La Shana Tovah

Usually, we spend Rosh Hoshana at Marty's sister's house in Pennsylvania, a big family affair where food never seems to leave the table. Whatever time you wander into the dining area, there is food. I always have a good time, catching up with my nieces and nephew, barely contributing to the work involved (sorry, Esther).

This year, we spent the holiday in Jeffersonville. This year, I did all the work. I baked a round challah, made chicken matzo ball soup from a box, cooked a brisket and baked an apple strudel. We had local honey and apples.

Marty went to temple with our Israeli friend Lorraine. I went to yoga where it turns out most of the students are Jewish, obviously not the temple-going kind. I abstain from services whenever I can but will attend bar or bat mitzvahs and weddings.

I made a dairy lunch and we ate outside on the patio. It was a beautiful day. Later in the afternoon, Marty led a Tashlikh service by the brook, attended by me and Buck. The tradition involves taking bread or crackers and casting them into the water with your sins attached. All Buck could think was, "why were they throwing away those tasty stale crackers?" Then Marty blew the shofar, a ram's horn. In ancient times, before cell phones, important signals were sent via blowing a ram's horn. Other bouviers we've had hated the sound of the shofar, getting as far away as possible from the offending noise. Buck, however, seems to like the sound. There he is next to Marty beside the brook.

Marty blows the shofar by the brook with Buck

For me, it was the best Rosh Hoshana ever.