A holiday poem

It was Erev Christmas and throughout the Weiss Pad,

There was chopping, chopping, chopping.  Nobody was mad.


It started the night before the Eve,

And I voluntarily entered with a cleave.

(No, so it was only a knife for the chicken,

Despite the coldness on my hands, nothing got broken.)

With four hands providing extra productivity over two,

The meat was sectioned, and we got to sleep too.


Morning came on the Tuesday, clouds abound in the sky,

Oranges, cereal, crosswords, and time to buy.

Dad’s day off, he, Levi, and I went to yoga,

My first attempt, with relaxation–no toga.

The day already incorporates enough cultures for Jews,

Though adding Greek may be something that some choose.


Upon return, the prepping party had just begun,

Hundred and twenty egg rolls Levi and I spun.

With more spinning came my mix of tunes,

Jazz and pop and VG BGM and, long past noon,

Even Hebrew music with no dissenting fog,

When some hear it, they think only of synagogue.


Cleanup galore, with tiles and cans of paint,

Despite some heavy items, nobody did faint.

Ghosts of years past, I used to rebel against Dad,

Now, the cleaning doesn’t seem so bad.

I could send a link to this, but to refresh your memory,

Here is a hyperlink, if you have a window factory.


Fourteen-hundred hours and the office had closed,

Mom got home, and the rice was exposed.

Years of experience at the wok

Led me on the fried rice block.

Oil, egg, dark soy sauce and pepper,

Don’t forget seeds, and I am not a leper.

Eight batches later, this project was done,

But the mission was not yet won!


My tasks complete, I went upstairs to shave,

Clean up and present myself not as a knave.

The music still running, from Kansas to Chicago,

None of Levi, Mom, or Dad went Iago.

Mom commandeered the wok, and my music battery went out,

Oodles of noodles, veggies, and meats.  The sauces made the wok shout!


The hors d’ouevres arrived from the frying pan,

In time for the arrival of the Feldman clan.

The other guests came, coupe by coupe and group by group,

Reunion with old synagogue friends led to the scoop.

From sports to school, from plans to living,

No topic unturned and so much word-giving.


And come the morning, the house hears only the dogs,

As the party has entered my logs.

Today calls for movies, family dinner, and tomorrow I will miss,

All that is on the radio stations that declares, “Merry Christmas!”


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