Super-Mehadrin is the most fashionable supermarket in Bnei Brak to date. It's open from nine in the morning to midnight, is fully air-conditioned, accepts all major credit cards, and has become a most popular gathering spot to meet all your friends and neighbors. While pushing a modern cart that costs five shekalim to rent (you get your money back when you return it) through the dozens of colorful aisles overstocked with strictly Kosher products, it won't take very long before it is overflowing.
With my three-year-old Shmulik's opshernish-first hair cut ceremony-approaching, there was no doubt in my mind where I would purchase all of the food and decorations. We planned to keep the event very small-just the immediate family-but there was a secret reason I wanted the party to be so special.
For those of you who live very close to your parents and siblings, sharing in one another's Simchas is often taken for granted. You visit each other often, come to the Brises and Bar-Mitzvahs, wish Bubby a happy birthday and kiss her on her cheek, and Zeydie most probably learns with the boys their gemoro and mishnayos.
But for those of us who have chosen Aliyah, birthdays have become a time for reminiscing, a phone call, or a fax. Brises of nephews do not invoke automatic airline tickets, and an opshernish does not always mean that someone is going to be flying over ten thousand miles just to snip off a lock of hair-no matter now sweet your child is!
However, this Simcha was going to be different. My great-aunt, Bluma, from Belgium was scheduled to be in Israel the week of our hair-cut, and she was the reason for my insistence on the best, nicest, finest, most elegant-you name it-dinner.
You see, from Israel Aunt Bluma was flying to Montreal, to visit my parents, and I wanted her to let them know how very wonderful it had been; how delicious all the food had tasted, what a great organizer their daughter was, and how intelligent their grandchildren were. In short, I wanted Aunt Bluma to lavishly praise me, my children, and my life to my parents and give them real Yiddishe nachas. So, tell me, was I being unreasonable? Was I asking for the moon? I think not!
So it was off to Super-Mehadrin with Bina, my twelve-year-old daughter, and self-proclaimed adviser.
"Don't take those white plastic plates," she warned, as I reached out to take them off the shelf. "They're simply awful. Here, we'll take these."
Into our shopping cart floated dainty paper plates, adorned with pink and turquoise roses. I pretended not to notice the price.
"Oh Mommy, look!" I looked all right. Bina had found matching cups and napkins. They truly were lovely. I thought how Auntie Bluma would admire our table, and without the slightest twinge of conscience, neatly stacked them next to their counterpart plates.
"Mommy?" I had to confess that Bina's eyesight was twenty-twenty. She had discovered a matching table cloth, decorated with the same pink and turquoise roses.
This time, however, I protested. "We have a whole roll of white plastic table cloths at home. Why take these?"
Bina's features, usually so pink and placid, now were as white as the roll of table cloths at home. "Mom, don't you realize that it will be a set? We can't have pink plates and cups without having a pink frame for them!" My daughter is very descriptive. She is not the bread-winner in the house, however.
"Bina, this table cloth is very expensive. I'd rather buy products to eat than frames for plates." She shrugged, defeated. "O.K. with me."
In the bread department there was a heavenly aroma of freshly baked pitas. Fifteen steaming breads entered our cart. My mouth watered.
Huge cartons of humus, techina, and mixed salads then joined the pita breads inside the cart. Then eight bottles of soft drinks. After all, this was a Simcha right? Ditto the three rolls of film for my camera, and the can't-be-a-Simcha-without-goodie bags. Two chickens and one turkey later, we were almost done. Or were we?
"Now comes the hard part," my adviser sighed.
"Why?" I obligingly asked.
"There are five different birthday cakes. Which one should we take?"
'The one we are going to bake at home,' I almost answered, but then relented. After all, it was close to four o'clock. Auntie Bluma was due at seven, and I still wanted to polish the entire house. As enticing as a home-baked cake was, I knew I'd never get to it.
"Alright, Bina, you win. Let's pick a cake."
After an agonizing decision between the frothy icings, we headed for the checkout counter.
"Would you like all these packages delivered to your home? Or do you have a car?" the check-out clerk asked graciously.
I deliberated. We were taking the bus and the bags were pretty heavy, even for the two of us. "When will they arrive?"
