A Doozie of a Story

And God said: “Behold, I have given you every herb yielding seed which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree that has seed-yielding fruit — to you it shall be for food.” 

-Genesis 1:29

For as the days of a tree shall be the days of my people. 

-Isaiah 65:22

Today is the festival of Tu B'Shvat - literally the 15th day of the Month of Shvat. It marks the halfway point of winter - the majority of the winter rain has fallen, and we now begin to prepare for spring. It is better known as the birthday of trees. 

I'm not sure why it is, but Tu B'Shvat, that most quintessential of all Israeli holidays, brings back more memories of the Old Country than any other. Possibly, this happens because the way Tu B'Shvat was celebrated there, and the way it is celebrated here, could not be more different. 

I remember the small bags of dried dates and figs and carobs that we received in school and that we gleefully tossed into the garbage, but we always scarfed down the mini box of California raisins. California raisins aren't Israeli, but the box is so cute. 

I remember the stickers of leaves we stuck on pictures of trees that the JNF hung in our classroom. Each sticker cost five cents. A whole tree cost a dollar. 

I remember learning the words to 'HaShkediya Porachat' - a song honouring the blossoming almond tree. I also remember not understanding how a tree could blossom when there was six feet of snow on the ground. 

I also remember seeing my first carob tree in Israel, and discovering that even fresh from the tree, carobs tastes like tree.  However, dates and figs - fruits of the Land of Israel - fresh from a tree are divine. Quite literally. 

I remember the tears I had to hide when, for the first time, I saw a blossoming almond tree, and finally understood. 

These memories come up every year, but this year they seem to be more poignant.

Every year, my place of employment gives its employees a box of dried fruit and nuts for Tu B'Shvat (don't get me started about the inappropriateness of giving imported dried fruit to celebrate the glory of the Land of Israel....). This year's box, which I received a few days before the holiday, was bigger than usual, and came with four bottles of Israeli beer, because so much money has been saved by my employer and by the workers' union because we haven't been able to have any parties, or trips, or large meetings for a year because of corona.  

At home, I opened the box, and counted the packages of almonds and apricots, pecans and cranberries. The box of raisins was neither cute nor Californian, but touching it, I was suddenly squarely back  in the auditorium of the school I had attended for 12 years holding a bag of dried carobs. I looked out of my living room window at the palm trees in my garden and saw, instead, six feet of snow, and bare, leafless trees. 

A feeling of bereavement, as if I had lost everything I knew, overcame me. I was baffled at what was happening.  

A few hours later, I received an email from my sister-in-law back in the Old Country. 

She had sent a photo of a dish of food. 

"What is this?" she asked. 

I looked closely at the picture. It took me a second to understand what was in the photo, but when I did, I knew exactly what it was she was asking. 

For reasons long lost, if ever known, this particular classic Ashkenazi Jewish dish had a particular name in my childhood household. My mother made this dish twice a month, at least. 

I haven't eaten it or thought of it in at least three decades. 

"If that is kasha and bows", I wrote back to my sister-in-law, "its real name is doozies." 

I hit the send key, and promptly burst into tears. 

It has taken me much of the day to understand those tears and the low feelings I have been experiencing for a while now, and why it was the doozies that had elicited such a strong response, and not, say, pictures of the grandkids whom I haven't seen in person in months.

It's been a difficult year, and I find myself mourning the time gone, the opportunities that didn't come, the visits not paid, the laughter not shared, the stories not told. And I fear, sometimes, that the opportunities won't ever come again, the visits won't ever be paid; laughter won't ever be shared again. And the stories, my memories, will never be told. 

I think that picture and those tears and that memory of my mother's kitchen unleashed something in me now; a need to stop wasting time, to share the stories, even if nobody is listening or interested.

I decided to make doozies. 

Memories, however, are funny that way. I loved doozies as a kid. I ate bowlfuls of them. My mother made them all the time.  

The thing is, they really are quite tasteless - I mean it's just pasta and cabbage and groats, seasoned with, gasp, salt and pepper. I think my palate has been refined/ruined by 40 years of Israeli cuisine. 

Nonetheless, here's to you, doozies. And while my kids won't touch them, I'm going to make sure they live on, in laughter and in joy.