Our hanukiah is ridiculous. I love it precisely for its absurdity; a chunky, oversized piece designed by a dear friend and crafted from aircrete. It looks like a forgotten set piece from The Flintstones. In a family home that also contains challah covers, mezuzahs, kippot and Shabbat candles, our menorah is easily the most overtly Jewish thing we own. Its presence badges us immediately. Brash and proud. Up until last week, this never struck me as a problem.
In my many overlapping circles of friends and collaborators, I am one of the only Jews they know. I spend a lot of time explaining our traditions to film directors, musicians, editors and producers. Why we fast on Yom Kippur. How often we observe Shabbat. How kashrut works, even though I am partial to pepperoni pizza. Hanukah, by all accounts, is the fun one. When I was a teenager, Adam Brody’s Seth Cohen married it with Christmas on The OC and made it something everyone could get behind. Like all Jewish festivals, it is a celebration of survival in the face of annihilation. But it comes with candles, doughnuts and dreidels. Much joy, minimal fasting.
