Sí, Chef!

 The Husband and I are often accused of not caring about food. 

While we are the furthest thing from foodies, we do like to try new delicacies, as long as they fit into our vegetarian lifestyle. I have little tolerance for people who cannot understand that vegetarians can love and appreciate a good meal, even though animal protein is off their proverbial table. 

When we were planning this Spanish excursion, I thought it might be fun to try a Tapas and Paella cooking class. We were looking for something hands-on, as opposed to a mere demonstration, and hoped that our vegetarian eating could be accomodated. When we found what we were looking for, we eagerly signed on.

We were not disappointed. Our master chef for the day, Arantxa, is Corden-Bleu trained and has the energy of the Energizer Bunny. We met her near the Anton-Martin market in the heart of Madrid. We were a class of twelve glassy-eyed neophytes eager to learn at the apron of a master. She took us on a brief walking tour of the market. (Think St. Lawrence meets Chelsea.) We were introduced to the various smells, spices, cheeses, and pickles that are essential to almost every dish in Spain. She told us that traditional Valencia paella is usually made with conejo, (rabbit) but most North Americans cannot stomach the idea of eating their buddy Bugs, so many chefs now make their paella with pork, chicken, or seafood. It is not unusual to also make vegetable paella, so The Husband and I were very excited.

Pork is a very big deal over here. The Spaniards cook it in everything. It is an inexpensive meat and it isn't uncommon to see pork shanks hanging in market windows. Arantxa gave us a very plausible explanation as to why pork is so popular. After the Jewish and Muslim expulsions in 1492, anybody left had to convert to Catholicism. The Inquisition allowed neighbours to rat out any phony Catholic, but if a former Jew or Muslim was serving a huge leg of pork, suspicion was diverted. That tradition of showing off how much pork you are eating has continued to this day.

We made our way over to a converted hardware store to commence the cooking. We were greeted with a lovely sweet vermouth that is usually consumed in the morning, and a plate of green olives, green pickled peppers, and anchovies for the carnivores. We created something called a Gilda. Named for the Rita Hayworth movie, Gildas were devised in the 1940s to give dictator Franco the middle finger. Franco banned any film that he deemed too risque and so, Rita was verboten. Tapas chefs would take pickles, olives and small fish, stab them with a toothpick, and serve them to patrons. In Spain, the colour green is equivalent to what we term as blue in North America, meaning sexy or off-colour. Gildas were deemed salty, sexy, and savoury. 

We made our desserts first. The Creme Catalan is basically a Spanish creme caramel. They needed at least an hour to set up while we moved on to the other dishes. The croquettes were done using a bechamel sauce dough, and the paella was beautifully seasoned with saffron, smoked paprika, and copious amounts of garlic. The meat-eaters feasted on chicken and pork, while The Husband and I were truly satisfied with our enormous cannellini beans and snow peas. All the while, Chef Arantxa was talkative and funny, and she used each and every one of us as her sous-chefs. I was put to work chopping garlic. Did you know that you can eliminate the smell from your hands just by washing them while rubbing something stainless steel? It really works.

The food was delicious, the company exquisite, and the conversation divine. What a wonderful way to complete our time here in Madrid. And don't let anybody tell you that vegetarian cooking is boring or less appetizing. It was delicious.

Some random thoughts:

• We also had Arantxa's assistant Lily helping us today. Everybody needs a Lily in their kitchen. Everthing was clean before we left. She was a marvel
• Paella is never to be stirred. If you do that while it is cooking, it releases the starch of the rice and will have the consistency of risotto. While I love risotto, I wanted paella.
• When asked where the best paella was in Madrid, Arantxa answer "my kitchen." She was so fast you knew she meant it.
• Putting seafood or other meats are acceptable in paella. Chorizo is a big no. It overwhelms the rest of the flavours.
• I need to buy a frying spider. The croquette recipe is a definite must try.

Check out the photos. They are mostly from The Husband. The odd one is mine.

Mercado de Andre-Martin

Garlic galore

Saffron and paprika

The Chef in her element

Perfect Paella

Chef The Husband

Blow torching Creme Catalan

Gallery Hopping is Not Touristy

There is a strange conversation that takes place amongst people when they learn of others who are travelling. 

"You certainly aren't going to that, are you? It's so touristy."

