Talia is Four!

Dearest Talia,

I'm going to begin this letter to you for your fourth birthday with a short story.

Back in June, we gathered as an extended family to celebrate Zayde's birthday. It was a lovely Shabbat dinner filled with pizza, salad, and pasta, all Zayde's favourites, but with a grandmotherly eye toward making sure the kids were happy. 

Every time you were offered something to eat, you said no. 

"Talia, do you want some pizza?"

 "No," came your emphatic reply.

 "Talia, do you want some pasta?" 

"No," you said, shaking your head. 

None of this was concerning, nor was it anger-inducing. We have all been around long enough to understand the food routines of toddlers. Your Uncle Daniel, in particular, was greatly amused. He relished the negative responses. As a former picky eater himself, I like to think that he was commiserating with you. He kept asking. 

"Talia, do you want some challah?" 

"Nope!" 

"Talia, do you want some salad?"

If looks could reduce a grown man to a puddle, this one from a 3 1/2 year-old was liquifying. 

He set you up like a pro and was ready to pounce.

"Talia, do you want a cupcake and ice cream?"

"NO!" It was the shout of pure determination and purpose.

And then came the look. It was the look of realization and expectation. Caught in a negative web of your own spin.

"YES! I want cupcakes and ice cream." 

Of course, we laughed, and of course, you laughed too. You were never upset. You just wanted what you wanted when you wanted it, and nobody was going to make you do something you didn't want to do.

I have given a lot of thought to that day. It isn't unusual for children your age to say no. It isn't even unusual for them to say no to everything. It is a growth exercise that allows for setting boundaries and limits. We all have things we like and don't like. It could be food choices or fashion. It could be activities or a favourite subject at school. We like some things a lot, and some things we simply tolerate. And then there are those things we find unbearably disagreeable. You couldn't get me to eat eggplant even if you covered it in chocolate syrup, and I know how you feel about broccoli. I think the exact word you used was yucky. As a wise woman once said, "No is a complete sentence."

There is a stigma attached to saying no. Nice girls are the ones who go along to get along. Good girls are agreeable. Being upbeat and positive is the best way to get ahead. 

What utter nonsense.

Sometimes we need to push back. Saying no is one of the fundamental life lessons many women fail to learn. We often take on more than we can handle because we neglect to say no. Many of us find ourselves in difficult situations that could have been solved if only we dared to say no. Talia, I am in awe of your ability to push back. You have taught me a great deal about what feminine strength looks like, and I value that more than you can know. My hope is that you will continue to explore your strengths and things you relish with positivity and intention, all while standing resolute against anything that doesn't meet your standards.

Becoming a four-year-old is really exciting. How can it be that you will be starting JK in the fall at the same school as your sister? How did we both age into that era? I admit to some concern about how being a child of the lockdowns, all that isolation, might affect your socialization skills. I needn't have worried. Watching you thrive and grow throughout your childcare/nursery years has been a wonder. This summer, you went to camp for the first time. There is a photo of you grinning from the bus that made me melt into my socks. There was such unwavering independence apparent in that smile. When we asked you what you did that first day, you proudly exclaimed that you went down the waterslide all by yourself. It was just so matter-of-fact. No wavering. (Of course, being four, you've decided that waterslides aren't necessarily your thing. Maybe when you're five.) You have discovered your own strong voice, and you refuse to be bossed around by anyone, especially Molly. I love watching you have dance parties with your sister, and I love that you perform Let It Go like it is the last song you will ever sing. You emote like a Broadway Belter, and you understand innately that it will never sound perfect unless you are wearing your Elsa costume. 

I adore that you are a staunch and singular cat-lover in a dog-loving family, and I can forgive this mistaken life choice because you are just so emphatic about it. Your deep affection for animals, especially sea creatures, has reignited my own, and I am absolutely determined to find you the perfect dolphin stuffy. I have gifted you with a few fairly mediocre ones, but this quest has absolutely become a lifelong pursuit for me. 

I love that you refuse to perform on command. There is no doubt that you are more than ready for your next school step, but you won't show off your knowledge unless it is your idea. I love that, despite being small in stature, you refuse to let anyone think you are a "little girl." This is an emotion I understand very well. I always hated the word "cute." Cute is for puppies and teddy bears. We are fully formed people. Being petite should never disqualify you from anything. Stand up strong and be loud when it is appropriate. The world may not have been built for us shorties, but we can force it to pay attention.

