Vietnam, Saran-Wrap, diet pills, the Bomb...

At first, "Slouching Toward Bethlehem" is hard to grasp. It's like the writing of the Beats with elusive content and dead-on feeling. It works together like a collage; all the bits would seem annoyingly random were it not for the trust Didion earns through terrific prose:

A curtain billowed in the afternoon wind. A cat scratched a beagle in Sharon's lap. Except for the sitar music on the stereo there was no other sound or movement until seven-thirty, when Max said, "Wow."

Though I had a terrible time keeping track of characters (all little girls and guys afraid of "media poisoning"), somehow I knew very quickly that the piece would be about family, or brief surrogate families, or children specifically. The ending is fantastic and disturbing, and characterizes the time and place very well.

My favorite part of "Slouching Toward Bethlehem," however, was reading Didion's own thoughts on the movement. When she had the spotlight everything became clearer as these young people's lifestyles became simultaneously more poignant and sad.

They are less in rebellion against the society than ignorant of it, able only to feed back certain of its most publicized self-doubts, Vietnam, Saran-Wrap, diet pills, the Bomb.

Final Feature Responses

Mary:

This is a really fascinating piece, mostly because you lend a ton of conflict to the topic with your personal experiences. The only problem is that your voice drops out and your character disappears toward the end of the piece. I think it's because your focus isn't narrow enough; though well researched, the legal repercussions of public nudity draw me out of your specific story.

Also, I think you should really consider who your intended audience is. If it's something you want to try to publish locally there's probably enough context, but elsewhere everyone is going to be confused about where K is located, what the college environment is like, and what the heck this LandSea thing is all about. Otherwise, I feel that this is a really strong first draft with lots of interesting details. I just want to see more development of the "I" character in order to have some sense of conclusion toward the end of the piece.

Camilo:

It's interesting that you, as an international student, chose to write about another international student. Because I know you I know that you are a figure of authority on the subject of being abroad in the U.S., but I think it would be really neat for you to include yourself as a character as well. How well do you know Rufus? If you're close friends we might get a more intimate picture of him from a pal's perspective. And, if you included yourself you might try talking to Jim VanSweden, Executive Editor of Lux Esto, about getting it published. That way you'd specify your audience, but I think you'd want to consider changing some of the generalities "most Americans" think about the "mythic magic land" of Kenya. I don't think the Kalamazoo College community assumes there are all lions and no cars in Kenya, but maybe I'm wrong.

The interaction and quotes at the end of your piece are funny and work very nicely. As with the rest of the feature, cleaning up your grammar for smoother narration would make it even better.

Maureen:

This story is, admittedly, a lot more interesting than I expected it to be. Javin is a character, though he seems a bit melodramatic. It was a bit hard to get a picture of him, so maybe drop some more physical description. It sounds like your interviews went very well. Having quotes from Zaide Pixley is nice and really helps the structure of the piece. But I want to hear more about Ashlee and how she "shares the same issues." That's a pretty broad statement. Maybe bring her in earlier and go into more depth about said issues.

There's a quote from Zaide that's super confusing--the one about the dollar and the coat. And I think you should go back and look at the piece grammatically on a line-by-line level to make it flow more smoothly. Overall, however, I think it's shaping up to be a really good feature. I agree that K is incredibly cliquey place and if you don't find a group right away you're pretty much doomed. I'd like to hear more about how this contrasts with K's image to, say, a prospective student or the rest of the community.

Marni:

What happened to following families around? I do think it's really interesting to hear how other seniors shop for groceries and how much people care about buying whole foods and supporting the Co-op. It's almost voyeuristic to read what people eat and where they spend their money, for some reason. Most people keep quiet because with organics food choices have almost become status symbols. What does this say about K that people are willing to spend their money on more expensive foods? And I know these seniors, but learning how they eat adds strange depth to their personalities. Maybe because I'm, you know, food obsessed...

Anyway, maybe focus on just two people--one who shops at the Co-op and one who eats out a lot and/or shops at Meijer. Who has a healthier attitude toward food and making choices? Also, I think there's some danger in the NuVal system you don't mention. Don't be afraid to put yourself in there as a character because your response to it is super valuable.

Joseph:

I like your trickster lede. I can't remember the technical term, but it's extremely playful because it misleads the reader not once, but twice. I also appreciate how smootly it transitions into a bit of historical context, but the information given is confusing. I'm pretty sure I've seen people buried there after the 1930s. Are you talking about a specific portion of the cemetary?

