IT TAKES A VILLAGE... TO MAKE AN APPLE CAKE

On the eve of Sukkot, I was inspired to make a cake.

The fact that I had never made one before and had no recipe did not deter me.

Perhaps I had been hypnotized by all those clips on my phone that proclaim, "You just add this, just add that, just do this, and voilà! A delicious cake!"

Plus, my granddaughters had come to my house, spotted three bananas on the counter, and announced, "Three bananas! We'll make a cake!"

Chic-choc, they did.

So when I saw three apples on my counter, I thought, "Three apples! I'll make a cake!"

Smush the apples. Add some flour and eggs. Presto! Cake! Except it wasn't cake. It was apple rubber.

I began to wonder whether I could market it as a healthy snack for mothers looking for something their children could chew on for hours.

Two weeks later, I told my friend Frumi about my misadventure. "This is ridiculous," she declared. "I'm going to teach you how to bake a cake."

It didn't seem to matter that she was in America and I was in Israel. Frumi was going to rescue me from my baking incompetence, international boundaries notwithstanding.

She sent me a list of ingredients. I thought, "This will be a snap."

Well, think again. The first sign of trouble came with the first instruction.

"Take out your Bundt pan." Bundt pan? What is a Bundt pan?  I turned to my husband. "Do you know what a Bundt pan is?" "I have no idea," he said. Neither of us could even spell it.

We stood in the kitchen, two people with a combined 100-plus years of life experience, staring at the cabinets as if one might confess.

I wrote back to Frumi, "What is that?" She sent me a picture.

"WHO has that?" I asked. "EVERYONE," Frumi replied.

Everyone but me.

Fortunately, my daughter Bati not only knew what a Bundt pan was, she actually owned one! She promised to bring it over.

Then I got to the measurements. Half a teaspoon of this. A quarter of a teaspoon of that.

I called Bati again. "If I take a regular teaspoon and fill half of it, or a quarter of it, is that GOOD?"

"Ema, you need measuring spoons. I'll bring those, too."

I own spoons. I own many spoons. Apparently, none of them measure.

That morning, my granddaughter Arielli came over and peeled and cut the apples for me. I sent a picture of the pieces to Frumi. The pieces were too big.

Just then, my husband walked in. "Don't worry. I'll dice them for you."

Izzy still had no idea what a Bundt pan was, but he knew exactly what to do with a knife. And he did.

It Takes a Village to Make an Apple Cake.

And we hadn't even put the thing in the oven!

Finally, the moment arrived. With Frumi guiding me, I made my cake.

Well, let me clarify. Frumi guided. I measured. I mixed. I followed instructions. I tried very hard not to use my instincts. My instincts had, after all, given us apple rubber.

And eventually, there was a cake.

It wasn't picture-perfect like Frumi's. It didn't come out of the Bundt pan particularly gracefully, either. And Frumi hadn't told me to sprinkle sugar on top, although I suspect that even if she had, the sugar wouldn't have solved my problem with the pan.

But then something extraordinary happened. My husband and the kids tasted the cake and exclaimed, loudly and excitedly: "WOW! THIS TASTES LIKE A REAL CAKE!"

A REAL CAKE!

I don't think the judges on The Great British Bake Off have ever delivered a compliment quite like that. And my five-year-old grandson asked for MORE.

I sat there admiring my not-very-beautiful cake, quietly smiling every time somebody reached for another piece. I thought it was delicious, too.

And I couldn't help feeling proud. Not because I'd made a perfect cake - I hadn't. Not because I'd suddenly become a baker. Let's not get carried away.

But because I'd tried something new, and my family had helped me get there.

They say it takes a village to raise a child.

Apparently, it also takes a village to make an apple cake.

A friend who believes you can do something you don't believe you can do yourself. A daughter who knows what a Bundt pan is. A granddaughter who peels the apples. A husband who dices them. And a little boy who asks for more.

B"H, life is good.

And apparently, so is my apple cake!

All I Know, I Got from a Fifth Grader

It’s been years since I’ve watched a TV game show, but I always wondered how those contestants were so genius-y. They knew all these random details that had me scratching my head. I’d heard that game show questions were generally on a fifth- or sixth-grade level, so HOW did the rest of us manage to get through elementary school without knowing the answers?

