Keeping Kosher

For the past several months, I've been working part-time at this bakery on the Upper East Side. It's been around for nearly a hundred years, and in fact many of the regulars that come in every week often tell us stories of how they themselves, or their parents, or grandparents have been coming to the bakery for as long as they can remember. I've never seen such fierce loyalty shown towards bread and pastry, and I often find myself caught halfway between respect for such loyalty, and thinking it's downright silly. And because the bakery has been under new ownership for a little over a year now, we hear both praise and complaints from these regulars everyday. 

It's so intriguing to watch how people deal with changes. Something as simple as a loaf of rye bread with a few less caraway seeds seems pretty minute to me (and I do enjoy a good rye), while to some it's drastic, almost life-changing. The bakery is situated in a fairly Jewish neighborhood. The previous owners were Jewish. The current owner is Jewish, though more secular I think than the guys he bought it from. A few people each week raise concerns, wondering which products are kosher, and which are parve (something I hadn't learned until I started work: food that is prepared without meat, dairy or their derivatives), and we always do our best to help make sure to give them the correct information. It is true, that things should probably be labeled more clearly. And now I will skip ahead.

Most Sundays, things at the bakery tend to slow down. Even when there are a few rushes of people here and there, generally Sunday is the most mellow day of the week. The only Sunday that was crazy busy was Super Bowl Sunday, and surprisingly it had nothing to do with the two giant sheets of cupcakes that were smothered in brown frosting and shoved together to make the shape of footballs with "XLIII" written on each one in bright red.

Yesterday however, was not Super Bowl Sunday. So things were relatively calm, and the sun was out, which seemed to put most customers in good spirits. All was fine, until this one guy comes in. He looked normal: middle-aged, wearing glasses and a casual suit. He had a beard, which I normally associate with my dad, who is generally a calm and quiet fellow. He waited patiently in line behind two people, and then told my boss's father (who always runs the place on Sundays) that we needed to label more clearly the things that were kosher from the things that were not. He said that he had tried to tell my boss to take care of this many times, and that it was getting annoying, and then he told us that if nothing was done about it, he was going to "fuck it up." At that point, he was asked to leave, and he reacted to that news rather poorly. He ran up to the counter and slammed his hands against it hard enough to create a slight echo. My boss's father whipped out his cell phone and called the police, and this man continued to yell, talking about how everything in the bakery should be kosher, cursing up a storm, and refusing to leave until it was made clear that the police could be sent over within minutes. 

When he finally did leave, it was in a huff. Moments later he came back, opened the door halfway and said that the next time we call the police with a "real emergency" they will have no incentive to show up, because of this apparent "false emergency." If he ever shows up again, we're supposed to phone the police immediately.

Some have a harder time dealing with change than others. After that rather terrifying instance, I journeyed home and watched Single White Female with one of my roommates. I'm not sure why, it just somehow felt right. 

Kid Stuff

There's just something about the childhood stories. They have been on my mind lately; maybe it has a little bit to do with the thawing of everything. It's slowly becoming spring. But thoughts of the books I read, or were read to me growing up are always present.

I think that these stories stick with us for a reason. It's the nostalgia, of course. They gave us comfort, fueled our young imaginations, propelled us into a world where nothing was impossible.  

When we were kids, we used to spend part of every summer at my grandma's house in New Hampshire. My brother and I shared a bedroom upstairs that used to serve as where my dad and his younger brother slept. My older brother got the privilege of the bigger bed (he was also just a larger person), and right before bedtime my dad would read to us. The story I remember the most clearly was "The Hobbit." And I remember always feeling caught in between a state of calm sleepiness and a yearning to stay awake so that I could keep hearing, keep living in that imaginative world. There are so many books that I always look back to. Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs: a harrowing tale where kids get to miss school, because the weather becomes strangely food related. It rains meatballs, yes, but also enormous pancakes smothered in butter and syrup. Harold and the Purple Crayon: where a young boy leaves his bed with a purple crayon and sets off on an adventure where he literally draws his world and what he wants to happen in it. My favorite part is when he draws a picnic, and several delicious-looking pies, all of which he fully intends to eat.

Today was St. Patrick's Day. I chose to celebrate by drinking a beer in my pajamas. 

My Two Grandmas On My Two Fingers.

I was supposed to get my grandma's pearls, but since they couldn't be found, I was given her wedding ring. And now I have my two grandmas on my two fingers. Grandma Hills on my right hand, placed firmly on the ring finger, and my grandma Hanke sitting comfortably in the middle on the same hand.

Yesterday was International Women's Day. I had work all day, so I wasn't quite sure how to celebrate. This holiday has been around for a while (since 1909), but I had never heard of it until the other day. Most other women I asked at work had never heard about it either, and the more I thought about it, the more peculiar it felt. It's a legitimate holiday, as I glance at my calendar I can see that it's written there on March 8th, right above Daylight Savings Time begins. Apparently the holiday is much more of a big deal in the formerly Soviet countries like Russia and Armenia, and in some places women receive presents. In Italy, the men give the women yellow mimosas, which are actually beautiful flowers known as Acacia dealbata. I just worked, and then came home feeling like I might be coming down with something. But boy does it feel great to overcome all the struggles I've faced as a woman!

Today I came across a song I hadn't listened to in a while. "Alone Again (Naturally)" by Gilbert O'Sullivan. This is what truly strikes me on such a gray day as this:

It seems to me that there are more hearts broken in the world, that can't be mended

Left unattended,

What do we do?

What do we do...