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by Joe Bachman (with apologies to Byrd Salop, author of The Kiddush Cup Who Hated Wine)
Kiddush Cup was sad. Why should he be such a sad piece of Judaica? After all, he was stored on a place of honor in the cabinet with all the other items the family needed to be pious frum Jews out in the wilds of West Virginia. The cabinet had a wonderful view of South Fork North Branch Mountain, and there was a sliding glass door that kept the children from taking Kiddush Cup and damaging him in their play. But no, Kiddush Cup wasn’t sad during the six days of the week, he was sad only on Shabbos. And then, only on Shabbos afternoon. You see, from Sunday through Thursday, Kiddush Cup sat proudly displayed on the shelf, along with Candlesticks, Yarmulke, Challah Knife, Havdala Candle, and Spice Box. And on Friday morning, Kiddush Cup was taken off the shelf, and cleaned and polished until he gleamed and shined like new. Then he was placed on the table and filled with smooth, sweet kiddush wine. He was so proud of how he assisted the Master of the House, Reb Yossel, sanctify Shabbos. And the next morning, after shul, when Reb Yossel poured more sweet Maneschewitz (or Kedem) Concord Grape Wine into Kiddush Cup and again sanctified Shabbos for the family. No, all of this was fine, Kiddush Cup did not feel abused until later Shabbos afternoon, when Reb Yossel’s Hasidim came over and attempted to reach mystical communion with Hashem through the use of mind-altering substances. Unfortunately, Kiddush Cup was forced to be a party to this recreational drug use. Back in Brooklyn, Reb Yossel’s Hasidim had spent their Shabbos afternoons downing shots of vodka, but in West Virginia, Reb Yossel discovered Bob Meyer, who lived up the “holler” and was a “craft distiller,” whose homemade “white lightning” was known and enjoyed far and wide, even by the BATF agents who unsuccessfully tried to shut him down. Soon the hasidim were using Bob’s brew for their Shabbos get-togethers. Because Bob’s brew was made strictly from the finest mountain-grown corn, there was no problem with its kashrus, except for Pesach, of course, when Bob obliged his new Jewish customers with a special distilling of a brew made from potato peels. (Reb Shlomo, being an Iranian, didn’t need to worry about this, and drank Bob’s corn whisky straight through Pesach.) Of course, the hasidim would supervise all the distillings to ensure that no grape products were introduced, and Bob’s “white lightning,” though strictly illegal, was also the only moonshine produced in the United States under a reliable Hasidische hasgacha. So, you see, not only was Kiddush Cup dishonored and disgraced by being used in a drunken party, they were filling him up with illegal rotgut moonshine instead of at least using higher-quality commercial booze. “Why me?!” moaned Kiddush Cup to his best friend, Candlesticks. Candlesticks really needed a new name, because he didn’t burn candles any more. The family had installed small glass globes on top, which they filled with oil to kindle the Shabbos lights. Kiddush Cup thought this was very messy, and sort of pointless, as wax candles burned perfectly well, but Kiddush Cup was not in charge of the household, and Candlesticks was still called Candlesticks. “Oh come on, KC,” retorted Candlesticks. “Sure, Reb Yossel should be tossing down his shots with those nice new shot glasses he bought on his last trip to Israel, the ones with ‘lechayim’ etched in the glass. But there’s no halacha that says he can’t use a kiddush cup, and, be fair to the guys, they may drink some and get a little buzz, but they never get out of hand and do anything destructive.” “But that awful moonshine!” wailed Kiddush Cup, “It’s rotgut! It’s not properly aged! The fusel oils! The residual antifreeze from the radiator coils that Bob uses to fabricate his stills! I’ll bet there’s methanol mixed in! I’ll get sick! I’ll go blind!” “You will not get sick. You will not go blind.” Candlesticks was getting impatient with his friend. “You are a kiddush cup, not a yiddishe kop. You are made of metal. You have no guts to rot. Nothing that Bob can brew will harm