It seems that in the years since I was last a teenager, the 21st century happened
rowing up, we started out as the typical Jewish-American family: synagogue most Friday nights, bar and bat mitzvahs, a Passover Seder, the occasional Havah Nagilah.
That all changed, not once but several times, as each family member did a box step through various stages of Jewish observance.
There was the year I kept kosher and my parents didn’t. There were the years my parents kept kosher and I didn’t. Then there were the years they kept kosher but not kosher enough for me, so they put aside “extra kosher” dishes for me and later, for hubby and the kids.
Finally, there were — or rather, are — the years my parents once again don’t keep kosher, yet keep two full sets of kosher dishes, wrapped in plastic wrap, in the garage. We’re not just talking basic milchig and fleishig; we’re talking a good set of knives, a toaster for breakfast, and a Shabbos Crock-Pot.
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