Whipped On Fatherhood

Why are mama made dinners not enough? Because it’s always better to create and guys can’t birth life. And we all know how well it turned out for Dr. Frankenstein for trying. Trying to play God didn’t create the male clone of Lady Gaga ok. Mary Shelley lives, holla, thank you very much.

For Passover, Jewish families around the world retell the story about the emergence of God’s, right hand on earth wing man, Moses, in addition to reminding us how without divine intervention, the golden Jew Adam Sandler couldn’t keep David Spade steadily employed through Netflix over the past 2 decades either and counting. What always stayed with me from my Passover seders past, is my Jewish father from the Bronx always A) Being more super relaxed calm happy than usual B) Citing the Hebrew prayers, beautifully and fluently and C) Quoting the unlikely savior of the Jewish people Moses, the stuttering abandoned orphan who says to the Israelites, “I am, what I am.” Actually, after Googling the quote from Moses, I was reminded how Hashem gave that line to Moses, “I am, who I am” as his hooky, intro sales script line to use on the Israelites when they ask him why Hashem sent the stuttering Jew to free them from enslaved bondage forever. Regardless, suffering from a slight, low self-esteem, nerve plagued stutter during my pre-pubescent years within the more snuggle soft confines of suburban Westchester Country, 30 minutes north of Manhattan, myself, it was easier for me to emphathize with the low confidence legendary prophet in the making.

Mama was working for both Seder nights yet in the spirit of the Passover holiday song homage in honor of Hashem, Dayenu, one sparkling seder night with my 3 bundles of sunshine over 4 separate wine prayers without mommy hogging up all the wine for herself was enough. First, I come home after fetching some Matzah at the very last minute, remaining true to the spirit of half my people being disorganized slobs for Doctors, Bankers and Lawyers to sneer down on us with dismissive, dumb, dumb disdain. The rest of us descendants from the 12 Tribes of Israel, either work in sales, advertising, show business, book publishing, fashion or become Democratic party peon following sheep hack journalists for a living. Matzah for all those non-Hebrew readers out there is a typically a giant unleavened, flavorless cracker, which grows on you as the days progress. If you can get used to Kale on anything, you can get into anything, Meghan McCain’s stomach rollage hitting the ground from the John, not so much. The most exciting thing about the use of Matzah on Passover besides getting the cracker size ones to place perfect nosh size bits of smoked salmon and cream cheese on it for your Female Flash, super strong, proud Jewess daughter, Singing Rose Kornbluth to make disappear in her belly at rapid fire speed, is the hiding of the Afikomen, which is the piece of Matzah you hide for your kids to find and get money for in return, because Jewish kid traditions matter, holla, thank you very much.  Blasting Songs In The Attic by Billy Joel on Vinyl while singing Streetlife Serenader, “Working hard for wages”, only to hear your pitch perfect son scream with unmatched glee from upstairs “I found it”, is more than enough to make this Passover night, a cherished night etched in my heart forevermore.

The second night of our seder managed to become more special than the last, mainly because of the Sephardic tradition, tanner, Arab looking Jews, of whipping your loved ones at the dinner table with scallions to enact the smackdown for those content to be enslaved. To say my youngest kid, Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo got carried away with whipping his older brother is an understatement. If he threw his bum into those whacks of fury anymore, he would’ve thrown out his vertebrae. I made an orange chicken marinade to use on an Icelandic Salmon wrapped in parchment paper, a secret gentile tip from Martha Stewart actually. I also made a hearty batch of Carolina brown rice to swirl the sweet Salmon love into with sautéed bits of broccoli florets. It was the torn off pieces from my 8-piece batch of slow baked brushed, orange marinade glazed kitchen, including, meaty, scrumptious thigh meat, mixed with Carolina rice and more orange marinade love, which inspired the most emotive praise from my kids, earning lines such as, “Daddy, save some for tomorrow” and “Daddy, make this for me every day.”

My daughter helping tidy the house for the 1st seder and even placing a clean tablecloth on without my nudgy direction was more than enough joy for one night already. Despite me yelling at my son for being teary eyed, spoiled petulant about his sister taking away their precious one on one playtime together for a whole fifteen minutes max. Later, I learn from my crying son how every time he makes a wish in a fountain, he wishes, “For my books to become a success.” Again, I’ve already received more than enough love before our 1st seder night celebration began.

Still, the highlight of our Passover celebration for myself, was upholding Jewish tradition and making it sparkle anew. Fatherhood grants man the opportunity to do even greater good through our children than our fathers before us. Fatherhood grants Jewish men the golden opportunity to retell our tale of survival, redemption and eventual triumph, especially over those darn Nazi bastards and beyond. Fatherhood never grows old, for this middle age encroaching clown. With a home team like this, following my funny man leading steps, it’s impossible to frown.

Michael Kornbluth

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