I'm dreaming of a white christmas

"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas/Just like the ones I used to know"

Are you? Are you really? Before the early 1940s, nobody was really dreaming of a white Christmas. Sure, folks thought about Christmas and all the things that came along with the Christmas season. Presents, family gatherings, sending Christmas cards, a visit from St. Nicholas... well starting in 1823 when that poem was first published. But the concept of a "white Christmas" didn't become "a thing" until a Jewish immigrant named Irving Berlin wrote a song called "White Christmas." Before that, Christmas songs were mostly religious in nature. "White Christmas." made its public debut on Christmas Day 1941, just a few weeks after the infamous attack on Pearl Harbor. Popular singer Bing Crosby sang the song on his radio show. He recorded it the following May for inclusion on an album released ahead of the holiday-themed motion picture Holiday Inn, which debuted, inexplicably, on August 4, 1942. The song performed poorly in its initial release. Bing Crosby wasn't especially thrilled by the tune, commenting during the recording session: "I have no problems with that one." But as Christmas 1942 approached and Holiday Inn gained traction, it topped the charts and became an international hit. It went on to sell fifty million copies, becoming one of the best selling singles of all time.

But, how many folks in later generations, even know why they want a white Christmas? They certainly don't want a white Christmas in Australia, where it's summer in December. So, a white Christmas is purely a Northern Hemisphere thing. Before Irving Berlin penned that beloved Christmas song, the concept of a white Christmas was barely a thing. It was alluded to in Charles Dickens' classic novella A Christmas Carol. Snow and wintery weather was described, but it was not the main focus of the story. It merely offered a setting in which the action took place.

I used to work with a couple of women who were very nice, very sweet, but not too bright as far as where their holiday traditions originated. First of all, they marveled at the fact that I was Jewish. They had never known anyone — anyone! — who didn't celebrate Christmas. They questioned me about holidays that they had never heard of, as though I was the Jewish equivalent of the Pope. (By the way, there is no Jewish equivalent of the Pope and if there were, it sure wouldn't be me.) When Christmas time would roll around, the questions were brought up again. It became tradition. "You don't have a Christmas tree?," they'd ask, as though they were asking how I was able to breathe without lungs. I'd explain that, of course, I had a tree, but I just keep it in the backyard, growing in the ground with the other trees. Being the sarcastic jerk that I am, I would often return the questioning, with a little bit of Josh Pincus attitude. "Why do you want a 'White Christmas'?," I'd innocently ask. "There wasn't any snow in the desert when Jesus was born." The two women would exchange blank looks and then look at me. They'd frown and furrow their collective brows, hoping that would force a convincing answer the front of their brains. Finally, one of them replied. "Well, you know..... it's nice for the kids." 

What? What does that mean? How did that attempt to answer my question? How does that explain your tradition? Jeez! I went on and on and on about Judah Maccabee and his ragtag band of soldiers fighting off the Greco-Roman Assyrian army (or whoever they fought) and how the oil in the temple lasted for eight days instead of just one and why we eat fried food to commemorate the "oil" aspect of the Chanukah story. Okay, okay... I fudged on some of the details, but at least I was far more convincing than "It's nice for the kids." That made as much sense as yelling English into the face of someone who doesn't understand English to get them to understand.

I get frustrated by "traditions" that are blindly followed by people who don't even know the reason why they are doing what they are doing. There are so many Christmas "traditions" that are dragged out every year that have absolutely nothing to do with the birth of Jesus. A lot of them were borrowed from other cultures. There is nothing wrong with that. But if you don't understand why you are doing these things, you kind of look like a dope. Even an excuse of "Well, my parents did this, so I'm doing this" is better than "Uh... I don't know." I had another coworker at another job who would talk about all of her cherished family traditions as though these rituals were handed down from generation to generation... only to discover that her "traditions" were read about in a magazine during her train commute into work that day.

If you are "dreaming of a white Christmas," good for you. If you like snow, that's fine. If it's because a songwriter told you to over eight decades ago, that's fine. If it's because "Uh... I don't know." Well, as they say in the South: "Bless your heart."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

hot diggity! dog ziggity! boom what you do to me

Every July 4th, I park myself in front of my television and watch the Annual Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest. Why am I obsessed with this annual summer holiday event? Well....

I don't know.

The contest began in the early 1970s, although a Nathan's marketing promoter named Morty Matz told of an impromptu contest held at the famed Coney Island hot dog stand in 1916. The alleged first contest was held between four men boasting over who was the most patriotic. They decided that eating hot dogs - America's beloved main dish - would prove their love of country. The story went on to claim that the contest was judged by then-popular entertainers Eddie Cantor and Sophie Tucker. However, in 2010, Matz revealed that he had made the whole thing up.

So, the actual date of the first Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest was July 4, 1972. It received little to no fanfare. The following year, a fourteen-year old boy won the contest, but due to a nationwide meat shortage, the gluttonous contest was downplayed and eventually denied by Nathan's that it ever took place.

But, Nathan's was determined to make this contest a media event, generating interest as well as  business. They were successful, with the contest gaining national attention in the mid-1990s. Under the regulating eye (or mouth) of the IFOCE (The International Federation of Competitive Eating), the Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest has grown to become the "Super Bowl" of competitive eating events. In the early 2000s, the contest was dominated by Takeru Kobayashi, a cocky, young Japanese citizen who would swoop in on July 4th and down over four dozen hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes. Kobayashi did this for six consecutive years until 2007, when upstart Joey Chestnut consumed an unheard-of 66 frankfurters to unseat Kobayashi. Since then, Chestnut has won the contest handily, out-eating his competition by dozens. In 2021, Chestnut wolfed down a whopping 76 hot dogs and buns in ten minutes to set a still-standing world record. There's even a separate women's competition held just prior to the men's event. In past years, diminutive Sonya Thomas, a sweet young lady who looks like a stiff breeze could knock her over, has eaten 45 red hots to earn the coveted "pink belt" of glory. She has since relinquished her title to up-and-comer Miki Sudo, who holds first place status in other competitive eating events like tamales, buffalo wings and spare ribs.

