Mom & The Wandering Jew

Part 1: Mom

Don't tell my mom, but she has A-D-D. Of course this is only my diagnosis and I have no medical training to speak of other than a book of home remedies that sat on top of the toilet tank for my entire childhood. Whenever any of us had to go to the bathroom we had a few moments to learn all there was to know about treating bee stings and first degree burns. There was also a passage about poison oak and grape jelly that still haunts me whenever I consider making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but never mind.

My mom has had fleeting romances with many different hobbies and projects over the years. Some of these love affairs went on for months and months while others were one night stands whose traces can still be found hidden in dresser drawers and Rubbermaid totes all over her house. Not long ago I came across an unopened magnetic poetry set I gave her when she was in the midst of becoming the latest Maya Angelou. I showed it to her and she assumed that she had bought it for her emergency gift reserve in the event an unexpected guest turned up on their birthday or Christmas morning. Then came her brief stint as a party hostess, at which time I gave her a fondue set for Christmas. Several years later she lamented that she was unable to find a fondue set anywhere in the city for her Christmas Eve party. To the cupboard I went and, sure enough, there was the fondue set still sealed in the shrink wrap. If ever I'm not sure what to get my mom for Christmas or Mother's Day or her birthday, I always know I can dig into her cabinets for things I have already given her. Everyone knows about re-gifting, but it's a rare instance when you can re-gift to the very person you gifted in the first place and elicit the same surprise.

Then there are her bigger ventures, upon which her determination and business savvy never ceases to amaze me. A brief foray into cross stitching lead to a one head embroidery machine in the basement which lead to an extremely successful embroidery business with I do not know how many heads. She succeeded with what she set out to do just in time to close up shop and move onto the next thing.

By far, the largest of her endeavors has been real estate. Whenever I come home to visit, I am never sure exactly what home I will be coming to. And if she comes to visit me it could be in any number of trailers or motor homes. Once she asked if I liked the new motor home and I had no idea that I was not sitting in the old motor home. By the way, this interest in houses also includes the month of the dollhouse. A friend of hers built a beautiful dollhouse so my mom decided she'd like to build one too. This unfortunately happened around Christmas time so I wrapped up a miniature armoire that is undoubtedly still wrapped up. By my count, this yet to be assembled dollhouse has been moved from actual house to actual house four times. The armoire I bought for it is now an antique and the carpeting has gone out of style and needs to be replaced even though it was never laid in the first place.

What I would like to get at, however, is that none of these houses were houses at all. My mom has a way of making every house a home and I have no idea how she does it. She has a special knack for hanging pictures just the way they should be hung; her stacks of Woman's World magazines may be out of date, but they never get old; yummy snacks are always at an arm's reach; and even the way she stacks Tylenol and vitamin bottles on top of the fridge adds to the coziness of whatever house she has turned into a home. I've had my fair share of apartments and none of them have felt like home until mom has been there to leave behind boxes of Wet-Ones in the bathroom and apple-cinnamon Glade plug-ins in every socket.

This leads me to her latest, and most enduring, fascination. Bread. This also happens to be my personal favorite of all her interests. I love bread. If I were to die and come back to life as anything I wanted, I would be a baguette. No matter how much I have eaten, there is always room for bread. When I am not eating bread, I am thinking about eating bread. When I am eating bread, I am thinking about the next time I will be eating bread. I don't discriminate, either. Sourdough, pumpernickel, rye, flax, challah, french, Wonder. I will eat it all. And I will eat it plain. No butter shenanigans for me, particularly when the bread is as good as the buns my mom makes in shocking quantities. When I lived in the same city as she, I would come home with several dozen buns a week. One was more delicious than the next. I eventually had to cut myself off when it became painfully obvious that I was wearing her buns on my buns. I have since sold my car and walk everywhere I go, so my buns have gone back to their normal size. But I am not totally convinced that the trade off has been worth it. At times I wish I was like the people you see on Maury Povich who just don't give a damn. Sure, they have illegitimate children all over the country, but they can eat all the buns they want. And from the looks of them, do.