I'm never certain how to respond to such a query. Of course, I'm going to see that or do that. I'm a tourist, for f*** sake. What should I do, instead? Wait for a local to stumble across my sad Canadian self and take pity on me with an invitation to guide me to all the local hidden gems? What utter nonsense. I'm a visitor. Hitting the highlights is what I'm afforded. Touristy is my mantra.

Today's tourist agenda had us headed to places of highbrow culture and art. El Museo del Prado and El Museo de la Reina Sofia were both necessary additions to our itinerary. The Prado is the largest art museum in Europe, or so say the Spaniards. If you ask a Frenchman, they will tell you that The Louvre is bigger. Let them fight. I'm fairly certain wars have been waged for less honour. I just want to be dazzled by artistic brilliance.

I will say up front that the collection at the Prado isn't my usual cup of creative tea. I tend to favour paintings that aren't quite so Christian-centred. As The Husband remarked, there are themes of death and destruction that seem to run through much of these great works. That said, I wanted to add the Prado to my list of great art museums. 

It is a wonderful place. They gift visitors with a floor plan and some not-to-be-missed highlights. As we wandered the great halls, I played a strange version of great master BINGO. I checked off the important works on my map and spent extra time reading the summaries. As I played, I realized I was learning and developing an appreciation for things I had previously dismissed. I really got into it while watching several groups of schoolchildren who were on field trips. I loved listening to their questions (juvenile Spanish is right there in my wheelhouse) and I enjoyed the animated looks on their faces. One teacher had her students pose in ways that mimicked a certain painting. The kids loved it and so did I. Groups of high-schoolers were filling out questionnaires their teachers had given them. It was like a teenage scavenger hunt through the Spanish masters. By the time we were done, I had checked off more than fifteen paintings on my BINGO card and felt artistically sated.

The collection at La Reina Sofia was very different. This is the home of Picasso's masterpiece Guernica and we made a beeline for it before it was overrun by crowds. The queen's collection also includes many works by Dalí, Miró, Matisse, and Gris. This art is far more my thing. I love imagining the artists in their studios going through their creative processes. It amazes me how talent rises and the journey it takes. 

I suppose you could classify our visits to the galleries as touristy. I really don't care. It is what travelling to different places is all about.

Some random thoughts:

• Gallery patrons need to learn some etiquette. View the painting and then move out of the way for others to see. There were times today I felt like a child at a parade behind a family of tall people.
• La Retira park in the museum district was a lovely oasis for our lunch. It is sort of like a small Central Park.
• While I am grateful that the rain has passed, it is unseasonably cold in Madrid. While most of Europe is basking in record heat, Iberia has been really chilly. I am looking forward to the warm up as we head south.
• This city is not easy to navigate. The roads go every which way and there seems to be little logic behind the layout. Thank goodness for Google Maps.
• I had the weirdest experience at the Prado today when these two painting were right next to each other. I am just sharing the descriptions because the docent yelled at me for taking photographs. Check out the names of the paintings.
  
  
  
  
  
  
• What the hell is this doing here?

Some photos from today. Some from The Husband and some from me. You figure out who is the better photographer.

Rubens (My favourite from The Prado)

Guernica

Dalí

It's Not Easy Being a Jew in Spain

There are churches on every corner here in Madrid. Literally. Every single corner. The Spanish are certainly pious members of the faithful. We took a quick jaunt up to the roof of our hotel last evening, and I lost count of the number of spires I could see. Churches churches everywhere and not a synagogue in sight. There are obvious historical reasons for the lack of Jewish presence, but it really is remarkable how powerful The Church's reach is here.

Spain is one of the seats of Sephardic Jewish culture, so we were anxious to visit whatever sites and historical landmarks we could find on this journey. There really was a time when Christians, Muslims, and Jews all lived together here in peaceful coexistence, but like so many other times in our history, we were marginalized, ostracized, beaten, tortured, and finally expelled. We knew that we had to make our way to Toledo to find some of that long-buried Jewish heritage.