Talia, you are the next in a long line of strong, opinionated women. This is a good thing. We speak our minds in this family, and we won't be suppressed in our conversations. But it is also important to learn the art of active listening. We need to pay attention to others and understand their perspectives. We can engage in the debates without always having to win. Learning the art of compromise and when it is necessary is a skill that will come with time and growth. You have the luxury of both. 

Happy Birthday, my dear one. Eat that cake with gusto. Dance like you are looking for a unicorn around every corner. Sing loudly and proudly. 

I love you with every fibre of my being.

Love,

Bubby

For Molly On Her Seventh Birthday

Dearest Molly,

Guess what, darling girl? The seasons have once again done a lap around the sun and you are celebrating another birthday. 

It is hard for me to believe that you are really seven. Did you know that the number seven holds special significance for us Members of the Tribe? It is the essence of holiness, completion, and perfection. There are seven days in a week and seven days in the Divine Spirit's act of creation. Shabbat is on the seventh day and is the supreme time of peace and divinity. In Jewish Gematria or numerology, the Hebrew word gad, which means fortune, equals seven. The Hebrew word, mazal, which means luck, adds up to seventy-seven. There are so many great and holy things that seven signifies. Seven is a pretty freaking excellent age to be.

This year, it is your turn to be seven. Every time I look at you, I see your age's true meaning and completeness. There is a maturity that has descended upon you. You are no longer that baby girl with the chubby cheeks. You are growing by leaps and bounds, and I have no doubt that you will be taller than me within a couple of years. (Not much of an accomplishment given my challenged stature, but a milestone nonetheless.) You have a mischievousness that tickles me and a brilliance that shines through every discussion. Your imagination is always humming and your ability to find joy in the small things makes me so happy. I love seeing the world through your eyes. It is filled with rainbows and unicorns. It is the epitome of what seven should be.

I wish I could tell you that the world around you is also as carefree and happy as you are. Unfortunately, we live in uncertain and complicated times. Norms that I have taken for granted throughout my life, are crumbling as difficult and cruel people assume the mantles of leadership. It would be easy to stay silent and tread carefully to avoid confrontation with the ugliness, but I need you to know that nothing good ever came from NOT calling out injustice. We need to stand up and be brave, even when the situations terrify us. Too many people are closing their eyes and ears to the hardships of others. I cannot implore you strongly enough to be the difference maker. Be the person who stands up and speaks with a clear and impassioned voice. 

Women, girls, marginalized communities, people of colour, people who speak differently, people who learn differently, Jews, Muslims, people who identify as non-binary or transgender, First Nations, people without means or who are unhoused; they are all under attack from those who refuse to understand or learn. You are a very lucky girl, Molly. You were born into a family that loves and cares for you. They want you to have the best education and to access the best opportunities available. Not everyone is like you. Some might need a bit of help or encouragement. Some might need a lift or to just feel seen. When our leaders look at those who are somehow living outside of the mainstream or on the margins of society and refuse to see their humanity, we must call them out on their bigotry and narrowmindedness. It is our moral and ethical responsibility. Challenging authority, especially when it has descended into intolerance, is our duty as human beings.

Never let anyone tell you that you aren't good enough. Never let anyone define your worth by their own prejudices. Never let anyone bully you or pressure you into going against your conscience. Never let any man overshadow or take credit for your accomplishments. Be strong, be kind, be tenacious, be polite, but be firm. You get to decide what is right for you. Always maintain your spirit and your empathy. Life can be tough sometimes, but if you walk through it with compassion and dignity, you will be successful.

Role models are everywhere. Choose them wisely. Our heroes and mentors are often right in front of us. They don't have to be rich or famous. They simply have to make good and inspiring choices. Follow the paths that others have trod and then blaze your own. When you stumble, and you will, keep going. You have so much to offer and so much to give. You will eventually find that thing or that spark. It is within you. 

You are celebrating your year of mazal, your year of luck and good fortune. We are taught in the Talmud that we can impact our mazal through mitzvot. If we live well and do right by others, our fortune will be felt for generations. Molly, don't let anyone convince you otherwise. Live with an open mind, an empathetic conscience, and a clear-eyed resolve. Treat people as you wish to be treated, and help those whom society has ground down. Above all, speak against injustice when you see it. 