Well, this past Shabbat, as I listened to the reading of Bereishit (Genesis), the first portion of the Torah, I suddenly found myself thinking, “Biblical Waters for 100 points!”

And popping into my head were the names of the rivers that flowed out of the Garden of Eden. Pishon. Gichon. Chidekel. Prat. I could answer those questions in my sleep.

Actually, I DID answer them in my sleep 36 years ago. My son Moshie was studying for a Second Grade Bible Quiz, and I was right there with him. How many years was Joseph in prison? Name the sons of Jacob in order of their birth. He drilled Biblical facts day and night, and so did I.

As the Torah reading continued, my mind wandered through the many things I know today, thanks to Moshie and his siblings. And I began thinking about how much I have learned over the years from my children’s elementary school education.

Lessons Learned

I may not know much about Gemara, but I do know the beginning of Bava Metzia. I can even translate the words in that familiar singsong melody used in yeshivot throughout the world. Thanks to Micha’s fifth-grade studies, I am practically an expert.

“Aileh metzios shelooo… These findings are hiiiis. V’aileh chayiv lehachris… And these he must annouuuunce.”

If anyone finds a lost item, I know exactly what he should do with it. Who needs a law degree?

Natah was a wonderful student, but what his teachers loved, and what I learned so much from, was his habit of beginning every term paper by thanking the teacher or rabbi who had assigned it. Who wouldn’t look favorably upon a paper that begins with a little appreciation? Natah may have been the student, but I was taking notes!

I can also tell you a thing or two about the laws of slave ownership, thanks to a book I read with my then-fifth-grade son Mati. It was Ithamar by Marcus Lehmann, and what a thrilling story!

A scheming slave frames his master’s son for rebelling against Rome, and the son is shipped off as a galley slave. Years later, he returns home to find his father dead and the slave in possession of everything. But the son is allowed to choose just one possession to reclaim.

He chooses the slave. And since whatever a slave owns belongs to his master, that one choice gets him everything back.

It was Mati’s and my favorite book back then, and I still think about it today. Apparently, I even came away with a little Roman history and property law along the way!

Bati’s elementary school education gave me something else entirely: a love of poetry.

Her wonderful English teacher had the children memorize classic poems, and some of those words have stayed with me for decades. I may not remember all of Walt Whitman’s “O Captain! My Captain!”, but I can still recite the beginning:

“O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won.”

And Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken” still lives somewhere in my head:

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”

I can’t promise the rest, but I’ll recite it with great confidence.

My children have grown, B”H, but apparently my education is far from over.

I’m now something of an expert on Hiroshima, thanks to one granddaughter’s term paper. I also know quite a bit about how people imagined the future back in 1951, thanks to another grandchild’s class project. Between the two, I’m now an expert on exactly six years of the twentieth century.

Reading, Writing, Arithmetic

And then there are the books! I have rediscovered, time and again, the wonderful world of children’s literature through last-minute book reports and reading projects. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Trumpet of the Swan, Charlotte’s Web… I get to revisit these classics, share them with my grandchildren, and discover all over again why they have captured the hearts of generations of children.

I’d like to report that my mathematical skills have also been sharpened to at least a sixth-grade level. Alas, I must confess that most of that knowledge has disappeared into some dark corner of my brain, never to be seen again.

So, if you ever see me on a TV game show, please don’t expect me to calculate percentages or figure out how many watermelons Johnny sold if he started with 100 and gave away four at every stop. Frankly, I’m more worried about Johnny’s business model.

But ask me about the rivers of Eden. Or the sons of Jacob. Or what to do with a lost object. Or a classic poem. Biblical Waters for 100, please. I might just surprise you... because while I thought I was helping my children with their homework all those years ago, I was getting an education of my own.

And the tuition? A whole lot of love, a few bedtime stories, a stack of schoolbooks, and the privilege of being their mother and their Savta.

Not bad for a fifth-grade education.

Packing Away the Sukkah

Sniff sniff.

I hate packing away my sukkah. I love my sukkah.

It isn't fancy. It isn't one of those gorgeous sukkot you see in magazines, with matching decorations and coordinated colors. Mine is more like a family museum.

The Katz Family Museum of Childhood.

It has been collecting exhibits for more than 40 years. The security system is a safety pin.

