That was then. Today, decades later, David has become a (reasonably) healthy eater who enjoys colorful plating. For years, the two brothers remembered and laughed at the Great Sweet Potato Wars.

But recently, the story of sweet potatoes came full circle, as younger brother, David, got the last laugh. David, now Rabbi David, lives on the West Coast. Among his other klei kodesh positions, he’s a mashgiach at — you guessed it — an industrial sweet potato factory! David watches as mountains of sweet potatoes are mashed and packaged, to be used as an ingredient in a variety of foods, including muffin mixes, baby food, ice cream, veggie burgers, even pet food.

And some of those loads of sweet potatoes are exported — you guessed it again — to Israel, where big brother, Yaakov, now searches the ingredients of packaged foods to see if David’s factory has sneaked in some sweet potatoes.

Ah, sweet (potato) revenge.

Afterword

I began this Schmooze during the 12-day Iranian war, when missiles rained down on Israeli cities and we ran, day after day, night after night, to shelter. I wondered whether to write it at all. People were dying. Homes were hit. At the same time, Israel’s air force was doing the kind of things that make the word “miracle” feel like an understatement. You could almost see Hashem’s Hand in the sky.

So what was I doing, thinking about sweet potatoes?

Not geopolitics. Not therapy. Not trauma or national resilience or even wartime parenting tips. Just… sweet potatoes. Specifically, one teenage boy hiding slices of them under his little brother’s napkin or glass, in a relentless (and hilarious) campaign to get him to eat one. A domestic scene from a different lifetime.

During war, I chose to write about sweet potatoes. About sibling fun-fights. About mischief at meals.

And about two brothers laughing, years later, as shared memories came full circle.

Yes, fear, war, and miracles all need to be faced, thought through, written about.

But sometimes — especially now — we need to rejoice in the small memories. The early battles that mask deep affection. The bonding of brothers that begins at the dinner table and continues for life.

Sweet potatoes may be humble and unpretentious. But they’re incredibly healthy. Not just because of their iron and vitamins — but because they come wrapped in warmth, in memory, in the nourishment of home.

A little taste of comfort.

Marcia plays guitar…

In Circles of Friends

Marcia Stark Meth

IN

a few days, I’m hosting my third annual Bubby Kumzitz. Fifteen good friends will be coming together for an evening of fun and oldies music.

Time to prepare.

I check the list of songs I played during the last two singalongs, come up with a list of “new old” songs, and take out my guitar. It’s been about a year since I’ve picked it up, so I’m probably rusty.

I arch my left wrist around the guitar neck, thumb in back and fingers on the strings, when… OW! I feel something pull — hard — below my thumb. Guess my joints aren’t as flexible as they used to be. Is it a sprain? A strain? I can’t remember the difference.

I try to strum a few chords, but oy, it really hurts. What to do? Of course! Go to Amazon!

I search for thumb splints and find one that just might work. Looks like it would immobilize the thumb, but keep the wrist flexible. I pay an extra $2.99 for same-day shipping, and it arrives a few hours later.

It SORTA works. If I really contort my wrist, my fingers can reach the strings. But I can’t press down hard enough. The chords come out all muffled.

What to do? Cancel the party? No, the ladies are looking forward to it. They’ve even signed up to bring all sorts of goodies and drinks. Sing without the guitar? No, the guitar is my voice crutch! Play with muffled chords? Ouch. My only hope is to keep the thumb immobilized for the next few days. And daven.

Meanwhile, I continue practicing the songs while wearing the splint. As I arch my wrist in an unnatural position, I’m suddenly transported to another time, another guitar, another wrist contortion….

Charlie. My first guitar. I was 15 and spent $30 of my hard-earned babysitting money to buy him. I enrolled at the Boro Park Y for group lessons, went twice, got hooked… then broke my right wrist ice skating.

Not to be deterred by a two-ton up-to-the shoulder plaster cast (that’s what they used back then), I decided to finish the lessons myself. I sat down, raised my arm, cast and all, just high enough to slide Charlie underneath, onto my lap. By angling it just right, I was able to move the entire cast and do some primitive strumming with my half-exposed fingers.

My main objective was to practice chords with my good left hand. Contorting my left wrist into an unnatural position, I was able to reach the strings and move my fingers around the frets. Using this unwieldy method, I taught myself a few simple songs during my six weeks in the cast. Meanwhile, poor Charlie got all chipped, dented, and plastered.

Throughout high school, Charlie became more than just a guitar. He became an instrument of happiness and friendship. Singing in a circle, friends were united and spirits were lifted. No more cliques. No more worrying about midterms and finals. No more kvetching about teachers. Just pure joy.

