disappointed that I wasn’t born Jewish. The one blemish in my all-Jewish ex-boyfriend lineup was an ill-advised relationship with a blond Irish Catholic, and the second I realized what I was missing, I knew it just wouldn’t work out (I mean, not really. Or maybe. I actually met Adam while I was dating this man and within five seconds, knew I was going to marry him, broke up with the blond Irish Catholic and we’ve been together ever since.)

My unexplainable penchant for Jewish guys wasn’t without penalty – at least two boyfriends’ families did not want their precious boys dating a shiksa, and made their protests known plainly, loudly and at times, very rudely. While I have few regrets in life, one of them is not standing up for myself when an ex-boyfriend’s grandmother dressed me down in public for no other reason than she didn’t like me dating her grandson because I wasn’t Jewish. This woman who also refused to allow me into her home on a Jewish holiday (“Go find your own damn holidays and leave us alone!” Awesome). Instead of saying something to her (What the hell could I say? She was 85!), I stayed at his parents’ house in silence alone, while they all enjoyed a lovely celebration at her house a few miles away (I was visiting. VISITING. FROM ANOTHER STATE. And not allowed to go.). I’m still mad at myself for that one.

Another time, I walked in on another boyfriend’s sister telling her mother that she wouldn’t stand for her brother to continue to date a “classless goy” like me. And this was before the boxed Target wine, I swear. And actually, I’m pretty sure that sister just hated me (the feeling was mutual), and she knew that the only way to hate on me without looking like an ass was to pick on my religion. Anyway, all of those incidents (and there were more), always bothered me – still do when I think about it – because while I understand the desire to maintain the culture, and that in Judaism, the religion is passed down from the mother, it really hurt my feelings. I mean, my boyfriends didn’t care – hell, I knew more about Judaism than half of them, and most of them didn’t seem to have any desire to continue practicing. So, when they married a Jewish girl, they’d be ignoring Judaism more perhaps than they would if they married me, but with the proper pedigree intact. Not that I was marrying them, I’m just making a point. Feh. It just seemed like a low, manipulative blow, especially when delivered so coldly, even though there are likely many who will disgree with me.

Anyway, fast forward to today, and I did, indeed, marry a Jewish guy, and I now have a Jewish last name. However, despite my best efforts to assimilate, at almost every event where it comes up, I am instantly called out, “Well, Ms. X- I can tell you’re not Jewish! Who are you married to?” And I’m always disappointed, I don’t know why. Like I’ve failed again at not being Jewish enough, even though I’m not, and it’s not that important, and there is no way I could actually be Jewish. When we dropped the dog off at the dog sitter, she made it clear that she was Jewish, and was in part attracted to us because we were “Jews from Boston, omigod!” And then she took one look at me and said, “But you’re clearly not Jewish. However, you are! I knew it right away!” She squealed at my husband, rubbed his cheeks and I was jealous. I wanted Jewish cheek rubs.

Incidentally, I have never formally converted to Judaism, and have no intention to do so right now, lest I mislead you. My affection is mostly cultural, though I have an appreciation for the religion on many levels, and maybe that’s why Jewish grandmothers hated me so, and maybe rightly so. Our religious details aren’t really up for discussion at the moment, however, I would like to add that Adam’s family has been nothing but welcoming to me from the beginning, and there are some members of his family that I love so much I wish they were mine.

Anyway, this is a really long way of saying of all the things I love about the Jewish culture – and they are a legion – as with all things, food is my favorite. Knishes, stuffed cabbage, brisket, kasha varnishkas, gefilte fish – everything but matzo ball soup, in fact, and I don’t care who you are, eating sawdust gathered together in a giant ball is gross, just gross (I’m going to get stoned for that.) And while I’ve always wanted to learn how to make Jewish food, there was that little problem of not being able to cook standing in my kosher pickled way. Until now. Behold the kugel, made with my loving little mitts in anticipation of Thanksgiving:

It’s a bad photo, because my photography matches my cooking skills.

There are six eggs, two sticks of butter, a pound of sour cream, a pound of full-fat cottage cheese and more sugar than you want to know about in that heavy little noodle pudding. But , it’s delicious, and I DID IT, OH MY SWEET GOD. And if I don’t throw it away tomorrow, I am going to wake up in the middle of the night and rub my face in it, and maybe stuff some in my bra for later because if I didn’t mention it, it’s that good. And I will gladly hand down the recipe to anyone who wants to die an early Death By Cheesy Buttery Sweet Noodle, because it would be an honorable death, oh yes it would.

*Arrested Development. I love them. Don’t make fun.

26 comments October 24th, 2006