Happy Birthday, dear heart. May this year of seven be everything you want it to be. I love you with all of my heart and being.

Love,

Bubby

Here is a song by one of my favourite artists. Call it an add-on birthday gift. 

My Abandonment of Mainstream Media

I've stopped watching and reading the news.

Canadian, American, European...all of it. I went cold turkey after the American election.

You have to understand how difficult this was for a news junkie.

I'm tired and simply haven't had the emotional bandwidth to deal with so many world issues cascading simultaneously. 

So, I've hidden. I've cocooned.

That isn't to say that I don't know what is happening. It is impossible not to. We are all standing at the precipe of something very dark and dangerous. To stick my fingers in my ears and scream la la la isn't an option. But, I have given up on traditional media. 

Major Canadian media is owned by a small number of companies. Did you know that the Canadian Press is owned by the Globe and Mail and owned by the richest family in Canada? Did you know that Postmedia, which operates the National Post, the Financial Post, and Sun Media newspapers, are two-thirds owned by American hedge fund Chatham Asset Management? Bell, Rogers, Corus, Quebecor, and the CBC control every over-the-air channel in Canada. Every single one. The Toronto Star is owned by Nordstar Capital, a diversified holding company owned by billionaire Jordan Bitove. Your local paper? Controlled by wealthy people with very specific agendas. Your local TV stations? The same. 

Watching the once proud and independent Washington Post dismantled by a billionaire owner has been soul-crushing. (I gave up my subscription following the mass exodus of gifted journalists.) My New York Times subscription has been reduced to a word game URL. I am sickened by the idea that new-age journalists think creating stories is more important than covering them. The Post even has a new slogan: “Riveting Storytelling for All of America.” What the actual fuck does that mean?

We, the world populace, are being ill-served by most major mainstream media. Of course, great reporters are doing great work at every single one of the institutions I've mentioned, but they are writing and reporting at the whims of billionaire owners. Watch the coverage of the upcoming Liberal leadership race very carefully. The smear campaigns have already started. Who leaked the story about a limo showing up to Mark Carney's launch to the CBC? Who put the story of the hecklers up front in the Star's coverage of Chrystia Freeland's announcement? We are being manipulated by our press coverage. I'll bet you know all about Doug Ford's stupid blue hat but nothing about Karina Gould and her quest for the leadership.

We have become lazy news consumers who desire stupid headlines and easy solutions. We are being mass-manipulated and we are doing nothing to stop it. 

The process [of mass-media deception] has to be conscious, or it would not be carried out with sufficient precision, but it also has to be unconscious, or it would bring with it a feeling of falsity and hence of guilt... To tell deliberate lies while genuinely believing in them, to forget any fact that has become inconvenient, and then, when it becomes necessary again, to draw it back from oblivion for just so long as it is needed, to deny the existence of objective reality and all the while to take account of the reality which one denies all this is indispensably necessary.~Eric Blair.

Do you know who Eric Blair was? That is the given name of George Orwell, and that quote is from 1984. Blair wrote the dystopian book in 1949, almost eighty years ago. He foresaw a lot of what we are going through today with our siloed media experience and our bending the knee to totalitarianism, oligarchies, and kakistocracies. We have forgotten how to think because our news consumption has become pablum for the masses. I simply couldn't take it anymore, so I went into hiding.

Social media? I shut down my Twitter account. The Nazi circle-jerk created by the richest man in the world can happen without me. Meta? I love the photos and reconnection with friends, but I refuse to allow them to dictate my news diet. We have to become better consumers of our information. We have to do the work to seek out the truth. We can't allow Elon, Bezos, The Thompsons, and Zuck to feed us their versions of it. We can't allow ourselves to be consumed and subsumed by the richest people in the world who want us subservient for their benefit. (And yes, I note the irony of you finding this on Facebook. There are good and bad with all of it.) It is incumbent on all of us to question our leaders, to ask ourselves why we hate this one as much as we do and love that one for no good reason. Are we being manipulated by our information choices? Are we victims of a mass-media deception? I think if we look at it critically, the answer is yes.

