Mayrav Saar

Pretty Astounding

  Zev’s classroom recently presented his teachers with a tile inscribed with the psalm “A Woman of Valor.” You know the one: “A  woman of valor, who can find? Her value is far beyond pearls.”

It’s a nice poem, but not one that was ever recited in my house  growing up. Praising a woman for her domestic and mercantile skills? Sure. We’ll get to that right after Benny Hill.

As Zev and I left the school, we spotted another preschooler in the yard, and Zev stopped to watch her play. This girl was about 4, a year older  than Zev, with flowing brown hair and the most mesmerizing green eyes I’d ever seen on a child.

“She’s pretty,” I said to my son, whose staring seemed to suggest the same. I smiled sweetly at her, but the girl wasn’t going to have any of it.

“No I’m not!” she protested. “I’m human.”

A Jewish Ode To Coffee (Or, Is That Matzah In Your Colon Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?)

Steam rises from the placid ebony stillness of my mug, sending the richest aromas to my nose. Just the smell wakes me with sweet little angel kisses to my brain. I’m certain ancient kings did not know fragrances as luxurious as these, scents that have greeted simple lil me every morning of my adult life.

Well, almost every morning.

One year I foolishly eschewed coffee during Pesach. I believed a friend who said that all coffee was chametz (in reality only some of it is – particularly some of the awful instant swill I wouldn’t drink anyway). The Internet was still a new-fangled tool, and the friend in question was dating a guy whose brother was thinking about studying to become a rabbi. Who was I to question such a reliable source?

I hadn’t been drinking coffee long, but wow did I notice its absence. I’m not going to spell it out for you. I don’t need to. Suffice to say that without coffee we Jews “pass over” feeling human, clutching the pit of wet paper and cement where our colons used to be and cursing Moses for not having had the foresight to get a sourdough starter prepped a day ahead of time.

Not Your Mammeleh's Brisket

Long ago, I learned not to be threatened by my husband’s cooking. His culinary skills are far superior to mine, so if he wants to cook, let him. After much soul-searching, I realized that I’m no less a woman for it; and we’re both much better fed.

But a sated tummy can’t always satisfy a fragile ego, and that queasy rumbling of insecurity (jealousy?), overtook me recently when Hubby started making brisket. He bought a slow cooker with the idea that he could fill it with the raw ingredients of dinner in the morning and come home from work to find the fully prepared meal that I am too incompetent to make.

At first I loved the slow cooker. It’s within eyeshot of my desk, and I can smell its savory goodness all day as I work. Then, one day when I wasn’t feeling well, Hubby made brisket.

Through the glass lid, I watched as globules of fat dripped off the slow-cooking meat. The hard outlines of vegetables eventually melted into something blurrier, softer-looking. Even through the glass, I could tell the onions would practically dissolve right in my mouth. The smell was heavenly. It was perfect.

It was infuriating.

Howling Over A Painting

There’s a wolf staring at me, burning a hole in the back of my head with its unwavering gaze.

It’s smaller than me, but it feels like it’s taking up the whole room. That’s the thing about wild animals, and it’s probably why most people don’t let them into their homes. Of course, I didn’t exactly invite this wolf in.

My mom has been taking art classes for more than a year. She’s quite good. Her sculptures are incredibly life-like, and she’s even been commissioned to sculpt and paint a few pieces for friends and acquaintances. But it’s hard for her to create the pieces her customers want because she’s so busy painting wolves.

Snow wolves. Wolves in the forest. Brown wolves. White wolves. Mom has painted lots and lots of wolves. And now one of them is in my house. And I really don’t know what to do with it.

Cry Me A River ... Or, Maybe, A Brand New Car!

I have no idea whether Hillary Clinton won New Hampshire because she choked up after Iowa. And neither does anybody else.

But the implication that women voted for her because they "felt bad," as many pundits have suggested, is simply insulting. Not to Clinton (who cares about Clinton?) but to me.

I have cried my eyes out for things I have really wanted – a pony, my own island, a "free pass" for a night with Johnny Depp. Have I gotten any of them? No.