Is it a Parsnip or Turnip?

At the peak of my family's battle with the flu, my wife decided it was time to play some Jewish hardball, and make a huge pot of chicken soup (G-d bless her!). I was given the important task of going to Kroger to purchase the necessary ingredients for our precious soup.
Among the many ingredients on my shopping list were two parsnips and two turnips. The parsnips and turnips are always a source of stress for me because I can never remember which one is which. During this trip to Kroger, I was determined to overcome my parsnip and turnip confusion. Of course, this does not present a problem when I am placing them in the shopping cart because I can read the signs identifying each vegetable. The problem arises when I arrive at the self-checkout line of the supermarket and I am forced to recall the name of all the produce. To avoid my self-checkout line confusion, I read the identifying signs multiple times and tried to develop a rhyme to help me recall which one is which (please do not ask me the rhyme because I do not remember).
The self-checkout line provides the consumer with multiple benefits. The lines move much faster at the self-checkout area. Also, the self-checkout area is not decorated with the high "quality" reading material that adorns the other checkout counters. Last but not least, these lines provide the consumer with a unique opportunity to be on the other side of the counter. If you ever desired to know what it is like to take the grocery items and place them over the scanner, this is your chance. However, the fun only lasts as long as the products have bar codes. When there is a bar code one does not have to think, and there is no test of one's grocery knowledge. The challenge arises with the produce and its missing bar codes. Produce does not carry a bar code because the price varies depending on the weight and quantity of the item. One can either type the name of the item or humiliate oneself and use the picture system to identify what one is holding in his/her hand. This is where my struggle with the parsnip and turnip always emerges. I am always forced to use the picture system and hold up the line until I find the picture of the parsnip or turnip (how humiliating!). Unfortunately, this heroic chicken soup mission was no different. Reading the signs in front of the vegetables multiple times and the composition of a rhyme was all for naught. Once again, I was left standing at the self-checkout line baffled trying to determine which one was the turnip and which was the parsnip. In the middle of my dilemma I heard a voice whisper in my ear, "You are holding a parsnip. My gosh the black cap on your head does a great job covering your bald spot." I looked up, and the Kroger's employee gave me a smile and said, "I can use one of those things on my balding head. It is just another reason why I should convert to Judaism. You have the answers to all the problems."


Questions for the Shabbos Table: When I was driving home from Kroger the words of the insightful Kroger's employee made me think. I thought it was interesting that when he saw the yarmulka on my head he saw a bald spot being covered. What does the yarmulka, or any open expression of Judaism, mean to us? What is the significance of wearing a yarmulka? Is it simply part of a uniform that provides the additional benefit of covering a bald spot that we "allegedly" have, or is there something deeper?

My thoughts: The Sages tell us the purpose of the yarmulka is to bestow upon us the constant fear and reverence of G-d. When one places the yarmulka on his head he is demonstrating that he is aware that G-d is above him. The yarmulka serves as a constant reminder throughout the day that we answer to a higher authority.
The yarmulka also reminds us that we are not only representing ourselves in our daily activities but we are representing the entire Jewish nation. There is nothing more humbling than the realization that the result of your interaction with another person might shape his/her impression of the Jewish nation forever.

The Lonely Kiddush Cup

It occurred to me this week that this spring marks the 10th anniversary of my trip to the Jewish cemetery called Poland. I spent seven days with a group touring Poland, and seeing the blood stained sites of our fallen brothers and sisters of Europe. We combed the country visiting large empty buildings. One would never have guessed that these old and decrepit buildings used to house major centers of prayer and Torah study.
We walked through a forest and were told in the place that we were currently standing, thousands of Jews were murdered in cold blood. We stood next to a broken brick wall and were told this wall was the last vestige of the cage called the ghetto. The ghetto was where an untold number of Jews were forced to live in horrific conditions. As we exited an old Jewish cemetery one of the gracious Polish natives was kind enough to personally greet us with the hand gesture of a machine gun. We also had the opportunity to enjoy the modern artwork found on buildings depicting a gallows with a lifeless Jewish star dangling from it. Of course the evil swastika was not to be out done and was given prominent recognition.
Then there were the gas chambers. I still remember the anger that burned inside of me as I stood in the confines of the room of death. We walked on the very platform in Auschwitz where the notorious selections occurred. The platform was the place where the Germans decided who would be sent to immediate death and who would live a little longer. We saw the piles of hair, shoes and ashes. I was speechless and unsure how to react.
To be honest, throughout the week I struggled with the inability to emotionally grasp the Holocaust. I wanted to connect myself with the victims of the Holocaust on a personal level. I tried to imagine their faces, but I could not. Finally, on one of the last days of the trip, it hit me like a ton of bricks. We visited a museum. This museum was unlike any museum I had ever visited. This museum was a shul, which the Nazis desecrated and depleted of all its splendor. The Poles collected all the kiddush cups, havdallah sets and menorahs which their former owners left behind before being marched off to their doom. The centerpiece of the museum was a display case of all these holy vessels. I looked at a kiddush cup that seemed familiar to me. It looked similar to the kiddush cup I grew up watching my father use at the Shabbos table weekly. Suddenly it hit me that every one of these kiddush cups had a family and a story to tell. Every one of these cups had a family that congregated around it and sanctified the holy Shabbos with it. These families used their kiddush cups, havdallah sets and menorahs just like my family.
I realized the only difference between us is, the opportunity to use these holy vessels was taken away from these innocent victims against their will and we are still free to use ours.

Questions for the Shabbos Table: Are we taking our freedom to practice religion for granted? Do we appreciate that every Shabbos we have the opportunity to fill our kiddush cups with wine and sanctify the holy Shabbos? If we are taking the opportunity for granted, what can we do to better appreciate our freedom to perform mitzvos?