That was Jacobsdale in a nutshell, a little hamlet caught between the Hudson Valley and the Catskill Mountains that hadsomehow found itself with two very different synagogues. Her dad at one, Avi’s father at the other.
Cantor Joel, and Hazzan Wolfson.
Tomato,tom-ah-to.
Two men of God, dedicated to the same religious profession. With a friendly rivalry...until annoying, award-winning shofar-blowing Avi defected to the other side.
Before he was the bad boy of rock and roll, Avi had been the bad boy of Congregation Emeth. Rumors flew but no one knew why he had been kicked out of his father’sshul. But once he arrived at Anshe Shalom, he brought the drama with him.
“Meanwhile, back in Ohio…” Lizbet gestured toward their dad, Mr. Horowitz, and Mr. Felder, strolling in. “Here comes the rat pack. As in, Reeboks and Tzitzit. Looking good, Mr. H!”
The recently widowed Mr. Horowitz still needed the ear of the resident cantor. Luckily, he and their dad lived on the same floor. It was mutual looking out, as far as the girls were concerned.
“Where’re the eats?” Mr. Felder demanded, headed to his television chair by habit. “I’m missing Jeopardy for this.”
“Keep Dad away from the applesauce,” Leah told her sister, loud enough for her dad to hear.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of him. Did he bolus today?” Lizbet and Lucas may have shared their own special twin language, but the sisters were very versed in all the diabetes lingo, especially after her dad got a fancy insulin pump.
“Forget the applesauce; I’ll take a piece of Tilly’s rugelach any day.”
“These are your daughter’s, Cantor. She’s a good student. She let me teach her.”
Leah helped herself to a plump, pillowy piece. It was a damn fine specimen. But as for Mrs. Ackerman teaching her the art of Jewish pastry?
Ha, more like prying the recipe out of the woman’s thick scull with a pizza cutter. For weeks, that was the only tidbit Leah got out of her.A pizza wheel gives you an even cut.But slowly, ingredient by ingredient and step-by-step, Mrs. A. answered Leah’s questions about the flaky, fragrant holiday treat.Chill the dough twice.AndI only use brand name cream cheese, Letty. Not store brand!Until one day, she had commandeered a corner of the retirement home’s social hall kitchen, barking off ingredients to Leah, and their baking lessons began.
Mrs. A.’s memory was not what it used to be, so Leah figured this was a good exercise. Until the day came when Leah had, under the watchful eye of Mrs. Ackerman, baked a perfect batch. “Hershel will love these. You’ll take him some, right? When you get to Manhattan.”
And there was Mrs. Ackerman’s bucket list item.
She was the one who had clued Leah and Jaz into the Matzo Baller in the first place, insistent it was not only the perfect place to find investors for their bespoke Mahjong line but the ideal public place for Leah and her sweet grandchild to meet.
“It’s Shelly’s happy place, year after year. Oh, the stories I hear of this boat and food and the people!” She was telling the group now.
“Lots of celebrities on that ship, Letty.” Mrs. Blum gave her a gentle bop with her gossip magazine.
“She’s going for ashidduch, not to schmooze!” Mrs. A. smacked her right back. “Hershel loves my rugelach, and he’ll love Letty’s, too.”
“What, she can’t kill two birds with one stone during the boat ride?” Leah’s dad loved to instigate.
“Never kill a bird on a boat! Especially albatrosses,” warned Ms. Felder. Spoken like a true retired Lit professor.
“I’ll take 19th-century English poets for two hundred!” Mr. Felder yelled from his Jeopardy chair.
Saul Horowitz looked up from hisWall Street Journal. “I heard rumors that Eli Gold might be on board, Letty.”
“There you go! Butter him up with some rugelach.” Her dad grinned.
“Not myHershelah’srugelach! Plus, it’s more cream cheese than butter.”
The conversation was giving Leah heartburn – and whiplash.
“I’ll make sure to give you all a full report,” she promised, making the rounds to say goodbye. Saving her father for last.
“Remember the three things I’d ask students returning to Hebrew school after holiday break?” Her dad said as she gingerly returned his hug.
His fingers, numb from the peripheral neuropathy that had, along with a host of other health issues, forced him into Bramblewood’s Beth El Campus at an earlier age than most, counted them off:
