Lessons of lemon bars

Suspending the menorah gently above the fire box in the wood furnace, the last remnants of the beeswax, which had provided light for eight nights, dripped into the fire below. A quick flame leaped up as each drop fell on the burning wood. Carefully handling the hot metal, I removed the last thin coating of wax with a paper towel. I ignored the timer signaling that the bottom layer of the lemon bars was ready to take from the oven, thinking that an extra couple of minutes would make no discernible difference.

Returning upstairs, I was surprised to find the crust much darker than what it is supposed to be. I understood what had happened when I saw that the oven temperature was set for 450, instead of the prerequisite 350 degrees. (The temperature gauge on my antique cookstove is on the side, and it is generally set for 350 degrees.) In hindsight, my misstep was not letting the bars go a few minutes longer, it was that I hadn’t checked the temperature setting. Having not changed it; I didn’t think to check whether it was set for what it always usually is.

After lowering the gauge, pouring the lemon custard layer on the over-browned crust, I turned my attention back to the menorah, still warm, but not hot, from the fire. I polished it carefully, sitting quietly on the couch in the living room with one of my grandmother’s kitchen towels. The red and white linen cloth, embroidered with initials and made ready for her wedding in the early 1920s, is in remarkable great shape given that it is nearly 90 years old. It had remained unused in her linen closet for nearly 75 of those years.

My grandmother gave me the towel sometime in the mid 1990s, as I helped her sort through a closet full of linens, complete with belted ties, which she had brought by boat from Berlin in 1938. She was getting ready to move from the apartment that had been her home for over 50 years to a retirement complex in California. She had left Germany, with her furniture, her linens and two young daughters after reading Adolph Hitler’s book. She came to New York to start a new life. She never talked much about being Jewish, and I, being raised Unitarian Universalist, and perhaps because she was not much of a cook, have no connection to Jewish cuisine or Jewish tradition.

Some years back, I was given a menorah. And while I have celebrated the Festival of Lights off and on, this year the tradition of lighting the candles and setting aside of few minutes to reflect has been an important part of this past week. It was precisely because the activity had been a chance to touch reverence in the midst of everyday life, that I had been prompted to figure out how to create closure.

Once polished with the last of the wax removed, I carefully wrapped the menorah in paper and placed it, all shiny and ready, into the bureau in the pantry for storage until next year.

I’m not much for holidays these days; the lemon bars being the first of the holiday baking. Caught in a strange place of wanting to avoid all connection to our consumer world, I am unsure how to reconnect with holiday spirit when it isn’t centered on energy consuming decorations and abundant gift giving, although the overly browned lemon bars might give me clue.

One, we can make no assumptions that the details of our life will be as they always have been and we do well to periodically check the temperature of our relationships with all those beings and non beings that we encounter in our lives. Two, we can be surprised and comforted by reviving or creating traditions and time in reflection. And three, we find meaning when we look for meaning.

May your day be filled with holiday spirit and meaning.