The ProsenPeople

Second Book Cover of the Week: The Flame Alphabet

Friday, January 06, 2012 | Permalink

Posted by Naomi Firestone-Teeter

Couldn't resist doing two this week...there are flames on this cover. Need I say more? Buy it on January 17th from Knopf and check out Ben Marcus's website here and scroll down to view the book trailer.

Short film based on The Flame Alphabet

Poetry on Demand

Thursday, January 05, 2012 | Permalink

On Tuesday, Jake Marmer wrote about poems as a noisy mediterranean duplex. He has been blogging here all week for Jewish Book Council and MyJewishLearning.

Reputedly, Rachmaninoff once said: “There’s no such thing as inspiration. You sit down and do the work.” There’s so much to like about the quote! I think maestro must have seen art– in his case, music – as something of a daily practice; certain anti-climatic quality of his pronouncement is also a promise for consistency. He would probably agree that the intentional seeking or digging isn’t called inspiration – curiosity maybe – so, just start talking. Or humming, whatever.

Working on the last stages of my new book, Jazz Talmud, I was lucky to have the mentorship of Stanley Moss, my editor/publisher, and also a really excellent poet. I’ve never agreed with anyone offering me editorial advice as much as I did with Stanley. Except for this one thing.

As we chatted and told each other stories, he kept prodding me to write down some of the stories I told him as poems. He also pointed out certain significant aspects of my life I’ve never discussed in poetry – and thought it was a mistake to keep avoiding them. He pushed hard for these pieces. In principle, I agreed; for the ten or so pieces he commissioned, I went through numerous drafts, arrived at forms that were new to me, had a lot of fun. Ultimately, it was all garbage, and to the garbage it went.

But, while laboring on the commissioned pieces, between the cracks, I wrote notes – sketches – for other pieces, completely unrelated, more distractions than compositions. Those sketches actually worked and ended up as poems; on-demand stuff probably never will. We all have our little tricks. Mine, turned out, is sitting down to do one thing and getting distracted into something else. There’s more free-associative freedom that way, more potential for play and the unexpected. I don’t know if this congeals with Rachmaninoff’s ethos, but I’d like to think that maybe sitting down to write his orchestra arrangements, he veered into solo piano works. Or vice versa.

Here’s a piece that grew out of a distraction. It’s kind of like having a kid “by mistake”. Kind of… just with a bit less at stake, I guess.

Guided Meditation

All around you
as far as the eye can see
nothing but soup.
Horizon, a dangling zipper
of some deity’s pants.
You’re in a boat on loan
from the demon of Monday mornings.
Questions – birds – it’s the fall
there’re more of them they form v’s
traverse the sky towards a shining yellow bottom
of a pot where much better stuff
is being brewed.

Jake Marmer is a Ph.D. candidate in Comparative Literature at CUNY and works for Random House. His first book, Jazz Talmud, comes out this week.

Book Cover of the Week: The Quiet Twin

Wednesday, January 04, 2012 | Permalink

Posted by Naomi Firestone-Teeter

Dan Vyleta's The Quiet Twin  (Bloomsbury USA) will be available in February

Poem as a Noisy Mediterranean Duplex

Tuesday, January 03, 2012 | Permalink
Jake Marmer is the author of Jazz Talmud. He will be blogging here all week for Jewish Book Council and MyJewishLearning.

About a decade ago I read a Billy Collins poem called "Advice to Writers," where this former U.S. Poet Laureate suggests:

wash down the walls and scrub the floor
of your study before composing a syllable.
Clean the place as if the Pope were on his way.
Spotlessness is the niece of inspiration.

There's wisdom there: it feels good to write with an uncluttered mind, unburdened by other concerns.

But taking Ajax to your literal and metaphorical surroundings could border on sterilizing. And also, silencing. Sure, Collins is at least in part joking - it's a funny poem - but I'm sure he means it, too. The poetic voice he is suggesting his readers to summon, in a clean-pristine room, is very much a solo. People, things - out of the way! The poet is talking! (to himself, and being funny - don't miss out!). A room with scrubbed floors, however tempting, is not where a soul lives, at least I don't think so.