The Great Bun Project of 2010 began, as most of her projects do, small. It started with a batch of doughy, misshapen buns for a friend. When the effect of kneading dough proved to be relaxing, she graduated to loaves. Then came twists. Then came cinnamon rolls. And eventually back to buns which, as I have said, she perfected. She did all this with the help of a bread maker. Mercifully, she never bakes her bread in the bread maker. That always leads to leaden bricks that could be attached the ankles of dead mafia men and dumped into lakes. But they are marvelous machines for timing the perfect rise of dough that can then be manipulated into whatever shape is desired.

Soon all of us kids began showing up at her doorstep every day for a visit and some freshly baked goods. Clearly one bread maker was not going to cut it, so she bought another. And then another. Soon the kitchen started to sound like a small nuclear plant, with several machines kneading and beeping at precisely timed intervals. That's when she began upgrading to bigger and better bread makers. So what does one do when she has one too many bread makers? She gives them away, of course. I got a bread maker. My sister got a bread maker. If she had a paperboy, he would be gone home with a bread maker. It was like I found myself on her version of Oprah's Favorite Things. "You get a bread maker! You get a bread maker! You get a bread maker!" She told everyone she encountered to get one and would have earned a healthy commission were she employed by Black and Decker.

Part 2: The Wandering Jew

I use my bread maker a lot, especially now that I no longer live in the same city as she does. And I love it. But there is something about mom's buns that are lighter, tastier, better. I have her recipe, but much like her ability to hang a cozy arrangement of pictures, I do not have the same loving touch when it comes to dough. So every now and then I cheat on my bread maker and buy my buns at the store. I am sad to report that I am still on the hunt for the perfect bun as good as mom's. I did, however, stumble upon a Wandering Jew. What is a Wandering Jew, you ask? Good question.

A Wandering Jew is apparently a potato and cheese bread stick. At least according to my receipt from the grocery store down the street from my apartment building. I don't generally make a habit out of reading receipts, but it's difficult to miss something as biblical as "Wandering Jew" when sandwiched between "Jell-O Pudding" and "Pork Chop." I took a careful inventory of my groceries, ticking off each item on the receipt as I took them out of the bag. Eventually I was left with a potato and cheese bread stick as the Wandering Jew. Most people would pass off the incident as one of those weird things that happens to their crazy Aunt Sally, but not me. I marched right back to the grocery store.

When the cashier rang up my second potato and cheese bread stick of the day, the words "Wandering Jew" appeared on the digital screen above the scanner. So it wasn't an error the last time. This really was a Wandering Jew. "That's odd," I said.

"99 cents," she told me as she extended her hand.

I tried again for some sort of reaction. "Isn't that odd?"

"Not really," she said. "All our baked goods are a dollar."

I smiled, passed her a dollar and told her to keep the penny. But there it was on the receipt, unable to hide between any other purchases: "Wandering Jew - $0.99." I couldn't help but wonder, how many Wandering Jews are sold in a day? Does anybody else find this puzzling? Or is this one of those things I never knew about until long after everyone else, like Jersey Shore or the lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody?

I took my investigation to work and asked a Jewish co-worker if he knew what a Wandering Jew was and he said, "Jesus." He laughed and I laughed, but he gave me no indication that he knew anything about this bread stick either. So I went to my other Jewish friend, who is slightly more religious, and asked the same question. He replied with the same joke, "Jesus." Then added, "Apparently." Clearly this was getting me nowhere so I decided to give up and just eat the bread stick. Well, both bread sticks.

I immediately fell in love with the Wandering Jew. Chunks of whole potato levitate in the dough and the top is sprinkled with a heavenly combination of Parmesan and aged cheddar cheese. Perfect pockets of air sit beneath the crunchy crust and just the right amount of herbs are scattered among them. It was the first time I had tasted a piece of bread that came anywhere close to being as good as one of my mom's hot-out-of-the-oven buns. Perhaps it was named after Jesus. It was that delicious.

