It Could Be Worse

There was a dry cough. There was a headache. There was an uh-oh on my part. I gave the high school boy two Advil and off he went to the Hollywood Bowl to see the Killers. The next morning, he woke up feeling horrible. So he stayed home. “You’re exhausted,” I said.  “You’re not getting enough sleep.  You need to take better – ”  He dozed off while I was talking. It wouldn’t be the first time, or the last. By early evening, he had a temperature, chills, a drippy nose and a stomach ache. By midnight, his fever spiked. My earlier uh-oh took a dramatic turn. “Oh @#%*! I know what this is!”
By Friday morning, the doctor confirmed my suspicions. “He has the swine flu,” he told us, and handed out three Tamiflu prescriptions. With luck, the anti-viral drug would lessen Scotty’s symptoms and shorten the duration. It might also prevent us from catching it. Then again, it might not. “You and Howard have a 50-50 chance of getting it.” “What about temple?” I asked. “Can I still go to services tonight?” The doctor shrugged. “Sure, go to temple, and infect your entire congregation. That will go over well.”

I did a quick Google search of my soul. Did I want to bring down the congregation, the choir and the powers-that-be? Did I need that on my head? N, followed by O. So we stayed home. We cancelled all our plans. And I found a way to celebrate Rosh Hashanah all by myself.  Don’t tell my rabbi, he might not approve, but I conducted my own private services, courtesy of YouTube. It was wonderful. I didn’t have to dress up or don a pair of pantyhose in 90-degree heat. I just sat in my office in shorts and a tank top and browsed for the parts of the service I like best. Barbara Streisand sang “Avinu Malkeinu” for my benefit alone. Leonard Cohen regaled me with “Who By Fire.” A random cantor blew the shofar with such breath control, I was floored. And he did it just for me! I don’t know when I’ve had such fun.

Naturally, I took breaks from my do-it-yourself Rosh Hashanah to keep tabs on my contagious son. I bravely bypassed the yellow tape my husband had affixed to the door and went in, offering food, motherly love and reassurance. Then I went back downstairs, washed my hands and ate kugel. Lots and lots of kugel. All weekend, I ate kugel. You could say I over-kugeled, and you’d be right. I gorged on the stuff. I binged. I needed comfort food and what could be more comforting than buttery noodles coated in sugar, cinnamon and cornflakes? Nothing. If there’s a better panacea for worry, I’d like to hear about it.

But really, you can’t blame me for over-kugeling. I had no choice. Only hours before Scotty’s fever and chills set in, I’d made enough kugel for the Israeli army. There were many people counting on my kugel: My brother John. I’d invited him for dinner before Friday night services. Our friends Dan and Libby. They’d invited us for Saturday night. And Connie. Every year, I set aside an entire batch just for her. Where else would a farm-raised Southern girl get kugel, if not from me?

Sadly, this year she’d have to go without. This morning, I gave her the news. “Connie, I can’t give you the kugel,” I said. I heard quiet weeping on the other end. “Why not?” she said. “It’s tainted.” “What do you mean, it’s tainted?” “I made you kugel in a house that has swine flu.” “You think your kugel could give me swine flu?” “Maybe. Probably not. But I don’t want to risk it. Every bite might be lethal. I wouldn’t feel good about that. ” “Oh, well,” Connie said. “I understand.” I offered to make her a fresh kugel once we’re post-flu, but she sounded less than enthused.

So here I sit with an extra kugel that could compromise the health of others. I can’t pawn it off on anyone other than my family. It wouldn’t be right. But you know what? I’m okay with the extra kugel. I can live with that. I can show some self-control. And even if I can’t, there are worse things to swine about than a few extra pounds. My son feels better. Everything else pales in comparison.