My wife and I spent 2008-2009 in Jerusalem, where I was a Dorot Fellow. It was unforgettable year, the time when, more so than ever before, I had an opportunity to write. Location was an open question. Our apartment was neater beyond anything I've ever encountered. We have just gotten married, and my wife Shoshana put up a valiant and edifying effort to keep it sane - despite the combination of me, guests, our belongings, and Jerusalem dust who would gang up and daily raise a mighty paw of offense. However close to Collins-compliance state, our place was too small, too removed from pulsing, yelling life that surrounded us. I had to get out.

And so, most often I'd go to a little cafe, called Nocturno, a few minutes away from the apartment. It was a tiny duplex with a winding metal staircase that at its peak managed to host as many as three dozen people, which was kind of unbelievable. Talmud, describing the miraculous occurrences of the Temple, says: "people stood close together, yet when they worshipped there was enough room for all." It was that sort of a thing. All the space got used up: tables outside, bar stools, loners were doubled up into joint tables, and even the cement ledge that's technically outside the perimeter had a few people sitting on it. The menu ranged from soup to cigarettes, but most importantly, they brewed great coffee. And the crowd was very colorful. With Bezalel Art School nearby students came out in droves; but there were also heavy grad school folks buried in their books; a few hip religious Jews; secular population of Jerusalem (a wonderful and underexplored breed of their own!); lots of foreigners. A few times I spotted Israeli Arabs - a fact that, in the city where divide lines run at their deepest, says a lot about the cafe and its vibe.

I sat upstairs, with my notebooks, big mugs of coffee, and watched the noise. It was visible. The noise, like the cafe itself, seemed layered, there were floors to it, and winding noise-stairs. The noise-steam rose from cups of noise-sipping noise-masters. Bringing around plates, waiters, served noise-sandwiches. It was neither grating nor even unpleasant. It was a structure. An organic structure. It felt great.

This is where my Jazz Talmud project was born. I was playing around on the page, free-associating, and within a span of a week I wrote a core of poems that became a book. The idea was to use the Talmudic rhetoric, talk the way Talmudic rabbis talked - but address things relevant to me and my life. Talmud is not what Collins would pine after, nor certainly what Joyce'd call a "clean well-lighted place." Because there is never a single voice cutting through it. It's like a body; it's also like a universe. Everybody is talking to everyone - across centuries, backwards and forward, moving, chatting, chattering, agreeing and vehemently disproving, reminiscing, reconciling, recoiling, trying to bring the house down - you get the idea. The same is true for jazz. I once heard a great American poet, David Meltzer, say that jazz is the closest we've come to utopia. Because it is incredibly communal and people who may have never met each other before, or maybe can't stand each other's guts, will know how to speak to each other in the language much more real than any words we know. People are listening to each other and composing on the spot, responding not merely to one another, but also to the ghosts who've inspired the music they're playing: be it their teachers, or jazz greats who've laid down genre's foundations, or even people in their actual lives - because of the improvisational factor, jazz is visceral and personal, revealing even.

So then what I begun to construct is poems with many voices. With noise-structures and arguments. Here's an example.

Jazz Talmud

said Rabbi Zusha: “my mother named me Sasha but I fell into a seraphic orchestra pit, and things have not been the same” his students asked him: “what did you see in the pit?” he answered: “behold, four seraphs held a cello, like a naked, newly-formed body, and eight pushed the bow” whose cello? Adam’s whose bow? Mordechai’s, the refused bow that makes cellos of heaven sing the soul-spilling human heaviness — the essence he also said: “in every horn, their lives a family of shadadademons, a family of three or four, on the average angel Gabriel comes to blow his hot breath to let them loose into the world, their clothes flutter, their hearts beat against the four brass bars of domestication, both breaking as a result” therefore, every saxophone is a ripped cage: no, a rib cage: of an ancient being that de-composed long before names of god became the star-tallis in which hearts are wrapped/rapt taught Rabbi Akiva: behold there are names of god that got filtered by moth-screens others got lost in the loss of the hiss of the vinyl some stuck in Karl Marx’s beard some stuck between the boards of the family-table and can only be extracted with a big family knife some spilled on the mama-apron in the deep-fry-metaphysical back-kitchen but these are the 32 revealed names of god: “jehwaep. shadai-doodah woop elohadip dip papadoo dap. strata doo dampa flip clip dedam pam pa derederedere strip tzuris degatee goat boom dupa goat ratata ratata what? you askin? outer bank, jehwaep shadai doodah wap” New Orleans funk band the Meters inherited twenty crumbs of the god-name from the voodoo grandmother who plucked them at the foot of the great phallic Ethiopian Eucalyptus but some say she birthed these crumbs, each in deep pain, each deep in time, each under the brilliant lamp-lights which are the eyes of Messiah himself

Jake Marmer is a Ph.D. candidate in Comparative Literature at CUNY and works for Random House. His first book, Jazz Talmud, comes out this week.