There are many great independent news organizations out there. It was the independent journalism at The Narwhal that saved Ontario's Greenbelt from the greed of Doug Ford. The Tyee is doing yeoman's work diving into issues that matter to all Canadians. Haaretz and The Guardian are still independent sources that will tell you what you don't want to hear and challenge authority. Good journalism should make the powerful uncomfortable. It should challenge your embedded viewpoints. It should make you think. If it isn't, you are doing it wrong.

I know it's hard. Looking elsewhere takes work, and who has the time. The Orange Stain resumes his chaos today precisely because of this lazy attitude. “Journalism is printing something that someone does not want printed. Everything else is public relations.” Orwell gets tagged with this one, too, but it is a misappropriation. I'd like to think he believed it, though. We can take a news hiatus, as I did, but we cannot forgo our responsibility to seek out the truth and hold our leaders accountable when they trade in bullshit and three-word slogans. Democratic societies are only as strong as their weakest links. Right now, those are the ignorant, uninformed, and misinformed. 

We can disagree, but we don't get to make it up. "You are entitled to your opinion. But you are not entitled to your own facts.”~Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan 

Strong societies take work, and every citizen is responsible for putting in the effort. Don't allow yourselves to become corrupted. Think, read and then do it again and again. Doug Ford may be wearing a blue hat with a slogan you like, but don't forget that he has gutted health care and education. The smear campaigns aren't coming for Doug from the mainstream media in the way they came for his predecessor. Why is that? Who stands to benefit?

Here are two more from Orwell's 1984 to scare the shit out of you. 

"If all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed—if all records told the same tale—then the lie passed into history and became truth."

"And when memory failed and written records were falsified—when that happened, the claim of the Party to have improved the conditions of human life had got to be accepted, because there did not exist, and never again could exist, any standard against which it could be tested."

I have decided to continue my media abstinence for a while longer. (I miss Rachel Maddow, but I am holding fast.) I am dipping my toes into BlueSky and a bit on Threads, but I am mostly lurking. I promise that as this very important political year in Canada unfolds, I will point myself in a better direction for information consumption. I will share those spaces with you when I find them. In the meantime, do the work. Be a better citizen. Ask questions and ask yourself, does this make sense?  If you can't find an appropriate answer, be skeptical. It is up to all of us. More news, less noise.

"The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command."~George Orwell 1984

 

Where The F*** Are My Scissors

I lost a pair of scissors, yesterday.

You can stop reading now if this feels too banal for your tastes.

It was a bizarre happening for a really unremarkable household item, and it is really pissing me off.

I have had the same pair of scissors for forty years. They were gifted to me as a bridal shower gift. The gift giver has long been forgotten. Henckel's. They are truly the best. The lesson here is to always buy the best you can afford because cheap garbage simply doesn't last. (I also have been using the same hand-held can opener for four decades. Sometimes, you can't go wrong with quality.) I love these scissors so much that I bought an identical pair for The Southern Home twenty-five years ago. 

The scissors hang on a knife rack in the kitchen of The Southern Home. The only time they have been moved to a different location was when we renovated the kitchen. When we reconstructed, the scissors found their way home to the knife rack above the sink. Yes, I am a creature of habit. Yes, I like order. Yes, I suggest that until you have walked around my addled brain, you shouldn't judge me.

Yesterday, the scissors went walkabout. 

I didn't notice their absence until I went to make dinner. Some items require a scissors instead of a knife. There was a hole on the knife rack where the scissors previously were. 

I queried The Husband. He looked perplexed. He remarked that he thought he heard something fall a few hours prior, but would have noticed the scissors in the sink had they tumbled from their lofty perch. 

We employed a cleaning woman yesterday and wondered if she might have borrowed them to open a package of cleansers. Before you all go accusing this lovely woman, stop right there. She is someone I have known for decades. She is one of the few people on the planet shorter than me, (not really relevant, but a fun fact) and she has no problem helping me practice my ugly Spanish. I do the same for her in English, and we meet somewhere in the linguistic middle. She is a trustworthy human and I will not hear one word against her character from the nattering nabobs of the intertoobs. We also pondered the possibility of her nudging the scissors with a duster or a cloth. It would explain the clatter The Husband heard, but the logical conclusion of that scenario is that we would have found them in the sink.

