Come and Get It....Make My Day

The other day I received a call from my son, RJ, who is a paratrooper in the 101 battalion of the IDF. He had just finished several days of training in the shetach, (in the field), doing everything that is expected to be done during time of war.  He told me that he and his buddy, Avi, who is a lone soldier and a regular welcome guest in our home, were daydreaming about my Shabbat cooking while laying in the mud during a night of training in the field. All at once the pride of a "Yiddishe mamma" popped out. This modern woman who while growing up scorned the stereotype, suddenly found that to be the best darn compliment anyone can get this side of the Mediterranean!

Apparently, my apple cranberry kugle was getting them through the long cold night. And for a mom who has boys in the army....nothing, and I mean nothing beats that!

That's right...my apple cranberry kugle with carmelized brown sugared oatmeal topping, my cholent with just the right amount of plum Chile sauce, my aromatic roast chicken and roast beef that melts in one's mouth  was providing strength to my combat son and his buddy in arms. It offered moral fortitude, staying power and endurance where one's endurance is tested to the limits. Nope, I never thought of myself as a "Yiddishe mamma", but I donned the role like a pair of battle fatigues.  I was doing my part. It was clear -Hell! My kugle was the backbone of their moral!

At the end of our short conversation, I felt an urge to run to the kitchen and begin cooking in anticipation of my boy and his army buddy coming home for Shabbat in two weeks time.

I was never a feminist, but I imagine, that even if I were, once you have boys in the army, the feminist nonsense goes out the window. Take my word for it - I've had two sons in the army at the same time. The kitchen becomes the prep station for getting your boys battle-ready. The kitchen became my chamal, the war room. Oh yeah, months and months of a soldier's grueling army training, discipline, sleep deprivation, stretching the physical capabilities way past the threshold of the norm, expertise in state-of-the-art high tech warfare is all par for the course, but Pshhhh, don't underestimate the power of Ima's homemade cooking.

So come and get it....make my day.

 Excerpt from THE GILBOA IRIS - # 4

The drive to Ben Gurion Airport was quiet. Strange how it felt to
embark on a journey that would lead me backwards in time, to an
old world in which I no longer belonged, to which I no longer related.
The only part I looked forward to was seeing Pops.
      Roni held onto my hand throughout the drive, clasping it, caressing
it as if to make the touch endure through the next several months. Words
were unnecessary. No doubt, the next half year would be emotional
agony for the both of us. Roni, scheduled to join his new unit in just
days, said virtually nothing about his forthcoming tour of duty, and I
knew better than to ask any questions. Army secrecy in this case was a
blessing. I was sure that I would not want to know more than I already
did. He had to do what he had to do, and I had to face the looming
wrath awaiting me in New York City. In that respect, emotional agony
would be putting it lightly. I wasn’t sure what was more daunting…
dealing in counterterrorism or dealing with my parents. I was resolute,
however. I would not have my life shackled to my father’s career with
the United States government. If they wouldn’t trust his loyalty once I
moved to Israel, then, as Roni said, my father should consider that he is
working for the wrong government.
My parents made their choices. It was time for me to make mine.
Should they cut me off for it – then, so be it.
        Roni parked the car and helped me with my suitcases. We arrived at
the entrance to the airport and didn’t venture another step. Instead, we
faced each other under the sweltering heat of the Tel Aviv sun, staring
silently into each other’s eyes, studying each other’s faces, permanently
etching them into our memories. The blur of travelers, luggage and
taxicabs whizzed around us, all melding together into a moving canvas
of the indistinct. He wrapped his arms around me, and I clung to him,
relishing his solid strength. It was unthinkable that I would not feel his
arms around me for five long months.
       The time of my flight was fast approaching and I had yet to go
through all the routine airport security checks – it was impossible to
suspend the inevitable. Roni held my face in his hands and tenderly
kissed the tears that ran down my cheeks. His lips then repeatedly kissed
mine, neither one of us wanting to pull away. “I have something for
you,” Roni murmured between kisses. “I put it in your carry-on bag.
Don’t open it until you’re on the plane.”
I nodded, silently kissing him back.
“You have to go now, motek.”
“I know.”
“We’re not going to say good-bye.”
“Never.”
“Take care of my heart.”
“I will. And you, take care of mine.”
“I will.”
“Roni?”
“Yes, Dara.”
“May God watch over you.”
“Over us both.” He curled his hands in my hair, his eyes boring
into mine, never failing to stun me, and we kissed one last time until our
lips slowly and grudgingly parted.
      Once seated on the plane, I looked in my bag and found the box
that Roni had placed into it. I lifted the lid and found wrapped in tissue
paper a Gilboa Iris, its vibrant shade dancing in a symphony of deep
amethyst. There was a small note.

My Sweet Dara, 
As is the Gilboa Iris, 
You are light, you are perfection, you are life.
My life.
Roni