But why.... why? .... am I fascinated by this event? I haven't eaten a meat hot dog in almost twenty years. When I did eat hot dogs, it wasn't more than two or three at one sitting... and certainly not under a time constraint. I think it's the way the contest is presented is what I enjoy most. First of all, it is broadcast on sports network ESPN as though it is a real sporting event. It draws thousands of spectators who pack the corner of Surf and Stillwell Avenues in Brooklyn's Coney Island to cheer on their favorite eater. The faux pageantry is hosted by the charismatic George Shea, the co-founder of the IFOCE. George is a character, setting the stage for the tongue-in-cheek attitude that contest exhibits. Sporting a straw skimmer, George announces each contestant with a lengthy, often-exaggerated, mostly-nonsensical introduction worthy of a heavyweight boxer or a Greek god. Once the competition begins, he offers play-by-play that rivals Monday Night Football and sometimes sounds like the narrative of a Dr. Seuss book.

The competition itself is downright disgusting. Hand-held cameras provide close-up coverage of every bite, gulp, teeth gnash and swallow. Participants are permitted to dunk the hot dog buns into their choice of liquid (usually water or lemonade). This provides added splashes and sloshes that heightens the excitement. The visuals are so "in your face" that the camera lenses are often splattered with bits of hot dog buns, specks of meat and even a little sweat. Not only do you feel as though you have a front row seat, you actually get a "hot dog's-eye-view" of the action. It's frenzied and fun and — in a word — barbaric. The whole thing plays out like a modern take on the Christians being fed to the lions (with the Christians being hot dogs, in this case).

So every July 4th, while folks are enjoying a day off from work, a family get-together, a backyard barbeque, or perhaps a day at the beach, I can be found gazing at my television at high noon, watching a bunch of guys prove their self-worth by jamming dozens of hot dog into their gullets for a shot at a few minutes of fame and glory... all while trying not to choke to death.

What better way is there to celebrate America?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i want candy

Halloween is coming. I like Halloween. Yeah, there are not many holidays that I like, but I do like Halloween. When my son was little (he's 36), I loved thinking up costume ideas and then creating and assembling said costumes on Halloween night. I liked taking him around the neighborhood and then returning to our house to greet trick or treaters, see their far-less-imaginative costumes and reward them with candy for their efforts. My wife and I would decorate our house with elaborate accoutrements we had accumulated over the years, a collection that rivaled some family's Christmas decorations. As the years went on, though, and my son grew up and moved to his own house, Halloween has become less exciting. We don't decorate as much. (Some years, not at all.) We get fewer and fewer takers for free candy. Those that do venture out are finished knocking on doors and ringing door bells by the time the sun has set. The fun of Halloween has waned.

Mrs. Pincus and I got married in the summer of 1984. We moved into a two-story townhouse in Northeast Philadelphia just after our honeymoon. This is where we celebrated our first Halloween as a married couple. We had noticed a lot of young kids at the apartment complex where were lived and figured that — come Halloween — we had better stock up with plenty of giveaways.

Northeast Philadelphia is fertile ground for strip shopping centers. There were several right near our house. During the summer, we saw a new concept store open up in one of the nearby strip centers. It was a store called Barrel Grocer and they sold their various wares in bulk. The store was outfitted with aisles and aisles of barrels from which shoppers could fill a bag with bulk flour or nuts or Hershey Kisses, weigh the selected amount and (theoretically) save big. It was a novel idea, but I don't think the savings were nearly worth the effort. Supermarket prices were still cheaper and their established system was really more convenient. But, Barrel Grocer was a fun place to shop. While strolling among the barrels one day, I thought of a funny idea and I laughed to myself. I presented it to Mrs. P and she was totally on board. I decided that, instead of giving out candy for Halloween, we should give out packets of ketchup and mustard and jelly, like you would get at a fast food restaurant. These were all readily available in bulk at Barrel Grocer. I thought: "Would kids complain?" Probably not, and especially not if they can't see what we're putting in their trick-or-treat bags. Then we thought of these kids coming home at the end of the night, dumping their bags on the kitchen table and spotting ketchup and jelly packet among their Snickers bars and Reese's cups. Mom and Dad would scratch their heads, look at each other, then silently mouth: "Who the fuck gave out ketchup and mustard packs?" The answer, of course, would be "WE" the fuck did and we laughed again at the mental picture.

But instead of dismissing a funny idea, we went ahead with our plan. We filled a bunch of bags with ketchup packets and mustard packets and jelly packets (two different flavors) and even honey packets. We brought our twisty-secured plastic bags up the the cashier, laughing all the way. We laughed on our drive home. We laughed as we lined the bags up on our small kitchen counter and waited for Halloween.

Halloween 1984 arrived with pleasant weather. It was nice enough that we were able to leave our front door open as we watched the parade of kids make their way up and down the little walkways that led to each individual apartment. When the various faux witches and ghosts and clowns and superhero du jour approached with various configurations of bags extended at arms length, we were ready. As each costumed child exclaimed "Trick or treat" in their excited and shrill little voices, I reached deep into an opaque brown paper grocery bag that handily concealed what The Pincuses were giving away. I extracted a fistful of condiment packets and, under the cloak of the descending darkness, reached deep into the depth of the trick-or-treat bags to deposit our "treat." The children narrowed their little eyes and craned their little necks to catch a telling glimpse of what sort of unknown treat this guy (me) was giving out. A few kids poked around in their bags as they shuffled off. Others flat out asked us what we were giving, to which we evasively replied: "It's a surprise."