We embarked on a fruitless search. This place isn't that big. There aren't a lot of locations a scissors could decamp to for a rest day. Drawers were emptied, shelves were scrutinized, and garbage was sifted, all to no avail. We are without answers and without shears. The only possible answer we can come up with is that they bounced out of the sink and into the cleaners' open trash bag. It would have been a bank shot worthy of Minnesota Fats, but even a one-in-a-million carom is still achievable. She probably never noticed, and she tossed the trash when she left. Until the f***ing things reveal themselves, I am going with this storyline.

As angry as I am with Jeff Bezos, Amazon is still a wondrous thing. A replacement pair will be here today.

So, why am I boring you all with this insanity? It really isn't important at all. Nobody died or got hurt, and the world is certainly suffering from far bigger issues right now. You might even call this a first-world problem, although I sincerely hope you don't. God, I loathe that phrase. I realized yesterday that I was happy to have a small anxiety. I live in a world of enormous stress. I worry a lot. I sleep very little. My therapist has gifted me many relaxation exercises and tools to curb my disquietude. When they start working, I will let you know. I'm not there yet. I cannot simply move through life without worry, but I have learned that I can't control all the world's ills. I am learning to better compartmentalize. The world is a scary place right now, but wouldn't it be great if the biggest problem we all had was a lost pair of scissors? 

The lost scissors were like a paper cut. It hardly merits a bandaid, but holy shit, did it irritate me. It was like a raspberry seed in my tooth. Sometimes, when we focus on the little stuff, the big stuff evaporates into the background, even if for just a few minutes. For just a small scintilla of time yesterday, I didn't think about my parents, my kids, the environment, politics, angry humans, my friends in Los Angeles, or the Middle East. I was laser-focused on a lost pair of kitchen shears.

When the new pair arrives today, they will assume their position on the knife rack above the sink. The big problems will still be there, but the paper cut will have healed. For a brief moment, my world will once again have equilibrium. 

Welcome to the Internet in 2025

Today, I told a complete stranger on Threads to mind their own damn business.

They passive-aggressively discussed how sad they were to see people still wearing masks in 2025. I passively aggressively suggested that my resolution for the new year was to mind my own damn business. And then, I aggressively, without a hint of passivity, blocked the miserable prick.

The Husband has a wonderful mantra, which he reminds me of often. You don't have to have an opinion about everything, and even if you do, you don't have to publicly express it. Yes, the irony of me and my forceful opinions being married to this man is not lost on me, but he does have a point. There are many times when expressing my opinion is not only cathartic but necessary in order to keep the world spinning on its axis. The Husband would be the first person to agree with me on this point. That said, as I get older, I better understand when it is and isn't ok to express those perspectives. I do it here, in this safe space I've created for myself, and I will, on occasion, share them with the world. All pronouncements that derive out of these scribblings (is it still scribbling if I am using a laptop?) are mine and mine alone. You, the reader, can either agree, disagree, or be totally agnostic. I really don't give a crap. But I will not...repeat...WILL NOT judge someone else's behaviour unless that person is: 

1. Engaging in self-harm

2. Readily harming, either physically or emotionally, another person or persons. (This includes unjust laws, rules, and made-up bullshit that can put someone in danger.)

3. Not competent to make rational decisions.

Politicians are not exempt from judgment because they willingly put themselves into the eye of public judgement and have it in their job descriptions to accept the feces along with the flowers. (Also, there is a special place in hell for the current management team of my beloved Blue Jays, but that is a rant for another day.)

When is it ok to express your opinion? Here is a quick user's guide to minding one's own business.

It is never ok to comment on or engage in gossip about a person's physical appearance. I don't care if they are celebrities or garbage collectors. Tattoos, piercings, weight gain, weight loss, clothing choices, hairstyles, or colour is none of your damn business. It doesn't matter if Oprah lost weight on Ozempic or if she wore her knees to the cartilage in the gym. It's her business. What is ok to comment on is if Oprah was trying to sell the public her Weight Watchers products while slimming down on GLP-1 drugs. That is as close to a scam as it gets. Her physical appearance? Mind your own damn business.

It is never ok to judge any person or couple for remaining childless. I shouldn't have to say this, but telling someone they will regret their own choices is staggeringly arrogant and intrusive. You have no idea why or how they came to those decisions. Mind your own damn business.