We met our guide, Irene, at the train station on the outskirts of the town for our walking tour of Toledo. It is an ancient and medieval city with high walls and fed by the river Tajo. At various times in its existence, it has been ruled by Visigoths, Romans, Muslims, Jews, and Catholics. The city is known as the "City of Three Cultures" because all three major religions are well-represented in the symbols and ancient buildings. I need to say that there was excitement mixed with a palpable discomfort. We asked Irene how many Jews still reside in this town of 86,000 citizens and her reply was a stunning 4. We literally doubled the Jewish population of Toledo today by our mere presence. Jews established themselves in Toledo as early as the fourth century, although Jews may have settled in the area even before Roman times.  The very narrow and cobblestoned streets are filled with archeological remains and found documents that have made this town one of the most important Jewish quarters in all of Europe. We saw remnants of old mikvah in an excavated home and a basement of another abode that could very well have served as a secret synagogue, complete with mikvah. An excavation of one wall revealed a remnant of a Torah scroll with the Song of the Sea. The archeologists have surmised that whoever put it there, might have wanted to remember their own exodus from a place of bondage to a land of freedom. While Jews coexisted quite well here with their Muslim brothers, the influx of Catholics was another matter altogether. The domination was total and ruthless. They constructed a monastery on the site of the demolished mosque. There is a belief that there might have been at least eleven synagogues in the walled city. Several foundations have been unearthed, but so far, only two are identifiable. 

The Synagogue de Santa María la Blanca is one of the oldest in Europe and was built in an oriental style very similar to a mosque. The builders probably used architects from Muslim projects. After the expulsions, the synagogue was converted into a church, but today stands as a testament of resilience. El Tránsito Synagogue was built by Samuel Leví. A treasurer to the king, he was afforded great power and wealth. Even though Jews were limited in their professional choices at this time, Samuel Leví managed to get this synagogue built through his close personal relationship with King Pedro. The rich plasterwork in the sanctuary survived its eventual conversion to a church. When we queried Irene about why Hebrew Psalms are adorning the walls, she said, "We Spaniards are a very lazy people. Since nobody could understand the Hebrew anyway, they left it alone." Thank God for Spanish sloth. El Tránsito houses the Jewish Museum of Toledo which seems to serve as an educational hub for tourists. It felt bizarre to wander by Jewish artifacts like channukiyot and tallitot and realize that other people in the room were treating Jewish existence as if it were a part of a forgotten history. It was unnerving.

This is a place that is a must-visit on your Spanish itinerary. It is lovely, fascinating, and vital in our quest to keep Sephardic Judaism alive.

A few random thoughts.

• We managed both the crazy metro system and the Renfe trains. There were myriad ways we could have ended up in Barcelona today. We actually made it Toledo without a hitch.
• Irene wasn't just a wonderful and knowledgeable guide, she is also really cute. I know this because The Husband mentioned it at least three times.
• We paid the four euros to see the most magnificent painting by El Greco, who made his home in Toledo. I am not usually a fan of artworks from this period, but El Entierro del Conde de Orgaz was absolutely worth our time and cash. If you find yourself in this part of the world, check it out. It is so beautiful.
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• Miguel Cervantes seemed to have spent a great deal of time here. While there is no evidence that he actually wrote Don Quixote in Toledo, the locals like to pretend that he did. He has a large and playful likeness in the Plaza de Zocodover and a statue at the city entrance. I can't think of another Cervantes work. That seems odd.
• There are several markers throughout the Jewish Quarter that resemble menorahs, chais, or a stylized "sefarad" in Hebrew text. The city decided to mark the Jewish Quarter but there is no logic to their placement. Irene told me that one of her clients asked if they were WiFi symbols. I told you all that Judaism is a vanished culture here that is only found in museums.
• All photos today are credited to The Husband.

I think I like this country. The history can be disturbing, but the people are great and the culture is phenomenal.

Driving into Toledo

Not a Wifi marker

Says Sepharad in Hebrew but the negative space says Zachor (remember)

Santa María la Blanca Synagogue

El Tránsito Synagogue

A Rainy Day in Madrid

 Nuestros viajes han comenzado!

This trip has been four years in the making. We were all set to do España in May of 2020, but something global and ugly thwarted our travel plans. So, here we are...FINALLY. We will begin our travelogue in the capital city of Madrid, and work our way east across this lovely country until we hit Barcelona.

Our flights weren't terrible, but a food services strike at Toronto Pearson made for some quick and anxious scrambling for take-out. TAP Airlines bequeathed each of us with vouchers worth $40.00CDN to fill the hunger gap on the plane, but when a salad at Pearson costs $15.00 each, those vouchers don't go very far. The strike in Toronto is not the fault of the airlines, but it is my assertion that better accommodations need to be made for passengers. We were flying in business class for a seven-hour flight, and that dollar amount didn't cover our dinner. As an added bonus, there was a ridiculous amount of garbage on the flight due to every passenger's take-out orders. The flight attendants didn't collect the trash at all during the flight, which diminished the already precious legroom. In our long history of flight mishaps, it was relatively minor, but people pay a great deal of money to fly these days. I know it is asking a lot of airlines to do better, but here we are.