Mrs. Pincus and I (mostly me) had a hard time containing our laughter with each innocent trick-or-treater. As the night went on, however, I remember a pair of costumed kiddies pointedly ask "What was that?" as they got a fleeting peep at one of the packets being dropped in their bag. Mrs. Pincus, who as we have already established is waaaay nicer that I am, just answered. "It's jelly" and stepped back slightly, awaiting a reaction. The two kids looked at each other, looked down at their bags and looked at my wife. Then they turned on their heels and enthusiastically shrieked "WE GOT JELLY!!!!," as they skipped off towards their parents who were waiting at the end of the walkway. It was priceless.

I'm sure we ruined Halloween for a lot of children that night. But two — in particular — had jelly with their breakfast on the morning of November 1st and were excited about it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

go down moses

Well, we just wrapped up Passover a couple of weeks ago. While Passover is not my favorite holiday, I can safely say that Passover is not my favorite holiday.

Growing up in the Pincus house, Passover meant that a box of matzo joined the ubiquitous loaf of bread on the kitchen table. My mom bought a jar of gefilte fish and, over the course of eight days, consumed the contents of that jar herself. There was no way in hell my father was going to let a morsel of that stuff cross his meat-and-potatoes tempered lips. Passover or no Passover, tradition of thousands of years or no tradition of thousands of years, Harold Pincus didn't change his daily eating habits for no one — not even the God of Abraham. My brother ate those macaroons from a can and avoided the bread. I enjoyed the fried matzo that my mom prepared. I watched as much of the annual airing of The Ten Commandments on television as I could. I think I even went to a seder at an uncle's house when I was very young. We probably left when my father just about had enough. And that was my Passover.

Until I met my wife.

Mrs. Pincus came from a very traditional Jewish background. Very traditional. (To be honest, compared to the way the Pincus family celebrated Jewish holidays, Pope Francis came from a more traditional Jewish background.) Mrs. P's family went all out, especially for Passover. They cleaned the house. They changed their kitchen over to all Passover dishes and utensils. They "sold off" their chametz (food that is not kosher for Passover) and they staged an elaborate seder on the first night of Passover, with an encore performance on Night Two.

My mother-in-law prepared food from scratch that would last for the duration of the holiday. She made soups with hand-formed matzo balls. She made brust (brisket) and chicken and an array of side dishes, most of which contained some form of matzo My father-in-law prepared his own gefilte fish, grinding real fishy fish and shaping the concoction into little oblong footballs. There were boxes and assorted packages of baked goods from a special New York bakery that my in-laws would travel to and make purchases, not only for their family, but for the families of their fellow congregants at their synagogue. Passover was a big deal. It was all new to me. I participated out of respect to my wife and in-laws, but I wasn't a fan.

Soon, the Pincus family expanded by one. My son, who went all through Jewish day school, became an expert in all things Jewish and very well-versed in all Passover traditions, leading certain parts of the seder year after year. I proudly watched, but still remained nonplussed at the whole Passover thing. I didn't care for the food and I didn't care for the eight-day interruption in my daily routine. Surprisingly, I was looking at Passover the way my father looked at Passover.

It's funny how things change when you get old. Older! I mean older!

2023 marked the third consecutive year without a traditional seder at my in-law's house. This is due to several factors. In 2020, Passover came just weeks after the entire world was shut down by the uncertainty of a global pandemic. Families sequestered themselves from contact with other family members out of fear, out of safety and out of concern. Mrs. Pincus and I sat at our little kitchen counter and ate matzo. Mrs. P braved the looming cloud of COVID-19, donning a protective mask and making her trip to the supermarket as quick and efficient as possible. Under the circumstances, she bought jarred gefilte fish. Her father had given up the lengthy process of making his own and he certainly wasn't going to re-start the practice during a pandemic. At dinner time, Mrs. P fished (no pun intended) a piece of gefilte fish from the jar and plopped it down on a paper plate. I looked at it. Suddenly, a wave of adventure washed over me. "I'll take a piece of that.," I said... much to my wife's surprise.

This year for Passover, in an effort to be less like my father and more like... like.... a mensch, I ate gefilte fish again. A few times, even taking more than one piece at a time. Of course, I drown that little beige lump in a generous helping of electric purple horseradish-and-beet accompaniment. Y'know, if you cover anything with enough horseradish, it can actually be palatable... provided you like horseradish. And I do. And gefilte fish really isn't that bad. It's an acquired taste that I guess —over the years — I have acquired.

Every year, when I try something at Passover I never ate before, Mrs. P marvels and says: "Your mother would be proud."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

mystery train

I took the train to work for ten years. Remember all those blog posts I made about my adventures — good and bad (mostly bad) — on the train? Well, they kind of stopped in 2017, when I no longer had a job that required me to take the train on a daily basis.

I am back among the "drive yourself to work" set and I rarely have the opportunity to take the train. And then there was the worldwide pandemic that brought nearly everything to a halt. Now, as things begin to reopen, readjust and get back to some sort of "normality" (whatever that means), my wife and I ventured into center city Philadelphia to see the iconic Christmas Light Show held annually at the former John Wanamaker department store, now operating under the "Macy's" name. Instead of driving, fighting traffic, paying an exorbitant amount for a few short hours of parking, Mrs. P and I decided to take the train.

It's comforting to see that SEPTA (the acronymed organization that operates the public transportation system in southeastern Pennsylvania) has remained its same, old, dysfunctional self.

Early on Saturday morning, Mrs. Pincus and I took the familiar stroll to the Elkins Park train station, located just down the street from our house. (It's so close, we actually use it as a landmark locator when directing people to our house.) Upon our arrival on the platform, I checked the SEPTA app on my phone and was not one bit surprised when I saw that our 8:29 train was already listed as 15 minutes late. Mrs. Pincus realized she should have dressed more warmly for the unpredictable weather that Philadelphia had been experiencing. She made a quick run home to grab a hoodie. I watched, in her absence, as the SEPTA app added more time to our already-late train. SEPTA was already meeting and exceeding my expectations for getting back to "how things used to be." Mrs. P returned, bundled in her newly-retrieved hoodie, to find me in the exact same spot — with no train in sight.