Every year I open boxes of old drawings, photographs and decorations I haven't seen for twelve months. And every year, I remember.

The first piece of art I ever hung is now an antique. A torn green plate with an apple and a little jar of honey. It is almost 45 years old. I know it's torn. I know the colors have faded. If I saw it in a store, I wouldn't buy it. But I can't imagine my sukkah without it.

Because the little boy who made it is almost 47 years old. Today he spends his days in the Knesset, fighting for veterans whose wounds are not always visible.

But when I look at that plate, I don't see a man who is almost 47. I see a little boy handing me his artwork. “Ema, this is for our Sukkah.”

And I put it up. And I kept it. For 45 years.

There are dozens and dozens like it. “Ema, this is for your Sukkah.” “Savta, this is for your Sukkah.”

Preschool cards. Drawings. Paintings. Things made from construction paper, crayons, glue and whatever else a preschool teacher could find. Some are beautiful.

Some are... well... you have to know the artist personally to understand what you're looking at. I love them all.

Every one is laminated or contact papered. Every one hangs from a safety pin. Preserved for the ages, or at least until the next strong wind.

Laminated Love

And then there are two cards that are different. They are beautiful Hallmark cards from my dearest mother, z”l. Her words are blessings for our family. 

She is no longer here to say those words to me. But every year, I hang those cards in my sukkah. And when I look at them, my mother is still with me. Her handwriting. Her love. Her blessings.

One more generation hanging among all the drawings and paintings of the generations that came after her.

I have a golden Jerusalem made by my golden girl, who now works in Jerusalem.

I have the Old City, drawn in crayon by a little cutie who is now a captain, protecting our country.

I have a lulav and etrog that is 32 years old. The little boy who made it is 43. He is a rabbi. I think he is still pretty proud of that artwork.

And there are the preschool pictures of children who are now in high school. I remember their teensy hands giving me their creations. Now I look at the teenagers and wonder how on earth the years got away from me.

There are photographs, too.

For the ushpizin, I once dressed up seven of my grandsons as our holy guests and photographed them.“Little Avraham” is graduating yeshiva high school this year. Three of those little boys have already had their bar mitzvahs.

And there they hang, frozen in time.

Except, of course, they aren't frozen at all. They grew. They became themselves.

That is what my sukkah has become. Not just a place to eat. Not just a place to invite guests. It's a family history book. Except the pages hang from safety pins.

Every year I add a piece or two. Every year I say, “Oh, look at this!” And every year I put it all back up.

The Museum Closes

And then comes the part I don't like. I take down the decorations. The table disappears. The lights come down. The museum closes its doors for another year.

Sniff sniff.

But maybe I don't really put the memories away. Maybe I just put the decorations away. Because the children are still here. 

The little boy of the green plate is still here, just a grown man. The little girl who drew Jerusalem is still here, just working in it. The captain, the rabbi, the seven ushpizin... still here. Just taller.

And my mother is still here, too. Her blessings are still hanging on my Sukkah wall.

The chagim are over. The dishes are going back into the cabinets. The leftovers are almost gone. Regular life is beginning again.

But maybe this is regular life now. Making games for my grandchildren. Finding time to see them. Taking online classes, because at 70 I have decided there is still more to learn.

Finishing that book that has been sitting on my desk for years. Planning this year's “Dames of the Dance,” which is about Rebirth.

And so I tape up the last box. I write on it, in big letters: MUSEUM. REOPENS NEXT SUKKOT.

And somehow, as always, one safety pin ends up in my pocket.

B"H.

I'll find it in January, and smile.

Until next Sukkot. ❤️

The Game Is Still Good. So Is the Hat.

A couple of years ago, at the start of the war, I made a board game for my grandchildren.

It was called: B"H, LIFE IS GOOD.

At the time, life didn't always feel particularly good.

We couldn't visit the grandchildren the way we normally did. Everyone was waiting, worrying, and holding phones up so we could see each other's faces. Hugs had been downgraded to screens. And since some of our kids didn't have screens at all, we just listened to the sound of their voices.

I wanted to make something for the kids I couldn't see. Something that said, in my own Savta-ish way: Yes, things are hard. But B"H, life is good.

