Last Purim, a mysterious package was left on my doorstep, whose contents never reached my lips, but certainly got in my head.
It took a while, but I finally decided what to do about it. What better way is there to address a personal interaction with one of my neighbors than to write about it in the local Jewish paper. And what more appropriate time could there be to revisit grudges borne of past experiences than Purim. So here it goes.
The aforementioned shalach manos contained a lone kumquat, along with a card informing me of the proper bracha to make on it. There was something strange about the gift. It was almost as if it was intended to trigger me, and that the sender knew, full well, that although he sent but one foodstuff, for me, it engenders two brachot: 1) borei pri haeitz and 2) shelo asani kumquat.
You see, I hate kumquats. I don’t hate the way they taste. In truth, I have never actually tasted one. I have hated them, on principle, ever since I was a kid.
“But why would a grown man bear a grudge against such a specific, seemingly innocuous, rare type of fruit?” you are probably asking yourself. I’ll tell you why, but first, a bit of background…
Kumquats were certainly not part of my peer group’s lived experience growing up. They were not served in the lunchroom nor given out by the PTA on Tu Bshvat, nor did our grandparents try passing them off as “treats” during visits to their homes. However, it seemed reasonable to assume that through their insistence on our knowing the appropriate bracha to be said on them, our teachers were preparing us, as any good educator would, for our future, adult lives, and the culinary reality that awaited us.
And yet, now that I have grown long in the tooth, I can report that I have
Never been invited to join my coworkers for kumquats after work
Never seen a kumquat kugel even at the ritziest of kiddushes and
Never seen a kumquat warning on a food label. Everyone knows, in the food game, you’re nothing till someone can’t tolerate you.
I feel like we were promised a world where kumquats, rhubarb and rutabagas would be an important part of it, and that world simply never materialized.
Don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against small oval orange-colored fruits per se. In fact, I quite enjoy those belonging to the Rosaceae family. Before you hit send on that letter to the editor, allow me to clarify. Many of you are probably asking yourselves, “Aren’t kumquats members of the Rosaceae family of fruits?” They are not. Loquats are. If you can’t tell the difference between a kumquat and loquat, you can put down that drink, and call a cab to take you home, because you’ve clearly reached ad d’lo yada. It would, however, go a long way in explaining why you are reading this — and by “this” I mean the Link.
Not sure if that last bit constituted a hefsek (interruption) but back to my backstory…Like many day school students of my generation, my classmates and I were forced to compete in contests in front of the screaming masses of the junior high, and not the good type of contest like watermelon eating. In fact, these tournaments did not involve eating at all, just a lot of talk about eating. It was a food fight alright, just not in a good way. These tests of acuity were meant to determine who was best prepared to appropriately thank God for the full array of enjoyments that our future lives promised.
The exercise made complete sense at the time. What better way could there be to get young people to determine what is primary and secondary in their own lives than have them memorize the blessings over various exotic fruits and vegetables.
Who knew that a seemingly unremarkable day in grade school would prove to be one of the most impactful experiences of my life. Believing that the powers-that-were would restrict their questions to situations one might actually encounter, I could have sworn the Rabbi asked what bracha one would make on susquatch — so I answered, “meshaneh habrios” (“who varies his creatures”)
Over the years, in the quiet moments, I would often ponder how my life would have taken a completely different trajectory had Moshe Chaim Schwartz-Groninsky (not his real name) not beaten me in that brachos bee. I imagine he is currently off somewhere enjoying his premium membership to the Fruit-of-the-Month Club. In stark contrast, I rarely ingest a vegetable or fruit that isn’t a potato or tomato. Ol’ Moshe Chaim (still not his real name) probably has trouble finding a new fruit on the second night of Rosh Hashanah that he can make a shehechiyanu over. I, on the other hand, make one on the apple I dip in the honey.
I am happy to report that I am past all that now. It took some time, but as they say, closure is best served cold. Years ago, unable to resist the temptation to devise my own brachos bee of sorts, I got in my car on Purim and drove over 80 miles to my sixth grade rebbe’s house. I presented him with a shalach manos consisting of kumquats and an assortment of fancy breads. I insisted, having come all that way, that he partake of the package in front of me, so that I could witness the enjoyment on his face. Still sharp as a tack, without hesitation, he sprinted off to the kitchen, washed, made hamotzi, bit into one of the rolls, and only then ate one of the kumquats.
Confident that he had once again bested me, he proceeded to smugly thank me for my grand display of “fellowship.” As I turned to walk back to my car, a faint smile played upon my punim…You see, the joke was on him.
The bread was mezonos.