From Scratch

Friday, December 30, 2011 | Permalink

Earlier this week, Stanley Ginsberg wrote about the meaning of a Jewish bakery and the sweet and sour sides of life for Jewish Book Council and MyJewishLearning.

One of my pet peeves is the veritable deluge of prepared foods and "meal assembly" emporia that has overtaken America and seem to be spreading like a stain across the rest of the world. Walk into any store selling food, and there they sit – ready-to-heat main courses and side of every imaginable ethnicity and ingredient, indistinguishable, or so the labels claim, from home-cooked (and, of course, priced at a hefty premium over the cost of the ingredients themselves). Nor is it only the mains and sides: to see how pervasive the ready-tos have become, take a walk down the aisles of any supermarket and keep mental notes of all the things you can eat right out of the container, or that pre-mix key ingredients (think cake mixes).

Even as recently as 20 years ago or so, an industrial food takeover on this scale was inconceivable, yet very much in the cards. I forget the context, but remember well reading an article in the '90s that spoke about seasoning mixes that would enable butchers to reap higher profits from value-added, ready-to-cook steaks, roasts, and poultry. At around that same time, during my stint on Wall Street, I worked with the CEO of a company, now defunct, that pioneered treatments for cut fruits and vegetables that all but eliminated discoloration. One has only to look at the proliferation of pre-bagged cut produce to see how visionary the idea was.

What's behind it? Obviously, from the food processors' perspective, it's about profits. Anything you do to an ingredient changes it from commodity to unique product, and in so doing, lowers its vulnerability to the pure-price nature of the commodity markets, taking it instead to a higher realm, where branding and marketing operate to keep prices and profits high. Never mind that the bulk of industrial food processing is based on water and sugar (including fructose sweeteners), the cheapest of additives that also offer processors the advantage of a cheap way to increase weight – both the product's and the consumer's (hah!).

There's a second important financial consideration for the producers as well: labor. From-scratch food preparation requires skilled workers who can command premium wages. The workers needed to cook from mixes and industrial ready-to-heats can be had for minimum wage. Even better, machines don't get sick or have hangovers, and a retailer can always be certain of having enough product because his distributors will have warehouses full. Once again, technology and industrial production trump competence and experience.

From the consumer's point of view, those dishes represent savings of time and energy, but at the very dear cost of control and competence. The time issues are understandable. When I was growing up in the '50s, moms and grandmas stayed at home and had time to shop and cook; today's economically stressed world puts far more pressure on everyone to go out and find ways to earn money. The simple act of preparing and serving a meal has gone from pleasure to chore, and my grandmother's pride in feeding her family as given way to a sigh of relief at not having to cook, without the guilt of having failed at this most basic of family responsibilities.

That guilt also is the driving rationale behind the "meal assembly" stores, where people can go to assemble a week's worth of their own ready-to-heat dinners. Everything is there, pre-cooked and portion-controlled, ready to mix and match  into microwaveable containers. It's exactly the same mindset that built the cake-mix business and propelled bread machines into the appliance mainstream: here's a way to produce a Rembrandt – or at least an acceptable reproduction – without having to learn how to paint, let alone draw.

At what cost? Monetary, certainly: the ready-tos are substantially more expensive than the sum cost of their ingredients. But more troubling, in my view, is the personal cost. I want to be able to control what goes into the things my family and friends eat. I don't want chemical life-extenders, mold inhibitors or potentially hazardous additives (think potassium bromate) in my food. I want to decide how my food tastes, not some food chemist who's motivated by corporate profitability targets and focus-group driven consensus. I want to know how to make the things that please my senses and those of the people I care about, so that I can encourage others to value their own competence.

My wife and I often engage in a revealing dialogue when we go food shopping together. She'll see a ready-to that she finds appealing and say, "Ooh, let's try that." I'll look at it and say, "Why? I can make it better and cheaper at home." Sometimes we buy it, sometimes we don't, and more often than not, when we do, it's either too sweet, too salty, or both for our tastes (mine, certainly, since she has a far bigger sweet tooth than I). But at least we have the ability to make that choice and still have what we want.

