The Matzo Chronicles
By Karen Galatz in Reno, Nevada
I’m Jewish. My husband was raised Catholic. Yet we were married by my rabbi and raised our children as Jewish. Our son had a bar mitzvah, and both children went to a Jewish Day School. We rock Rosh Hashanah like nobody’s business, and I display Grandma’s hand-stitched matzah cloth each Passover seder. And immodestly, I note, I make a brisket that is the envy of the neighborhood!
Yes, over 39 years, we’ve navigated our religious and cultural differences and lived in comparative wedded bliss, surviving even shocks like Jon’s recent culinary confession: “You know, I really don’t like bagels.”
Yet, recently, our marriage took a hard hit, and interfaith cultural issues played a huge part.
I had the flu. I mean, I really had the flu. It was so severe that the doctor debated sending me to the hospital. I was dehydrated and depleted and completely not cute! Handsome Hubby pleaded against it, saying he would take care of me and he did yeoman’s work, struggling to keep fluids down me, pulling blankets on me when I was cold, taking them off when I was hot.
He was the proverbial “Florenz” Nightingale, armed with Fruit Punch Gatorade (yuck), Ginger Ale (ugh), dry toast (gag), pats on the head, tea, and sympathy. He did everything right until …
On Day Five, I awoke from a nap, ready to try to eat something. My husband was in the kitchen. I heard pots rattling. I smelled chicken-y smells. I was getting excited. Jon appeared. He proudly set up a little wooden bed tray with a napkin neatly folded and then brought in a steaming hot bowl of — drum roll — Heart Healthy Campbell’s Homestyle Chicken Noodle Soup, complete with Saltine crackers, a gentle gentile lover’s response to disease. Oh, what would my Mother and Grandmother have said, may they rest in peace! Where was the homemade Chicken Noodle Matzah Ball Soup of yesteryear? Where was even a pot of overly salty Manischewitz Matzah Ball & Soup Mix? Man, oh, man! Where was the deliveryman?
I wept. Yes, I truly did. I appreciated the intent, but after 39 years, my husband doesn’t know from take-out. Now, not only did my tummy ache, but my heart did too! Oy vey!
Happily, however, the sight of a massive bouquet of my favorite flowers, ranunculus, beside the offending Campbell’s eased the pain.
And, also, the marriage and stomach were saved, because of equal joy the deli does — and did — do DoorDash. It just goes to show, you just need a little faith.
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You can read more of Karen’s work at Muddling through Middle Age or contact her at karen@muddling.me.