I was sitting in class, staring at an elderly man who had enrolled in the course, when I became full of fear and anxiety.

All I could think about was the idea that, unless I die young, I won’t always be the person who I recognize myself as.

There was a time in my life when almost everything that mattered, or defined me positively, was lost or taken away, through no choice of my own. I was young, and it was not a happy time.

And so, I started my life over, when virtually nothing was left; I was reborn at 21. (By reborn I absolutely do not mean in a religious manner.)

Some days I feel like I’m 10 years old, but also middle aged, but I look like a teenager.

I remember how when I was a kid, I couldn’t imagine being 18 — 20. I knew I would grow up, but the future was so far away. I would lie in bed, trying to stay as still as possible, hoping that I would actually get frozen in limbo, and not have to experience the terrifying ordeal of being old and become the face of imminent death. I think of how I’m 25 now, and 40 is still 15 years away. The time it took to reach 25 will have to pass all over again — my whole life span, until I reach 50. Terrifying?

And reading historical texts, in that class, where the elderly man sat, from over a thousand years ago reinforces how insignificant and useless angst is, when one day I will turn to dust and cease to be, whether or not I was momentarily pained over the notion of one day no longer being a hip, young thing.

“And I do not see how I can get out of asking this question: Does it matter to anyone or anything that all these peepholes were closed so suddenly? Since all the property is undamaged, has the world lost anything it loved?” – Kurt Vonnegut, Jr, Deadeye Dick

Dear Ms. Ross,

Ever since I was a child, I have enjoyed Manischewitz’s Matzo Ball Mix soup mix on Passover.  I am now a university student, and live far away from my home in Toronto, so I am not able to attend Seder anymore. I was quite happy to discover that it was easy to find the Matzo Ball Soup mix at my local grocery store, as Vancouver has a much smaller Jewish community.

I had never made the soup myself, but the first time it came out quite successful; the instructions were simple to follow, and both packets, to my recollection, were labelled clearly: one for the soup mix, and one for the matzo meal mix.

The second time that I purchased the Matzo Ball Mix, the two packets were not labelled, so I had to guess which was which.  The contents of both packages look and smell quite similar, and it is hard to differentiate between powdered matzo meal and powdered soup mix.

Annoyed, but confident enough that I could make the right choice, I selected a package and prepared what I thought to be the matzo mix as per instructions.  Upon mixing together the eggs, the vegetable oil, and the “matzo meal”, I noticed that the colour seemed incorrect for matzo balls.  I thought that maybe it was just because I was using extra virgin olive oil, instead of canola oil this time.  I soon realized that I had gotten the two packets mistaken for each other when I put added what I thought to be the “soup mix” to my pot of water.

I was left with a giant pot of inedible sludge that had to be flushed down the toilet, and subsequently followed by half a bottle of Drain-o to prevent clogging.  I was also disappointed, because I really do like matzo ball soup.

I figured that this was just some weird one-off fluke, and that the next time I purchased the Manishewitz Matzo Ball Mix, the packets would be labeled correctly; this was not the case.  This afternoon, I experienced the same problem, and once again, guessed incorrectly, even after asking both of my roommates for their input!

Manishewitz has been known as the quintessential company to purchase easy-to-make and tasty, traditional Kosher food for as long as anyone can remember, but the lack of labeling makes for a confusing and often wasteful use of foodstuffs.

I would recommend that Manishewitz labels both packets of the Matzo Ball Mix soup mix product, otherwise people like myself will not be able to enjoy your soups, as we once did.

Thank you,

Leora

I am back. OH sweet Jaysus I am back. I did have some good times, but I could have almost kissed the ground when I returned.

I started getting panic attacks and feeling faint just being at my old house. It’s empty. So empty. It used to be full of people, and it used to be full of things that came to life when those people were there. Now it’s a sarcophagus. My house and my room, my front yard and the back yard, the street, the basement. It was so empty, dark and devoid of any feeling of life, even when there were people home besides my mom and myself.

The staff at YYZ were utterly unprofessional, and Air Canada managed to once again be a company capable of causing a minor debacle for me. I don’t know if I’ll ever fly with them again. Their flight attendants were fantastic, however, and if I ever fly with Air Canada again, the only reason other than them effectively having a monopoly in Canada is because their flight attendants were their saving grace.

The only kind employees for the whole company and they get the brunt of irate customers who are pissed off because of everyone who came before them.
It was so good to see everyone who I saw. Care & Pat, I love you guys to death. Thank you for taking my sweet pan dancing.

I had a dream about turnips.

I found myself in the middle of a post-apocalyptic grocery store. A little supermarket. The place looked like how the inside of the buildings appeared after the Chernobyl disaster: There were empty aisles upon empty aisles. Dirty white walls, with dirty stains everywhere. Garbage, and signs of life that had once existed in this tomb of a grocery store.

I walked down the aisle looking for food. Soon I arrived at what appeared to have been the produce aisle. It was full of dirty, empty crates with dirty, blank signs.

Not all the crates were empty, however. A few of them had giant turnips. Ugly, rotten turnips. These turnips didn’t look like regular turnips. They were deformed and grotesque. Some of them were so deformed and grotesque that the blank signs behind them advertised these things as something else; I don’t know what, because the signs were blank.

Streams of light shone in through the cracks of the heavily-stained windows, and there was a nice breeze inside, somehow. I didn’t understand how I had arrived in such a strange place, but I also didn’t feel alien to it. It was oddly peaceful.

A few elderly ladies stalked the empty aisles, searching for something that wasn’t there. They scrutinized all the empty crates, as though there was something they could see, but I couldn’t. A few of their grandchildren poked their heads over the crates to see if there was anything interesting. They, too, saw something I could not see.

I thought to myself:

I don’t know why I am here. There is nothing. This place is empty and all but forgotten.

But I didn’t want to leave empty-handed. I didn’t want to leave without getting something out of this store. I didn’t want to leave with deformed turnips or deformed turnip-like objects, but there was nothing else to take with me.

Why could the old ladies and the children see something that I couldn’t see? What was this invisible thing that kept drawing these few people back when everyone else had buried it into their past?