Stanley Ginsberg is the author of Inside the Jewish Bakery: Recipes and Memories from the Golden Age of Jewish Baking. Visit his official website here.

Sweet and Sour

Wednesday, December 28, 2011 | Permalink

On Monday, Stanley Ginsberg talked about the meaning of a Jewish bakery. He will be blogging here for Jewish Book Council and MyJewishLearning all week.

In my grandparents' homes, as in the shtetlach from whence they came, the food was sweet and sour – just as life itself was sweet and sour. For me, a grandchild of immigrants growing up between two worlds in 1950's America, sweet and sour came to symbolize both the contrasts and convergences of my multifaceted existence.

Sour was during the week. It was school and afternoon cheder for me, jobs that took my father and grandfather away from before I woke up until after I had my supper; and for my mother and grandmothers, shopping, cleaning, child-rearing and all the other things stay-at-home wives did back then.

Sour was a pickle or sour tomato for a snack, a piece of sour rye bread slathered with schmaltz and topped with a slice of onion, a lunch of sour cream, farmer cheese and chopped radish, scallion and cucumber; or maybe a glass of ruby red borscht and sour cream, or shchav (sorrel soup) with a raw egg stirred in and chopped scallions on top. Sour was Grandma Annie stirring a spoonful of sour cream into a pot of warm milk, then pouring it into a tray full of patterned yortzeit glasses and leaving it to sour over the pilot light on her white enamel stove.

Sour was the taste of the shtetl, where a piece of sour black rye bread, a bowl of the fermented beet water called rosl and perhaps a dollop of sour cream was a day's nourishment.  After all, what could be cheaper, easier and more provident for the inevitable times of scarcity than a crock filled with sliced beets, left to ferment by the wild yeasts that fill the air? Sour was the sum of their existence.

Weekends were sweet, and so were our holidays. Sweet was the saucer of honey, the sweet-sticky teyglach and cloves-fragrant carrot tsimmes at Rosh Hashanah, and the sweet gefilte fish and oloptzes (stuffed cabbage), for Shabbes. The challah was sweet and pale yellow, with a shiny brown crust that crackled when Grandpa cut it; the prune and apricot compote was sweet (but with a touch of lemon, to remind us of the week past and the week yet to come).  Sour held no place of honor at my grandma's Shabbes table.

Sweet was spending Saturday and Sunday with my parents and extended family, cookies and rugelach from Grandma and Bubbie, cracking pecans and hazelnuts with my cousins after a big holiday meal, visits to the bakery with my father and bringing home cookies and pastries in white cardboard boxes tied with string striped like a barber pole. Sweet was going to the Saturday matinee (20 cents for a double feature, serial, newsreel and 5 color cartoons 5) with my best friend Richie and eating Black Crows, Jujubes and Sugar Daddy bars. Sweet was being allowed to stay up late so my brother and I could sit in front of the TV with our parents, watching Uncle Miltie, Sid Caesar, Groucho Marx and Dragnet.

As I grew older, my life grew sweeter, more American. Instead of a giant sour pickle bought for a nickel out of a barrel of brine, my afternoon snack morphed into a stack of cookies and a glass of milk. Living in the suburbs, away from my grandmothers, we succumbed to the enticements of the mainstream and there we chose to spend our lives, eating sweet and eschewing sour, except as an occasional culinary grace note. Weeks and weekends merged into unremitting sweetness.

Now, in my 60s, I've come back to sour with a deeper appreciation of both its taste and meaning. Still, there is one dish, one taste memory, that haunts me: my bubbie's marnat – chilled sweet and sour whitefish, simmered slow and long with slices of carrot and onion in a peppery-vinegary-sugary marinade that congealed into an aspic and overwhelmed my taste buds even as the fish dissolved in my mouth.  Whenever I went to see her in her Brooklyn brownstone, that was the dish I always asked her to make.  And to this day, try as I might, I've never come close to duplicating it, perhaps because I will never truly know, as all my grandparents knew, the sorrows and joys of sweet-and sour. 

Stanley Ginsberg's Inside the Jewish Bakery: Recipes and Memories from the Golden Age of Jewish Baking is now available.