Eventually, our train arrived to take us on the short, twenty-minute journey to center city Philadelphia. Now, the Elkins Park ticket office is only open for limited hours during the week and never on weekends. Passengers without a pre-purchased monthly pass (the traveling category in which we now fall) can purchase tickets on the train from one of the hopefully friendly conductors. As the train pulled away from the platform, one of the aforementioned conductors (this one uncharacteristically friendly) made his way down the center aisle. He stopped at the folks seated right in front of us. They were also headed to see the holiday light show, so our fare would be the same as theirs. After paying, the conductor presented them with two cardboard "swipe cards" that, he explained, should be used to open the electronic gates to exit the station. As he took a step in our direction, the train slowed to a stop at the Melrose Park station. He raised a finger to us and informed us that he'd be back.

He never returned.

Instead, he stood and gabbed with a group at the front of our train car — laughing and gesturing — as the train stopped at the three subsequent stations before our Jefferson Station destination. I gripped a ten dollar bill, ready to pay since we boarded. Mrs. P and I shuffled down the aisle towards the exit doors. I sidled up to our conductor and whispered: "We haven't paid our fare yet." He smiled and tipped his head in the direction of the doors. Extending his open palm, he said: "Happy holidays!" implying that our trip was gratis. Except we were now without that special swipe card that would free us from the confines of the station, once we climbed the exit stairs from the subterranean platform.

Once in the bustling station, I observed a newly-installed (well, "new" since my last trip on the train over two years ago) bank of electronic turnstiles occupying the once-unobstructed exit passage. I, along with my wife and a small group of similarly bewildered commuters, examined the steel and glass barriers that separated us from the outside world. And he we were without a way to make them open and grant our freedom. Mrs. Pincus spotted a disheveled-looking fellow, his SEPTA-emblazoned shirt untucked from his wrinkled, ill-fitting pants, puttering around an Information Booth. 

"Excuse me," she began. The fellow looked up with a confused expression, as though no one had spoken to him in weeks. Mrs. P continued, "How do we get out? We were not given swipe cards by the conductor on our train." The man scratched his head and offered two options. "Well," he said, you can buy an exit card from that machine over there." He gestured to a large, refrigerator-looking vending machine with a very complicated-looking glowing blue screen. Our little group collectively cringed. We all turned back to the fellow, hoping that Option Two would be more appealing. "Or you can just push open the glass door at the ADA exit." (The ADA, of course is the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 that required all public area to be equipped with easy access for those folks in wheelchairs or other disabilities requiring special provisions.) Although we felt bad, we all silently acknowledged that we liked Option Two much better and would take full advantage of it. Like a mini parade, a dozen people walked single file through the easily-opened ADA exit... and no one said a word.

Our return trip home was equally as "typical SEPTA" as our morning adventure. Upon exiting the station earlier in the morning, I purchased tickets for our trip home and safely tucked them in my wallet. After a full, fun day of holiday lights, lunch with our son and his girlfriend, a stroll through the temporary Christmas shopping village set up around Philadelphia's City Hall, Mrs. Pincus and I walked back to the station to board a homebound train.

Our train arrived and we selected a seat. We talked in quiet voices as we rode. In my peripheral vision, I noticed a young man in a seat across the aisle slightly turning his head to listen to our conversation. We weren't discussing any sensitive or controversial topics. We were probably talking about our plans for dinner or what we were doing on Sunday. Nevertheless, this guy was hanging on to our every word. He even turned around further and chuckled to himself, as though he was an active an welcome member of our conversation. I recalled experiencing this on a daily basis when I took the train more often. My conversation, it seemed, was infinitely more interesting, informative and entertaining than those of my fellow passengers — and they weren't shy or discreet about hearing the full dissertation.

Ah, SEPTA. You appear to be adjusting to the post-pandemic world just fine. God bless you. Keep up the good work.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

party all the time

My current resume reflects seven jobs - my current employment and six previous. However, I have trimmed and edited my resume considerably over the past forty years, so the actual number is more like a dozen. My attitude towards my job du jour has also changed over time.

If you have kept up with this blog for any length of time (and why wouldn't you?), you know that I just started a job this past Spring after being among those who lost their jobs when COVID-19 brought the entire world to its knees. In my new position, I spend a good portion of my day alone in an office with little to no interaction with anyone. That is not a complaint. That is a fact... and I like it just fine. The days go by quickly and Spring became Summer and Fall became Winter in the wink of an eye. As November wound its way towards December, I received an email similar to emails I have received at past jobs once the phenomena of "email" came into existence. The subject line made me cringe the way all the similar subject lines all those years ago.

Subject: H O L I D A Y   P A R T Y

At many of my past jobs, I was always expected to attend some sort of holiday gathering for folks that I really didn't consider my friends. One day in late December, actual work would taper off around noon and co-workers would gather around a tray of cookies and a platter of bland sandwiches forcing themselves to smile and talk about non-work stuff. It was awkward, non-productive and... just plain weird. Some of these gatherings were small because the office (at the time) only employed three or four people. Others were lavish catered affairs at a rented hotel ballroom, resplendent in shimmering decorations, live music, flowing buffets, overstocked bars.... and the same feeling of awkwardness. More recently, holiday work parties were dispensed with in favor of the the idea of going home early, an idea which was way better received by employees.

Based on past experiences, I had hoped that "office holiday parties" were something I would never have to be subjected to again. And, considering my current job, I really don't know any of my co-workers and — honestly — I don't really want to. But, there it was. In my "IN" box of my email. An unopened email with the dreaded subject line that I wish could remain unopened. But, alas, it could not.

As I read the contents of this inter-office correspondence, I became filled with a growing angst. The email revealed plans for an off-site gathering on a Saturday evening. Ugh! Not only don't I want to go to this thing, I will have to go on my day off. At night on a day off. Ugh! This was not looking good. I read the email and ignored it for the rest of the day.... hoping it would go away.