We arrived in Madrid tired, happy, ridiculously cold, and determined to not screw up our systems with jet- lag. After checking into the hotel in the city centre, we ambled down to Puerta del Sol and Plaza Mayor. These bustling areas are filled with shops, people, taquerías, and tapas restaurants. It seemed like every single person in Madrid was enjoying an afternoon cerveza on a patio. The city has recently turned this space into an entirely pedestrian-friendly zone, and the activity was astounding. Don't let anybody tell you that pedestrian areas don't attract business. We knew that we didn't have much energy left in us, so we opted for a quick bite at a local tapas joint before heading home for a luxurious and well-need sleep. The Padron of the establishment wanted to know where we were from. When we told him, he asked if we had anything Canadian that we could give him. The Husband was wearing a small flag pin he was happy to part with. When the gentleman returned to our table with the food, he was proudly wearing a Canadian flag on his chest. We barely made it back to the hotel before sleep set in.

Our plan for today included a visit to Felipe and Letizia's place. A small modest abode sitting in the heart of Madrid, the Royal Palace and adjacent buildings are open to the public. The king is a gracious host and was happy to share his official residence with the thousands of tourists who joined us there this morning. I have been to many palaces around the world and the opulence never ceases to amaze me. The chandeliers alone could probably feed a small country. And the frescoes?? The human hours put into the decoration, architecture, and maintenance needed to keep this place up, boggles the mind.

Anyway, even though Fil and Letty didn't show themselves for lunch, (How rude!) they wanted to make sure to say hello to all of my readers back home. Aren't they a handsome pair?

We wandered over to the Muslim walls after our trip through European decadence. The first record of a settlement here dates back to the second half of the ninth century. Emir Muhammed I built a fortress here at the head of the river Manzanares. The name of the city is thought to have come from the Arabic word majra, meaning water spring or aqueduct. The outer walls of the Muslim fortress are still visible and a beautiful little park has been built to celebrate the city's Near-Eastern history. The park has been purposely designed with all sorts of fragrant plants from the Muslim home countries. Lavender circles cypress and pomegranate trees. Rosemary and rose scents mix luxuriously with myrtle bushes and olive trees. It is a beautiful little area that surrounds a fountain fed by an underground aquifer. The Muslim walls stand proudly but are intentionally overshadowed by the Cathedral de la Almundena. It is a real demonstration of Catholic dominance.

A few quick thoughts:

• The weather today leaves a lot to be desired. It is cold and rainy. It is one thing to be cold and another to be wet, but both at the same time isn't pleasant. Hopefully, we will see some bluer skies soon.
• We ducked into another tapas place for a bite and to escape the rain. El Padron told us, "everything is good and if you don't like it, don't pay." He had spent some time in Ottawa many years ago and was anxious to be a gracious host. He even gifted us dessert.
• I need to write a withering note to Coca-Cola. They seem to have done away with Diet Coke/Coke Light in Europe and replaced it with the far less appetizing Coke Zero. Oh what we North Americans have to put up with while in a foreign land. 
• My Spanish is coming in handy. I'm able to decipher monuments and make sure that The Husband isn't eating any mushrooms in his food. So far, so good.
• Photo credits to The Husband with the exception of the royal portrait. That's mine.

We are headed to Toledo tomorrow and will see some Jew stuff. We're going to sample the metro and the train system. Keep us in your prayers.

 

Molly Is Six!

Dearest Molly,

Time is a funny thing. For kids, it passes oh so slowly. School days sometimes seem to drag on forever, with no end in sight. For us older folks, we can’t believe how quickly the calendar turns. An old parenting adage says, “The days are long, but the years are short.” From my perch, on the wrong side of sixty, it has never felt more poignant or more true. As you approach another trip around the sun, I am marvelling that this is the seventh letter I have written to you on these special days. I wonder if I am repeating myself in these missives, and then I realize that it doesn't matter. I am writing from a specific point in time; a tiny dot in the connections of your young life. Things change so rapidly in the world today, but I am hopeful that someday you might find use for these petty scribbles. I hope that these letters can connect us across a continuum of space and time and that hopefully, you can look back on them with nostalgia, love, and maybe just a wee bit of childlike excitement. 