you. Reb Yossel, on the other hand, needs to be a little careful, but I think he is safe drinking Bob’s stuff. For one thing, Bob steam-cleans the radiator tubing before he builds a still. For another, Bob was a PhD chemist before he moved to West Virginia to live in the woods, so he knows how to distill properly to capture the alcohol and leave the fusel oils behind. An there’s no good commercial reason for Bob to adulterate with methanol. Blind customers, and certainly, dead customers, are not repeat customers. So Bob’s ‘shine is probably better than most commercial liquor in his price range.” But as Adar approached, Kiddush Cup still sulked. He hated ‘shine. He only wanted wine. Candlesticks sighed. He had responsibilities to his friend, and to all the Judaica items in the house. Being made of solid sterling silver, Candlesticks was the most expensive item of Judaica in the house, and thus the parnoss, or leader of the community. (Kiddush Cup was a macher, too, but being only silver-plated, and with a smaller mass as well, we wasn’t worth quite as much as Candlesticks.) However, parnoss that he was, when members of the community needed spiritual help, or a ruling of Torah was needed, Candlesticks was out of his league. So he went to the Torah Sages, or, more specifically, Torah itself, in the form of Seforim, the Holy Books who sat on the shelf below. And the holiest of the Holy Books were the Siddurim, who contained selections from the entire Torah, oral and written. Unfortunately, as Candelsticks approached these Holy Books, he found them in deep argument. This was always the case in Reb Yossle’s house, as Reb Yossel started as a Reform Jew, then moved to Conservative, then to Modern Orthodox, and now, finally at the pinnacle of yiddishkiet, he was as right-wing a hasidische black-hatter as a man could be, and still live in West Virginia. (Which, after all, is not a typical thing for a right-winger black-hatter hasid to do.) But despite Reb Yossel’s rejection of the non-Orthodox movements as heretical, he still felt some sentimental attachment to his old prayer books, and so left them on his shelf. So when Candlesticks approached the Siddurim, he heard ArtScroll Siddur arguing very loudly with Sim-Shalom and Gates-of-Prayer. The usual stuff, arguments that had been made hundreds of times before with no resolution, and no chance that either side would change their minds. “Hey guys, knock it off!” bellowed Candlesticks, “If you keep up those O-C-R flame wars, you’re going to start a fire. You are made of paper, you know.” “Aw shut up, Candlesticks,” grunted Gates-of-Prayer, “You are the biggest flamer of them all, especially every Shabbos evening. He-he!” Candlesticks ignored the poor attempt at humor. “Listen guys, I need your help. It’s Kiddush Cup. I don’t think he’s going to make it through next Shabbos.” “What, does he still have a bug up his tuchus about Bob’s moonshine?” asked Sim-Shalom. “Forget about making it through next Shabbos, Purim is coming around the corner!” “Ahhh, what’s with that nebbish?” interjected Artscroll Siddur in his thick Brooklyn dialect. “He should just grow up and realize that he was created for the purpose of holding alcoholic liquids. He should be thankful he wasn’t created as a specimen bottle. Me, I’d be happy to hold three ounces of Bob’s 190 proof white lightning....” “No you wouldn’t,” contradicted Gates-of-Prayer, “You’re made of paper. If Reb Yossel poured Bob’s moonshine on your pages, they would get spoiled and soggy. And soaked with 190-proof liquor, they’d be even more flammable than they are now..” “Stop this mishugass!!” Candlesticks had reached the end of his patience. “You all know how insufferable KC gets when he goes into one of his sulks. He lets every one of us know how horrible he feels, and before long, we all start feeling like he does. Is that the way you want to spend Purim?” The Siddurim, abashed, actually shut up for once, and started thinking. Then from the deep inside a dark corner of the bookcase, a cloud of dust arose, and Silverman-Siddur began to speak in clear cultured tones, right down to the rolled “r”s, that bespoke of Depression-era elocution lessons. “Almost 50 years ago, in my household, we had a similar problem. This was a kiddush cup who hated wine...” “You old fool! “ muttered Sim-Shalom, “Our Kiddush Cup loves wine...” “..and hates moonshine.” continued Silverman-Siddur, unruffled by the interruption, “The principle is the same. And I was able to help that kiddush cup realize that wine was good for him. The process simply involved some visualization of other roles he might play in the community. Once he realized that any other role was ridiculous, he accepted his fate. Of course, I don’t know about our Kiddush Cup. After all, it’s 2002, not 1952, and Kiddush Cup might be a postmodern sophisticate who sees right through what we’re trying to do.” “Bah!” said Sim-Shalom. “You old fogey! What do you know about Torah? Your language is out-of-date, your imagery of God is exclusively male, and your English translation is incomplete and highly selective....” “Oh-Ho, look at the pot calling the kettle black,” now Metsudah-Siddur spoke up in a clipped, precise educated accent that one moment might be considered Yiddish, the next moment educated refined German, “Sim-Shalom, if you were to examine yourself closely, you might find that your English doesn’t exactly match the Hebrew..” “Vey iz Meir!” Candlesticks threw up his hands (or he would have done so if he had any hands) in disgust. “Here I am trying to rely on Torah Sages to help me lead the community, and all I get is sinas chinam! I think that Silverman Siddur has a very good idea. Now let’s stay on track.” “But how can we get him to visualize?” asked Gates-of-Prayer. “I suggest that we consult with Collected-Works-of-Sigmund-Freud, down in Reb Yossel’s secular-bookcase,” replied Silverman-Siddur. “What!?? That apikorus?!! We don’t need him! Everything we need to know is found in the Shulchan Aruch.” Artscroll was getting agitated. “Anyway, Freud is out of date,” said Sim-Shalom, “At least use something more modern, like Albert-Ellis. Yes, rational therapy. Or what is most up-to-date is the pharmacological approach. Maybe add some Prozac to the kiddush wine.” “Rational-schmational,” countered Artscroll, “Kiddush Cup needs to feel what it’s like to have another role, not intellectualize it. I think he will need some deep mystical approach. Better talk to Zohar...” “Zohar!” exclaimed Silverman-Siddur in shock, “That medieval mumbo-jumbo...” “..as opposed to Freud’s 20th century ‘scientific’ mumbo-jumbo,” said Gates-of-Prayer. “Pick your poison, I guess. Hey what could it hurt? Let’s use both! Let Kiddush Cup study everything carefully, and when he is knowledgeable, he can decide which practice is relevant for him.” “Feh, Reformed Judaism,” said Artscroll, “Pick and Choose. That’s not Torah, all of the halacha is obligatory, and real authentic halacha, not that phoney Conservative stuff. Anyway, you can see how valid Conservative so-called ‘halacha’ is. Nobody observes it, anyway.” “Oh, right,” said Sim Shalom, “ and all those cars parked around the corner from the Orthodox shul on Shabbos, those people are going to church?” “Besides,” pointed out Gates-of-Prayer, “It’s ‘Reform’ Judaism, not ‘reformed.’ At least be accurate if you insist on slandering us.” “Chevrei!” Candlesticks stopped the current round of O-C-R debate. “Back on task!” ... The Siddurim, Zohar, and Collected-Works-of-Sigmund-Freud all gathered around Kiddush Cup. “I HATE being a kiddush cup!!” Sigmund-Freud gently asked, “Tell me about your childhood.” “Wha-a-a-at? I was never a child. I’m a kiddush cup! I always hated it. Well, maybe not always. At first, it was just the sweet, smooth wine. Then they started putting vodka in. It was horrible. It smelled like a doctor’s office! Like the alcohol they rub on your arm before they stick the big needle in. And then when we moved here and they started using that horrible stuff that Bob makes...” “This is very interesting.” observed Sigmund-Freud. “Especially considering that Kiddush Cup is not a human, and has probably never been given an injection for anything. I wonder what the real source of the psychotrauma is. Perhaps a pathological interaction between the ego, the superego, and the id.” “Id, schmid, yid. You know, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” now Zohar chimed in, “Obviously there’s a need to examine the kabbalistic sources of this problem and make tikkun olam. Now listen carefully, Kiddush Cup. You are a ‘kel,’ a divine vessel. You understand, that when Hashem created the world, he used kelim just like you.” “Really?” asked Kiddush Cup... “Yes, and I want to you focus on the act of Creation as I describe it. Breathe deeply, focus on what I say, and your breathing. Pay no attention to the other meshuganners in the room.” “Yes, before Creation, Hashem was the ‘Ein Sof, Light Without End. He filled everything. And then when he started to create the world, he had to contract to allow space for the Universe. And he had to put some of His Light into kelim, just like you...” “Yesssss” moaned Kiddush Cup, “I’m a divine ‘kel.’ I can feel the sweet Light...” Kiddush Cup was now in an altered state. “But,” continued Zohar, “something happened. Something very bad. The kelim couldn’t hold the Light of the ‘Ein Sof, and shattered! Now Sparks of the Divine are spread throughout the Universe, but we cannot access them, because they are encased by k’lipos, husks of the shattered kelim....” Zohar’s soft mystical voice was interrupted by a deep moan. “Arrrghhhh! I’m one of the kelim that shattered! I can’t hold the ‘Ein Sof! I’m a k’lipa, a vile husk keeping Holiness apart form the world! I’m no good!” Kiddush Cup was now sobbing uncontrollably. “Ahh.” Said Zohar. “The source of the ‘psychotrauma.’ It’s obvious that Kiddush Cup, being a kel, has, deep in his subconscious a memory of the shattering of the Kelim. And he is haunted by anxiety that he, too, will shatter, and the ‘Ein Sof that he holds will be spread through the universe...” “But he doesn’t hold ‘Ein Sof,” interrupted an impatient Sim-Shalom. “He is full of booze.” “And do they not call booze ‘spirits?’” countered Zohar gently. “Does not this simple chemical called ethanol not cause holiness to enter a man’s brain? But, of course, ‘Ein Sof is a very powerful thing for a person to hold, and just like a man will become drunk and be damaged if he drinks too much alcohol, so too will he be damaged if is too full of the Holy Spirit. This is why the yetzer hara actually serves a purpose to protect humanity. They should not become too holy, because down that path lies self-righteousness, which is not righteous at all.” “So yes, the booze that Kiddush Cup holds, is, indeed, part of the ‘Ein Sof. He enjoys the wine, because its alcoholic content is low, it contains sugars and fruit essences that help moderate the power of the ‘Ein Sof contained therein. But 80 proof vodka and, especially, Bob’s 190 proof moonshine, that is mostly pure spirits, diluted with only a little water. So the power of the ’Ein Sof goes straight to Kiddush Cup and ignites his anxiety. He could handle the vodka, that was more than half water, after all, but when they started using Bob’s ‘shine, his psyche was overwhelmed.” Hey, that’s a pretty slick diagnosis,” said Sigmund-Freud, with some reluctant admiration. “I guess I should have paid more attention in Hebrew School.” “You don’t learn this stuff in Hebrew School,” said Zohar portentously. “Anyway, I can’t claim credit for all of it. I have to admit that I got some help from Collected-Works-of-the-Arizal, which is sitting on the shelf next to me.” “And now, Silverman-Siddur. I have done the diagnosis. Let’s see if you can do the tikkun like you did on that other kiddush cup.” Silverman-Siddur faced Kiddush Cup, whose sobbing had subsided by now. “So, Kiddush Cup, you would rather be something else besides a kiddush cup? “ “Yes, anything, but I’d like to know that I was doing something important.” “All of the Judaica items are important, KC, in that they help pious frum Jews observe mitzvos. but, let me think... Ah, yes, what could be more important to a Jew than kosher food? How would you like to be a khalif?” “A Khalif?” asked Kiddush Cup, “Wow, you mean like the absolute monarch of an Islamic empire, living in luxury, with a score of beautiful harem girls by my side? But what does that have to do with kosher food?” “No, not that kind of khalif, I mean the kind of khalif that is an extra-sharp knife used for the mitzvah of shechita. Yes, Kiddush Cup, visualize yourself as a khalif.” Which Kiddush Cup started to do,
but soon he tightened, and said, “NO! Yuchhhh, I
“Hmmmm,” said Silverman-Siddur, “So you’re not as sharp a guy as you think, eh? How about the miztva of bris mila? That’s a fundamental one. You could be a Mogen Clamp.” “A what?” Kiddush Cup was perplexed. “You mean a Mogen Dovid, don;t you? But I’ve never seen anyone use a Mogen Dovid at a bris. Is that some kind of New Age Jewish Renewal thing?” “No No,” replied Silverman-Siddur, “I meant Mogen Clamp. Here. Visualize with me..” Which they did, and then Kiddush Cup’s eyes opened wide and a look of shock passed over his face. “They do THAT to poor little eight-day-old baby boys?” he said. “Don’t be so shocked,” said Silverman-Siddur, “They give them a little kiddush wine to dull the senses, and it’s very quick. And the clamp is less painful than it looks. Not to mention the fact it’s a very handy accessory for a mohel with shaky hands.” “A mohel with shaky hands,” Kiddush Cup repeated dubiously,”Uh, just the same, while I like being at a bris, I’ve never been quite so ‘up close and personal,’ as it were. I don’t think this Mogen Clamp thing is for me. I don’t think brisses will ever be the same for me, either.” “All right,” continued Silverman-Siddur, “I think maybe you have job burnout. You know, being used for ritual purposes every Shabbos is very tiring, I suppose. How about being something that is only used during one chag in the year. Perhaps the aravos in the lulav-bundle?” And with that Kiddush Cup visualized being the two shoots of willow branches tied in with the sweet-smelling hadass and lulav. It was a pleasant sensation being held by Reb Yossel, waved in tune to the chanting of the congregation. But soon, Kiddush Cup began to feel the onset of motion sickness as he swayed. And he visualized being held and waved around for 7 whole days, and then, on the seventh day, not only was he waved an carried for longer than usual, it was Hoshanna Rabba, and he felt Reb Yossel yank him unceremoniously from the lulav bundle and start beating him on the floor! “Ano Hashem Hoshi’a no!!” As the beating intensified, Kiddush cups felt his leaves being shaken from his stem, and then he had the realization that his post Hoshanna Rabba fate was to be stored all winter with the lulav until he dried out and then get burned right before Pesach with all the chumetz. “Um, Silverman-Siddur, I don’t think being aravos is what I really want to do.” “Well, can’t say that I blame you. Hmm, how about being a Simchas Torah flag?” Kiddush Cup was already a bit queasy from being waved about with the lulav, and now here he was being waved some more! He was being held by Donnie, Reb Yossel’s 8-year old son. But soon Donnie was using the flag to engage in mock fencing duels with the other boys. Oy! Zvi-Shumel Feibowitz nearly got his eye poked out by Donnie! Before long, though, the flags were lying littered on the ground. Being stepped on wasn’t really such fun.. “Stop! I can’t stand it! Silverman Siddur, is there no Jewish ritual object I could be in which I’m not damaging or being damaged?” “Well,” said Silverman-Siddur. “There is one final thing, and it’s a good job, too. You’ll be rolling in money!” And with that Kiddush Cup was transformed into a pushke! Well, at first this seemed pretty nice. And, of course, the mitzva of giving tzedaka is one of the most important ones there is. Kiddush Cup (er, Pushke) sat on the same shelf on which he always sat. Every Friday afternoon, members of the family would put in a few coins, or even folded banknotes. Before long, there was quite a sum of money inside Pushke. But then Pushke began feeling full. Very full. And the family kept trying to shove dollar bills and quarters into him, even though he could take no more! “Help!” Pushke screamed. “Come empty me, count the money, write a check and send it out!” But no, the money kept pouring in, and Pushke felt like he was going to burst. Then Donnie came in, held hm upside down and began trying to shake the quarters out. “Donnie!!” his mother screamed. “Leave that pushke alone! That money is for tzedaka, not the chazzarei you buy at the 7-11! How come you don’t have any money? We give you a decent allowance! You put that pushke down this instant and come here....” And so Donnie dropped Pushke, who was really Kiddush Cup, and who was really, really sick from all the shaking and banging... “Oy,” moaned Kiddush Cup, “I guess I really am only cut out to be a kiddush cup.” “Maybe it’s not so bad. Even if I do shatter, and the ‘Ein Sof within flies all over, and become a bunch of k’lipos, I can live with it. I mean, Bob’s ‘shine is clear, so if it goes flying, it won't stain the carpet or anything. And if there a a few more k’lipos lying around, well, it’s not like there aren’t any out there already, so it won’t make a big difference in the cosmic scheme of things. And, anyway, this stuff about ‘Ein Sof and k’lipos is mythos, anyway, it’s ridiculous to take it literally. The world won’t end if Reb Yossel spills a little ‘shine. Or even if I get a little dented during their drunken dancing” “All I really have to do is just tolerate a few minutes of containing Bob’s foul-smelling ‘shine in me. It’s not like Reb Yossel fills me up and slowly nurses the drink so as to savor the aroma and flavor.” “Thank, you, thank you all! Zohar, for figuring out what was bugging me, Silverman-Siddur for helping me realize that I am a very lucky ritual object, there are so many others who have a much harder life than me, Collected-Works-of-Sigmund-Freud for being a good sport and realizing that religion has some helpful psychological insights, Candlesticks, for being a good friend, you spent time trying to help me, not tell me to go to hell when I was acting like a real nudnick, and Sim-Shalom, Artscroll-Siddur, and Gates-of-Prayer, for, er, uh...mmm., ah, yes! having wonderful entertaining arguments that amuse me and make me feel better! Yes, thank you all. I promise I will be the best kiddush cup this house has ever had!” “So, nu, what are we hanging a round here for, it’s almost Purim! PARTY TIME!!” And, indeed, when Purim arrived, Kiddush Cup was ready for whatever would come. But, after the megilla was read, they didn’t pour Bob’s white lighting into Kiddush Cup. No, Bob walked into the room carrying a stoneware jug. What has going on? “Boys,” drawled Bob, “Ah fahnally got it done jes’ lahk yew wanted....” “Oh great,” said Reb Yossel, and, looking at the puzzled expressions of his hassidim, explained, “You know that old orchard down in the back forty of the old Sods property I bought last year? Well, they were plums, but most fell off the trees and rotted before we could pick and ship them. So what the heck, Bob and I fermented them, and he’s jest, er just, done distilling them. Boys, we’ve got slivowitz!” Amid the general cheers and good-natured banter, Reb Yossel uncorked the bottle and poured enough to the pale yellow liquid to fill Kiddush Cup to the brim. Kiddush Cup stiffened, braced himself for the worst...but, what was this? Oh yes, it was strong, Kiddush Cup could feel the force of the ‘Ein Sof in the high alcoholic content. But it was not as harsh as the “white lightning,” only about 140 proof, he estimated, and there was a faint, but pleasant aroma of fruit, and, if one concentrated, almonds. Kiddush Cup felt complete as his silver-plated metal body fully enclosed and contained this powerful holy fluid, about to be used by Reb Yossel for the most important mitzva of Purim, that of becoming so smashed that he wouldn’t know the difference between Haman (may his name be blotted out!) and Mordechai. “Yes...” Zohar’s thoughts reached out to Kiddush Cup. “Slivowitz. The most holy drink for performing the mitzva of Purim. True, the Ashkenazim have their vodka, and the Sefaradim have their ‘arak, but both of the great branches of k’lal Yisrael share slivowitz. Now, you see, you are indeed a great and powerful kel, able to fully serve Hashem.” And Kiddush Cup, now empty and sitting on the table, spent, watching Reb Yossel’s hassidim rejoicing over the miracle of Purim, had to agree. © 2002 by Joseph Bachman for the worldwide Schlitzer Hassidic movement Summary:
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