Just this past Monday, a woman who I only know as Angela approached my desk with a menu from the proposed nearby bar that would be the hosting venue of the pending holiday party. She pointed out several vegetarian options on the listed of available entrees. I must have told someone that I was a vegetarian, because she seems to push that as a selling point. Then she said "I really hope you can come."

"Really?" I thought. "Do you really hope I can come? Does the fate of your 'happy holiday' hinge on whether or not an employee of less that a year — someone you know nothing about — comes to your little party?"

In a few minutes, Angela emailed the entire menu to all members in my nine-person department. Along with the menu, there was a proposed price-per-person for those attending. This is the first of these dreadful events that required attendees to pay their own way. However, it is also the first one where spouses and significant others are welcome. Over these past years, my wife was always a bit annoyed that she was not included in any of my work holiday parties, despite getting specific requests from my co-workers for specific baked goods to be served at a party to which she was not invited.

Well, dear Mrs. P, your wish has been answered. You will absolutely be joining me at this year's work holiday party.

As a matter of fact, you can go in my place.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

all things must pass

Passover begins this weekend. You know when you watch Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments and you think it's somehow connected to Easter, because — after all — ABC shows it every year around Easter time? Well, it's actually about Passover.

Passover is a time for renewal, as in an "out with the old, in with the new" sort-of fashion. As the tradition goes, all of the food you currently have in your house has to be consumed or disposed of prior to the start of Passover. Then, new food that is certified as "Kosher for Passover" is purchased and eaten during the eight days of the holiday. (They tell me it lasts eight days, but I'm convinced it rages on longer than that.) On the night before Passover begins, families stage a ritual "search for chametz" in their homes. Chametz is any food that is not deemed Kosher for Passover. As part of the tradition, a small amounts of chametz are placed around various rooms in the home. Then, a "search" is conducted using a pre-assembled "chametz kit," which includes:

• a candle to light the way during the search (as it is performed with the lights out — oooh! spooky!)
• a feather to "sweep" the chametz once it is located
• a wooden spoon, which acts as a dustpan to catch the chametz once swept
• a paper bag, to contain the chametz... sort of like a primitive version of the trap from Ghostbusters.

Some sort of appropriate prayer is recited prior to the search and at the conclusion. The sealed bag of collected chametz is placed by the front door and, the next morning, is taken to some community location (a synagogue or such) for — get this — burning. Years ago, when our son was younger and when I was much, much more observant in my faith, we would actively and sincerely reenact this tradition every year. My son and I, with yarmulkes perched atop our heads, would methodically move from room to room in our house. As a representation of the chametz in our house, I would leave little piles of cereal or crackers strategically placed in the rooms where we most likely ate food over the course of the past year. I would lead the way, illuminating our path with the lit candle. My son would wield the spoon and feather, dutifully sweeping up each discovery of chametz and insuring that each morsel made it into the gaping mouth of the paper bag. When our search was completed, we would gather in the kitchen where Mrs. Pincus would intone the magical words of prayer as I wrapped a rubber band around the paper bag as a final secure seal.

The next morning, we'd head over to my in-law's house, where my father-in-law would set up "Chametz Central" and the final leg of the ritual would commence. He'd drag out an age worn metal garbage can lid — rusty and discolored from years of chametz burning. I'm fairly sure this was the actual vessel in which Moses and his family burned their chametz before they headed out through the desert with those hunks of unleavened bread. Each of our families' bags were deposited in the center of the inverted lid. My father-in-law would douse the bags with way too much lighter fluid and — like a seasoned arsonist — he'd casually flick a lit match into the dead center. Then he'd say some different magic words of prayer and we'd watch the flames grow and rise and die down. Then, we'd go to our respective jobs and schools.

Over the years, my interest in organized religion has waned considerably. I don't attend any type of religious services and I don't care to participate in anything remotely religion-related. With our son now living in his own house, I reluctantly, though obligingly, agree to searching for chametz (out of respect for Mrs. P). I quickly rush through the process, but I will not attend the burning portion at my in-law's house. However, this year, Mrs. Pincus — who has clearly been corrupted by nearly four decades of exposure to the subversive ways of Josh Pincus — suggested a different commodity be substituted for our usual chametz-representing Cheerios... you I know, to shake things up. She suggested unpopped popcorn kernels. I immediately lit up, envisioning the scenario that would occur the next morning when my unsuspecting father-in-law tossed that match onto the fuel-soaked bags and the fire got going. We actually giggled at the possibly of injecting a little noisy surprise into an otherwise solemn ritual — and maybe even briefly rattling my usually pious and traditional father-in-law.

So, we searched for unpopped popcorn kernels sprinkled throughout our house. My wife said her little prayers and I snickered as I wound a rubber band around the paper bag.

The next morning, we arrived for the final steps of the chametz-search. We dropped our bag alongside my father-in-law's bagged spoils from his search the evening before. He squeezed out a few drops of lighter fluid across the tops of the bags and, after some initial difficultly, ignited the bags on the fifth match-striking attempt. At this point, I would like to report that, after an eerie quiet, our bag erupted in a hail of violent, uncontrolled explosions — spewing popcorn shrapnel in all directions from the raging flames. I'd like to report that my poor startled father-in-law was immediately taken aback in horror and alarm, as my wife and I mischievously cackled in delight.

I'd like to say all that, but I can't.

The popcorn had been sitting in our kitchen cupboard for a few years. It had no doubt lost whatever it is that makes popcorn pop. So, as the flames grew and our anticipation grew more — a single kernel emitted a single, feeble, debilitated pop. Actually, it didn't even warrant the word "pop" as a valid description. My wife and I exchanged disappointed looks. By this time, my father-in-law had already lost interest.

