Scary Mommy's Guide to Surviving the Holidays (11 page)

33

THE BEST KUGEL RECIPE EVER

by Jill Smokler

I
f you're a non-Jew, there are some traditional Jewish foods you might want to stay away from. Gefilte fish and chopped liver, for instance—you can live a complete and fulfilled life without ever tasting these. The same cannot be said for matzo ball soup, potato latkes, and hot-out-of-the-oven challah. Some foods transcend religion, and if you aren't familiar with any of those, it's time. Go, now. I'll wait.

Kugel kind of falls in the middle. Every Jewish person I've made my recipe for says it's the best they've ever had, but non-Jews are rather perplexed by the sweet noodle pudding that's not a dessert but rather a side dish. This is a Hanukkah staple in our house, and it really
is
delicious, whether you're Jewish or not.

1 package egg noodles, cooked and drained

1 pint Greek yogurt or sour cream

1 stick melted butter

½ pound cottage cheese

6 eggs

1 cup sugar

½ cup brown sugar

2 teaspoons vanilla

1 cup dried cranberries

Graham cracker crumbs

Mix all ingredients together, except for the graham cracker crumbs, and place in greased 9-by-13-inch pan.

Sprinkle graham cracker crumbs on.

Cook for about an hour (or until it's bubbly and crispy on top) at 350 degrees.

Serve hot, room temperature, or cold.

And now you're an honorary Jew! Mazel tov!

34

THE SANTA TRADITION

by Hannah Mayer

T
he idea of a strange bearded man breaking into my home in the middle of the night once a year was quite unnerving to me as a child. The fact that he telepathically knew every detail of my daily behavior, both good and bad, made it that much creepier.

My memories of Christmas Eve include sleeping with the covers pulled so tightly over my face that I could barely breathe, praying he didn't decide to sneak into my room and harvest my kidneys on a whim.

Our yearly in-the-flesh encounters were brief yet horrific. Every Christmas my parents took my sisters and me down to the VFW hall, which usually got the third-string Santas. They were
the ones with the fake beards who smelled like bourbon and hoarding.

As my family neared the front of the line, the screams of those who came before me became louder and more desperate. I considered offering my sisters up as sacrificial lambs and telling my mom I had to poop—that always made her hustle. Ultimately what kept me there was the promise of toys, which is pretty compelling when you're a kid.

Suddenly the crowd parted and there he was, fishing wax out of his ear and sitting on a metal folding chair. I had a change of heart and my little fingers busily searched for whatever would provide a good grip. These efforts were futile; I was pried loose and placed on his lap as my parents smiled and slowly backed away. It was the ultimate act of betrayal: them ignoring my outstretched arms and frantic screams for help while I was one-on-one with this furry velveteen beast.

“Tell Santa what you want for Christmas,” they encouraged from afar.

Oh, you want to know what I want? I want to get the fuck out of here, that's what.
 But what came the following year made that experience look like a day at the park.

My dad worked overnights at a grocery store, which meant his days were free to do things like be volunteered by my mom to dress up as Santa for my preschool class. I imagine that he probably met this appointment with the same enthusiasm as if he were standing in line to be hit in the face with a bag of dicks.

Of course him showing up to my classroom was news to me, and probably equally terrifying for both of us as most kids were “sort of” potty trained.

Seeing him all suited up in the doorway, I didn't know the details but I guessed it had something to do with body snatching. Santa was my new father, and he would be coming home with us.

Life as I knew it was over.

“Were you the one wiping your boogers on the side of the couch?” he would say, winking at me as he scribbled something down in his notepad.

My mom fished me out from under the activity table and explained what was going on, but the images fueling the night-terror train had already left the station.

I grew up wondering why any parent would deliberately place their precious child in such a terrifying situation. At Christmastime I bustled by droves of little kids lined up in the mall experiencing communal heart attacks at the faintest sound of jingle bells. Why would otherwise loving, responsible parents put their terrified children on the lap of a bearded devil?

Five years ago, I became a parent for the first time and it didn't take long for me to figure it out. Summer days are long; winter days are longer. My kids and I were on day three of a horrific snowstorm and tensions ran high. Anything that could be argued over was argued over; even the fish couldn't take it anymore and committed suicide by jumping out of his bowl. I hit rock bottom when two of them were coming to blows over a moldy piece of firewood.

I was pushed to my limit and moments away from trudging through the show to hop a plane to Botswana. Then . . . the unthinkable. Out of nowhere I went caregiver rogue. . . diverting from anything I learned in baby safety class or in
Parents
maga
zine or on Twitter. Raw instinct kicked in.

“GIRLS!” I hissed. “Stop it! Santa is watching, and if you keep fighting he is going to bring you nothing! NOTHING! Do you understand me?”

They froze and looked at each other like they had just walked into the bathroom to find a large Bengal tiger painting his toenails. Quiet play was enjoyed the rest of the afternoon.

I had struck gold; everything became clear. From that moment on the Santa threat has been the most powerful weapon in my parenting arsenal.

I am a woman possessed. Everything is “Santa is watching this” and “Santa is watching that.” And I never wait until December; the threats usually begin around Groundhog Day. The culmination of the charade is taking the kids to see him in person, lest there has been any doubt as to his existence.

“Is this healthy?” my husband questions from time to time. It's not something I'm proud of. I know it's a cheap shot, probably with some sort of lasting psychological damage. I guess the adult equivalent would be my priest informing me we are going to see God after church to explain a few things about last weekend. Or the president calling to tell me that North Korea just pointed its nukes at my house because I ran a red light.

