Food dyes Red #40, Yellow #5 and #6, and Blue #1 are chemicals that most Americans feed their children on a daily basis. They make food look pretty but how certain are we that they are safe?

True, the FDA has concluded, based on long-term animal studies, that these dyes “do not pose significant health risks.” The amount that is “safe” for children has still not been ascertained. And the fact that some dyes have been found to produce tumor growth in animals while others contain small amounts of benzene, a known carcinogen, has not yet shaken the FDA from its conclusion about their “probable safety.”[1]

In our frum world, people are often judged by what is on their heads. But my dad taught me that what’s really important is not what’s on your head but what’s in your head. That wise saying has guided my hashkafa (religious outlook) in life.

I grew up in Shearith Israel, where a boy got his rite of passage upon his bar mitzva: a black hat. You could not get an aliya unless you wore a hat. A tallis over one’s head was frowned upon by this Yekkishe congregation. So my parents took me downtown to Joyce Hat Company, where I purchased my first black hat; it had a short brim and a red feather on the side, and I wore it primarily on Shabbos.

The last three articles that I have written have been about Israeli elections, and I have grown weary of that topic. Fortunately, living in Israel, there are always positive things to write about, and I am going to write about one of them now. We just enjoyed a very successful Shabbat Chayei Sara here in Kiryat Arba/Chevron, with almost 30,000 guests celebrating Abraham’s purchase of Me’arat HaMachpela, and there is no better time for this article than now. (Last year, the whole celebration was cancelled due to Covid-19.)

One final comment: The first 1,100 words of this 1,800-word article are really just a preface to the last 700.

At the heart of the Chanukah story is the Beis Hamikdash. It was here that the persecution of the Jews began under the rule of Antiochus, who ordered that the Beis Hamikdash be desecrated and converted into a place of pagan worship. Mattisyahu, son of Yochanan the Kohen Gadol, fled to the countryside, where he became the father of the Jewish resistance. His sons and followers, the Maccabees, fought bravely against all odds and were aided by Divine Providence to eventually return to Yerushalayim and bring the Beis Hamikdash back to Jewish hands. It is their miraculous victories and efforts to restore the sacrificial service to its earlier glory that we commemorate on the holiday of Chanukah. Let’s explore the connection between the physical structure of the Second Beis Hamikdash and some of the core elements of the Chanukah story.

When my son Ari was in kindergarten the teacher asked the class “what would you like to be when you grow up?” When she called on Ari he said “a fire truck.” Even at age five, Ari knew how to deliver an outrageous line with a straight face. Over the decades he’s honed that skill. Because the year was 1977, the teacher knew that Ari was testing her; therefore, she simply said, “That’s interesting.” Ari, realizing that his teacher was up to the task of teaching him, went on to have an excellent school year.

This Chanukah, as every year, Baltimore will be ablaze not only with the lights of the menorah but also with fond Chanukah memories from across the globe.

A Village in Germany

Mrs. Irma Pretsfelder grew up in a village of only two Jewish families, about 50 miles north of Frankfurt, Germany. She was almost 13 years old, in 1939, when her family fled the country for England. “Our family didn’t make that much of Chanukah,” recalls Mrs. Pretsfelder. “We lit the candles and sang “Moaz Tzur,” but as far as giving gifts, it didn’t happen in our house – there was no Chanukah gelt or gifts. My mother hand-grated her potato latkes and made her own donuts from scratch, with yeast. They were deep fried, unfilled, and dipped in sugar. How we loved them! We didn’t play dreidel; I learned that over here. It also wasn’t the custom to put our menorah in the window. Here I do, because everybody else does. During Hitler’s time, we were afraid of repercussions; we certainly didn’t have it in the window.”

The bulging suitcases are packed with thought of all possible eventualities. Shopping sprees preempt the target date of departure. Shampoo and conditioners, in-style skirts and tops, or favorite type of kippa and belt, that fit the school’s specifications, contact lenses and solutions, deodorants, toothpaste, pictures of the family, linens, Shabbos clothes, hoodies and sweaters that sport the newest insignias – all are stuffed into two pieces of luggage and hand luggage, ready for that long awaited gap year in Israel.

But how much forethought went into preparing the student for his/her new environment? School will now be the new home, but, whereas home is familiar, forgiving, and supportive, school will be foreign and formidable, with no built-in support system.

Well, to say it’s about time is what I would really call an understatement. This year marks the tenth-year anniversary for my sheitel. It was 10 years ago that we married off two of our children. At that time, I bought myself a brand new sheitel and at a remarkably good price, too. Who knew it would last as long as it did?

Here I am, 10 years older, and my sheitel is finally ready for the dust bin. And while I’m at it, I’ve decided that I’m tired of the tried-and-true look that I’ve worn all these years. I’m not one of those women who can visualize what kind of sheitel I’d look best in without seeing it, nor am I that interested in the latest fashion. In fact, I can’t say I would even know what that is. I’m more the type of person who knows what I don’t like more than what I do. I definitely had my work cut out for me with this task as my quest for the new me began.

Thanksgiving and Chanukah – two of my favorite holidays – are coming up almost simultaneously this year. One of the things I love about Thanksgiving is that expectations are met. I expect there will be a bunch of food and chaos – and voilà – every year – that’s what I get. No one crying about not getting the present they wanted.

Come Light the Menorah…

Expectations for Chanukah are a little different. We light the candles. We eat latkes. Then there is the minor detail of presents. We don’t have a minhag of giving presents every night, but the kids do get gifts (especially from Grammy and Pop and Granny and Poppop and the aunts and uncles). I try really hard to set expectations properly. (It makes my heart sad when I give someone something I think they want and then have a puddle on the floor because the recipient’s expectations were so drastically different.) Sometimes I say to my kids, “Imagine I am about to give you spaghetti sauce.” (They would never want spaghetti sauce as a gift, of course.) “Therefore, whatever you end up getting is better than spaghetti sauce!” Doesn’t always work, but sometimes it does. 

On a recent Shabbos, I walked a mile to attend a beautiful shul kiddush in honor of a baby girl. She was already nine months old. That was fine because in the Askenazi community a kiddush celebrating the birth of a girl can be given at any time and place. That’s the minhag, custom. “The pattern of Jewish life is completed by a fascinating network of minhagim,” writes Abraham Chill in his sefer Minhagim, “which have evolved throughout the ages from place to place.” When a Jewish girl or a boy is born, whether Ashkenazi, Persian, Sefardi, or chasidic, many minhagim come with the gift of a new life.