Also, I think you should consider your intended audience and whether or not you want to more specifically describe the location of Kalamazoo College, the cemetary, or the Bardeen family plot marker.

I'm conflicted about you referencing yourself in the piece. I know your research was done observing within the cemetary, but I don't get the feeling of hanging out and just watching things going on until the second- and third-to-last paragraphs. The details exclude you, but they're authoritative, like mentioning the contents of the trash cans. I don't think you need to say, "One student told me..." in the paragraph above that. And I'd work on the ending, too. The technical speak is strangely placed.

Colin:

I really like your lede. It's a fast-paced introduction to the environment of the DEMF, almost like an anthropological description but also very cinematic (go figure). To distinguish this from your documentary project, you could think about your personal response to your experience and morph this into a profile with a critical edge. I think you know enough about the DJs you mention that you could critique their work. I'm familiar with RJD2 and J Dilla (R.I.P.), but I'd like to know more about the other artists like DJ Flying Lotus and Afrika Bambaataa.

I started to get a sense of how electronic music's presence in Detroit relates to Motown, but it wasn't enough. Maybe use DEMF as a frame but focus on music history instead. It would be a good way to juxtapose old and new, and make a statement about the city's collapse. Also, you left me wondering whether or not music can actually help the city financially. What would be needed for a revival movement to happen?

Natalie Next Door

The houses at the top of the hill above Kalamazoo College are large and beautiful, perfect for the city’s well-known families and best-loved tenured professors. But this is not where Professor Natalie Bourdon lives. Down the hill, across several lanes of traffic, Natalie lives among the undergraduate students and low-income families at the edge of the Vine Street neighborhood. It’s about as urban as Kalamazoo gets, but it’s certainly nowhere near the New York neighborhood she called home just a few months ago.

Still, Natalie carries the energy of a larger city with her, and she knows how to detect it in others. On a Saturday afternoon she slips through the door of The Strutt café just down the street from our houses. She is gracefully and impossibly thin, dressed in a pencil skirt and blue blouse, and the animated owner with thick-rimmed glasses behind the counter recognizes her immediately.

“I could tell he was from the city,” she tells me as we make our way to a tall set of tables and chairs halfway isolated from the loud music within the café. “Which, I mean, he’s from Seattle, so I guess that’s sort of right.” She shrugs.

There’s something strange about having coffee with a professor—even if they’re your next door neighbor, even if you’re not currently in a class of theirs, and even if they’re fairly young. It makes you realize that you might never stop looking for role models, and it makes you worry you’ll never stop caring about what other people think about you. I dig for my pen and reporter’s notebook in the bottom of my oversized tan canvas purse and remind her that I want to talk to her about her experiences in Tanzania and at Kalamazoo College. She reminds me she’s flattered that people want to hear about her life.

In 1998, Natalie participated in a three-month pilot research project in medical anthropology to study AIDS and malnutrition in the people around Mount Kilimanjaro. “It was too hard,” she tells me. “A lot of people died while I was there.” Though Natalie discovered she no longer wished to work in medical anthropology, she knew that she wanted to return.

The second time Natalie traveled to Tanzania it was on a Fulbright, and she didn’t go alone. “People get married for a lot of reasons!” she says, smiling. “You know the story, don’t you?”

I shake my head hesitantly. I’ve heard rumors, but I want to hear Natalie tell her own story.

While living in New York before her second trip to Tanzania, Natalie was in a relationship with a woman, but her best friend from junior year of college was a man, a philosophy major at NYU named Matthew. “He was broke and I was broke,” she says. “And one day after a couple of margaritas…”

Natalie married Matthew at the 53^rd Circuit B Courthouse. Together they would travel to Africa with a dependence allowance from Natalie’s Fulbright. When they returned to New York they planned to divorce, but soon after the newlyweds started dating in Tanzania they knew it wouldn’t happen.

“It’s incredibly easy being married to your best friend!” says Natalie. It makes more sense, she tells me, than dating for a long time and finally deciding to get married. Natalie and Matthew’s mothers, having been divorced, were, if not thrilled, fairly realistic about the whole thing. The only person upset by Natalie’s decision was her sister, who “took it very seriously” because she was, at the time, planning a large wedding of her own.

In Tanzania, Natalie was grateful for Matthew’s companionship and observed his interactions with Tanzanians like a true anthropologist. “Little attention has been given to Euro-American men doing research in Africa,” she says. There’s a certain cultural baggage that white men carry, and though African men won’t physically harass a white woman, nobody hesitated to be aggressive with Matthew.

