Shabbat Shalom and Happy Birthday

On Friday, Doobie and I spent half the day tooling around the Golan Heights and the Galilee since we were banished from the house. We brought home a scrumptious Thai lunch to share with Betty, who had been working hard preparing dinner in our absence.

Me, Reut, Yaffa, Rotem. The flowers are those
Betty gave me at the airport upon my arrival.

The occasion was two-fold. First, it was Shabbat, the Jewish holy day, which begins at Friday sundown. Secondly, it was a celebration of the sixteenth birthday of Betty and Doobie’s niece, Reut.

It’s a tradition in the Henigman family that the birthday person gets to choose the meal, and Reut had selected roast beef topped with a fragrant and delicious gravy.  I seem to remember sweet potatoes, green beans and green salad, capped off with cheesecake. And a little bit of wine, along with a bunch of “l’chaims.”  Perhaps if I’d had less wine, I’d remember more of the menu. Or perhaps it’s just a sign that my memory is leaving me.

The meal was outstanding and the company even better. I really enjoyed getting to know these ladies whom I’d heard about for years (Yaffa) and since they were born (Reut and Rotem). It was a perfect evening of friendship and love. They all made me feel I was part of the Henigman family, and I embraced it wholeheartedly.

But Yaffa, Reut and Rotem were not the only Henigmans I met during my visit. A couple of nights earlier, Doobie’s brother Moishele and wife Liora popped over to meet the person they’d heard about for way too long. They speak English far better than my two words of Hebrew, but the languages kept intermingling. I have promised myself that WHEN I go back to Israel, I will preface the trip with some language lessons.

***

Kibbutz Massada's closed-down dairy,
where Betty worked when she first came to Kibbutz Massada as a volunteer.

I have always wanted a cow, so I was intensely jealous both that I’d lost my best friend to Israel and that Betty got to work in the dairy when she volunteered at Kibbutz Massada. Now that I finally arrived at Massada, the dairy was closed down.

Calves in the "children's house"

Yaffa and Rotem came to my rescue. They offered to take me next door to Kibbutz Sha’ar ha-Golan, which still has a functioning dairy.


I met the children:

Calf who thinks my hand is its bottle

And some of the ladies.

I was in heaven. But heaven came with quite an aroma, so we made our way out of the dairy toward the dining room, where Yaffa had invited me to breakfast.

This is a South American tree that
protects itself from predators
by growing a set of very
menacing spines or thorns

Sha’ar ha-Golan, unlike Massada, is a traditional kibbutz with a communal dining room and other community facilities. Their grounds are simply amazing with an array of botanicals to be envied. Apparently one of their members is a horticulturist who goes the world over to find special ornamentals. Rotem, Yaffa and I toured the grounds, as Yaffa pointed out the various plants. I regret that I didn’t take more careful notes because most of the names have now escaped me.

Squill

The flower to the left, Betty told me, is called a squill, and by the progress of its bloom up the plant's stalk you can tell when seasonal change is approaching. This reminded me very much of Alaska's state flower, the fireweed, which does the same. When the blossom reaches the top of the stalk on both plants, fall (or winter in Alaska) is imminent.

Unfortunately my photos don't do these plants justice. In fact, my photos don't do justice to anything I saw in Israel. The pictures pale in comparison to the reality of the beauty that is Israel.

I didn't even expect to like Israel, and I didn't. Instead I fell in love, with the country, with its people, its history and its food.

Especially its food.