I thought that for this birthday letter, I would tell you about some of the amazing women in your lineage who never had the chance to meet you, but would have been so awed and totally captivated. These wonderful people helped to shape me and make me a better person. They were kind, compassionate, and fierce in their own ways, and they served as both inspiration and role models for me when I was still searching and in need of guidance. You see, Molly, we stand on the shoulders of those who came before and it is important to remember the lessons they taught.

My grandmother Essie was my lodestar when I was a kid. Widowed at fifty-three, she came to live with us when I was younger than you are now. I've been told she was lost and sad in those first years, but that isn't how I remember her. She would sit with me for hours and tell me stories about her rebel days. She was a bit of a wild child who liked to think of herself as a flapper and enjoyed fun evenings out as a young woman. She loved to dance and party. It was difficult for me to imagine that my grandmother had lived a whole other life that I didn't completely understand. When she met my grandfather, he lied to her about his age and it wasn't until they were getting ready to marry, that she discovered that she was three years older than him and that he needed his parents' permission to wed. She used to joke about "robbing the cradle," but it never seemed to bother her that she married a younger man, even though propriety at that time dictated otherwise. She was stylish and always perfectly coiffed. She worked her entire adult life, mostly because money was tight, but she held jobs as a working mother in an era when that simply wasn't done. By the time I knew her, she was still working in women's fashion stores every day until her mid-seventies. She loved her work. She was so proud when I came to visit the store and she could kvell to all her friends and coworkers. She would bring home treats every day for Uncle Michael and me and she would sneak them to us when my mom wasn't there. She often travelled with us, and I will never forget her joy when we toured England and Israel. She was feisty and strong in those days. She devoured everything she saw and she flirted with one of the single men on our tour. When I was twelve, she told me that she was moving out and getting her own apartment. I cried for days. I couldn't imagine her not being in that room at the bottom of the stairs. She lived long enough to meet and dote on your Uncle Daniel and your dad. She was tough but fair. She was lovely and loving. She taught me compassion and patience, even though the lessons went missing more times than I can count. Thinking of her today reminds me that even when life throws you the worst possible curveball, there can be joy. 

Zaidy's grandmother Rae was a truly extraordinary woman. From the first moment I met her, she wowed me. She was a powerhouse of personality all compacted into a tiny frame. When Zaidy first brought me to meet her, she hugged me and told Zaidy that he wasn't allowed to ever let me go. She had seven grandsons and I was the first girl to enter into that generation, so I quickly became special to her. She was tough and brash and she spoke her mind with a refreshing ease. She subsisted on caffeine and plain potato chips. I don't think I ever saw her eat a complete meal. Perhaps it was because she was the worst cook you could possibly imagine. Everything she made was a different shade of grey, but nobody in the family would ever tell her, either out of benevolence or sheer terror. But as horrid as she was in the kitchen, she had golden hands when it came to anything with a stitch. She was a seamstress extraordinaire. I didn't realize how widespread her clientele was until one day, my Bubby Essie went to have some clothes altered. She saw a picture of your Zaidy in Rae's home and asked how she knew him. The connections were strong. She hopelessly tried to teach me to knit. I was over at her place every day attempting to retrieve dropped stitches and pulled yarn. Those times were some of the best I ever had. She would ply me full of some store-bought baked goods while she tried to be encouraging about my lack of talent. It was never about the knitting. It was about sharing. I had been told stories about how she wasn't the best mother. She was opinionated and could be harsh, but I never saw the neglectful side. She worked hard all her life and I believe she did the best she could. For me, she was a link in the chain that brought me closer to Zaidy's family. She wanted so much to be there for me. She offered to babysit and would often show up unannounced with Zaidy Harry just to visit. When she became less able to get around, I would take her grocery shopping. A child of the depression, she instructed me to drive to every store in the area because that's where the deals were. Of course, it would have been easier for me to just do the shopping for her, but that would have denied her the outing with me.  Bubby Rae lived her passions. She loved the only way she knew. She is a reminder to me to always seek out that which makes you happy. Surround yourself with good people and never be shy to express an opinion. 

