Ok, I know there are far more important things going on in the world that discussing Michael Jackson seems trivial – but there is a memory I wanted to share, that I shared with my son while we were watching Michael Jackson music videos Saturday morning. I was commenting on how he really had transcended generations and his videos were (and still are frankly) second to none and to drive my point home, I recalled a family holiday, when we were all (all of us, aunts, uncles, cousins, parents) huddled around the TV in the backroom watching “Beat It” and amazed at the dancing discussing the fact that he had used real gang members – yadda, yadda, yadda. Admittedly, its a fairly insignificant moment in time, but one that brought us together. With family members now gone or changed as a result of illness and how at one point in our history Michael Jackson brought generations together and created a memory that I could share with future generations.
Music is an interesting catalyst – and while some days I struggle to connect with my teenager, we can always have fun singing Beatles songs together or discovering new bands that we all love, like the Flobots. If there is one piece of advice that I could give about having a teenager, it is to get to know and love their music – stay current with it, because there is still nothing that says I love you like a music mix made just for you – and when they make one for you that’s them saying “I love you” and when you play it back that’s you saying “I love you too”. Turn up the volume and turn down the noise.
I rent, I used to own, but now I rent. My house is old, the plumbing is suspect, there is a pile of leaves, dirt, and insects on the roof that worry me to no end. Some of the windows don’t close all of the way and some of the electricity can’t be fixed without a major overhaul. Our shower door is held closed using a huge binder clip and the kitchen is the original and dates back about 60 years. We cannot broil anything in the oven and it runs about 50 degrees too high, but it is home and we want to stay. We moved in at a time when rents were at their cheapest in years and have lived here almost 4 years – our landlords have never raised the rent and they could. In the recent economic hardships we find our selves living pay check to pay check and the option of moving is out of the question.
So, when my family joined the many of people who have found at least one household member out of work and another barely making enough money, we needed to help. We got help from places we expected to find it – family. Never did I expect that our landlords would be people that would also provide help. If it wern’t for their generosity, patience and willingness to work with us and come up with an agreement on paying our rent, we would surely find ourselves without a home of our own. Not every landlord is slum and I hope that we’re not alone.
This year, with the economy in a tail spin, my travel funds have been depleted and I am unable to make the exodus out of California to the promised land of the midwest for my usual seder with my family, only the second time in my life – the first time I was in my last month of pregnancy with my son. For the first time, I am hosting a seder at my house, with not one single family member present other than my husband and my kids. I must admit, I am out of my element here. I don’t even own a hagaddah – the book that tells the story of Passover. I have invited a couple of families from my community and will hope to find the order in the chaos of hosting. This will be a passover meal without gefilte fish – again a first – we’re spoiled, we’ve had homemade gefilte fish at every seder – can’t even think of buying some. This morning, I got up early to start the chicken soup, and as the morning went on my house started to fill with smell of soup slowly simmering on the stove. And while I will miss my family dearly, this morning I feel more connected to my family both alive and dead as the smells of passover begin to fill my home. Ahhhh – Aroma Therapy for the Soul.
Just like myself, my friend Christina is not a very enthusiastic cook. We are firm believers in cooking Dutch style: bread with cheese or jam for breakfast, sandwiches for lunch and a simple hot meal for dinner.
Not bread, pancakes!
Christina loved her Iranian in-laws dearly and was happy when they came to visit her in Holland for a month, but cooking for them drove her crazy. At that time, the older generation in Iran used to eat two hot meals a day, which meant that elderly housewives spent most of their time in the kitchen. This was one aspect of grandpa and grandma’s visit that Christina was not too happy about. Moreover, she was quickly running out of ideas as to what to cook for them. One bright morning, she decided to make pancakes for lunch. She was sure grandpa and grandma would like them. Grandma was curious to see how they were made and sat in the kitchen to observe the whole procedure. As the baking got along, grandma started to look more and more concerned and finally could not stop herself from blurting out: “The next time you want to bake bread, I’ll do it because you just don’t know how.”
After 20 years, Christina still gets upset when we laugh about this episode.
I know that my grandfather came to America on a ship called the Bremen when he was eleven years old. I only recently learned that his last name when he arrived was Mednik. In the absence of a detailed and well-documented family tree, I have often wondered about my own genetic legacy.
One thing I know is that I am not related to Queen Victoria
It seems that I am not alone, listen to this provocative piece from Radio Lab:
Even before the Revolution, one had to put a lot of effort into celebrating Christmas in Iran. However, because of the large number of foreigners living here at that time, it was possible to make the day enjoyable. Christmas trees and ornaments were available everywhere, American turkeys could be bought in the supermarkets, Christmas carols were played on radio and TV and Iranians in the street wished us a “Happy New Year”. They always mixed up Christmas and New Year’s Eve and then applied the rules for the Iranian New Year (March 21) to it. As a result, just when I wanted to sit down with my family to enjoy Christmas dinner, Iranian friends started to drop in one after the other to wish me a “Happy New Year”. The children all knew about Christmas presents and kept on looking at the tree to see if anything was there for them. Luckily I had expected this and had purchased and wrapped a lot of extra little presents, so there always was something for everyone, even the grown-ups. Also a blessing that the American turkeys were so big and fat so that there was enough to eat for all.
But nowadays, Christmas in Iran is the saddest day of the year for me. Nothing on radio or TV, only some sick-looking turkeys are available in a few of the market places, hardly any trees can be found, and most Iranians have no idea it’s Christmas. It’s a normal working day, no lights, no decorations and most of all, no Christmas atmosphere. Just the usual air pollution, traffic jams, and stressed people.