I am sick and tired of people telling me they know how a celebrity feels about anything or everything. These people have publicists and teams of people who craft their image. You know what they want you to know or what their enemies want you to know. Stop acting like you really understand Brad and Angelina's divorce or how the King feels about his wayward son and daughter-in-law. Mind your own damn business.

You can never know what a person is going through or what is happening in their lives. There is sickness, stress, children, financial worries, and family interactions that factor into everything. When you tell a person to stop wearing a mask because it offends your sensibilities, you are telling the cancer patient to play Russian roulette with their lives or the senior citizen to pass on diseases to their entire residence. Grow up and mind your own damn business.

A person's health situation is theirs alone to share. Mind your business.

It is always ok to call out misinformation and disinformation. No, the earth is not flat, no matter how many million-dollar basketball players say it is. Raw milk is dangerous for human consumption. Louis Pasteur was a genius. Covid is not over. Vaccines work, and measles and polio are terrible and deadly diseases. Jonas Salk was a genius, too. Abortion is healthcare, and health insurance is not healthcare. These are not opinions. These are facts. This IS minding your business. 

I have much more to say on this topic, and I have a feeling I will get the chance as 2025 unfolds before us. My Sister/Cousin asked me if I was going to have a New Year post, and I honestly told her that I doubted it. It only took one asshole this morning on the intertoobs to get me going. 

Happy 2025. Mind your own damn business, and don't make me come back here to tell you why you are doing it wrong. (See what I did there?) It's going to be a helluva year.

I Am Just So Angry

**This post contains copious amounts of swearing. If you can't handle it, stop reading now.** 

I am just so angry.

I don't want to be mollified by prayers or platitudes about self-care. I don't want to dedicate myself to working towards the collective good. Today, I want to marinate in my anger and have it validated. 

I am just so fucking angry.

I am not interested in women's marches or girding for the next battle. I need to be angry and I need all of you to accept it.

We didn't lose a sporting match. It wasn't our team versus theirs. As a long-suffering Leafs fan, I know exactly what that feels like. This is so different. We are standing on the precipice of something very dark and ugly and if I can't be angry about that, then when can I?

Here's my abbreviated list of anger items. (It's only abbreviated because I'm just so fucking tired.)

I am angry that extreme and mostly male politicians around the world are making our lives less safe. I am so pissed that they are swinging their limp dicks around to prove that toxic masculinity is the only way to govern. 

I am angry that they use us as cudgels against each other and can't find ways to sit and discuss the obvious issues that most of us can easily see. I am furious that they are actively breaking centuries-old norms and changing laws to suit their disgusting need for absolute power. 

I am so angry that most of these leaders see women as their enemies or handmaids instead of their equals. I am so nauseated that they think that it is still ok to pay us less, roll back our bodily autonomy, slow-walk us on childcare issues, and pretend that they are our protectors. (Don't come at me with a not-all-men bullshit excuse. This is a failure of political leadership, and it is mostly a male problem.)

I am furious that these assholes have mesmerized strong pluralities of our populace with simplistic slogans, and hostile solutions to complex problems, and have offered permission structures for the worst of us to rise and punch down at those who cannot defend themselves.

I am raging at the idea that my granddaughters might have less say over their own healthcare than I have enjoyed. Yes, I live in a country where this isn't a problem, but I am always on edge that it could become one. I was in Dublin when Ireland finally adopted abortion rights in their still very Catholic country. The joy spilled out onto the streets. I weep at what my sisters south of the border are currently enduring. 

I am fuming at the behind-the-curtain deals and the quiet handshakes that are happening to keep the worst people in power. I am so very angry that billionaires, oligarchs, and dictators are colluding behind the scenes to act in their own self-interests rather than those of their citizens. 

I am livid I still have to tell my LGBTQIA+ friends and family that their humanity is no different from my own. It is beyond the pale that these wonderful humans are still being used as political cudgels.

I am so pissed off that the worst human beings imaginable are our political leaders and that almost all of them are unprincipled shitheels. Party be damned. The naked corruption and self-interest are so antithetical to what we were previously taught about good and effective leadership. There is simply no decency in most of these people.

