Chapter 28. The Continuing Oil Shortage

Chapter 28

The Continuing Oil Shortage

(8 days a week is not enough to show I care)

As our family embraces continents, countries and religions we have always worked hard to respect each other’s faith and traditions.   Perhaps because we were each raised in homes that were traditionally conservative and very dogmatic in their approach to religion, neither of us wanted to let go of the many symbols of the homes and lives that we grew up with.

But with the children gone this push began to decline, both in terms of the desire and the need to celebrate these holidays (except for Christmas which exists in its very own sphere) as we used to.  This change cut across the board, whether we were talking about Halloween, Passover, Easter or in this particular case Chanukah.  Yes, in our house poor old Chanukah was dying and this year it felt sad and moribund. After all, when the kids aren’t home who were we doing it for?

Still we dutifully dug out the glass menorah that we purchased together many years go at a synagogue in Florence and found enough candles left over from last year to approach a ceremony.  I didn’t feel much like praying as we lit the candles in the empty dining room, creating one lonely light to mark the first night of holiday soldiering on into the evening.  No songs tonight, no celebration no wondering just why we would be frying potato pancakes in a home where we fried virtually no food at all.  No dreidl, no chocolate gelt coins, just us.

I spent the day lost in thoughts about my Mom caused no doubt by my choice of what to make for dinner that evening.  Brisket.  No dish symbolized her life like the brisket that she made every Passover and periodically throughout the year.  The recipe was deceptively simple and easy to make and it uniformly yielded great results, something that I could not say about the rest of her cooking (sorry Mom, it just is true).   That is except for except for that year she insisted using a bottle of coca-cola as the marinade.  That was not good at all, way too sweet and so tender it bordered on creepy.

Cooking her brisket did not bring me happy memories that day.  Instead, I felt powerful reminders of my mother’s frustration with her life.  Her constant resentment of our financial status and my father’s lack of education and manners.  How things could have turned out differently if that bastard Hitler just wouldn’t have shown up in Austria in 1938.

As I cut the onions into smaller and smaller slices, I saw her making the same motion, standing next to the sink in the house that I grew up in, her hair in a tight bun, a cooking apron on and bright chicken fat melting in the  pan behind her.  I saw in her expression a life filled with sadness and disappointment.  Of what could have been, not what was.

After finishing the prep and as dinner heated in the over, I thought about Chanukah and the 2008 election of October.  These were two stories that centered around miracles.  But while oil burning for 8 nights instead of 1 was pretty amazing, electing a black man named Barack president of the US, now that was miraculous.

Even as we celebrated Obama’s win earlier that year, letting the Democrats out of their self-imposed exile of disenfranchised bitterness, we knew what a miserable country he inherited.  A nation full of bitterness, misplaced and falsely manipulated rage, division and mistrust, none of which would really ‘change’ after he took office.  We were so intoxicated by the event that we forgot the facts for a few months before reality set in and when it did, it did so with a vengeance that should have been expected.  There was lots of money on the line, the fight would be bitter.

None of that mattered in December 2008.  We were just so happy not to deal with Bush 43 and his policies any more.  We had no idea what was coming, both for us and  the country. Poor Obama, he needed a lamp lit with the oil of hope to burn for 8 nights just as much as the Maccabees did. His light would only last for a short time while before the hatred would begin.

I thought about the story of Hanukah as we ate our latkes and brisket without much thought or energy.   I couldn’t help but love the story even with the religious terrorist overtones, you know Semitic guys in the desert rebelling against the state and all that.  The miracle felt so right and couldn’t we all use a miracle these days with the state of the economy?

We did the dishes quickly after dinner and fled upstairs to our reading materials, making the best out of a sad situation. We went to bed without further comment or contact.

The next morning I attended an unusual graduation ceremony.  The 14 students, all of them from low-income and/or at risk families, had enrolled in a program that taught them how to work in kitchens and restaurants, giving them a second chance in life.  As I watched them receive their diplomas dressed in their chef’s whites I listened to their stories of how much they overcame to simply step up and make it to class every day.  How hard it was for them to work with others, many for the first time, and how thankful they were.  These were real heroes.

During one of the sessions with my coach many months ago I learned a principle that has always been on mind and now came to the forefront.  It was one of the main factors that would bring me out of my funk and back into the world as a fully participating member.  Dharma.  Your reason to do good on during the time spent on this planet.  An Eastern view of the big picture, a sort of celestial universal version of the Jewish version called Mitzvah, all wrapped in your own private destiny with a good dose of personal bravery for leavening and in their thinking, your eternal birth and rebirth as icing on the cake.  I wasn’t at all sure about that last part but it reassured me to think that this core guiding principle ran deep in other cultures.  And more than that, it resonated with what I wanted to do in my life.

Throughout my corporate career in coffee I had done my best to incorporate the concept of doing “the right thing” into my work.  I was proud of the work that I did advancing just causes such as organics and fair treatment of workers at farm.  I had a lot to make up for. There had been plenty of damage that I had contributed to in my personal quest to make a buck during the days of working in the construction equipment industry supplying the massive machines that carved up the earth for mines and forestry.

Was I just looking for a quick hit to improve my karma?  I don’t think so. It is not as simple as that although there is plenty of work to do to right that ship.  It was deep in me and needed to be satisfied.  As I worked with charities (although they were overloaded with volunteers such as myself) I closed a hole in my soul.  It felt good.

The Chanukah meal: Mom’s Brisket.

Ingredients. A 4-to-5 pound brisket.  The bigger the better, you are going to have leftovers so get used to it.

One onion per pound.

One head of garlic.

One bottle of white wine, can be sweet.

Salt

Paprika

Brown Sugar

A covered baking dish, preferably that oblong old blue metal one that your mom used to use.

Preheat the oven to 400.   Chop your onions and peel the garlic.  If freaked out about fat trim.

While the oven heats, line the baking dish with the onions.  Puncture the brisket in numerous places and insert a clove of garlic in each slit.  The more the better.  Rub the brisket with salt, brown sugar and paprika to taste.

Place the brisket in the pan, fat side up.

Cook for 10 minutes at 400 or until there is some browning in the fat.  Flip the brisket onto the bottom of the pan fat side now down.

Cover and lower temperature to 325.  Cook for two hours and check.  When it shrinks to 2/3 of its original size it is done. It should slice easily and there should be lots of liquid.

Thanks Mom for the meditation.

The ipod shuffle top 4

(Sometimes just 4 songs are all you need.)

Frank Sinatra. My Way.  Barely made it through, now seems so sad when you get older.

Ray Charles.  I can’t stop loving you.  Just living in the memories.

Van Morrison, And It Stoned Me.  Moondance.  His voice following Ray’s is uncanny.

John Hiatt.  The Tip of My Tongue. Bring the family.  One of the most underappreciated American songwriters delivers a brutal vision of a failed love.

Sometimes fame never reached those who deserve it. See also, Richard Thompson, guitar and so many many others.