Happy Passover everyone. Maybe next year.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

troll the ancient yuletide carol

I have always loved Christmas music. I'm not sure why. After all, we didn't celebrate Christmas in my house, so there wasn't a "feeling of Christmas" that, I suppose, makes those who do celebrate Christmas want to break out in song as the 25th of December approaches. I loved watching all of the special Christmas programming on television, from the animated A Charlie Brown Christmas (with its sweet and simple "Christmastime" melody) and How the Grinch Stole Christmas (with its faux-menacing title song) to the stop-motion "Animagic" Rankin-Bass productions that mixed original Christmas songs with the traditional and established ones with which I was already familiar. I remember that the now-defunct Philadelphia Bulletin would include an "assemble-it-yourself" Christmas song booklet with the color comics section in the Sunday edition just prior to Christmas Day. It was from these annual, illustrated, 8-page supplements that I first learned the words to beloved Christmas carols like "Silent Night," "Away in a Manger" (having no idea what exactly a "manger" was. Actually, I'm still not certain), and "O Holy Night." I tried to master the Latin lyrics to "Adeste Fideles" once I was sure I memorized the words in the English version, "O Come All Ye Faithful." I was so familiar with these songs, that I recall getting excited as a teenager when, during a 1978 Jethro Tull concert, flutist Ian Anderson broke into "God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman" in the middle of a rousing version of their classic instrumental "Bourée."

As I got older and started buying albums, I made sure that I had a good amount of Christmas music in my collection. Whether it was a current band cashing in on a holiday release or a reissue of a famous crooner singing well-known carols — I had to have 'em. And the more unusual, the better. Aside from the classics, I like original Christmas songs that spin tales of off-beat scenarios while still keeping with the holiday spirit. Not necessarily "novelty" songs, but ones that stray from the standard Christmas images like mistletoe, sleigh bells and Jesus's birth. I like the slightly skewed songs like The Pogues' "Fairytale of New York," that creates a holiday scene through the eyes of two drunk Irish immigrants in a New York lockup. My wife's favorite song — not specifically holiday song, but song in general — is The Waitresses' bouncy 1981 rhyming tune "Christmas Wrapping." 

Despite my love for Christmas songs, I am still taken aback by some of the unsettling lyrics that folks blindly sing, parroting words they heard over and over, year after year, not quite understanding what it is they are singing.... yet still teaching these songs to their children and grandchildren. One of the creepiest lyrics is from "Holly Jolly Christmas," a holiday favorite written by Johnny Marks in 1962. Marks wrote a bunch of your favorite Christmas songs. This one gained fame when it was included in the first Rankin-Bass Christmas special Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, sung by actor/folk singer Burl Ives. Near the end of the first verse, just before the chorus, Ives' deceitfully friendly tenor says: "Oh, ho the mistletoe/Hung where you can see/Somebody waits for you/Kiss her once for me." Don't let that avuncular "Sam the Snowman" persona fool you. Burl Ives is gunning for your girlfriend, pal. Behind the warm sentiment of this catchy little ditty, this leering stalker is tipping his hand. He's letting you know he's making a move on your honey at the first opportunity. Turns out that "Holly Jolly Christmas" was the forerunner to "Say 'Hi' to your mom for me!"

Andy Williams has a voice I always associate with Christmas songs. He sings two of the most popular ones and they can both be found on his 1963 release Andy Williams Christmas Album. The first is "It's the Holiday Season," a cheerful song penned by no less than seven credited writers. Andy mingles this with "Happy Holiday," written by Chanukah-celebrating Irving Berlin for the film Holiday Inn. "It's the Holiday Season" is an adequate song. It doesn't break any new ground, as far as Christmas songs are concerned. As a matter of fact, it plays out like a Christmas reference shopping list, making sure that it checks all the boxes for things to be mentioned in any good Christmas song — bells, toys, Santa, snow, tree. It even manages to get "peppermint stick" in there. But, "It's the Holiday Season" is also kind of clunky. It's proof that even the most clever lyricist struggles to construct an easy-flowing song. Obviously written with a looming production deadline, this "committee" of wordsmiths, at a loss for words, insert the preposterous line: "With the whoop-de-do and dickory dock" smack in the middle of an otherwise, perfectly good holiday song. This is a reference to nothing and merely a lame placeholder until they could think up a better, more suitable, eight syllables. Well, they couldn't and now, we're stuck with it. C'mon fellas... "dickory dock?" Really? That's the best you could do?

Andy Williams' other signature Christmas song is "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year," written especially for Williams by his musical director George Wyle, best known for composing the theme to Gilligan's Island. This rousing song evokes the warmth of family gatherings and general good cheer among friends. But, again, in searching for a rhyme for "glory," Wyle opts for the set-up line: "There'll be scary ghost stories." He must have hastily written the lyrics over a previously-started composition for Hallowe'en. When he presented the lyric sheet to the publisher, it was too late. Ghost stories are now and forever part of the Christmas ritual. Thanks to George Wyle, you are now free to distribute candy canes to trick-or-treaters.

Bing Crosby famously sang "White Christmas" in 1942's Holiday Inn and in its much-better (and blackface-free) remake White Christmas in 1954. "Der Bingle" sang a lot of Christmas songs throughout his long career and released over a dozen Christmas albums. "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas," written by Meredith Willson (who also wrote the award-winning musical The Music Man) is one of his most popular. Bing lovingly sings about candy canes, decorated trees and eager children wishing for all sorts of toys. But somewhere near the end of the bridge, this song suddenly takes an angry turn as an exasperated Bing expresses his frustration with the aforementioned kids when he laments: "And Mom and Dad can hardly wait for school to start again." Gary Crosby could tell you stories about his father's impatience, especially when it came to his kids. Hey, lighten up, Bing! Christmas is still a few days away, for goodness sake! School will start soon enough and you'll be back to playin' golf and doin' shots before you know it. Spending a few days with the kids won't kill you.