So, I covered the dining room table in plastic, to protect it from me. I sat down in my blue hat, with a pile of markers, and made a game.

And when I say made, I mean made. I drew the board. I colored the spaces. I wrote out the cards. I cut things out. I glued things on. I arranged and rearranged the board just so.

It was not exactly Hasbro, but the kids loved it.

Fast forward two years.

Last week, we traveled to visit our far-away grandchildren, and I brought along my new game - the one I've been calling The EVERYTHING Game, because it has cards for little kids, older kids, thinking, doing, talking, laughing, and generally making a lot of noise.

We played. They loved it.

And then one of them said, "We still play B"H, LIFE IS GOOD."

Still.

The game I made at a dining room table had not been sitting in some forgotten corner collecting dust. It had been played. Repeatedly. By actual children.

I brought the old game home with me.

And that's when I made three important discoveries.

Number One: I had the dates wrong.

Originally, I was sure I'd made that game during COVID. I'd been telling it that way. Then I found the photo on my phone. It was the war. 

Apparently, in our family, the hard times have started to blur together. Unfortunately, one of them hasn't ended.

Number Two: The game is good.

Really good.

I looked at it with fresh eyes and thought, “You know what? This actually works.”

And I can make it better. Because, once a person discovers she can invent board games, she cannot stop.

I now have opinions about cards. And spaces. And dice. And how many squares are necessary before a child starts wondering whether the game will ever end.

I have become the sort of person who looks at a board game and thinks: This needs more interaction and fewer rules.

It's a slippery slope.

Number Three: Look at the photo. I was wearing the same hat.

Two years later. Same hat. Different game. Different grandchildren. Different circumstances.

Same Savta.

The hat, I'm proud to say, stayed exactly the same.

And suddenly I thought: Maybe that's the real game.

The world changes. The grandchildren get older. Some of them get taller than I am, which, frankly, is rude.

New games come along. Old games stay.

We sit around tables. We try to give our grandchildren something that will stay with them after we've gone home. And sometimes, years later, we discover that they kept it.

Not because it was perfect. Not because it was professionally manufactured. But because Savta made it for them.

I don't know how long B"H, LIFE IS GOOD will keep getting played. Maybe until the board falls apart. Maybe until the grandchildren are too old for it.

Although, judging from the teenagers who recently played my new game for three hours, I'm not putting any money on that.

But I do know this:

I made that game during a very hard time because I wanted my grandchildren to remember something: B"H, life is good.

Two years later, they reminded me.

And, by the way... the hat is still good, too.

B"H. ❤️

 

Savta, Off Duty

I was wedged under a tilted ladder, catching grapes my son was dropping down from the top of our grapevines, when my two-year-old granddaughter, watching nearby, called out:

"Savta. Water." Oy.
"Savta. Water."

I was just about to figure out how to unmesh myself from the ladder situation when my five-year-old grandson called out, "I'll get it, Savta."

And he took off.

That didn't sound right to me. How was he going to get his sister a drink? He'd have to find a cup, reach the sink, fill it (well, at least an inch) and somehow get it to her without spilling. This was a two-part Savta job, minimum.

I got myself untangled and ran into the house. (Well, I was running in my imagination.)

And there he was. One leg on a stool, his knee on the sink, leaning over the water filter with a little black paper coffee cup. He had figured it out.

I was about to exclaim, "Amazing! What a boy!" when I felt my eyes getting misty instead. So I just said, "Thank you, darling. What a good brother."

SUDDEN INDEPENDENCE

We sat down to play one of the games I'd invented. A few minutes later, he disappeared. Then he returned, wiping his hands on his pants. He'd gone to the bathroom by himself. And washed his hands. Without a reminder. Without a single "Savta, come."

Had I been fired? Not exactly. Just quietly downsized.

Where had the "Savta, help" gone? The "Savta, read me a book"? I realized a whole slew of cherished little-kid jobs were disappearing off my desk - the potty songs, the swing pushes, the running into my arms at preschool pickup, the booster seat buckle, the hand held down the street. Those small, unglamorous tasks are part of what binds a grandchild to each of us. And in one splash of filtered water, I'd been quietly promoted to Consultant. Emeritus. On Retainer.

I felt sad. Also, oddly, proud.