Book Cover of the Week: Hot Pink

Tuesday, December 27, 2011 | Permalink

Posted by Naomi Firestone-Teeter

Adam Levin's second book, Hot Pink, will be available in March 2012

What Is a "Jewish Bakery"?

Monday, December 26, 2011 | Permalink

Stanley Ginsberg, a native of Brooklyn, grew up in a close-knit neighborhood where generations lived side by side. He learned to cook and bake from his grandmother, who lived just upstairs in the same apartment building, and has continued cooking and baking ever since. His book, Inside the Jewish Bakery: Recipes and Memories from the Golden Age of Jewish Baking, is now available. He will be blogging here all week for Jewish Book Council and MyJewishLearning.

Not too long ago, during a radio interview centered on Inside the Jewish Bakery, the host asked me, "What is a Jewish bakery?" I have to confess, I was stunned: no one had ever asked me that question, nor, indeed, had I ever asked it of myself. In my world, everyone knows what a Jewish bakery is – a bakery that sells Jewish baked goods.

But here's where it gets complicated. What exactly are "Jewish baked goods?" The ones that come first to mind – bagels, rugelach, onion rolls, challah – appear to be no-brainers, but in fact all can be traced back through their Yiddish forebears to the gentile Central and Eastern European societies in which the Jews found themselves living at various times.

Take bagels, for instance.  In America, we think of them as a Jewish food that made good, rising to the pinnacle of the American mainstream and assimilating away their "Jewishness." But boiled/baked ring breads made of double-helix dough strands, called obwarzanki, are the signature street food of Kraków, Poland, and have been for centuries.  And lest anyone argue that "Jewish" bagels don’t feature that ropelike twist, I would point out that a 1936 photo in the collection of the New York Public Library shows a Jewish New York City bagel peddler selling what clearly are twisted obwarzanki. At the same time, a 1938 photo in the YIVO collection shows a bagel seller in Lithuania selling the untwisted bagels we're all familiar with. Go figure.

So how about challah? Nothing more Jewish than that, right? Well, although the term "challah" is derived from the Torah, the bread itself was a loan from 14th and 15th century German Christians, who honored their Sabbath with braided loaves, according to Jewish foodways historian John Cooper. On top of that (and on top of the loaves), the custom of decorating breads with symbols of faith such as birds, hands, keys and ladders – also often thought of as uniquely Jewish – also can be traced back to the Christians of Central Europe. Even the term "koyletch," an alternative name for challah throughout Yiddish Europe, is of Slavic origin. And to bring things full circle, a braided, egg-glazed sweet bread called chałka is a staple offering in the bakeries of today's Poland.

The same is true of knishes, babkas, rolls (bulkes), rye breads – you name it and the gentile host cultures had it before the Jews. Even most modern favorites come from someplace else, most obviously rainbow cookies, whose horizontal layers of red, yellow and green reprise the Italian flag and trumpet their origin.

So if everything in the Jewish bakery came from someplace else, what, after all is a "Jewish bakery?"

Tamiment Library and Robert F. Wagner Labor Archives

In my view, nothing less than the history of a people's wanderings from place to place – from Eretz Yisrael to the Roman Empire, from Rome northward into the Rhine Valley, then west into France and England and east into Austria, Hungary, Bohemia, Lithuania, Poland and Russia. At every stop, the Jews found the foods of their gentile neighbors and adapted them to the laws of Kashrut. And when it came time to move again, they took those foods with them and added to their repertoire the foods of their next home, again adapted to Kashrut.

And so the Jewish bakery is really a time capsule, a distillation of a thousand years of Diaspora, come to rest in a row of glass-fronted display cases and shelves full of bread and rolls behind the counter. Every bread and roll, every pastry, cake and cookie, reflects a specific time and place in our communal history and connects us tangibly (and edibly) to our shared experience. And you thought it was only a bakery!

Today, the world's food culture is rapidly homogenizing. You can find U.S. fast-food franchises in Tokyo, Beijing and Moscow;  Japanese ramen-chain outlets in New York, Los Angeles and London. And bagels are everywhere. TV food porn, as my daughter likes to call it, has universalized once-obscure ingredients and globalized technique and plating to the point where cooking has morphed from the deepest, most visceral (pun intended) expression of a culture rooted in time and place to a media-driven vehicle for individual creativity.  

