March 30, 2021

Kashkaval

Rabbi Jose the Galilean did not look happy. It was the morning before the first night of Passover and I was in Ararat, the Armenian deli a few blocks from my house, in order to pick up a slab of Bulgarian kashkaval cheese, some kalamata olives, and a jar of blackberry jam from Georgia. The Georgia with the hard to pronounce capital of Tbilisi.

Passover, the week-long holiday celebrating the Jewish exodus from slavery in Egypt, was the most observed of all of the Jewish holidays. More even than the High Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Secular Jews who, during the year added sizzling bacon to their scrambled eggs and always included pork spare ribs to their Sunday night Chinese food orders were now ridding their houses of any sign or remnants of bread and schlepping up their Passover dishes from the basement. It was a strange and confounding phenomenon and one I could never get my head around. To truly understand Jews and Judaism, one need first understand the existence of kosher-for-Passover toothpaste.

I did not adhere to strict Passover dietary laws. Truth be told, I did not even adhere to lax Passover dietary laws. But I had adopted a Passover tradition of having a nice piece of buttered matza along with a chunk of kashkaval for breakfast. It was a tradition passed on from my grandfather to my father, from my father to me, and one I would gladly pass on to my own children should I ever make it past a second date.

And so I had stopped at Ararat in order to pick up the cheese and who did I run into but Rabbi Jose the Galilean. He was dressed, as was his custom, in black, with a grey beard which nearly ran to the floor.

He lived in the neighbourhood and I would often see him in Ararat where he would like to buy a small piece of halva, the Rabbi had a sweet tooth, drink a cup of Armenian, woe be the person who mistakenly called it Turkish, coffee and chat at the counter about the meaning of life with Mr Zakarian, the shop’s jovial and portly owner. It is at the counter where I saw him. He did not, as I said, look very happy.

“Hi Rav,” I said, greeting him with the honourific title which he had long earned and deserved “Hag kasher and sameach.”

Rabbi Jose the Galilean did not have much reason to be happy. He had married a younger woman who turned out to be a terrible shrew. One who spent all day making fun of him in front of his very own rabbinical students and gave him nothing but tsores. He could not divorce her because she had come with a large dowry he was unable to pay back. His students, finally taking pity on their esteemed rav, raised the money to free him from bondage. The divorce, you would have thought, should have brought Rabbi Jose the Galilean some measure of happiness but alas, it was not to be. His ex-wife had married the town watchman who, as bad luck would have it, became blind and could not watch over anything, much less the town. Jobless, the watchman and his shrew of a new wife, hey I’m just repeating what I heard, had to resort to begging for alms. They finally, reluctantly, because although she might have been a shrew she was not without pride, found themselves in front of Rabbi Jose the Galilean's house. The Rabbi, although having questionable taste in women, was pious and generous, and he ended up taking in his ex-wife and now blind husband. They were now living with him. So he had plenty of reason to be unhappy.

But that wasn’t why he did not look happy.

He wasn’t happy because of me.

Not wishing me chag sameach in return, he must have been really angry, he said “I heard you have been skipping my section in the Haggadah.”

Fucking Lewberg!

That very morning I had told Lewberg that the year prior I had finally convinced my brother and his family to skip over pages 18 and 19. It was a section which was nothing other than commentary by a group of rabbis discussing how many actual plagues the Egyptians had encountered at the Red Sea. It did not, I had argued, add anything to the story, was completely irrelevant and superfluous and, most of all, kept us precious minutes further away from Bubby Judy’s pickled brisket. I thought I had made a salient and convincing argument and my family decided, I suspect just to shut me up, to skip over that section with the Rabbis.

The problem was that one of those Rabbis was now standing right in front of me.

“Lewberg?” I asked. I knew it was Lewberg. Who else could it be. The Rabbi liked to bet March Madness and Lewberg would help him lay down his bets.

Rabbi Jose the Galilean shrugged his shoulders and for the briefest of moments the anger dissipated from his body “Those schmucks were giving me Oral Roberts and laying 11.5 points.  It was like taking candy from a baby.”

“Rav,” I said “I’m so sorry. It’s just that the seder is so long and that pickled brisket is so good.”

“How could you skip my section?” he said. And with that, he stormed out of the store.

At the very same time, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Lewberg.

It said “I think I might have fucked up.”

I eat bread on Passover, I do not fast on Yom Kippur, I drive a car and light a fire on shabbat, and I have, more than once, coveted my neighbour’s wife. Not my next door neighbour mind you, but a couple who live three blocks down. But you get the drift. I’m not the best of Jews. But of all of the transgressions I have committed, none made me feel worse than the way I threw shade on Rabbi Jose the Galilean.

I called Lewberg and, now being a little angry myself, did not even give him time to apologize.

“Dude,” I said “forget about it. What’s done is done. Just give me the Rav’s address.”

“I will text it to you.”

Then I said “Oral Roberts?”

“11.5 points,” he replied, “I think it is a no brainer.”

“Ok, put me down for $100.”

Then I went to buy some expensive kosher for passover chocolate and find the rabbi.

Let me say that Rabbi Jose the Galilean’s ex-wife was not a shrew. Or, if she was, she was certainly not a shrew to me. She served me very good coffee and macaroons. I’m not so crazy about those macaroons. But still. Then she further ingratiated herself to me by saying. “I read your stories to my husband. They are so amusing.”

And her husband, who I had not seen sitting on a rocker in a darkened corner of the room piped up “That Goldfarb is quite a character!”

Then Rabbi Jose the Galilean, a feather duster in his hand, still cleansing his house of the evil hometz, walked into the living room. I leapt to my feet, spilling some of the coffee, and began to launch into my apology. But I was not able to get a word in.

“Aaron Aaron Aaron Aaron,” he said, invoking my given Hebrew name which only my father and publisher ever used “I cannot wait for Yom Kippur in order to ask for your forgiveness. I was so small and petty. And to not wish a fellow Jew a kasher pesach- it is a shonda. Please accept my apology.”

“Rabbi Rabbi Rabbi,” I replied “it is me who should be apologizing to you. I will make sure we recite that section in both Hebrew and English tonight.”

“Ach,” he said, waving me off with one hand and helping himself to a macaroon with another. “It is a stupid section. I know the Torah and Mishnah backwards and forwards. It is like the air I breathe. I have argued, successfully I might add, with Akiva, Tarfon, and Eliazar. And this is the only thing I am known for. Bah. The number of plagues. It is such a trifle.”

“Yes,” I said “it is a shame.”

“By the way,” he added “The number is fifty. Fifty plagues. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

“Ok,” I said.

“Do you know that Galilean is a term of derision? It is meant to denote a country, how do you say, bumpkin, a fool.”

“You are a great sage Rav. After all, it was you who said you could have milk with chicken.”

“Ah, so you know that. You surprise me young Aaron.”

“Well, I did a little bit of reading. I think you were right.”

“What can I tell you. The others were so rigid. So inflexible. But those are matters for another day. We still have to prepare for Pesach. So go Aaron. Go have a chag which is kasher and sameach.”

“You too,” I said. “By the way, I put $100 on Oral Roberts.”

Then Rabbi Jose the Galilean smiled. I think it was the first time I had ever seen him smile.

He said “It’s a lock.”

Our 7:30 seder did not start until 9:00. We were all hungry and some a little cranky. So my suggestion that we now read pages 18 and 19 was met with a chorus of boos.

“Wait wait wait,” I shouted over the tumult. “Here’s what I propose. This year we put back the two pages of Rabbi Jose the Galilean but remove the three pages which are commentary from Rabbi Gamliel. It is a net win.”

My nieces all flicked through their copies of the Haggadah.

“It’s true,” said Danna. “Gamliel has more pages. We can skip him and put back Jose the Galilean.”

“That’s what you want?” Asked my brother, who had long tired of arguing with me.

“I mean,” I said, “do we really want the kids to grow up not knowing exactly how many plagues were inflicted on the Egyptians at the Red Sea?”

“You understand how you always get your way?” Said Caroline with a laugh.

“I do. And I appreciate it.”

“And what do we get in return?” Asked my brother.

“Well, I did bring you some very good kashkaval,” I said. My brother shared in the family tradition.

“Ok,” he said. We will blow off Rabbi Gamliel. But it’s on you.”

That was fine. Rabbi Gamliel lived clear across town and I was unlikely to run into him.

And also, he didn’t bet on basketball.

The end.