the rosh hashanah issue
printable table settings, inspiration from the archives, my round challah recipe, this year's menu, and thoughts on processing the un-processable.
"We carry the hurt, we hold the pain,
and we hold hope for a future, that may, in truth,
exist beyond any of us.
It can't be fixed; it can only be carried.
We take a step forward.
It is not everything, but it is a place to start.
And God knows, we are all in need of a place to start.”- Rabbi Elliot Cosgrove, “The Shards We Carry”
We did Hanukkah. We flipped latkes defiantly, turned our homes blue, bit into gelt with abandon, and did our best to strike out the heartache with every lit match. And then…we did Passover. We were wearier by then, but the platitudes and the pillows and the promise of spring gave us just enough of a boost. (The soup helped, too. Thank goodness for soup.)
We sat, we prayed, we ate. We made it through.
Now, before we’ve even caught our breath, the High Holidays are here. And—well, I can only speak for myself, but Rosh Hashanah 5785 has already felt, to me, like the “boss level” of emotional stamina. The stakes are highest; so is the exhaustion. We’ve been at this for so, so long.
A few weeks ago, as the news grew increasingly grim, I began to feel totally unmoored again—the way I did in those raw first weeks last October. I hate to admit it, hate to even write it, but it’s true: The persistence and resilience and Barbra-on-a-boat energy (this boat or that boat, take your pick) I had painstakingly collected for months really did start to fade, slipping away like sand in a cracked hourglass. I was completely bewildered at the prospect of setting a table on October 2, of all weeks, with the anniversary of all that horror looming so near. It felt unthinkable.
But coming up with Jewish holidays ideas is the centerpiece of what I do. So, naturally, “think about it” I did. On park walks here in Philadelphia, in between meetings and on errands, and late at night when sleep wouldn’t come. How? How do we continue processing the un-process-able? And then…how do we set all of that heaviness aside and just turn our attention to napkin rings and menus and brisket?
I’m still working that out. I’m not sure it’s work-out-able. But I hope you can accept this newsletter as my attempt to share some of that working out with you. (Not to be confused with actual “working out,” an activity—nay, a phrase this pregnant woman has not so much as uttered in many moons.)
My hope is to provide a practical, tangible way forward, even as the questions remain unanswered and our hearts remain heavy—and to help you gather in a way that honors our shared pain while also looking forward. And when I say “tangible,” I mean it quite literally: Ahead, you’ll find place settings that you can print out at home and place at your guests’ seats. Print a few extra, grab some scissors and string, and you’ve got yourself a good ol’ “challah topper.” (We’ll discuss.)
Oh, and speaking of challah—please make mine. It’s my pride and joy. I’ve linked the recipe toward the bottom of this newsletter as well.
Without further ado:
Let’s set the table.
For me, one of the only things that’s made it easier to sit with every difficult question of the past 11 months has just been…words. The words of other people, who, in their brilliance or their sensitivity or their own grief, so perfectly encapsulated what I’d been feeling, distilling those tangled emotions down into something solid—something I could grasp onto to buoy myself.
I found those words everywhere, and I clung to them. I wished I could bottle them up—the poems that took my breath away (or gave it back), the late-night phone calls with my mom when the news was still so new and visceral, the YouTube videos of 2017 and 2016 sermons, the articles steeped in layers of wisdom, ancient and new. In their honesty or their humor or their simple acknowledgment of it all, those words became my lifeline, anchoring me and steadying me.
And so, as we make this final, impossible approach toward the High Holidays, I want to offer that same gift to you: the gift of words, which I hope will help to ground you and guide you into the new year, unanswered questions in tow. Maybe, after we sift through our emotions with the help of these thinkers and poets and rabbis and friends, we’ll find just enough strength to light the candles, braid the challot (or schlep it home from Whole Foods—hey, whatever the day calls for), and welcome our guests with softened hearts.
Ahead, you’ll find several giant, download-able documents filled with printable place settings, each containing a selection of words that have helped to carry me this past year—words of clarity and humanity. Most of these weren’t actually written with the Jewish new year in mind; i.e. they’re not technically “about” Rosh Hashanah. But they still fit. You’ll see.
My hope is that, as your guests take their seats and look around, they’ll feel a bit of relief. There’s a context to this year’s Rosh Hashanah that can’t—or shouldn’t, anyway—be ignored. These settings acknowledge that simply and quietly. Sometimes that’s all it takes.
I’ll explain in a minute exactly how to print them, which paper to choose, and also how to cut them neatly to size. Just scroll down a bit to get to that part. In the meantime, here are the download links: