The day the dishwasher was a ‘kaparah’ against bad karma

And while I do not plan on living without an electric dishwasher for very long, there is something liberating about having a super-large and hidden dishrack. Call me Pollyanna, but as a consequence of having to sink manicured fingers into soapy-and-soiled water each night, my meals are now one-dish epicurean feasts, in lieu of seven-pot, multi-plate repasts that both the husband and guests have come to expect.

Dish-scrubbing glee aside, the cleaning lady Marina — who refused to accept that Windex and furniture polish are not interchangeable — returned to Russia with nary a mention. I’m not certain whether it was the Mossad or immigration authorities that were after her, but I received a hastily jotted note from a stopover in Uzbekistan that merely stated, “I love you. Call my friend Evgenia to take my place.” If Evgenia is twice as good as Marina, she is terrible. Instead, I bought a dual-purpose grease-cutting/bright shine floor product and excitedly envisioned glistening tiles in a Home & Gardens abode that smelled, subtly, of hyacinth and jasmine. I’ll let you know how it goes if I ever use it. As for the cleaning lady? Kaparah!

Feeling upbeat and a little self-righteous about turning lemons-into-lemonade, next on the checklist was hitting the supermarket for a few last-minute items for shabbat. Feeling quite lofty (not to be confused with self-righteous), I wafted through the aisles, grabbing crackers for kiddush, mushrooms and cheese for quiche and — you guessed it! — additional cleaning items.

Almost home, the police pulled me over. My breathing turned shallow and rapid and I stammered, “Do you mean me???” Just like television, I was asked for my license, registration and proof of insurance. I had it all and was wearing my seatbelt, the cell phone was in my purse and I stared at the windshield, blinking back tears for something I couldn’t name. I have never, EVER been pulled over by the police and consequently, I behaved like a blathering idiot. I forgot how to speak Hebrew during this uncomfortable interchange, thus needing to compound the humiliation by calling my husband and asking him to talk to the officers. All’s well that ends well, however. My car is so old that it needs to be inspected twice a year now and, apparently, I had neglected to do this. I was given “a warning” before being sent on my sheepish way. Kaparah.

Upon arriving home with my grocery-haul, I swung into pre-Shabbat mode by hauling out the food processor. Grating carrots for both cake and cabbage salad, the ancient workhorse inexplicably began to smoke, plastic melted, and it emitted a final belch and gasp. Kaparah.

What is Shabbat without homemade challah? A Shabbat with store-bought challah — because the next mystery that revealed itself was a missing mixing blade from my trusty Black & Decker bread maker. Where was this small oar that was never removed from the mixing bowl? Is it in a piece of luggage that has already passed through Uzbekistan and is now being unloaded in Tashkent? Is this another opportunity for me to find the silver lining in an otherwise cloudy sky before uttering, for the umpteenth time, “Kaparah”? Yesh gvul: There is a limit!

Perspective is the key. We, the children of October 7th, are Houthi dodgers, targets of Iranian missiles, bomb-shelter denizens. We know how to laugh in the face of petty grievances because we know the value of life.

Dishwashers? Housekeepers? Cars? Food processors and bread machines? Pshaw, pshaw. A day in the life might be peppered with disagreeable moments, but a day in the life also is rife with Heaven’s blessings and miracles.

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