Back in the U.S., Natalie’s career in cultural anthropology shifted from research to teaching as she began to realize how much she loved facilitating a great classroom environment. And when contacted about the opportunity for a six-month-long position by her friend and Kalamazoo College visiting professor, Victor Torres-Velez, she gave up the energy of New York for new experiences at a liberal arts college.

Natalie’s six-month position stretched into the entire academic year as budget cuts and retiring professors opened new teaching opportunities. By teaching interdepartmental courses like Women and International Development—combining Women’s Studies, Anthropology, and African Studies—a wide variety of students enrolled in classes, including me.

And while Natalie assures me that living in the relatively inactive city of Kalamazoo was worthwhile only because the students were so incredible, next year she’ll be moving on to Mercer University, a liberal arts college in Macon, Georgia. “It’s very much like K,” she says. “It was also founded in 1833 by Baptists, and even has the same school colors.”

Natalie has obtained a tenure track position, which she says “is a huge relief.” Of the twenty-five or so schools she applied to, about half of them cut the prospective position before she could even interview due to massive budget cuts currently affecting almost all institutions of higher learning. Still, this New Yorker is a little nervous about living in the South.

When Natalie asks about my plans after graduation, I tell her I'm going to New York and she looks a bit jealous. But I don't have a job, I say, and in this economy it's going to be difficult. And she agrees. But then she tells me I have to go to grad school, if not now then eventually, and I'm flattered. "Okay," I want to tell her, "but only because you said so."

Sigh...

Maybe it's just that it's Seventh Week and I'm pretty exhausted, but I didn't feel as engaged with the reading for this week as I have in the past. The "Ethics" section in Telling True Stories didn't contain anything really new or surprising. Of course the interviewee should know what they're getting into and if they say something shouldn't go in the article it shouldn't go in. It's something I dealt with in writing my profile and I didn't need to read TTS beforehand. The only segments that seemed worth reading were the anecdotes told by reporters about experiences in which they learned something about their own ethics. These stories were interesting, but the overall message seemed to be that writers need to have experiences with reporting. It's not until you're tested that you truly know where you stand and what you're willing to sacrifice.

I like Ted Conover. He's appropriately present and observant in "The Road is Very Unfair," and it's clear he was willing to take risks (and even risk his life) to get the story. I think that Kramer made a mistake in "Access" when he explicitly stated why he was in Eastern Europe at the beginning of the piece. It made him stand out even more than he already did in scene. It felt like he was putting himself above everyone else, not only as a reporter, but as an American. Maybe this was necessary in making some sort of a statement about "international friendship," but his relationships with people he encountered didn't seem authentic enough for that to be the case. Conover, on the other hand, was like a sponge journalist, absorbing everything around him even as he was simply a guest on the journey. If I had to choose to have coffee with Conover or Kramer, based on the voice in these two pieces, I'd pick Conover. He's more amiable and vulnerable, and his storytelling really drew me in.

Still, "Access" was neat for me to read because, despite being Ukranian, I know very little about the country and its culture. Descriptions of people, places, and food were rewarding to the senses, and sometimes comical (e.g. the "odd, red-haired high school English teacher" and his use of caricatured British mannerisms and phrases). And the Marlboros. Really fascinating.

Profile Responses

Mary:

Great ending. This piece is really entertaining and intriguing, and you have a lot of layers going on. I care more about what is said about humanity and the employees' stories than I do about description. It seems like if you've seen one convenience store you've seen them all. I love your little witty bits like, "it's bound to be breakfast eventually," and the description of the poster board with the store's motto. Your writing has character. I want to hear more about Paul and Will as individuals, however, because here they're lumped together and might as well be the same person.

I'd like you to explore more of the conflict surrounding racist and classist judgments that are made by Paul and Will. It seems like they're not trying to do it--even consciously making an effort to avoid it--but it sort of happens anyway. Nice work, and I'm looking forward to reading the final.

Camilo:

There are a lot of good things in this first draft about death. I get the sense that Linda is comfortable with death, but she absolutely loves life. It's admirable that she's beginning a new chapter in her life at age 60, and you've captured a lot of her character. The dialogue and quotes help with this. She has a strong voice, and I'd like to see the piece end with something a bit less impersonal than an e-mail for this reason.