My aunt Marlene was my Other Mother. I simply don't have a childhood memory that doesn't include her. She and Bubby Sheila were two halves of the same whole. The balance they brought to each other was stunningly amazing. Marlene loved me as if I were her own. She always said that she had four children. I spent almost as much time in her home as I did at mine. Miriam and I used to plot about how we could arrange sleepovers, and while she feigned annoyance, she never cared. She was gentle and yet, she exuded a quiet strength infused with tremendous compassion. I used to watch her lovingly feed and care for the hundreds of puppies that passed through their home, sometimes at hours of the night that weren't meant for human beings. There was something innately maternal about her. It transferred easily to the hundreds of youth groupers in her care. She was creative and she loved trying new things. Cooking and baking were a true passion. I still have hundreds of her recipes written in her own hand, and I feel her presence when I use them, although I still cannot accurately recreate her rugelach. She could talk your ears off and her shaggy dog stories are legendary. She introduced me to Star Trek, Cary Grant, a love for old movies, and country music. I'll never forget going into her Florida home shortly after she died and turning on her music app which was set to Lady A. I cried for an hour. When I remember her, I know I was loved fiercely and how I was guided by so many caring and kind people. She was simply marvellous. 

Molly, these women shaped me. They helped point me in directions I never would have thought possible and they made me feel as though I could accomplish anything. Along with other role models, like my own mother, your mother, and various teachers and mentors, these women built a foundation for me upon which I built my own womanhood. They weren't perfect people, nobody was or is, but they blazed a path forward that I could follow. It is my hope that you will find and embrace amazing women throughout your life, too. The men in my life have offered different lessons and should never be discounted, but it is the women who gave me the foundation.

Happy 6th Birthday, my darling Molly. May the coming year bring only fun, joy, health, and amazing new experiences. May you continue to find and embrace all sorts of people who will help guide you along life's path. 

I love you with all my heart. 

Love,

Bubby

 

May You Phish In Hell

A short story.

My parents, both in their mid-eighties, are moderately technology literate. They understand email, web surfing, Zoom, (as long as they remember to mute), and, God help me, social media. My dad is also reasonably competent when it comes to online banking. There is a limit, however, and as I have discussed in this space before, there is a technology wall whereby we reach the end of understanding the net. Today's experience is a cautionary tale for anybody dealing with seniors and technology.

Last year, Netflix put an end to password sharing in Canada. My parents had been living large on the back of my Netflix account for several years. After several frustrating discussions with the company, it became obvious that the easiest thing to do would be to add Mom and Dad as additional users on my account, and they could pay me the extra fee in cash. It was the simplest solution to a frustrating problem for my folks who are regular users of Netflix. They were in agreement, and that is what we did. They never had any contact with Netflix, they've never seen a Netflix charge on their credit cards, and they went on with their viewing habits as if nothing had changed. Netflix doesn't even have their email addresses. It all goes through me.

Today, I walked into my parent's apartment to chat. I asked my dad what he was doing, and he said, "I'm renewing my Netflix account." I was incredulous and told him he didn't have a Netflix account. I reminded him that all Netflix stuff goes through me. He looked at me like I had two heads. I gently reminded him of the changes from last year, but memories aren't always as sharp when we get to a certain age. I asked him if I could see the email he received, and he handed me his phone. The sender came through as @xNetfli, but I can forgive my father for not looking at that. I was fortunate to stop him before he gave them his credit card information. This time. The Husband wondered how many times he might have been previously duped. I can only pray it hasn't happened. I once again warned Dad against these phishing emails and told him that if he gets an email asking for funds from Facebook, Prime, or any other subscription, he is to call me before answering. I also told him again that Netflix isn't ever something he needs to worry about.

I realize that we live in a world of shitheads. These bastards prey on the vulnerable, hoping to separate them from their cash. They also prey on the fears that seniors have with changing technology. The constant updates and new ways of doing things are really confusing. Is it any wonder that people get scammed? 

Please check in with your senior friends and family and make sure that they haven't taken the bait. There is a special place in hell for phishing scammers.

How Would You Deal This?

Last evening, I had an uncomfortable encounter with a man I had just met. 

We had been invited to an intimate Chanukah celebration at the home of a dear friend. My parents were also invited, but other than them, we were unaware of the guest list. I suspected my friend's cousins would also be there, and I was excited to see them again. It had been far too long between visits. So, we packed my folks into the car and off we went.  