A few minutes later, we went out to the porch where my son was helping us build our sukkah. My grandson watched for a minute and announced, "I can help." Of course he could. Every little kid wants to help.

Then he thought about it. "I left my tools at home," he said. "But I'll be able to figure it out."

I looked at him differently. I actually believed him.

Then a fly started dive-bombing my head. "Don't worry, Savta," he said. "That's my pet fly. I brought him from home."

B"H. The job may have changed. The boy hasn't.

The Grapes Miss Them Too

There have been lots of cartoons flying around the internet lately showing grandmothers dancing and frolicking because their grandchildren have gone back to school.

I understand.

Many grandmothers spent the month of August helping out while their children worked and their grandchildren had nowhere to go. They ran Grandma Camps, with or without sleepovers. They took the kids on vacations and day trips. They cooked and baked and played and cleaned and hugged and bandaged and refereed fights.

After thirty days of making pizza, wacky mac and pita with chocolate spread, I suppose many grandmothers are ready for a salad and a martini.

I am not one of them.

Yes, I also had my grandchildren for August. And while I can certainly see the advantages of having my house back, I am not celebrating their return to school.

True, my house is a disaster area. My coat closet needs a complete overhaul after umpteen games of hide-and-seek. (The coat closet is a favorite hiding place.) And I am missing more teaspoons than ever. (I have a suspicion that some of them were tossed out with the half-eaten yogurts.)

But bits of our summer keep turning up anyway. My grandson's favorite green T-shirt was mixed in with my linen laundry. Plus, as I got ready for Shabbat, I found my daughter-in-law's white woven shawl and my two-year-old's Mickey Mouse hat on the dining room table.

But honestly? I miss the mess. I miss the noise. I miss the kids. I'm heartbroken to say goodbye to August.

Of course, it isn't really goodbye. I'll try to see as many of them as I can - at least once a week or every other week. But it isn't the same as having them here for days and evenings, swinging on the porch, playing game after game, reading books until the pages curl.

I loved having the sinks filled with cups and dishes, keeping the oven ready for the next pan of French fries, and constantly replenishing the cereal. I loved the noise. I even loved the bimba races around the kitchen.

Apparently, I am the grandmother who misses the chaos.

HOLDING ON TO SUMMER

So I did as many things as I could to prolong our being together.

I took the girls for our annual back-to-school shopping spree. We commandeered dressing rooms in stores all over the mall, because when one girl finds a cute top, suddenly cute tops are popping up all over the store for the other cousins. And of course, they must try everything on at the same time.

I think the women and girls waiting in line to get into the try-on rooms were watching their goings-on like an internet reality show.

(This year, two of the guys joined us, but that was an exception to our yearly adventure. Culture shock. They didn't know what hit them.)

GRAPE HARVESTS

And then there were the Friday Grape Harvests. So far, there have been two.

Some kids came over in the afternoon and picked as many grapes as they could in an hour. Then I served them pizza, we played pen-and-paper games, and eventually the ones who had to go home kissed me goodbye and hopped on the bus.

This year's grape harvest has been amazing. The kids found grapes hiding everywhere on the vines - behind my wooden bench, along the sides of the palm trees, tucked into places I never knew grapes could grow.

The big kids climbed up to reach the clusters hanging from the top of the metal trellis. I held the ladder with one hand and a bowl with the other. They tossed the grape clusters into the bowl. They didn't always hit the mark. Sometimes it was absolutely raining grapes.

And there were so many.

This year's harvest has already produced dozens of kilos of grapes, and there are more to come. I think the vines felt something was happening. I think they know the children have gone back to school.

Because somehow, after an entire summer of having grandchildren underfoot, there are still grapes hiding everywhere. Behind the bench. Along the palm trees. High up on the trellis. Just waiting to be found.

I think the grapes miss my grandchildren too.

 

A Summer of Theater

I love taking my grandchildren to the theater.

Well, what would you expect? Theater is such a big part of my life. And I'm not selfish. They don't only have to watch me on stage. :-) [Although that is nice.]

I'm happy to take them to whatever age-appropriate English-language productions are around. [I wish there were even more.] And this summer, for the first time I took them to two Hebrew shows.