I feel bad, but not bad enough to test drive another strategy. Parenting is hard. Right now my choices are Santa or sedation. And sedation isn't going to get the dishes done.

35

LOOKING A GIFT HORSE IN THE MOUTH

by Tammy Scott

I
have a confession to make. I'm not proud of it, but it's time to come clean. As a child, I was a brat when it came to Hanukkah presents. In my defense, I was young and driven wild by the mystery of brightly colored packages.

To fully understand my bratty behavior, I feel the need to explain the nature of Hanukkah from the perspective of an eight-year-old child. I know Hanukkah seems glamorous, with the eight days of presents, the delicious fried foods you are religiously obligated to eat, and the parentally sanctioned opportunity to play with fire. But the way the presents are doled out
is torturous.

My Christian friends would get to stay up until midnight on Christmas Eve to open a present. On Christmas morning, they woke up and ran for the bounty Santa left beneath their trees. They unwrapped everything at once—the utilitarian gifts lost in the glitz of the coveted toys, games, and books. Then they had a week's vacation from school to stay home and play with all their new loot.

The experience was completely different for me as a Jewish child. More often than not, Hanukkah fell when school was still in session. I'd sit in school all day trying to focus on my work, but my mind would drift to selecting the perfect present from the pile of gifts with my name on them. Choosing wisely was crucial. If I made an error and selected the package with socks, I'd have to wait twenty-four more hours to get the item I had been hoping for. When the school day finally ended, I raced home to do my homework while waiting for darkness to come. The moment the sun dipped below the horizon, I began pacing past the window, waiting for my dad to come home from work. To keep me at bay for a little while, my mom let me put the candles in the menorah and choose that night's gift. After careful analysis of the shapes of the wrapped boxes and a comparison of the items on my wish list, I made my selection. What seemed like hours later, my dad came home. We said our prayers, lit our candles, and unveiled the gift du jour. Sadly, I had little time to play with my new treasure before I needed to get ready for bed because it was a “school night.”

When I was eight years old, my big Hanukkah wish was for the eight-track cartridge of the sound track from the movie
Grease
. This was the gift I wanted to open on the first night, thus ensuring seven extra days of enjoying the music. By chance that year, my brother stumbled upon the pile of wrapped gifts in the back of a closet. He wasn't looking for them, but a find such as this could not go unexplored.

I had a brilliant idea! When my parents were busy doing whatever it is that keeps parents busy, my brother and I snuck into the closet with a notepad and a roll of Scotch tape. Very gently, I unwrapped the corner of each of my packages. Obviously, the contents of the clothing boxes were unidentifiable, but most of the other boxes were. I took precise notes, retaped the corner of each box and snuck out of the closet. Later that night, I reviewed my list then sequenced the gifts in order of priority for opening. The
Grease
eight-track cartridge was number one.

The first night of Hanukkah arrived. Before I went to the pile to select that night's gift, I consulted my list. I chose the box that I was certain contained the
Grease
sound track and ripped the wrapping paper off with glee. To my great surprise and horror, I was wrong! It wasn't the sound track. It was underwear. Underwear! On the first night of Hanukkah!

The beauty of Hanukkah is that there is always tomorrow. The next night, I spent more time studying my list and was more careful when selecting my package. Again I was wrong. That night it was a set of
Little House on the Prairie
books. A great gift for sure, but where was that
Grease
cartridge? How could I be making such foolish mistakes after such careful and thoughtful planning? Night after night, I was sure I had plucked the
Grease
sound track from the pile, and night after night I was stunned when I unwrapped something that wasn't the
Grease
sound
track. I got wonderful presents, but I was stymied.

Finally, the eighth night of Hanukkah arrived. This was it: the last night. Tonight's gift
had
to be the
Grease
sound track. I had waited an extra week, but at least I knew I would finally get to hear the sweet sounds of John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John. I could barely contain myself as the day wore on. We said our prayers and lit our candles, all the while the tune to “Summer Nights” playing in my head. My parents handed me my last package. I tore off the wrapping paper with a huge smile on my face. I had already started yelling an excited thank-you before I looked down and saw that I was holding a box of Nilla Wafers.

What happened after that is not my proudest moment as a child. Even now, thirty-five years later, I'm embarrassed to write about it. I pitched the brattiest of bratty fits.

“Cookies?!” I sputtered, almost too upset to speak. “Who gets cookies for Hanukkah?!”

“I'm sure lots of children would love to receive a whole box of cookies,” my mom said.

“But these aren't even the kind of cookies I like to eat. These are Daddy's favorite cookies!” I yelled. “Here, you can have them,” I said, putting the box of cookies down in front of my father before I stormed off to my bedroom and slammed the door.

I sat in the middle of my room trying to figure out how I could have been so wrong about getting the
Grease
sound track. A few minutes later Dad knocked and entered my room holding the box of Nilla Wafers.

“Don't you want any of your cookies?” he asked, holding out the box.

“No! I don't like those cookies. You can have them all,” I said
dejectedly.

Dad held the box out to me. “Why don't you open the box for me?”

“You're already holding the box. You can open it for yourself,” I said.

“Yes, but it's your Hanukkah present, so you should really offer the cookies to me,” he said, shaking the box in front of me.

I could see he wasn't going to leave me alone to sulk in peace until I gave him a cookie. Reluctantly, I took the box and opened it. As I was passing the box back to him, I saw that it didn't contain cookies; it contained the
Grease
sound track! A huge smile spread across my bratty little face. I jumped up and hugged my dad.

“Next time, do a better job of rewrapping your presents,” he said, laughing as he walked away.

I learned two things that year:
never
ruin my surprises and
always
fold the corners neatly when wrapping a present.