Brookwrite

Not What They Simcha

by Doug Brook
Southern Jewish Life columnist

Jewish celebrations are renowned for one thing above all else. But what's all that food doing there in the first place? Aside from getting cold -- or warm, if it's supposed to be cold -- during the sermon?

Every December, Jews hear their neighbors sing about tidings of comfort and joy. Jews can almost relate, with their own year-round sightings of comfort and oy. But don't write this off as a recent development in Jewish culture; Jewish suffering (and not just by Jewish mothers) has existed for thousands of years.

The Talmud lists dozens of fast days throughout the year, of which only a handful are observed today -- and most of those by only a handful of people.

According to the recently-discovered Mishnah tractate Bava Gump, food is a part of all Jewish celebrations to counter all those fast days. However, Bava Gump also presents the dissenting opinion of Rabbi Telfon, the Great Communicator, who said that all those fast days were established by rabbinic dieticians to counter all the food at the celebrations.

But are all Jewish celebrations really so positive? Is the ubiquitous food there to mask lurking suffering of which nobody dares to speak?

The Jewish lifecycle starts with a catered celebration, but no Jewish eight-day-old boy thinks that any brisket is good enough to make up for the moyel's bris kit. For girls, the Simchat Bat -- however it's performed -- gives them a name and enough pinched cheeks that collectively seem like they might be the equivalent of a bris. (They aren't. After all, at a bris the kid is fed Manischewitz -- a pain without equivalent.)

Then comes the bar or bat mitzvah, where a heavily catered affair -- and, increasingly often, a ludicrous party -- masks what is euphemistically called the assuming of responsibility as an adult Jew. While the dignity of this longtime tradition spirals toward defeat, it's still really a fete at the feet of our newly-teened to mark the dubious feat of losing their heretofore lifelong lack of responsibility.

The Jewish wedding involves the bride, the groom, the bride, and -- for the chupah -- four almost aptly-named polebearers. To save space, simply think of five wedding/marriage jokes you like, and then move beyond lifecycle events to annual celebrations and the skeletons they hide.

Rosh Hashanah, the subject of U2's hit, "New Year's Day," is a day for apples and honey. Except you can't use your iPhone, which should warn you of the other white canvas shoe that's waiting to drop after ten days of reflecting and repenting (as if the reflecting isn't suffering enough).

On Yom Kippur we wear white, which masks nothing.

Sukkot commemorates the Israelites being stuck in temporary, partially covered huts for forty years until someone finally got a realtor license. So we mask this suffering with... meals in the sukkah. But this backfires thanks to the insects, vermin, and other in-laws that the sumptuous outdoor feasts attract. There's also that pesky rain, cold, and occasional neighbor's football coming through the thinly thatched roof and landing in the hummus on the table in front of the one guest still wearing white after Labor Day outside of Atonement Day.

To celebrate some holidays, the rabbis efficiently combined the suffering with the food intended to mask it. On Chanukah we celebrate how one day of oil lasted for eight days by using seven days' worth of oil to make jelly-filled Krispy Kremes and latkes, the leftovers of which are recycled by the NHL as official pucks after the All-Star Break. All this while chocolate gelt is given to soften the blow that the kids aren't getting real gelt, just real guilt.

Purim retells a light tale of how the Jewish people barely escaped genocide thanks only to a Jewish girl grudgingly entering and winning a beauty contest. Not that they don't deserve to, but this isn't a long-term plan for national defense. Let's eat!

Passover recalls how the Jews were enslaved for four hundred years, that their Big G knew it was coming and let it happen, and once they were finally freed they got forty years of free desert, when they would have preferred dessert. Let's eat! But if that doesn't leave a bitter taste in your mouth, try the Shmurah Matzah.

Doug Brook is a writer in Silicon Valley who has dubbed his avoiding bar mitzvah kiddushes and parties an act of celebratecy. For past columns, other writings, and more, visit http://brookwrite.com/. For exclusive online content, like facebook.com/the.beholders.eye.