It's tough to get a sense of the "I" character. What is your relationship with Linda? That'll help with the talk of hugging because if you don't know her very well it'll make her behavior all the more strange and touching. I think you have to decide whether or not you want to be a presence in the piece. It could go either way, but might be strengthened by your story as an international student who has found a friend in a college staff member. Nice job.

Maureen:

So, does Jane not know that Germany is famous for beer and that Europeans consume more alcohol per week than Americans on average? It's tough for me to get a feel for her. She seems nice and kind of shy, but she calls women 'sluts,' and she doesn't like crowds or people, but she's looking forward to studying abroad in Germany. What do these contradictions mean?

I'd like to see more description, more physical characteristics and meaningful action. The most meaningful action you have here is when Jane looks at the poster and explains why she goes to bed so early. It's concise, and it says a lot without going overboard.

Also, I'm having difficulty figuring out the relationship between the girls. Jane doesn't want friends, or doesn't need them, she says, but she seems to have found a group of women in which she has found companionship. Is her definition of friendship different than others?

Marni:

You've captured some great bits about cultural differences in this piece. It says a lot about politeness and discipline, and human interactions across cultures in general. The dialogue and stand-alone quotes are well chosen and really capture Kunii's voice. And the comment from Amel is cute. I don't know how I would describe that concept to an international student if I had to.

This is a good start, but I'd like to know more personal information about Kunii. You've only scratched the surface of her as a student. What does she think about cafeteria food? Does she cook in the dorms? Did she make friends easily? What does she miss most about her home country?

Joseph:

It sounds like this was a fantastic story to have been assigned as an intern, and I can tell you've put a great amount of time into doing your research. I'm not sure if you meant this, but Johnny seems unimpressive to me. It's like he's the stereotype of a musician, or maybe the combination of a bunch of stereotypes--compared to Tom Waits, ex-smoker with a minimalist apartment in New York City. The scene in the park with the children and the balloons is what makes the piece worth reading. It's intriguing.

You mentioned this when I ran into you earlier this week outside Humphrey House, and I agree that you need to work on your tenses. I'd probably bring everything into present and recent past. See my changes within the piece. Good work, though.

Colin:

This piece is very gloomy, which is appropriate because the murder that happened in the restroom at the train station was so tragic and unexpected, and unfortunately discovered by a young boy. It was a patient released from the psychiatric hospital because they didn't have enough room, I believe. That would be interesting to include because the train station caters to a lot of people with no place to go in addition to those who are going places fast. Avoid cliches about death and time, if you can.

The description at the beginning is well done, but there's way too much of it. I thought you'd get to the infamous murder right away, but it took a really long time. Also, I'd like to see you do interviews yourself and become more of a character than an observer. You should be active, and the second person, addressing the reader, doesn't work so well for me.

Lindsey:

This piece feels like much more of a review than a profile, and it's promotional. I have a hard time believing you're as emotionally attached and into the place as you make it seem. Here there's no conflict, so for anyone who doesn't live in the Kalamazoo area it might not be worth reading.

Because I profiled the Strutt several weeks ago for The Index, I know Bain is an interesting, almost abrasive character. He's a dreamer, and super enthusiastic about the place, but he's a little overwhelming to deal with. I know some of the employees have had issues, so really talk to them. It seems like the staff has a really high rate of turnover, and there must be a reason for this.

Exquisite for Now

The view from the third floor corner studio in the massive Park Trades Center building is anything but extraordinary—barren rooftops, a McDonald’s drive-thru, a used car lot, a soup kitchen. And Kalamazoo’s skyline is particularly dreary this afternoon as the cold spring rain pelts the window panes. Beverly Fitzpatrick, one of the original members of the Exquisite Corpse arts collective, sits alone awaiting the arrival of the two artists who will help her install the new exhibit in their tiny gallery space. Snuggled into an oversized heather gray sweatshirt and slouching in a lime green vinyl chair, she seems cheery despite the weather, despite her coworkers’ tardiness.

While the other three individuals who share the studio are students, Fitzpatrick moved to Kalamazoo 10 years ago after briefly being enrolled at the Massachusetts College of Art. “It was a matter of the heart,” she says with an air of sadness and a nervous laugh. But Fitzpatrick is glad to have fallen in with a strong “creative-type community” and is well established as a barista and manager of the smoky Fourth Coast Café just down the street. With jet black hair pulled back in knotted pigtails and a mousy face that is the epitome of cute, Fitzpatrick has found her niche, and she seems happy.