Kumzitz night. Once again, I’m sitting in a circle of friends. We’re a diverse group from a range of Jewish backgrounds. Some are married, some widowed, some divorced. Yes, we can sometimes get cliquey, like high schoolers. But not tonight. For a few hours, we’re not in any social, religious, or marital niches. Gone are the physical aches and pains we usually kvetch about. Gone are the heartaches left by the terrible losses many of us have experienced. Gone is the worry about our brothers and sisters in Israel, about chayalim putting their lives on the line, about hostages languishing in tunnels, about anti-Semitism metastasizing around the world. For now… just pure joy.

And whatever happened to Charlie? I never could bring myself to get rid of him, even after he was replaced with a far superior (and undented) guitar. He was recently unearthed by my two youngest grandchildren who were rummaging through a pile of clutter in my house. His strings were gone, his tuning keys broken. But the kids were intrigued by the Charlie story. Now poor old Charlie resides in an honored place among their toys in West Hartford, Connecticut.

Who knows. Maybe he’ll inspire a new generation of music played in carefree circles of friends.

Miriam muses about…

Ephemeral Art (and Life)

Miriam Stark Zakon

I

t’s my rav’s yahrtzeit, and I’m driving to Har Hamenuchos to say Tehillim at the kever. My friendly companion, Waze, keeps up her cheerful chatter as she instructs me to Turn Right, and At the Roundabout, Take the Second Exit.

Waze and I pull into the cemetery parking lot together. As I gaze at the endless rows of graves, she issues her final declaration: You have reached your destination.

Oh.

A few months earlier, Emmy Leah and I were part of a three-day women’s retreat, with singing, dancing, meditating, hiking. There were shiurei Torah and yummy food and the camaraderie that great ladies coming together can feel.

On the last day of the retreat a small group gathered on the beach, learning all about something new to us, something strange and unexpected: ephemeral art.

Ephemeral art, the leader of the activity explained, is exactly that: ephemeral. Temporary. Transient. Fleeting. Our mission today: to collect and create from the detritus lying abandoned on the beach. To make something beautiful out of discarded fragments, enjoy it in the moment — and then release it back to nature.

While we were basking in the winter’s sun on the beach, I heard that my fellow residents of Yerushalayim had a special treat of their own: a mild snowfall, a sprinkling of white, enough for children to throw miniature snowballs. In honor of the rare event, Emmy Leah and I decided that since we couldn’t make a snowman, we would create a sandman instead. And so from rocks, shells, bottle caps, pebbles, and Popsicle sticks, a man was born.

There were thin twigs scattered all over the sand, perfect to build a protective gate around our little friend. I gave a pull. It didn’t move. Another pull, and still it remained firmly embedded.

By now, the others had finished. We admired their creations and then — ephemeral!  — flung each of their artistic efforts into the water or buried them deep into the sand. We were, our leader explained, learning how to be entirely in the moment, appreciating the now, savoring it — and then accepting that it was over.

Then it was our big moment: introducing Mr. Sandman. The ladies made a circle around him. I mentioned the recalcitrant twig. Someone else gave a pull. Nothing, it wouldn’t budge.

This became a mystery. The ladies, about 15 of us, started tugging at all the twigs in the sand. Nothing. We pulled harder, and suddenly we felt something move beneath us. Something large and heavy was attached to those tiny sticks! More pulling, and suddenly, in our circle we held another circle — a huge and stunning round green palm frond that had somehow been covered deep in the sand.

Our group leader was correct: Yes, we were in the moment. And it was not an easy moment to be in, because this getaway was taking place after more than a year of war. A year of fallen heroes and captured hostages and sirens and terror and implacable Jew-hatred. We’d come here not to forget, but to gain the strength to face the challenges that remained before us.

We stared at this gorgeous gift, hidden beneath unassuming twigs and sand, and somehow, we knew there was a truth in this moment on the beach. A truth about things hidden and things revealed, about beauty being buried under the rubble of bombed-out houses, about the possibility of renewal when something is buried so deep you don’t even know it’s there.

About something long dead… coming back to life.

Strange times make strange reactions. Almost without speaking, everyone grabbed a piece of that palm frond and we slowly danced in a circle, clutching it and quietly singing songs of emunah and of pain: Ani Maamin, Racheim, Acheinu.

And as we then relegated our ephemeral art to the sands, leaving only the palm frond as a reminder, we felt the comfort of unity, and of the realization that nothing beautiful stays hidden forever.

IN the cemetery parking lot, laughing over Waze’s unfortunate choice of words, I thought about that circle on the beach. And when I told the story to my husband, he reminded me of still another circle: the circle of tzaddikim, come back to life, dancing equidistantly around the Shechinah.

Speedily, in our days.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 976)