Rabbi’s Musings & Amusings

I’m considering writing a #1 New York Times bestselling book. My hesitation is that, because of my extreme humility, I’m not sure I want to publish such a popular bestseller. But if I do, I think it’ll be called: Two Steps to Perfect Relationships. The fact that it doesn’t guarantee perfection isn’t important. I’ve noticed that many other New York Times Best Sellers do not quite live up to their grandiose and emphatic titles either.

It happens all the time. Our family will be guests enjoying a Shabbos meal at the home of friends, and I or my wife will tell the hostess that one of the dishes, perhaps a dessert, looks delectable and is particularly delicious. The hostess will invariably respond, “Oh! It was so easy to make! Really, it was nothing! It looks so fancy, but it took like five minutes. It’s the simplest thing. I saw it in last week’s – (whichever magazine). I’ll give you the recipe after Shabbos!”

 One morning, when I came down to my basement office, I noticed that the carpet was wet. It had rained hard the previous evening and it was clear that rain had seeped in from outside. The handyman we called to assess the problem told us that there was a thin crack in the outside wall of the house, and it was from there that rain had gotten in and soaked the carpet.

 Last Shabbos, we headed up to the mountains to participate in a wonderful Shabbaton with the ninth and tenth grades of Heichal HaTorah. The car was packed up with linen, luggage, and half our children (the rest went to their grandparents).

This week, our family is celebrating the graduation of our oldest child, Shalom, from High School. The child who transformed us from a couple into a family continues to transform me into an older parent (my wife somehow doesn’t age…).

When anyone asked “why” in her presence, my Bubby, Rebbetzin Fruma (Frances) Kohn would repeat the quip, “Why is a crooked letter!” However, with her European accented English, it would come across as “Vy is a crooked letter.” The irony and G-d’s humor was that for the last decade of her life, Vy was the name of Bubby’s Latin-American caretaker. Every time I went to visit Bubby and she called Vy, I had to restrain myself from repeating the quote I heard from her so often.