Fortunately, I was familiar with both. The first was Frozen on Ice. The children were enthralled. They loved the Frozen movies and knew all the songs. They watched the skating and singing and special effects with wide eyes. They kept saying, "I love this! I don't want it to end!" [Really.]

Meanwhile, I was thinking, "Okay...nice." It was nice. But the rockets didn't exactly go off in my theater heart.

A few weeks later, I took another group of grandchildren to see the Hebrew production of Annie. Now, that was different.

In more than thirty years of theater-going in Israel, I had never once seen a Hebrew production of a Broadway show. I genuinely didn't know what to expect. I have no basis for comparison, and no complaints to file - the performers were terrifically talented. Real voices. Real performances. And even though they weren't on Broadway, they did a good job and really put over their songs.

History Lesson?

I wasn't sure how the children would relate to a story set in post-Depression America. Did they need to know about the Stock Market Crash of 1929? Should I explain how suddenly-poor folks were living under the bridges of New York City, or that people sold apples on the street to earn a few pennies? 

Should I tell them who President Franklin Delano Roosevelt was? Should I mention that my father, obm, once worked in the Chrysler Building, which appeared as one of the backdrops?

I wasn't sure. I could give them a history lesson before the show. Or I could just let them watch Annie. I decided to leave out the lesson and let the music do its work. 

I had seen Annie on Broadway. Not just any Annie, either. I saw the original production in 1977, with Andrea McArdle and Dorothy Loudon. Almost fifty years ago.

And somehow, sitting in a theater in Israel in 2026, watching a Hebrew-speaking Annie onstage, my mind was playing the Broadway Annie of 1977 at the same time.

I understood almost not a word of the Hebrew. But I knew the story. I knew the songs. I knew what was happening. And then the show began with: "The sun'll come out tomorrow..." Except tonight it was something like מחר תזרח השמש.

And it was wonderful. And I cried.

I cried through most of the performance - right up until the finale, when something happened that yanked me straight out of 1977 and back into my seat: the big tap number.

I think you know that I tap, and love all things tap dancing. So, I waited through the whole show for the big tap number. And when the ensemble launched into the finale, I sat up, ready.

There were no tap dancers.

Instead, "Daddy Warbucks" seemed to be wearing little tin toe taps - the kind you clip on to keep your soles from wearing down - and he sort-of, kind-of, approximately tap danced. A shuffle here. A f-lap there. He did his best, but my tap-dancing heart let out a small, private sigh.

Nobody else in the theater noticed. Nobody else cared. Only me - disappointed about the tap number  that never came. Still, when the song ended, Annie hugged Daddy Warbucks, and I was moved anew.

Part of me was watching the little girl onstage. Part of me was watching my awe-struck grandchildren. Part of me was back in 1977, watching Andrea McArdle and Dorothy Loudon. And part of me, apparently, was still thinking about those toe taps.

When the orphans sang It's the Hard-Knock Life, I didn't understand all the Hebrew words, but I understood the feeling. And I understood something else. The children didn't need my history lesson. They didn't need to know everything I knew about 1929, or Roosevelt, or the Depression. 

The Theater Experience

They just needed the heart-warming story. And the music. And maybe, most importantly, the experience of sitting in a theater and being transported somewhere else.

When the show ended, my granddaughters sang the Hebrew version of Tomorrow all the way home. I sat in the car listening to them, part of me in 2026, part of me in 1977, and - fine - part of me still thinking about tap shoes.

I decided that I'll keep taking my grandchildren to the theater. Not because I need them to understand what theater means to me. Not because I need them to love every show that I love. And certainly not because I want them to better appreciate me on stage. :-) [Although that would be nice.]

I'll take them because I want to give them the chance to discover what happens when the lights go down, the curtain goes up, and a story comes alive in front of you.

Frozen on Ice was nice. Annie made me cry. And somewhere between the two, I realized that this summer had become a summer of theater.

A dozen kids saw Frozen on Ice. They oohed and aahed at the special effects and were thrilled to see Olaf. Others saw Annie. They discovered a story I had loved for almost fifty years, and they sang Tomorrow all the way home.

The shows were totally different, but the kids will remember the lights going down, the music filling the hall, and hopefully, sitting in a theater with Savta and experiencing the magic of a live show.

I've spent a lifetime loving theater. Now I get to give a little bit of that love away.