Bing Crosby also makes his own plea in "I'll Be Home for Christmas," written to honor soldiers serving overseas in World War II. In the song, Bing asks for specific things for his family to have when he comes home for Christmas. His list of demands includes: "Please have snow and mistletoe/And presents by the tree." Sure, Bing, there can be mistletoe. We can pick some up when we purchase this year's tree. And presents? Of course, there will be presents, Bing! There have been presents since you were a kid! But snow? Really, Bing? There's only so much your family can guarantee. We can't control the weather, for crying out loud! If there isn't snow, can we just forget your visit? Mom will be so upset! Wait a second! What did you say....? You'll be home for Christmas... only in your dreams!?! Oh, nice one, Bing! You think that's funny, you selfish, inconsiderate holiday tease!

"There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays" also contains some lyrics that make no sense — at least to me. It's been recorded by many vocalists, including Perry Como and The Carpenters, but it's no less weird. The song is all about the trials of travelling in holiday traffic, as is illustrated by the words: "I met a man who lives in Tennessee and he was headin' for/Pennsylvania and some homemade pumpkin pie/From Pennsylvania, folks are travelin' down/To Dixie's sunny shore." But, what is going on here? You're telling me there's no pumpkin pie between Tennessee and Pennsylvania? If you want to get technical, Illinois leads the country in growing pumpkins, most of which is used for pie filling. And Illinois is a lot closer to Tennessee than Pennsylvania (which is fourth in production). Okay, okay... maybe they don't have any relatives they speak to in Illinois. But then the folks from Pennsylvania have their sights set on the South because — what? — they've been eating so much pumpkin pie, they have to get out of here? Then, there's that crack about the traffic being "terrific," as though they are enjoying it!

Don't forget the songs about Santa Claus. "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" is kind of frightening, if you consider the lyrics: "He sees you when you're sleeping/He knows when you're awake." This pretty much describes the plotline for George Orwell's 1984. Not to be outdone, "Here Comes Santa Claus" is downright threatening, warning children to "Jump into bed and cover your head/'Cause Santa Claus comes tonight!" Jeez! It sounds like Santa is coming to kill you!

And then there are all of the songs that, by reason of misinterpretation, have come to be considered Christmas songs... but really aren't. "Winter Wonderland" does not mention Christmas. Not even once! Neither does "Sleigh Ride" or "Jingle Bells" or "My Favorite Things." And "Frosty the Snowman" is just a song about a snowman that comes to life...on a random day in winter... not necessarily Christmas Day. The song "We Need a Little Christmas," technically isn't a Christmas song either. It's from the Broadway musical Mame and is sung to cheer the household up after the Stock Market Crash of 1929. It uses "Christmas" as a metaphor for "happier times." Oh, and stop singing Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" as a Christmas song. It's not about what you think it's about.

Nevertheless, I love Christmas songs — no matter how weird or nonsensical or questionable the lyrics are. Hey, aside from "Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel" and a couple others in Hebrew, Chanukah offers some pretty "slim pickins" in the holiday song department.

Happy Holidays, everyone. Now, go deck those halls.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

once you get started

My first real job in the world of art was in the main office of a local chain of popular ice cream stores. Officially, I was the "art director." In reality, I was the entire art department. I sat in a little cluttered office, churning out ads and signs and displays — all without the aid of computers or the sophisticated printers I have used in more recent employment. After many months of service, I was rewarded with a token of thanks as the holiday season approached. No, it wasn't a bonus check or monetary compensation of any kind. It was big turkey made out of ice cream. The owner of the company was the slimiest, most conniving and deceitful person I had ever met. When he bestowed this misshapen frozen gift to me (with his nicotine-stained hands), it was as though he was handing me a gleaming gold brick — at least that was the impression I got from his wide, nicotine-stained smile.

So, I drove home with that frozen turkey replica on the front seat of my car and soon silently presented it to my wife of just over a year. She frowned. It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving and we had plans to celebrate the holiday at my in-law's house. My wife's parents keep a strictly Kosher home and — without going into the intricate edicts involved in the observance of kashrut — a meal that includes meat may not be capped off with anything that includes dairy. Period. 

Faced with several pounds of turkey-shaped ice cream and no where to pawn it off, the ever-resourceful Mrs. Pincus hatched a grand idea. ("Hatched!" Ha ha! Get it? — Uh... on with the story.) She decided to use her stellar baking skills to whip up a few supplementary additions to the frozen faux fowl. Then, we'd invite a few folks over to our tiny Northeast apartment to help us consume the whole shebang. This would all go down the night before Thanksgiving and after everyone had eaten dinner at their own homes.

And so, a tradition was born.

Our very first dessert party was an impromptu gathering of a dozen or so family and friends crammed into our narrow townhouse apartment on the night before Thanksgiving 1985. It has become an annual occurrence that has since blossomed into a warm and beloved (by most) affair — bringing together family, extended family,  friends and, in some cases, strangers. The venue has changed to our much larger suburban home, which is able to accommodate more guests more comfortably. But, we haven't missed a single one since that first one in '85.

Over the years, the guest list has expanded and evolved from family and friends to friends of our son to new-found friends, a changing parade of co-workers and — curiously — less family. Also the number of guests has increased considerably. One year, we had nearly 75 people jockeying for even a spot to stand in our living room and dining room. One of my favorite games to play every year is "Who is This in My House?" I like to quietly scan the crowd and pick out a person whom I have never seen in my life, standing in my house, happily shoving a piece of my wife's celebrated pecan pie into their smiling mouth. We have also had guests — unfamiliar with the houses on my street — wander into a neighbor's house, before realizing that they transposed some numbers in my address.