It’s tough to imagine anyone would feel differently in Exquisite Corpse. The small room which serves as the workspace for four artists is crowded with an overwhelming amount of fantastic, colorful artwork. Every square inch of wall is covered with collages, watercolors, drawings, and amusing magazine clippings. Framed textiles haphazardly lean against mismatched furniture, and bright origami paper flowers are scattered across a desk and the wooden floor beneath.

The four young artists who spend countless hours in this room have created a haven. And according to Fitzpatrick, the collective began with this in mind. “It started as a side project,” she said, “so everyone could have a space outside of home to work and to promote ourselves, but also our friends and other artists.” After three years, Fitzpatrick is the only original member involved, but the focus of the group is still the same—to create community and provide emerging artists with a low-key space for their first shows. One of the best parts of being in charge of a gallery space, Fitzpatrick says, is simply being in charge, without the politics of the formal arts community.

The downside is, of course, that a relaxed environment facilitates a relaxed attitude toward shared responsibilities. For this reason one of the members no longer wishes to be involved in group activities, though she will make her contribution toward the rent and keep her workspace until she leaves for a program at the University of Tennessee in the fall. And Fitzpatrick seems to be alone in setting up the May exhibit, “Notably Unnoticed,” until Heidi Weiss finally rushes in and says their fourth member, Tom Howes, will be even later than planned because he is having difficulty setting up a private show at a gallery across town. Weiss will be leaving in the fall as well, to begin a textile program at Cranbrook Academy of Art.

Currently, though, Weiss is a strong presence, a flurry of energy with large sunglasses bobbling atop a head of short curly brown hair. She grabs a roller and white paint, touching up some spots that were missed while striking the last exhibit. This exhibit is a concept show about the artistic process, and she discusses the submissions with Fitzpatrick and asserts that there was some difficulty in categorizing work submitted by 17 local artists, both professionals and students. The exhibit will feature by-products of art rather than final products. Weiss spreads the submissions on a large table: a twisted chunk of metal still covered with the sand in which it was cast, a sampling of overexposed photos, paint-dribbled newspaper, and bright candy sprinkles in a cylindrical plastic mold. She begins to take them one by one, lining them up on the floor next to clean white walls.

When Howes arrives dressed in a red plaid shirt and baseball cap he’s jittery from the excitement of setting up his private show. He apologizes for being late and gets right to work peeling the taped cardstock off a matted piece of newspaper with swirled drips of paint. “I can’t believe she felt like she had to mat this,” he says, “as if she had to qualify what it is.” The piece will hang raw and unframed, as evidence of something more permanent.

As an artist who works almost entirely in collages, Fitzpatrick has given a lot of thought to the subject of permanence. The magazine clippings and paper scraps she works with have acidity levels that are not conducive to long-term preservation, but she doesn’t mind. “It’s my arts philosophy,” she says. “I kind of like the idea of things being temporary.”

The next day the gallery is open to the public in the citywide May Art Hop. Exquisite Corpse feels less like a refuge as small children run across the floor and old couples gawk at a print that hangs above the desk with the origami paper flowers. Beverly stands in the back of the room and talks on the phone with a friend who is doing an internship in Seattle. They’ve asked her to stay longer and she’s not sure if she’s coming back to Kalamazoo.

Guests wander in and out of the gallery space, its clean white walls now decorated with art by-products. These are happy mistakes, vibrant and provocative. A sheet of Howe’s pointillism watercolor confetti proudly appears next to bright spheres of clay stuck into the wall on pins. A scrap of Weiss’ tulle threaded with experimental stitches stirs slightly as people pass by. Even the skeletons of Fitzpatrick’s magazine clippings appear joyful against the stark white wall. The art featured here wasn’t supposed to be; it’s as if it has been given a second chance.

When the exhibit is taken down and the gallery walls are bare, it’s unclear what will happen to these rescued pieces of honorary art. But tonight their temporality is remarkable, and what will be one of the group’s last shows together is undeniably a success. Like the surrealist drawing game for which the arts collective is named, Exquisite Corpse will see artists come and go. For now, it’s up to Fitzpatrick to take responsibility for its perpetuation.

Interfaith Matzo Balls (Revision)

Sorry, I forgot to post this earlier.

