Doughnut Sunday

Today we celebrated Doughnut Sunday. Now Doughnut Sunday is definitely Emma’s kind of holiday! What? You don’t celebrate Doughnut Sunday? Well then, I must teach you about this holiday which Emma loved so much.

Doughnut Sunday was originated by my mother when her children started leaving the nest. She found that she could always lure us back with the celebration of a holiday. But even after celebrating Christmas, New Year’s, Chinese New Year, Superbowl Sunday, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, etc., etc., she found herself wanting her family around more. So, she invented Doughnut Sunday.

Doughnut Sunday takes place on a Sunday in February. It has been known to be celebrated on a Sunday in January but, according to tradition, it must occur before March. The festival revolves around eating my mother’s old-fashioned homemade fried doughnuts. My mother was the chief doughnut chef until recently, when my brother assumed that role. The recipe they use has been passed down in our family for generations and it is like no other doughnut I’ve tasted. The doughnuts are deep-fried and then, when they are still warm, they are shaken in powdered or cinnamon sugar. I like mine in powdered sugar. Emma did, too. The real purists eat them plain, straight out of the grease. My favorites are the doughnut holes. My mother was serving these to us way before Dunkin Donuts started serving Dunkin Munchkins.

There are no real rules to Doughnut Sunday, except that you are not allowed to count how many doughnuts someone eats. That would be rude. We are a competitive family, however, so in the days before my generation all ended up on cholesterol medication, the more competitive of us would brag about how many we had been able to down. The winner paid a big price, though. The doughnuts are quite heavy and hard to digest, so if you don’t use discretion, Doughnut Sunday can be followed by Stomach Ache Monday.

One of the things Emma liked about this holiday was that it was all our own. She loved the reaction when she told someone she was unavailable because it was Doughnut Sunday. People were usually pretty jealous that she was heading off to a family gathering where the only expectation was that she would eat lots of doughnuts. What’s not too love?!

Sister Story 2

Another time during Sarah’s nursery school career at the JCC she came home wanting to teach us all what she had learned about Yom Kippur. As we sat at dinner, Sarah explained to us that Yom Kippur was a very solemn holiday when everyone was supposed to say something they had done that they were sorry for and ask God’s forgiveness. She insisted that we do that right then and asked Peter to start. Peter obliged her and we proceeded around the table. Sarah was next, then me and last, but not least, Emma.

When we got to Emma, she steadfastly refused to participate. She locked her lips, folded her arms across her chest and shook her head no. She didn’t explain why she didn’t want to do it but I have a couple of guesses. First and foremost, admitting wrongs was not high on Emma’s list of fun things to do. I think it would be fair to say that none of us like to admit to our shortcomings, but Emma avoided it more than most. And then there was the indisputable fact that we were not Jewish. I imagine she felt that because of this technicality, she was under no obligation to participate in this most uncomfortable tradition. Yom Kippur was definitely not Emma’s idea of a holiday!

Sarah was positively incensed by Emma’s refusal to participate. “Emma, you have to do it,” she demanded. But Emma was not persuaded. Sarah seemed about to blow her stack, so I intervened with a compromise that I thought might keep the peace. “How about if Emma says what she’s sorry for to herself?” I suggested. “It can be between her and God.” Sarah did not buy my compromise. “No, you have to say it out loud,” Sarah insisted. “ Emma, say it, don’t pray it!”

Sister Story

Sarah loved her time in nursery school at the JCC. Although her class was filled with children of all different faiths, the nursery school did teach the children about Jewish holidays and they would celebrate these holidays together. In addition, every Friday they would celebrate Shabbat together.

Sarah loved to come home and teach us about the holidays and traditions and insisted that we celebrate at home, as well. I think she enjoyed the rich history and tradition that these holidays and rituals reflected, but I also think she enjoyed being the resident expert. It wasn’t easy asserting yourself in a house with two adults and a very precocious older sister. On the subject of Jewish traditions, however, Sarah considered herself an authority; and she wasn’t going to let any of us forget it.

One fall evening at dinner, Emma was complaining about her ballet class. She said that it was impossible to understand her teacher’s instructions because she was Russian and had a thick accent. Sarah chimed in authoritatively. “No Emma,” she said. “It’s not Russian, it’s Rosh Hashanah.”

A Tale of Two Girls

Emma went to the nursery school at the church that we attend. It was perfect for her. There were very small classes and it only involved a short morning of activity three days a week. That’s all Emma needed at that time. After a morning of enrichment and socializing at school, she was ready for some alone time or one-on-one time with me or a friend.

Sarah went to nursery school at the Jewish Community Center. It had larger classes and offered afternoon activities like gymnastics or swimming. This worked for Sarah. After a full morning of activity and socializing, Sarah was ready for some more activity and socializing.

As I write this, I realize that this would strike some adults that know the two girls as backwards. To the adult world, Emma appeared to be the outgoing and gregarious child. Sarah always appeared shy and reserved. But in the world of their peers, especially when they were younger, the roles were reversed. Emma felt much less at ease in that arena and Sarah would really let go and be herself.

I guess that’s just more evidence of how complex we all are. We are tempted to sum each other with concise labels: nice, mean, generous, stingy, outgoing, shy. But it’s not that easy, is it?

Sushi Girl

One of Emma’s favorite foods was sushi. We discovered a favorite sushi restaurant in town about three years ago and it had become a habit to go there once a week, usually on Fridays, for dinner. We liked to try new things, but we definitely had our favorites. Emma would always start with an appetizer called Sunomono – raw octopus and assorted fish made to look like a beautiful floral arrangement.  Sarah and I would usually share a crab ceviche and Peter liked the tuna dumpling. Then we would share an assortment of rolls. Our favorites were the Amazing roll, the Spider roll, the Jaguar roll, the Tiger roll and the Dragonfly roll.

Emma would eat sushi as often as she could. Whenever she and Sarah had one of their children’s choir concerts and had to bring dinner, I would get them sushi to bring. And on the rare occasion that Peter and I went out without them, we would get them sushi to share at home. What pizza is to some families, sushi was to us. When we hired a caterer for Emma’s sweet sixteen party, one of the requirements was that they be able to prepare sushi. It had to be on the menu.

For Christmas in 2008, Emma got a sushi making kit and cookbook from her aunt and uncle. She absolutely loved it and on two occasions last winter she spent most of a weekend day crafting a selection of sushi for us to have for dinner. Sushi was the perfect combination of two things she loved to do: cook delicious foods and create beautiful things. That’s why I had arranged for Emma and her friends to have a sushi making workshop for her 17th birthday. The party was less than a week away when she died.

We have not been back to our favorite sushi restaurant since Emma died. It’s one of those places that I just can’t bring myself to go to without her. We did go to a Japanese restaurant in another town several months ago. We ordered some of our old favorites: a Tiger roll, a Spider roll, a Dragonfly roll; but none of them tasted the way I remembered. I didn’t enjoy it. This is the strange and winding path of grief, I guess. Some things bring happy memories and a feeling of connection; other things we shared seem spoiled or out of reach. There’s nothing rational about it, no explaining it. It just is.