The Jewish Daughter Diaries (6 page)

Iris Bahr

I have to give my mom credit—she was never one to fret about my single status. In fact, she rejoiced in my industrial amounts of pointless dating, even thought it was “fun for me.” And the amounts
were
industrial. Upon moving to LA, I began dating every kind of guy you can imagine, covering the entire socioeconomic culturo-ethnic spectrum, exploring every potential stereotype, archetype, and blood type, all in the name of being open to whatever the universe sent my way.

In short, I was manically looking for love (not adhering to the “If you stop looking, it will come find you” mantra, because I tried that, too, and nothing happened—I just spent a lot of time writing in coffee shops with a really desperate “I'm not looking” look on my face. I did meet some nicely tanned, oddly fit homeless men during that phase, though).

For some reason, my mother was always very excited about these potential life mates, and she reveled in their exotic natures as much as I did. (Just to clarify, my mom is Israeli and I spent my formative years there, moving back to America after the army.)

“I'm dating a really tall black man!” I would declare.

“Oooh, like Sidney Poitier?” (He was the only black reference my mother ever used. Well, that and Lena Horne.)

“No, more like Ziggy Marley.”

“Who's that?”

“He has dreadlocks!”

“Do they smell? Those things always look dirty…Do they wash them?”

“They do wash them, Ima. I asked Ziggy.”

“Oooh, interesting! How do they do that?” she'd reply, thrilled that I could provide inside information into such an elusive population.

Ziggy turned out to be chock-full of information, which I eagerly conveyed to my mother as our relationship developed. Yes, his penis was of soup-can proportions. No, my mom was not aware of this stereotype. I, however, was thrilled to confirm it, yet terrified at the same time. In fact, sex became quite a tricky issue. It mainly involved me on top attempting to contain even an eighteenth of him while he smoked a big, fat joint and attempted to stay awake.

After Ziggy, there were asexual Asians, crunchy San Franciscans, and tall blond Mennonites. (What is a Mennonite, you ask? I'm still not sure. A West Coast Amish, without the furniture and butter churning, is my best guess.) I liked Mennonite men. For a while, I thought the Mennonite and I had potential, what with his extensive knowledge of the Old Testament and all. But the minute he heard I had slept with more than one person in my lifetime, he was horrified and ran for the hills, his pristine blond locks flowing in the virginal wind.

Despite my disappointments and dating exhaustion, I continued to sail down the river of suitors, if only to explore different customs and enrich my mother's understanding of global cultures. But then I met Sammy. He had a cute little Jew-fro and beautiful green eyes, was wickedly funny, and clicked with me immediately.

At first I thought he was Jewish, but he wasn't. That wasn't an issue, of course. Sammy and I started dating, and things were going great. I couldn't wait to tell my mom about my new man, who was looking more and more like “the one.”

“His name's Sammy!”

“Ooh, he sounds adorable. Where's he from?”

“Originally? Palestine.”

“Where?”

“Palestine.”

“In Texas?”

“No that's Paris, Ima. He's Palestinian. He's from where we're from. Isn't that cool? His parents moved here about twenty years ago, but they go back all the time!”

Silence on the line. There is never silence on the line with my mother. Ever. This was scary.

“Mom, are you there?”

“He's Palestinian?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Date a Palestinian!”

“What do you mean?”

Now, I wasn't being coy. Well, maybe a little bit. Of course, part of the reason I was dating Sammy was that dating him made me feel enlightened, as if despite the not-so-great relations between our two peoples, I transcended judgment, he transcended hatred, I transcended guilt and fear, he transcended more hatred, and we just saw each other as people.

This is what I told my mother because I truly believed it to be so.

“That's ridiculous!” she cried.

My mother is not an exactly an uber left-winger. She loves humanity but fears there is no hope for peace on this issue. She is not pro-settlement but does believe the Palestinians want to wipe us off the map.

“Do you not want me to be happy?”

“Of course I do, but not this way.”

“Well, I like him and you just don't get it.”

“Iris, it will never work.”

“This is not
Romeo
and
Juliet
, Mom. This is a new era.”

“What do his parents think?”

Hmm. Good question. Did he even tell his parents about me? Would it be even more problematic for his family than for mine? After all, I was “the aggressor,” he the “victim,” at least as far as the entire world and the United Nations were concerned.

I told Mom she was shallow, judgmental, anti-human rights, and anti-her daughter's happiness, and I vowed to make this groundbreaking, peace-bringing relationship work.