My parents chose for me to be one of the Chosen. Long before I was born, my Catholic mother and Jewish father decided they would send their children to Hebrew school to learn songs about Israel and practice the Hebrew alphabet. My mother, privately devout and outwardly supportive of the strong community that the reform synagogue in Kalamazoo, Michigan had to offer, compromised. And when my grandma tried to pull me, in blonde pigtails and one-piece fleece pajamas, from my crib in the middle of the night to have a secret emergency baptism, my mother stood in the doorway in the form of a shadowy figure who was determined to raise her children properly Jewish. She would, despite her background, establish our personal traditions.

The worksheets that my siblings and I brought home from the synagogue, covered in sticky apple juice spills and crayon scribbles, helped inform our religious practices as a family. The convenience of a variety of delicious foods that we learned corresponded to each of the many Jewish holidays throughout the year—sweet shortbread and jam hamentashen cookies for Purim, greasy potato latkes for Hanukkah, and fluffy golden matzo balls for Passover—allowed for worship through filling our bellies. We quickly discovered that our Catholic mother was a superb chef of Jewish foods.

Besides being present at family Passover Seders, Mom’s matzo balls were my chicken soup when I was sick, and nobody else’s could compare. As the small Reform synagogue we attended grew in size, community Passover Seders featured a first course of matzo balls which, in size and density, closely resembled the golf balls that one could have found just outside on the green country club lawn. By the time I was in high school, at Southern California Seders hosted by relatives, matzo balls were less compact but still very spongy, floating alone in salty yellow broth.

In college I attempted to make matzo balls for my boyfriend, Jason, a tall student of Christian theology with a Samson-like ponytail whose interest in religious traditions of all sorts warranted a Jewish meal. I was disappointed when my efforts rendered sad, lumpy bits of overcooked matzo meal in a stew of cabbage and carrots and apologized profusely, but he assured me he didn’t know the difference between good and bad matzo balls and enjoyed them nonetheless. I was initially cautious to date such a devout Christian after so many school-aged peers approached me, Bible in hand, to show me passages that indicated my fate of suffering in hell, but I knew he was worth making an interfaith relationship work. I invited him to dinner.

Jason and I had been dating for two years when, on the evening of the Passover Seder, I arrived early to help prepare the dinner. When I walked in the door the wine had already been opened and my dad was setting the dining room table and singing loudly and off key, an infamous song from Hebrew school called “Dayanu.” Though we knew the song was in celebration of the Israelite’s freedom from slavery, the actual words had been long forgotten. My dad preferred to make them up himself, inserting an emphatic “Let my people go!” randomly amid mumbled Hebrew-like words.

In the kitchen Mom was preparing the matzo balls. I tried to learn her methods, observing as she removed the mix of matzo meal, egg, and water from the refrigerator and gently began to scoop the gooey substance from the bowl, lightly patting bits into perfectly round two-inch spheres before dropping them into a large pot of boiling water. Because half of our family is vegetarian and half are ravenous carnivores, both chicken broth and vegetable broth, each with tiny floating bits of celery, carrots, and onion, heated on the back burners of the stove. As the matzo balls cooked in the water, each puffed to twice its size before being removed with a large spoon and transferred to a pot of broth.

By the time Jason arrived and we all sat down my younger sister was banging on the table yelling at my dad to stop singing. Dad reluctantly ceased singing and began the service, but as is tradition my family criticized him every time he mispronounced a word or read a prayer in the wrong order. Eventually he gave up completely and tossed the prayer book in the center of the table, demanding that someone else lead if they thought they could do it better. By this time my mom, the elementary school librarian, was trying to make peace by pulling out her infamous props that correspond to each of the plagues in the Passover story. Plastic locusts and frogs began to fly across the table as my sister mischievously grabbed a handful and heaved it in my direction. Due to her imperfect aim, the ever-polite Jason simply tried to duck, but was pelted with sticky frogs. “Hannah!” I yelled, but she ignored me and continued to throw the toys. My dad began to sing “Dayanu” again, and my mom decided she no longer wished to make peace.

As the table erupted into chaos, I leaned in to Jason and told him to be brave, that I’d be right back. I ran into the kitchen, grabbed the two pots of steaming soup, and walked carefully into the dining room. As everyone spotted the first course, they began to calm down in anticipation of the light, eggy matzo balls. It didn’t matter who was Jewish and who wasn’t, and proper Jewishness was the last thing on everyone’s mind. The estranged prayer book lay in the middle of the table, the meal may not have been entirely kosher, and we weren’t exactly peaceful, but we were together. And Jason got his first taste of good matzo balls, the best Catholic ones around.