A re-post of the essay that started it all. . .     

        My husband is allergic to poultry. A unique and difficult, but not unbearable affliction most times of the year, but a tricky one to live with in the month of November. When the topic first comes up in conversation, people are usually very interested. “Chicken?” they ask? “Duck? Goose?” Yes. Chicken, duck and goose, and anything else that flies. “Eggs?” No. Not eggs, but he doesn't like them. If you ask me, this really shouldn’t be an option when your choices are limited to begin with, but all those years ago at the allergist when Adam was six, nobody thought to ask me.

So every year, the week of Thanksgiving arrives, and everyone in my house is getting ready for our annual trek to Cincinnati. (Oh, did I say everyone? I meant me. But I digress.) I’m packing three kids for the trip, and I’m gathering the food for our yearly contribution. One giant sack of potatoes, which Adam will mash at my parents’ house on Thursday, ingredients for two chocolate pies which my 13-year old will assemble, and all the components for my husband’s meal. A pork roast, sausage-and cornbread-stuffing (prepared with vegetable broth, of course) and some pork gravy on the side. We are a food-laden van, no turkey in sight, headed down I-71 on the busiest Wednesday evening of the year. The thousands of minivans that we pass have a similarly stuffed appearance. Suitcases, children, sleeping bags and the occasional lot of Christmas presents tossed into the back. I venture a silent guess that no one else has a pork roast traveling on the floor of the passenger seat.

Before I continue with my Thanksgiving story, I need to share with you that many of my mother’s relatives are Jews. I grew up going to Bar Mitzvahs, Bat Mitzvahs, and occasionally attending Hebrew school with my cousin Julie. I remember Julie’s Bat Mitzvah very well because I was 13, too. A 13-year-old not-quite-confirmed, not-yet-baptized girl watching Julie complete this rite of passage. But what I remember most is the pink-and-white reception that followed, spending the night, and watching her open the gifts and the cards and the money and thinking. . . I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to be a Jew. But it was not meant to be, and a few months later I completed my own confirmation, following a quickie baptism that same morning, next to the boy of my dreams. Tom Lucky. I was certain that the fact that Tom Lucky and I were being baptized together on confirmation day meant that we would be together forever. I mean seriously. . .holy water? If that’s not binding, what is? But some dreams are not meant to be, and so I arrive back at my story, present day, where I am driving in my silver Honda Odyssey with the poultry-allergic, most-certain-man-of-my dreams back home to see my grown-up cousin Julie and all of my relatives for Thanksgiving Day.

And I am driving a pork dinner into the midst of my semi-Jewish family. It’s as if I need to have little signs to stick into all of the dishes. Something like, “Warning! Turkey! This could kill Adam!” or, “Pork, the other white meat! Could offend Uncle Herb!” We strategically place the Waldorf salad and my dad’s mashed turnips between the meats so that no one slips up. My Uncle Mike, who’s Catholic, gets to try it all. I haven’t even mentioned the fact that my son, Jonathan, is allergic to peanuts because my tired mind can’t wrap around one more restriction on this particular day. I just let the child loose and pray for the best. My big family is together on most holidays, but Thanksgiving is the only one that seems to hold these particular culinary dangers. The other ones are only odd, like the fact that we eat bagels and lox on Easter. But hey, if you’re going to mix traditions, food is an easy way to start.

 You may wonder what any of this has to do with why I have chosen The First Congregational Church of Hudson as my church home.  Here is a place where I can be true to my faith background.  Here, I have freedom to respect and honor the faiths of those that I love, all while worshiping in the way that I choose to worship and serving in the way that I choose to serve.  When we were completing our membership class, Adam and I were asked to draw representations of our faith journeys, and to write about our faith backgrounds.  This is mine, in a nutshell. (Not a peanut shell, of course!)  I know that my faith future is here.  This November, and always, I am grateful for and proud of what my church represents and upholds.  Christian or Jew, poultry or pork, I know that anyone I love will be accepted through these doors, and this I count among my many blessings.

My youngest brother was married this summer. She’s a teacher, she’s smart, she’s pretty, and they really, really love each other. And, wouldn't you know it, she’s a good Jewish girl.  I think she'll be right at home.

 Epilogue:   I'm happy to report that my sister-in-law, Adi, and my brother, Jimmy, are expecting their first baby at any moment.   I would love to write my "new baby" blog over this Thanksgiving break—please hurry, baby!   (I know, Jimmy, I know. . . I'll try to stop pressuring the unborn baby!)    We have also recently discovered that our youngest son, Sam, is allergic to cashews, peanuts, and all tree-nuts.   I'll be serving air and water for Christmas dinner.