Matzo Chronicles

Sure, AI may one day take over the world and kill us all, but in the short run, it will rot our brains, destroy our ability to think, and make us more addicted to the internet than ever before. I know because I am an AI addict.

Unless you speak Russian, you likely aren’t familiar with the word, but trust me, America needs babushki. We need them big time.“What are they and why do we need them?” you ask with alarm.

This summer, I have a distinct playlist, but unfortunately it is hardly sunny and carefree. Thanks to annual exams, a thorough mammography technician, and an attentive radiologist, my breast cancer was detected early.

Sometimes, not often, bad behavior is rewarded with sweet forgiveness. This is my story of a lost ring, a lie — and one such sweet reward. After his mother died, Handsome Hubby gifted me with her beautiful engagement ring. This was an embarrassment of riches. I already had a stunner of an engagement ring. In fact, I was blessed with two!

I was all set to travel to New York City for my usual troika of delights — shows, museums and nonstop gastronomical gluttony. But this trip was unusual in one aspect. I was also scheduled to attend two separate reunions with childhood friends, friends I hadn’t seen in decades and had lost touch with.

When is enough enough? I’ve been asking that question a lot lately. In a land of plenty, in a life blessed with plenty, when — and what — is enough? My questioning began benignly. Each year, my husband has a business trip to Europe. I join him, and after his meetings, we do some additional touring. We’ve gone on some great trips and learned a lot about the countries we’ve visited.

I know Passover has passed, but I’m living through a series of personal plagues. They’re not Biblical in proportion, but for mere mortal me, they’re epic and loathsome. Of course, good Jewish wife that I am, I blame my suffering not on G-d but on my spouse. You can appreciate my faultless logic. He, my spouse, not G-d, dragged me away from civilization — Berkeley, Calif., land of museums and theater — and moved me to the godless wilderness of Reno, Nevada.

I’m Jewish. My husband was raised Catholic. Yet we were married by my rabbi and raised our children as Jewish. Our son had a Bar Mitzvah, and both children went to a Jewish Day School. We rock Rosh Hashanah like nobody’s business, and I display Grandma’s hand-stitched matzah cloth each Passover seder. And immodestly, I note, I make a brisket that is the envy of the neighborhood!

Declutter is the rage. Like snakes, we’re supposed to shed, not our skin, thankfully, but our beloved possessions. We’re supposed to make it easier for our kids, you know, for later.

Jews are called People of the Book because of their proud connection to the Torah and their multi-millennial love of learning, but in my case, I fear I’ve taken that love affair too far. In 2025, I read 93 books. Now I know there are super-readers out there who boast of reading lists of 300+ books a year, but some of those folks are retirees. I work, so 93 seems impressive . . . at least to me.