My Mother's Cakes, Memory, and the Meaning of Me
It’s Rosh Hashanah, folks, and as usual I am blithely unaware of this fact until I got the traditional pre-holiday email from my mother, reminding me a) that there is a ritual aspect to Judaism apart from writing snide blog posts about reality television shows, and b) do I want her to send cake? My mother wrote that she’s making it like she does every year, but that she won’t send it unless she’s sure I want it, because what kind of a monster foists unsolicited homemade cake on somebody without their express permission?
As usual, I responded by telling her that while I would not be attending any kind of service this High Holiday season (a streak I have maintained virtually unbroken since I moved out of my parents’ house in the summer of 1998), I would very much like the cake. I know on some level this answer will disappoint her. But it shouldn’t.
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