Which got me thinking. (Now you'll just have to go with me on this one because my brain sometimes connects the dots on two completely different greater pictures.) Much like my mom, Jesus didn't always finish what he started. He didn't even get death right the first time. I said earlier that my mom has A-D-D. And she does. Not, however, in the clinical sense. She has Absolute Drive and Determination. Whether it be baking or embroidery, my mom goes balls to the wall and conquers every challenge that is presented. If there is anything she has taught me, and I mean by example because she is not one to go into long winded speeches, it's that I should start as many things as possible. It's not important that we finish everything we start, but rather that we toss more balls in the air than we can possibly catch. If we are loved, there will always be someone to pick up where we left off. But if not, who really cares?

Life will go on. This has been my motto, although I had never actually put it into words until now, since I was a kid. Thanks to my mom, I started a lot of things in this life that I never finished. And other things I did finish, sometimes shabbily and other times with aplomb. What matters is that I was always encouraged to take the fork in the road, no matter the risks, and I am certainly a better (and happier) person for it. My journey has been one unexpected inspiration after another. Mom started my life on the right foot, but has allowed me to finish it for myself. She never tells me what to do or how to do it. Yet there is safety in knowing she has an opinion if ever I ask for it.

I recently went back to the grocery store and excitedly put a Wandering Jew into my basket. I was disappointed, however, to check my receipt and see that it was now merely known as "Pot Chs Bdstk." Someone must have complained. Or not. I took a bite of the bread stick and discovered that the chunks of potato had been eliminated and so had the herbs. There was no Jesus in this bite, so I tossed the remainder in the trash. For a brief moment, I thought to myself that I was yet again on the hunt for the perfect bun. Or at the very least, the perfect recipe for my bread maker. That's when it hit me like a bolt of lightning. Why begin something that's already been started? I've already found the perfect bun. I just have to go home for it.

Hosed on Manor Road

I have a pleasant half hour walk to work through a peaceful neighborhood called Leaside. Five days a week I put on my shoes, get my iPod going and pop in my ear buds before stepping outside to begin my journey. Each day has its own soundtrack, depending on my mood, and this walk has become a consistent and soothing part of my routine. On a bad day, Jack Johnson clears my mind of the doldrums and on a good one, Hall and Oats allow me the opportunity to strut confidently toward whatever adventure awaits.

Monday started out like any other, except it was hotter than usual for an afternoon in May. It wasn’t just hot, it was blistering; the kind of hot the Devil would celebrate by holding a pizza party. And humid, too. Just looking out the window made my shirt stick to the small of my back. But living in Toronto, I’ve become accustomed to such days and have chosen my path accordingly. I have absurdly fair skin so it’s important I stay out of the direct sunlight, especially in the afternoon when it relentlessly bears down from all directions. There are numerous routes I could take, but there’s one in particular I prefer because it provides maximum shade and minimum heat.

I turned the corner down Manor Road, a particularly beautiful street with so much overhanging foliage that even people with the last names Svensen or Lundegaard can laze about with nary a drop of Coppertone. As I moved down the sidewalk, I noticed a woman up ahead, showering her shrubs with a garden hose. I could not see her face, but her paisley overalls and matching sea foam hat told me she must qualify for a pension check, or at the very least, half price pancakes at Denny’s. She had a power nozzle at the end of her hose and each time she pulled the trigger its force knocked her back a step. When I approached her yard, she stood as upright as her little body would allow and turned in my direction. I smiled, as I tend to do when I temporarily feel part of a Norman Rockwell painting. I whole heartedly expected her to smile back, and perhaps even invite me in for a cup of weak Sanka.

This is when the day took a turn for the worse. Instead of indulging my Ward Cleaver moment, she cocked her hose, took aim and pulled the trigger. She hosed me straight in the crotch. And it wasn’t just a little squirt, either. She sprayed with a vengeance, as if my crotch was a target on one of those games kids play at a carnival. Had this been a game, her accuracy and determination would have surely put her horse across the finish line first. She didn’t even lose her footing. So now I’m standing in front of her yard, soaking wet from the waist down, while she stands proudly like Wyatt Earp at the O.K. Corral. This was certainly not what I was expecting when I turned down shady Manor Road and first saw the little old lady.