"By five o'clock. That's the latest hour our deliveries are made."
"Alright, we'll leave them." So I paid the SUPER MEHADRIN bill and we left. Bina was ecstatic the whole way home. "Shmulik will love the cake. Do you know why I picked the one with the pink cars? Because it matches the pink roses on the cups and plates! Shmulik will think it's a highway plastered with pink flowers and pink cars!"
Did I tell you that my daughter is descriptive?
At home, the boys pitched in to "Pesach-clean" for our guest, while I prepared their shirts. Bina and Libby bathed the star, Shmulik.
Shmulik's hair was dutifully shampooed and blow-dried. Five-year-old Libby cooed. "This will be the last time we'll have to comb out your knots," she told him.
At six o'clock, as I was putting the finishing touches to the kitchen, Bina walked in with a worried expression on her face.
"Mommy, where are the packages from Super-Mehadrin?"
"The packages from?" Suddenly I remembered. "Oh dear, I'll have to call and make sure that they're on the way!"
Of course the delivery was on its way, they assured me. In fact, five minutes earlier it had just left the store
I couldn't believe it. "But the clerk promised me that by five they would arrive!"
The telephone operator was apologetic but firm. "We only start shipping at six. Some of our clerks are new and aren't aware of this."
"But I need that food by seven!" I was wailing into an empty receiver. Super-Mehadrin had hung up on me!
My husband arrived from work, anticipating the happy Simcha. He surely wasn't anticipating the worried pucker in my forehead or Bina's matching expression. "What happened?" He held his breath.
"It's all Super-Mehadrin's fault!" Bina blurted out. "They said they'd bring all the things by five and now it's a quarter to seven and we have nothing to serve, the table will be empty, no cake, no goodies, no food, and Mommy can't even take any pictures because she hasn't got any film. Worst of all, Auntie Bluma won't tell Bubby and Zeydie that everything was delicious instead she'll say how disappointed she was of us!"
Sometimes I wish Bina wasn't so descriptive.
The man of the house then took charge. He sent Yossi to the nearby grocery store to buy sliced bread and pickles and bottles of soda. Yossi arrived home, downcast. "The stores are closed. We forgot that it's Tuesday." (In Israel, stores are closed Tuesday afternoons).
My husband consoled me. "We'll start with conversation and I'm sure that in the meanwhile the shipment will arrive."
"Shipment," I muttered to myself. "That reminds me of making Aliyah and how some of our shipments still haven't arrived."
The doorbell rang and we all ran to meet the shipment. Instead we met Auntie Bluma. "Lovely to see you, Rachelle, and the children-kein ayin horo-lovely, simply lovely!" Her large gray wig nodded in each child's direction. We stood in the doorway, not knowing exactly what to do and where to go, but Auntie Bluma seemed to be in charge.
"And where's Shmulik? I've come especially from Belgium to cut your hair!" She withdrew a pair of sparkling silver scissors from her canvas bag and made threatening motions in the air.
Shmulik withdrew aghast.
I finally found my voice. "Let's all sit in the dining room."
The children automatically sat around the (empty) table and Auntie Bluma, of course followed. She plumped a bag of cookies onto the table from her bag.
"The first item on our agenda," I said in my brightest summer-counselor voice, "is, of course, singing birthday songs in honor of Shmulik." (And hoping that Super-Mehadrin will arrive, meanwhile).
"Lovely, lovely," Auntie Bluma's tenor boomed out. "Now that's the way to start a Simcha!"
We sang "Happy Birthday" in English. Then in Hebrew. Then again in English.
Still no sight of Super-Mehadrin.
"How about Siman Tov'?" Dubi asked. I could have hugged him. It's just a shame that Siman Tov' doesn't contain a dozen more stanzas.
Auntie Bluma's wrinkled face beamed with pride. "Such voices! You probably conduct a fine Shabbos table."
I then pounced on the idea. "Oh, would you like to hear our Zemiros?" Quickly, I signaled to Bina to bring out the Zemiros books.
