...But I'll gladly care for your newborn baby.

I.

Can’t.

Cook.

I’m not good at it, I don’t enjoy it.
I can’t cook.

Now, my children, my husband, none of us are starving. We’re doing OK. But, when I get an email from TakeThemAMeal.com, I don’t groan inwardly. I whine. Audibly. And then I close my email.

BUT

I belong to the Bayit. And with that elite membership comes an exclusive responsibility. One taught in this space and modeled in the sweetest way.
One member of our clergy has been known to stock up on cereal bars to hand out to the homeless. One has coordinated meals for congregants who had a new baby or a sick child.
One…well…the week Rami was born, I got a call from a telemarketer. I knew it was a telemarketer because the caller i.d. showed a long string of digits. My mother ran to the hallway to listen to the answering machine and I called after her “Ignore it! It’s a telemarketer!” Then the machine picked up...“ohohohsimansimantov, ohohoomazalmazaltov…” “ANN! IT’S NOT A TELEMARKETER! IT’S THE RABBI!! HE’S CALLING FROM ROMANIA!!!”

Our children haven’t learned about those who came before them through yahrzeit plaques on the walls of our sanctuary; rather, they’ve learned to know and love members young and old through the intergenerational services of our spiritual home. Our pulpit doesn’t have ornate chairs to allow our clergy and board members places to sit throughout the service because we have clergy and board members who sit among us, willing to give up their seats to welcome newcomers. We have a membership that ‘s made a name for itself by carrying mattresses and residents down the stairs of a local home during a power outage, for opening our homes to guests of all kinds, for caring for children when their parents are unavailable, for donating platelets, visiting the sick, comforting the mourner, and easing the sometimes difficult first few days of new parents.

I belong to the Bayit. And with that elite membership comes an exclusive responsibility. One taught in this space and modeled in the sweetest way.

So, when I reopen my email at the end of the day, resigned to making one easy meal for that family in need, I am, of course, too late. All the slots have been taken, all the meals provided for. The sign of a lesson learned—a lesson taught by all of you who teach: Kol Yisrael Areivim Zeh LaZeh.—All Israel is responsible one for another. Which is a good thing.
Because I.
Can’t cook.

The folks usually responsible for my Rosh HaShanah meals.