The menu has also evolved. I only worked for the ice cream company for a year, so I never got another frozen, year-end confection for free again. For a few years, we purchased an ice cream turkey elsewhere, until we realized that no-one was eating it and the widening chocolate puddle it was reduced to was spoiling the layout of the rest of the table. It was soon eliminated from the bill of fare. The real draw is my wife's baking, which has rightfully become the centerpiece of the evening. She spends a surprisingly little amount of time preparing an overflowing tableful of delicious bakery-quality treats for our eager guests. After an hours-long trip to the supermarket, where two full shopping carts is not unusual, Mrs. P knocks out dozens of perfectly baked goodies with the impeccable precision of a ballet company — usually in just one day. She has even experimented with recipes — adding new ones and tweaking tried-and-true favorites. While multiple items are in the oven, I have assisted (minimally) in decorating our home, transforming our everyday living space into a close approximation of a 1930s winter season cover of the Saturday Evening Post. Mrs. Pincus lays out the table, the utensils, the decorations — everything — while I stand idly by, like a lunk and marvel at her accomplishments. The evening truly belongs to her.

Of course, over a span of 35 years, we've had our share of mishaps. One year, with a kitchen counter covered with various ingredients and our then-infant son reclining in a baby seat, one of the cabinets just dislodged from the wall, sending its contents — coffee mugs and dishes — crashing into the sink and eventually the floor. Another time, I had assembled our newest addition — a real, two-tier chocolate fountain — incorrectly. When I turned it on, it spewed melted chocolate all over our kitchen like a delicious Mount Vesuvius.

Mrs. Pincus and I are the only two people that have attended the dessert party every  single year. Some longtime guests missed a few years here and there, due to illness, other logistic complications or, sadly, death. Others have been stricken from the guest list for one reason or another, replaced by new friends or newly born-family members. Our son missed the first few because he had not yet been born. But, he was not present at a few during his teenage years, as he attended a conflicting annual dance held by an organization of his contemporaries. A few days prior to last year's party, my brother noted that he had never missed a year. Sadly, due to an emergency within his family, he was forced to skip the 2019 gathering. 

Which brings us to 2020. Goddamn 2020.

Back in the spring, Mrs. P and I mulled over various scenarios that would enable us to continue a decades-long tradition in the time of a global pandemic. We optimistically envisioned this whole thing being over by September, leaving plenty of time to make arrangements in the same manner in which we were accustomed. But as summer became fall, it was clear that COVID-19 wasn't going anywhere and was determined to ruin our tradition. Mrs. P alternately cried and fumed. She was determined to have a "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert party and inject a bit of normalcy into the near-chaos that this virus wreaked on our lives. The problem was that our house tends to get fairly crowded at the peak of the evening, with guests standing elbow-to-elbow not the least bit unusual. In the time of "social distancing," this was going to be tricky. Mrs. P proposed staggered admission, assigning small circles of guests different arrival times and asking them to leave after a pre-determined period to allow for the next group to safely enter. My wife's older brother (who has chosen to live outside of the day-to-day tedium of family concerns and remains a mysterious entity to even some of our close friends) volunteered to drive all the way in from his remote location to serve as a bouncer. He cheerfully offered to kick people out of our house who have overstayed their allotted timeslot. We passed on his gracious offer.

Together, my wife and I conceived a "Plan B." Taking a page from the current safety practices of the retail business, our "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert party this year would be a curb-side pick-up version. It was ingenious, if I may compliment ourselves. We sent out electronic invitations including an option to select which type of pie you'd like — pecan or pumpkin. Mrs. P set out to compile a modified menu, featuring only items that would travel unscathed in a take-out container. Then, she bought takeout containers and autumn-themed carry bags. Our excitement grew as affirmative replies began to roll in. Mrs. P kept careful track of  who was coming and which pies they requested. She wrote and rewrote and re-rewrote the menu, refining it until she was satisfied with a good sampling of dessert favorites from past years' parties — sort of a dessert party greatest hits.

The replies we received energized Mrs. Pincus. A lot of the responses were accompanied by a heartfelt message of surprise and gratitude for keeping up a tradition in the midst of a discouraging global situation. On Tuesday, Mrs. Pincus did her usual phenomenal job of turning out hundreds of tempting little morsels from our kitchen's magical oven. Refrigerated items were refrigerated. Other items were left to cool in what looked like an abstract jigsaw puzzle on our dining room table. The morning of the "event," we turned into a two-person assembly line. We filled small take-out tins with pies. Then, we filled larger versions with an assortment of a variety of baked goods — each one slightly different in its contents but no less appetizing. Our dining room looked like the stock area of a commercial bakery with plastic-lidded tins piled in neat little stacks, ready to be distributed to the bags and delivered to its waiting recipient.

At 4 o'clock, the first guest pulled up. It was my father-in-law, who lives around the corner from us. Just like he was keeping a scheduled appointment for a curb-side pickup at a supermarket, he called my wife and explained that he was checking in for his order. We didn't consider creating an app for the evening's procedure, but we played along with my wife's father. Properly masked and insisting he remain in his car, Mrs. P opened the rear passenger door and placed the dessert-filled bag on the seat. My father-in-law waved as he pulled away. And this is how it went for the next three hours. At irregular intervals, friends and family, who otherwise would have gathered around our extended dining room table or clogged accessible walking space in our house, were now parallel parking at our driveway and trying to identify themselves from behind a cotton facemask through a rolled-down window in a car we didn't recognize. A few folks — who shall remain nameless — exited their cars to chat, seeing that no other guests were around. Mrs. P indulged these "violators" in conversation. I, however, was a little more forceful, as I attempted to direct them back into their cars, so as not to encourage others to react similarly. I was gently reprimanded for my actions. Overall, everything worked out smoothly and better than we could have imagined. Several curbside interactions resulted in a few tears shed, as my wife expressed her wholehearted gratitude. The whole experience was pretty emotional, if one were to dwell on it for a bit. The final guest to arrive was our neighbor from across the street who walked over in the dark, traversing our lawn approximately 90 minutes after I had shut off the porch light.

We were very satisfied with the entire evening. It could have been more fuel for the fire of disappointment that has burned through the past nine months. Instead it was a glimmer of hope for what lies ahead in the coming year. This time next year, I hope to be complaining about a house full of unruly people who don't know when it's time to leave.

And be thankful for them, Y'know....just like normal.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com