I'm not quite sure what the neighbors thought, hearing the melodies of "Ko-ribon" and "Ayshes Chayil" floating out of the Gershowitz household on a Tuesday night. Either they thought we were practicing for Friday night, or perhaps those weird Americans had actually managed to mix up their days? In any case, and what was more important to me, was that fifteen more minutes had passed, which meant we were fifteen precious moments closer to that knock on the door that would bring Super-Mehadrin into my house-and put an end to this horror.
My children's and husband's repertoire ended. It was time for one of my original ideas. Thankfully, Mother always thinks fast. "And now, Auntie Bluma, each one of us is going to cut a tiny piece of Shmulik's hair, and give Shmulik a special wish and prayer, from the youngest to the oldest. And each one of us will say L'Chayim with a little cup of grape juice. (Fortunately, there was a bottle in the cupboard).
Funny looks passed between the siblings, to be replaced by knowing smiles. I peeked at my watch. Eight o'clock. Where are you food? The children stood up and happily waved their scissors. They lined up near Shmulik.
Libby: (Snip). You should be a Tzaddik and lend my your crayons. L'Chayim!
Dubi: (Snip). You should be a Tzaddik and give me your bike. L'Chayim!
(Can't they think of anything else to say?) Yossi: (Snip). Hashem should make you the richest man in the world. L'Chayim!
(Oh no, what will my aunt think of us?)
Itzik: (Snip SNIP). You should live till 120 years old and add interest to that. Then he added, "I didn't make that up. I heard it someplace. L'Chayim!"
Eliezer: (Snip). Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, happy and wise. L'Chayim!
(How tactful that nobody is wishing him never again to be as hungry as he probably is now).
Now it was Bina's turn. I hoped she wouldn't overdo it. Smiling, she walked over to Shmulik, cut a tiny piece of curl and pronounced: "May you be a shining light in the wilderness of Golus. May your Mitzvos add to the bricks of our Bais Hamikdosh, and bring us Moshiach. And one more thing, Shmulik, I love you! L'Chayim!"
She hugged Shmulik and suddenly I felt tears blinding my eyes. She was right, this twelve-year-old daughter of mine. The essence of our Simcha was our love for each other and our hopes for redemption. Wasn't I getting carried away with minute details instead of looking at the true meaning of this occasion? A pita less, a pita more, what was I getting so upset about?
My husband then solemnly shook Shmulik's hand and wished him Mazel Tov before cutting off his pony-tail.
As if in a dream, I realized that I wasn't going to have any reminder of this opshernish since the film was still taking a tour of Bnei Brak in Super-Mehadrin's truck. But as I looked at Bina's flushed face, still shining with happiness, thought to myself, Shtuyot! (Nonsense!)
Auntie Bluma rose next and was talking to Shmulik as she took a hefty snip with her silver scissors. "Now it's my turn! I want to tell you all how proud I am of all of you! Such achdus! Such togetherness! (Sit still, Shmulik, I'm not done yet!) May Hashem grant us long life and may we share many, many Simchas together. L'Chayim!" She sat down, beaming and fanning herself with her bag of cookies.
"L'Chayim!" all shouted jubilantly. Yossi swooped on Shmulik and lifted him up. Dubi ran to help him. My husband and children were laughing and brimming with excitement. And in that instant, I looked at my family and knew that the happiness I felt had nothing to do with pink roses, a decorated cake or polished house. My emotion stemmed from a profound humility felt at that moment before Hashem; our wonder Hashem who had given us our family and a Simcha to celebrate together.
It therefore came as no surprise to me when Auntie Bluma stood up, after having partaken of a cup of tea and the cookies that she herself had brought, and declared, "Rachelle and Elimelech, I have been invited to so many Simchas and perhaps they have been more elegant and more lavish than this, but I must confess that I thoroughly enjoyed myself here tonight more than any other Simcha. Yes, I must tell your mother and father how really delicious this Simcha was." Shortly after Auntie Bluma parted from our home, and Bina whispered, "She's really very nice," we heard that long-awaited knock at the door, and the man from Super-Mehadrin came in and dropped our boxes on the floor with a loud bang! (At 10 o'clock at night). Of course, I let Bina have the last descriptive word.
"You can tell your boss that we had a SUPER-MEHADRIN time even without our cake and plates and food."
Now that's what I call "food for thought!"
Rachelle Gershowitz is a freelance writer living in Israel.