I am angry that many of my Jewish friends have become one-issue voters. I am angry that they can't see how they have been manipulated in the name of political self-interest. Israel needs to be protected, the hostages released, and antisemitism needs to be eradicated, but supporting the unholy alliance of disgraceful world leaders to prop up Netanyahu has to end. I have no doubt that Bibi tanked numerous peace initiatives to help Trump. We know for a fact that they were talking offline. Hamas and Hezbollah are existential threats that need to be destroyed, but we Jews need to acknowledge that the comprehensive destruction of Gaza and Beirut is highly questionable. The Palestinian people are our brothers and sisters, and they deserve to live their lives in peace. 

I am angry that many of my non-Jewish friends can't see how we Jews are suffering right now. Both of these things can be true without bowing down to Pharaohs who want to pit us against one another because it is good politics.  

I am so fucking angry that we can't tell the difference between a factual news item and a bogus one. I hate that the richest man in the world has monetized his social media network to act as a propaganda arm for the extreme right-wing motherfuckers. Most decent people are angry every minute of every day because they doom scroll inside of their political bubbles of choice. Ask yourselves why you viscerally hate moderate politician XX or XY, and then try staying off the socials for a month. You might actually feel better and realize that somebody somewhere has ginned up your anger for their selfish gain. 

I am so angry that these pricks are destroying what makes our cities liveable. Parks, bike lanes, and transit projects are being shelved globally because of questionable construction projects that line the pockets of donors. I am pissed that they are building their political careers on the backs of the most vulnerable. The unhoused, those sick with addiction, the new immigrants and the poor all have reason to worry about what is coming.

I am fucking furious that when men in power feel threatened by smart, strong, and opinionated women, they automatically resort to epithets and insults. I never thought I would hear the "c" word uttered by a presidential candidate, but here we are. 

The Husband and those close to me have validated my anger today. Many others probably would tell me to suck it up, buttercup. Those individuals can seriously go suck it. Today is not the day to fuck with me. I am fuming in so many ways that it will take a while to calm down. Anger is a righteous emotion, and right now, I feel I am on the side of the angels. Do you want to tell me I'm not? 

Fuck off. 

For Talia On Her Third Birthday

Dearest Talia,

Happy 3rd Birthday!! It amazes me every single time I start to write one of these letters, just how quickly time passes. As we approach your third birthday this week, I am simply stunned that this is my fourth letter to you. I have yet to bother to read my previous missives. I thought about it, but I think I prefer to let them all stand on their own. They are each a snapshot in time. I hope they offer some positivity, some life lessons, a bit of old-lady humour, and maybe even a bit of grandmotherly advice. And if they don't? Well, I hope you know that I tried. 

On your third birthday, I want to tell you about one of my all-time favourite movies. Eat Drink Man Woman is a Chinese-language film by the great director Ang Lee. Mr. Lee is probably better known for his Oscar-winning and groundbreaking flick Brokeback Mountain. That movie is one that I hope you will see someday, but when I tell you that I think that Eat Drink Man Woman is a seminal film, I am not exaggerating. (It has been remade in English as Tortilla Soup and it deeply inspired another Chinese language movie called Joyful Reunion, both of which are worth seeing.) The title comes from the Confucian classic, The Book of Rites. It refers to basic human desires and demands we accept them as natural. Eat Drink Man Woman was released thirty years ago and I saw it for the first time when your dad wasn't much older than you are now. The fact that I keep rewatching it is a testament to its message and its staying power.

Eat Drink Man Woman is the story of a famous, semi-retired chef who lives in Tapei. Chef Zhu is a widower who goes to great lengths every Sunday evening to prepare a family feast for his three daughters. The movie opens with a montage of Zhu cooking his various delicacies. It is an array that blasts the senses. You can almost smell and taste his dishes. Every time I see the film, I want to jump through the screen and pull up a chair. Zhu's daughters are less than enthused by the continual demand that they show up every Sunday for a dinner none of them seem to care about. Each woman has a repressed need to show her true self and as the story unfolds, those needs are met. The film expertly displays the important link of food to family, and why even though we may not always sit together for a meal, those tastes and smells stimulate our memories and emotions. 

Several years ago, Zaidy and I had the opportunity to have a special viewing of this film at the TIFF Lightbox Theatre here in downtown Toronto. The guest speaker that evening was the very famous Toronto chef, Susur Lee. Chef Lee spoke of why he prefers to cook his dishes in a family style. He wants people to not only savour his phenomenal cuisine, but he wants them to sit, chat, enjoy, and connect over his food. He talked about the importance of eating together as families, and about how critical it is for families to find history through cooking, recipe sharing, and communal noshing. He said all of this as a proud Chinese-Canadian but he could have just as easily been speaking about my Jewish/Polish/Russian roots.