Truth be told, the shade is not the only reason I choose Manor Road each day. Not only does it have the oldest trees, but also the oldest residents. I enjoy looking at artifacts of the elderly; concrete toadstools adorned with miniature trolls, spinning plastic wings on dollar store hummingbirds, rusty wind chimes dangling from old oaks, and occasionally an elderly person themselves stooped over a pot of hunchbacked petunias. These things brighten my day beyond measure. I don’t have nearly as much in common with the hipsters on Hillsdale Avenue, with their gravel stone lawns and solar powered tulips. And don’t get me started with the hubbub on Belsize Drive. If you’re not sidestepping strollers, you’re getting nailed by wagons stuffed with over-privileged children. Belsize is like stepping onto a Nascar race track for toddlers and best be avoided at all costs. I prefer the peace and tranquility of Manor. At least I thought I did.

Most people would have jumped out of the way, but I stood there in a stupor, utterly dumbfounded at this woman’s audacity. After I was adequately drenched and appeared to have spent the last week peeing my pants, she finally holstered her power nozzle. But it did not stop there. She looked me right in the eye and glared as if I had just stepped on her beloved cat or something. I checked underfoot and did not see any dead felines, so I took out my ear buds and said the first thing one does when hosed in the crotch, "Excuse me?"

Whatever her beef, it was clear I was not going to get it out of her. Despite her squint, I could tell she had participated in staring matches before and had never lost. I kept my gaze on her as long as possible, but unlike this woman, I am the type who always loses staring matches. Had she spoken, I don’t know what I expected her to say. Perhaps a friendly laugh, as if to say, "Hot day, huh?" or "Gotcha!"

I probably would have laughed as well and accepted the whole thing as a goofy prank by a sneaky senior citizen. Based on her scowl, which was now burning a bigger hole in my forehead than the sun, I could see this was no prank. I had clearly done something to tick her off. But what?

Had I stepped on her lawn? No. Did I snag my bag on one of her shrubs? No. It surely wasn’t my clothing, as my polo and Dockers are practically the uniform at all the country clubs this woman is surely a member. I was just minding my own business and enjoying some tunes on my iPod. I considered for a moment that maybe it was the iPod that offended her. Perhaps she wanted me to take in my surroundings rather than block them out. If that were the case, all she had to do was ask and I would have told her that I do take in my surroundings. I just prefer them to be accompanied by music. Maybe it was what I was listening to that offended her so. Did she have super-sonic hearing and a dislike for Dusty Springfield? Then there was the off chance that she had never seen an iPod before and was confused by the white wires coming out of my ears. If that were the case, I must have looked like a robot approaching. Then it only makes sense that she would think quickly on her feet (two actions not generally associated with the elderly) and electrocute this robot with her garden hose.

There are a million valid reasons I can conjure up as to why she sprayed me, but I cannot come up a single excuse for what transpired after wards. There I was, a stranger on his way to work with a drenched crotch and puzzled face, and all she could muster was a bitter, empty stare. At this point, I had no idea what to say. In fact, I just felt sorry for her. Under better, drier, circumstances we probably could have become fast friends. She would have been pleasantly surprised to find out that I have a lot in common with the over seventy set. We could have sat on her front step and discussed our disgust for the hipsters on Hillsdale and the tots on Belsize. However, it was clear there was nothing I could say to appease her. She was just a lonely old lady with a garden hose and, if this was any indication of her character, a lifetime of regret. I soldiered on, hoping my pants would dry out by the time I had to clock in. They didn’t.

I have since taken on a new route to work. While not as picturesque as Manor Road, Soudan Avenue is not without its charms. The folks at 624 have a tire swing out front. Across the way at 631, a classic Harley Davidson sits in the driveway. There are not as many squirrels to contend with, thanks to the Calico who resides at 652. Still, there’s something missing. It’s not just the mature trees I long for, although I have noticed my skin pinker than usual, but rather the sense of security that comes from knowing where you’re going and how you’re going to get there.

I’m sure I’ll return to Manor Road in the future and come face to face with the old lady on the corner. Only this time I won’t stand speechless at the end of her walkway. I will thank her for soaking my crotch, which had in turn encouraged me to take the road less traveled. Then I will extend my hand and invite her to join me, but only if she puts down the hose and smiles.