When we arrived, I was thrilled to see my old friends. The hostess had also included her business partner, who kept my overly gregarious father busy with her tales of woe, and her 99-year-old uncle, whom I hadn't seen since we shared a Pesach seder over thirty years ago. The man is still as sharp as a tack and twice as witty. Rounding out the attendees were two couples from my friend's building that she is close with; one originally from New York and transplanted to South Florida, and the other snowbirds from Toronto. We shook hands, made our acquaintance, and dispensed with the superficial social conventions. 

I am often shy and quiet in new social situations. I initially listen to conversations around me and get a feel for the people I have just met. Some people mistake this for rudeness. I promise I'm not rude, but rather unsure of my surroundings. Introverted people lay back. We don't jump into new conversations with both feet. More often than not, we take stock and then engage. I absolutely avoid discussions about politics or religion until I can get a handle on how people react. I needn't have worried. Between my dad, who is never at a loss for words, and the other guy from Toronto, there wasn't a moment to participate in the conversations. Have you ever been confronted with a situation whereby you know immediately and instinctively that somebody rubs you the wrong way? That was me with this gent from my hometown. He walked into the house like he owned the place, was loud and obnoxious in his demeanour, and had an opinion about everything, from the Chanukiyot on the table to the choice of which Chanukah songs we would sing. He overshadowed his lovely wife in every way imaginable, including correcting her multiple times during her stories. He was boorish, pompous, and pontificating. I stayed quiet. All Jews are talking about Israel these days, but I was silent. All Jews are discussing the rise of antisemitism, but again I simply listened. I wasn't shocked to hear Mr. Boor and his wife spout long-disputed conspiracy theories about Mr. Trudeau or the CBC, but again I remained mum. 

 The Husband and I did that marital glance we do when we want to roll our eyes but refrain from doing so for fear that someone might see us. We were definitely on the same page about this dude.

Mr. Boor settled in comfortably for the evening. People like him always do. They take command and control of the setting and the people and then proceed to dominate every conversation. Our hostess was gracious and charming. She invited The Husband and me into the kitchen to point out the vegetarian options she had prepared especially for us. She went out of her way for her aged uncle and was attentive to her guests. She even made sure that all of the food was strictly kosher because Mr. Boor and his wife are practitioners. The conversation at dinner was lively and engaging. I offered an opinion on something I thought was benign, but it turns out nothing is benign these days. I decided to shut up for the rest of the evening.

And then, it happened. I was asked by another of the guests what I did for a living. I told her I was a retired cantorial soloist. For some reason, Jews always find this fascinating. We talked a bit about my career and what it was like for a woman to be a clergyperson. Well, Mr. Boor went off on me like I had two heads. He'd never heard of a woman officiating at a funeral. He told me that Reform Judaism has a different Halacha than his brand. He was condescending and contemptuous. I was firm but polite. There was no way that I was going to disrespect my host by losing my temper, but this fuckwad had grated on my last nerve. I told him that perhaps he hadn't seen a woman officiate at a Jewish funeral in his circles, and I proceeded to tell him that there are many women clergy in Toronto. I had personally officiated at dozens of funerals. I even was so bold as to remind him that the senior rabbi of Holy Blossom is a woman. I suggested that maybe he should expand his Jewish circle and broaden his knowledge. He started to come back at me when I told him that it was perfectly okay with me for him to observe Judaism in any manner that he wished, so long as he afforded me the same courtesy. I wasn't rude and I never told him he was wrong, even though I desperately wanted to.

I am certain that he went home and complained about me to his wife. I'm sure that he thinks that I am a first-class bitch. It wouldn't be the first time that some arrogant prick thought I was too mouthy, but I am so over caring what other people think about me. As we got into the car to drive home, The Husband and I said in almost perfect unison, "What an asshole." My parents, who were having a perfectly lovely evening at the other end of the table, had no idea what had occurred. I had to recount the entire evening for them. They were stunned and a bit mortified.

I will never understand what drives a person to be so rude to someone they have just met. We should have been talking about the Leafs or the Jays. Instead, this guy decided to make me a target and I refused to allow it. I am proud of how I handled him, but I never want to be in his company again.

There is a freedom that comes with aging. I refuse to take shit from anyone. I've spent far too many years swallowing my opinions and my thoughts. This guy had it coming. I hope he remembers me as the bitch who came to Chanukah.