It isn't unusual to have memories triggered by food. Whenever I bake a chocolate chunk cookie, I remember making them with my mom and her admonishments about the "best ingredients" and how I should never use artificial vanilla. The horror! Those times in the kitchen with her are so precious. I will relish them always. I am instantly lost in a haze of tearful remembrance every single time I eat a rugelach. Nobody made them better than Aunty Marlene. I can see my own grandmother Essie jarring dill pickles and the memory floods back whenever I smell the herbs. Every Pesach seder, Rosh Hashana dinner, Purim Hamentaschen bake, or meal in a Sukkah tethers me to our ancestors. Food and eating are essential to our development of family ties and whenever we eat or cook together, we strengthen those bonds.

When my Aunt Marlene died, I was given a recipe file she kept. Bits of scrap papers or stained computer printouts that she had stuffed into a folder and many were written by her own hand. When I cleaned out Bubby Sheila's closets in Florida this spring, I found a similar cache. Most of these recipes are probably useless to me and I will never even attempt making them, but I can't part with them either. They are like warm hugs coming at me from across the decades. I hope that someday someone will want them. For now, they are more precious to me than a photograph.

Talia, I want to spend hours cooking, baking, and eating with you. I want you to get to know the history of our family. I want you to have our recipes that have been made with love and care. I want to play with you while we make challah dough. I want to help you sneak chocolate chips from the cookie batter, and I want to remind you to always use the best ingredients. When we cook and eat together, we make irreplaceable memories. On this your third birthday, I bequeath to you the gift of your heritage, your family, your recipes, and all our love. 

Here are two family recipes to get you started. 

Bubby Sheila's Famous Chocolate Chunk Cookies

1/4 cup white sugar

1 cup dark brown sugar

2 1/2 cups (scant) flour

1 cup unsalted butter (softened)

1 egg

1 tsp pure vanilla (NEVER ARTIFICIAL!)

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp salt

1/2 cup pecans (chopped and optional. Your dad loathes nuts so I often leave them out.)

1 large bar of President's Choice dark chocolate (chopped) (YES! You read that correctly. An entire large bar of chocolate.)

1. In a medium bowl, sift together flour, baking soda and salt.

2. Cream together butter and the sugars.

3. Add the egg and vanilla

4. Carefully add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture until combined.

5. Add the chocolate chunks and nuts.

6. Using a small scoop, make balls and place them on a baking sheet. (I always put them in the fridge for about 15 minutes before baking.)

Bake at 350 degrees for 12 minutes. 

Aunty Marlene's Rugelach (Good luck making these. I simply cannot replicate them even though this is the complete recipe she always used.)

Dough

1/2 pound butter (softened)

1/2 pound cream cheese (room temperature)

2 cups flour 

Filling

1/2 cup sugar

2 tsp cinnamon

1/2 cup pecans (chopped)

1/2 cup raisins

1/4 cup chocolate chips (optional)

Dough

1. Blend butter, cream cheese, and flour together in a food processor or in a bowl with your hands.

2. Mix until a smooth ball forms. 

3. Divide into 4 equal parts.

4. Shape each into a ball. Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight. 

Preparation

1. Preheat oven to 350 F. 

2. Sprinkle pastry board generously with flour.

3.  Roll each ball into 1/8" (•5 cm) thick circle. 

4. Spread a small and thin amount of raspberry jam over the circle. (Any jam will do, but Aunty Marlene always used raspberry)

5. Sprinkle with cinnamon, sugar, nuts and raisins. (Don't forget the chocolate chips.)

6. Cut the circle into 12 wedges.

7. Roll each wedge from the widest end towards the point to form a crescent shape. 

8. Place on a greased cookie sheet point side down.

Bake for 20-25 minutes until brown. Remove and cool on a rack. Sprinkle with icing sugar before serving. These freeze beautifully.

Happy Birthday, my darling girl. Enjoy all that life has to offer. Eat the cake and cookies, dance with spirit and joy, hug with strength, and always remember those who came before. 

I love you to the moon and back.

Love,

Bubby