Kelly’s Cookie
I should start by telling you that Kelly’s cookies are infused with cannabis.
Trevor Graham’s Miniature Copy of “The Hobbit,” Inscribed with “A little book for a little lady… With love, the happiest of birthdays…”
Every boy I’ve ever liked is made of the same components: looks like a slightly balding, undernourished Viking, with a chin sharp enough to cut a block of soft cheese, convinced the game he’s been casually creating for the past five years is going to be the next Catan, wants to own a cabin, likes “Rick and Morty” or “Adventure Time” or whatever show is trending right now on Cartoon Network, and doesn’t understand that there’s a conveyor belt of identical boys right behind him.
My Grandfather’s Tallis
All I know about the prayer shawl is that my mother made it for my grandfather. I could ask her more about its history, but she and I are fighting right now because she called me “snooty” on the way home from Judith’s Passover seder last night, and I’m too proud to break the silence.
Kelly’s Cookie
I got this cookie at a discounted price ($5) after Kelly wanted to have loud sex with her boyfriend while I was home with the flu. Originally, the cookie was free (to assuage her guilt) but she made me pay for it after I let it slip that I fell asleep unassisted that night.
Trevor Graham’s Miniature Copy of “The Hobbit,” Inscribed with “A little book for a little lady… With love, the happiest of birthdays…”
I would argue that the book is what fucked me over. You can’t give a girl a copy of your favorite book, sign it, “with love,” spend three nights a week on your balcony smoking pot together, and not expect her to fall in infatuation with you.
My Grandfather’s Tallis
The tallis spends its time artfully draped over the top of my dresser, where Georgie the cat rested her paws before I barred her from my bedroom for urinating on my bed on three different occasions.
Kelly’s Cookie
Kelly bakes the cookies and has the cat, and she’s the one who built the IKEA dresser for me when I didn’t understand that there wouldn’t be words in the instruction manual. It took us through the night, alternating between working and lying on the floor, talking about love. Since then, the layout on top of my dresser has always been the same: college graduation cap, friendship bracelets from sleepaway camp, photo frame, needlepoint from my mother, eagle statue from my grandfather, treasured books, dying plant, tallis, Hebrew Coke bottles.
Trevor Graham’s Miniature Copy of “The Hobbit,” Inscribed with “A little book for a little lady… With love, the happiest of birthdays…”
We are lying on top of my comforter when Trevor tells me he finds the Jewish parts of me so fascinating. It is around the same time he crawls on top of me, resting on his forearms, and whispers, “We will never, ever date.” But he’s going to meet with a rabbi, maybe. And maybe he’ll convert to Judaism if given enough reason to. I say, “Perfect, Passover is coming up. I’ve always wanted to host my own seder.”
Kelly’s Cookie
Properly enjoying your pot cookie is an art form. Find the right window of time (three to five hours). Find the right spot (living room couch) with the right people (Kelly or Trevor or Brittany). Eat the cookie (after a snack). Immediately order your take-out (buffalo tofu wrap with a side of mashed potatoes and an order of cheese fries with double ranch, no salsa). Your food will arrive right when the world feels soft. Talk about aliens or love or board games.
My Grandfather’s Tallis
Brittany and I accidentally eat some of Kelly’s cookies an hour before my mother shows up with the uncooked brisket for my second seder, which is how Brittany and I end up laughing hysterically at the sink, chanting, “Don’t spill the sauce. Don’t spill the sauce.”
Trevor Graham’s Miniature Copy of “The Hobbit,” Inscribed with “A little book for a little lady… With love, the happiest of birthdays…”
“The Hobbit” is the only birthday present I’ve ever received from a boy that I’ve liked. In the middle of the inscription, Trevor wrote the quote, “Even the smallest of persons can change the fortunes of all…” which I thought was a nice thing to write if you’re gifting a book to a newborn infant.
My Grandfather’s Tallis
Trevor runs his hands over the fringes of the shawl, newly bequeathed to me from my mother. “It’s beautiful,” he murmurs, but I’m sure he is saying something else entirely.
Kelly’s Cookie
I have a stale cookie in one hand and a piece of matzah in the other, and I can’t help thinking that they both crumble the same way.
Trevor Graham’s Miniature Copy of “The Hobbit,” Inscribed with “A little book for a little lady… With love, the happiest of birthdays…”
When I tell Trevor how I feel, when I explain how we’re constantly drunk and cuddling and how it feels when he mumbles into my hair how much he loves me, he says he won’t make it to Passover that year after all.
My Grandfather’s Tallis
After the applause, and the laughter, and the eight empty bottles of wine, I tell my friends we have one last task to complete before the seder can end. As they scatter around my apartment to search for the afikomen, Brittany and Kelly fighting for the lead, I look toward my bedroom, feeling a bright golden glow encompassing my whole body.
Kelly’s Cookie
Tomorrow is Judith’s sweet cheese Shavout party. I am pantless and reclining in bed, belly full with the remnants of one full box of stale matzah. I look to the eight cookies ($56) I have stacked neatly on my bedside table, which will accompany me to the party as a peace offering for my mother.
My Grandfather’s Tallis
By the time I have my own cat and my own apartment, IKEA dresser discarded in a damp alley long ago, I can finally look to Elijah’s empty chair and feel the tension ease in my chest. My conveyor belt of Vikings has dried up, but in its place is a new line up of gentler, hairier men met through young adult groups and synagogue mixers. Yet none merit an invitation to this year’s seder.
J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Hobbit”
My college friends no longer need my explanations. Still, they come to listen to me espouse the significance of the maror and humor me with feigned fights for the afikomen prize and compliment the brisket I now cook without assistance. Around the time Kelly’s boyfriend becomes her fiancé, he asks why hosting this meal has become my tradition. “Oh,” I answer, “it’s just something I always wanted to do.”