I didn't tell Sammy about my maternal spat because I didn't want to make our relationship political. You see, we hadn't even discussed politics yet, opting to spend our time making out and talking about Richard Pryor and
Life
of
Brian
, and that was how it was supposed to be. That is how so-called “enemies” come together: by finding common pop cultural ground.

One day Sammy and I lay in bed after a particularly festive evening full of laughter and armpit nuzzling (one of my favorite pastimes). He kissed my cheek and said sweetly, “They just don't get it.”

“Who doesn't get it?”

“My people. They just need to kill more of your leaders.”

It took me a minute to get the context.

“Excuse me?”

“You guys killed Rabin off yourselves, but if we were smart, we would take out Sharon.”

My face went pale, and my heart stopped. I couldn't believe it.

“How could you say something like that?

“Don't you agree?”

“Why would I agree? Why would I want to kill ‘our leaders'? Why would I want to kill anybody, for that matter?”

“You kill people all the time!”

“
What?
No I don't!”

“Well, maybe
you
don't, but your country does, your people do. They kill families and babies and innocent civilians that they occupy like animals.”

“Jesus, where is this coming from?”

“It is time we talk truth.”

“Talk truth? I wouldn't call this talking exactly!”

“Oh, of course you want to avoid the subject!”

“I don't want to avoid anything. I just don't want to get attacked and listen to such offensive bullshit!”

By this point, I was fully dressed and ready to storm out but found myself a de facto representative of the Israeli people and determined to break through this impasse. Sammy needed to know I wanted peace, that I wanted a two-state solution. But there was a limit to what I was willing to take, and he wasn't having it. So I got personal.

“Sammy, how could you be dating me if you hate Israelis so much?”

“I thought you'd be different.”

“Different from what? We are all different. You thought I'd want to ‘kill my leaders'?”

“Yes.”

I glared at him, somehow illuminating the ridiculousness of his statement. He softened, said he was sorry for generalizing, and asked if we could finally have sex. I told him that was not going to happen. He said I should just look past our ideological differences and make love. I told him he was right: I wanted to kill him, and then left.

I cried all the way home, not just over yet another failed relationship, but for the future of the Israeli people and our neighbors. I cried over misunderstandings and shortsightedness. But most of all, I cried because my mother had been right about this one.

But she didn't rub my nose in it. She actually said she was sure there were plenty of nice Palestinian men who would want to date me. I mean, who wouldn't? I remain open and hopeful. Perhaps my days of cultural exploration are over. Perhaps the universe will send a nice Israeli boy my way this time around.

Nah.

Jena Friedman

I asked my mother for her favorite cookie recipe and here's what I got:

INGREDIENTS

2¼ cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened

¾ cup granulated sugar

¾ cup packed brown sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 large eggs

2 cups chocolate chips

1 cup chopped nuts

DIRECTIONS

Jena, chocolate chip cookies, really? Instead of something filled with empty calories, how about taking the recipe for my zucchini oat-bran muffins? They're healthier and will keep you full longer.

Don't roll your eyes. People
love
my zucchini oat-bran muffins. I brought them to the O'Donohues' Christmas cookie exchange this year, and they were the hit of the party! Granted, everyone was a little drunk (except for me, Jews don't drink), so maybe they didn't know what they were putting into their mouths, but my muffins were still the crowd favorite. I don't know if you know this, but Irish people drink
a
lot
.

Oh, I wish you had been at that cookie exchange! It would have been such good fodder for your comedy skit. All of the other women arrived to the party with
goyishe
baked goods like pecan sandies and Rice Krispies treats shaped like wreaths on dainty little crystal platters, and then your mother shows up with a Tupperware container full of muffins.

It actually took the other moms a while to warm up to the muffins, but by the end of the night, people were stockpiling them to take home to their families! The best thing about muffins is that they're high in fiber and low in fat, and you can freeze them overnight and feed them to your kids for breakfast. You just can't do that with Oreo cream-cheese balls.

Fine, chocolate chip cookies it is.

Preheat the oven to 375° F.

Since when are you baking? Why not use that time and energy to find a nice guy to play tennis with? I know you said it's hard to meet nice men in New York, but that's because they're probably all playing tennis. I spent all that money on tennis lessons for you as a kid, so you should be taking advantage of it!

Combine flour, baking soda, and—

Jena, no one looks better in a tennis skirt than you. I mean it. One time while you were in high school, Coach Holbrook came up to me and said, “Jena looks great in that tennis skirt.” I never told you about that because you were sixteen years old, and even at the time, it seemed creepy. Things have sure changed since the nineties. There's so much more scrutiny on teachers and coaches now than when you were in high school. It's almost safer to just assume your kid's coach is a pedophile. You can never be too careful!

Mix flour, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl.

If you need any extra bowls, the Marshall's in Cherry Hill is having a sale on Le Creuset cookware. Why don't you come home this weekend and I'll take you there? You haven't been home in months! Also, when you
do
come home this weekend, I have all of your clothes from high school and college in boxes in the basement. We should take a couple of hours to go through them and figure out what to keep and what to throw away.

For starters, I'm keeping all of your jeans from college. I can actually fit into them now. I've lost some weight since the cat died, about eight pounds, I think. Who knew I'd be so sad about Sweetie? She didn't even like me. I never told you this, but she used to hide on the steps to the basement and whenever I'd walk down there, I could have sworn her intent was to trip me.

Even after we put her on antidepressants, she'd still only cuddle with your father. I read somewhere that cats respond differently to women than they do to men, and I believe it! I think they're nasty little creatures. I know you keep telling me to get a dog, but I just don't have the energy to walk a dog. Maybe I will if I lose eight more pounds.

Go easy on the salt. High blood pressure runs in our family.

Speaking of family, call Aunt Eileen and wish her a happy eighty-eighth birthday. Can you imagine, eighty-eight years old! I know you haven't talked to her since your bat mitzvah, but I bet she'll really appreciate it. If she doesn't answer the first time, call back and let it ring a few more times. Then maybe if she still doesn't answer, wait and call back five minutes later.

I keep telling her to hire an aide, but she refuses to get live-in help so it just takes her a little bit longer to reach the phone. Oh, and when she does pick up, if she doesn't remember you (I'm pretty sure she will, but just in case she's not entirely lucid), just tell her you're Rose's granddaughter. I'm sure she'll appreciate the sentiment.

Beat butter, sugar, brown sugar, and vanilla extract in large mixer bowl. Or, you can (and really should) substitute applesauce for butter.

Offhand, I don't know the exact proportions, but I bet you can find it online. You can find
everything
online. I've actually become quite an Internet junkie now that I have so much alone time since neither you nor your sister ever come home to visit me.

That reminds me: I want to talk to you about your tweets. Lately, they've just not been that funny. That one about why you keep dating guys whose dads are dead was in such poor taste. Who are you trying to hurt? There's a fine line between funny and inappropriate, and sometimes I think you cross it. I keep reading stories about people who've lost their job because of one off-color tweet, and they always remind me of you.

I know you don't like me critiquing your “art,” but if your mother is not going to tell you the truth, who is? And another thing: that morbid shtick of yours really isn't working. Maybe you should try being more lighthearted and cheery.
Comedy
is supposed to make people laugh.

Add two eggs. Honey, I hope you're not mad at me. I'm just trying to help.

No, don't add honey.

Okay, fine. Lesson learned. I won't comment on your tweets again. In fact, I will make a point to stop reading them altogether, but
only
if you call more often! One phone call, once a day, just to make sure you're not dead.

Stir in morsels and nuts.

I am
not
nuts. You live in a big city and shit happens. It comforts me to know that you're physically okay at all times—I know you're not emotionally okay, judging by all of those depressing tweets. Ha! See, Mom has a sense of humor, too! I'm just kidding. But seriously, lighten up. No one cares how you feel, especially on Twitter.

Drop tablespoon-sized balls of dough onto ungreased baking sheets.

Are you changing your sheets regularly? That's probably what's causing your face to break out. I saw a recent photo someone posted of you on Facebook and noticed a little bit of acne on your chin. (On the bright side, nothing makes a woman look younger than having the face of a teenager.)

But seriously, what's with the acne? Are you not sleeping enough or stressed out? You always sound so stressed out whenever we talk on the phone. Want to come home for the weekend to decompress? Loehmann's just got in a whole shipment of Tahari women's pantsuits. I know you think pantsuits are for people who coach women's basketball, but I bet if you found the right cut for your body, you'd change your tune. How about I buy a few different styles, and you come home this weekend to try them on? Then if you don't find any you like, we can always return them.

Let me know what you decide to do because I just bought you a ticket home on the BoltBus (I purchased it on my iPhone…as I was writing this recipe! Technology is truly amazing!) and I can cancel if something comes up. I know you're busy so I don't want to impose. But seriously, your bus leaves Penn Station tomorrow night at 8:00 p.m., so let me know whatever you decide to do…no pressure.

Bake for 9 to 11 minutes or until golden brown. Remove from oven and cool on baking sheets for at least 2 minutes, and while the cookies are cooling, pick up the phone and call your mother.