And while I do appreciate the pure sensual pleasures of sculpturally composed, artfully conceived and executed coups de table, I'm also very much aware that even the best of them lack the authentic Yiddish tam of my grandmother's kroyt borscht, a long-simmered soup – a stew, really – made from beef flanken and an abundance of winter vegetables – cabbage, beets, turnips, carrots, potatoes and onions.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the spectrum, the mass-market processed food industry is wreaking its own Holocaust on family-run, made-from-scratch restaurants and bakeries, and in the process, severing the connection between people and their personal and communal histories. And sadly, as those restaurants and bakeries die, so too, dies a piece of our cultural history that most of us barely recognize, let alone miss, until it's gone. 

Stanley Ginsberg will be blogging here all week for the JBC and MJL. Visit his official website here.

Adventures in the Cartoon Trade: Israel, US, and Everywhere Else

Friday, December 23, 2011 | Permalink
Earlier this week, Richard Codor wrote about his cartoon education and how he came to write Too Many Latkes! He has been blogging here all week for Jewish Book Council and MyJewishLearning.

When I walked down the airplane gangplank for the first time in Ben Gurion airport, I immediately noticed the baggage handlers unloading our plane. I was told they were “gruzinim”, or Georgian Jews. I had thought Israel would be filled with people who looked like my neighbors, my temple congregation, or even me. But they were totally different. I didn’t realize what an amazing variety of Jews and cultures had come from every corner of the world to make up the population of Israel.

I lived in Jerusalem and worked for the Israeli Broadcasting Authority doing illustrating and drawing animation for children’s programming. If I needed models for my work, all I had to do was to step out into the street and walk in any direction.

In the alley in Nachalot, where I lived, in a 17th century Turkish domed apartment, I befriended a Yemenite scribe, Ovadia, who had a tiny one room studio, just off the local well. There he copied the torah on vellum with quill pen and India ink. At times he would be dressed in black pants and white shirt and at other times in a flowing robe and pants. He had different hats, headdresses and turbans that he would change several times a day. It seemed to depend on who was visiting him. He made the best coffee in a small finjan on an electric grill next to his drawing table.

There were others who lived in the neighborhood from Morocco, Bukhara, India, Persia, Turkey and every European country. I’m always trying to fit them into my work. Here is a good example of the Jewish cultural types from my book, The Joyous Haggadah. Ovadia is first on the left.

This is a composite from kibbutz families I’ve known.

Richard Codor is the author of Too Many Latkes! co-author and illustrator of All You Want To Know About Sabbath Services, The Joyous Haggadah, and Babushkin’s Catalogue of Jewish Inventions. You can see more of his cartoons at

JBC Bookshelf: Musings on Jewish Identity

Thursday, December 22, 2011 | Permalink

Posted by Naomi Firestone-Teeter

A few weeks ago, Miri Pomerantz Dauber and I had a great conversation with Michelle Haimoff, whose debut novel, These Days Are Ours, will be published in February. We continued the ongoing conversation about what it means to be a "Jewish" author and the difference between a Jewish book and a book that happens to be written by a Jewish author (with Jewish cultural references as the "Jewish" component). The conversation got me thinking back to my very first blog post for JBC, which took a look at Joanna Smith Rakoff's A Fortunate Age and Keith Gessen's All the Sad Young Literary Men, particularly:

For several of Rakoff’s characters, their Jewish heritage becomes a part of the backdrop–their Judaism is not front and center–but it’s a part of their foundation, making brief appearances throughout the book. None of the characters are particularly religious (although one does end up exploring Israel out of the boundaries of the narrative), and none comment on their Judaism as a negative factor within their life (or particularly positive)–it’s just a fact. They don’t wear it on their sleeve, but it’s there on the first page of the book, and it seeps back in throughout the course of the narrative. 

In 2007, we spent a lot of time thinking about questions surrounding Jewish identity and contemporary Jewish literature and even hosted a panel at the Strand as a part of the oy!hoo festival called You Can Write, But You Can't Hide: The Subtle Ubiquity of Jewish Identity:

Even if you haven't noticed it, it's there in every sentence you write. It's there to make you feel guilty, there to make you feel proud, there to make you remember who and why you are. It's your Jewish identity, and it's as big as the entire world, injecting itself into everything. But just what is Jewish identity? And how does it affect Jewish writers? And what's to become of it in an exceedingly secular world? Join an intrepid group of authors as they grapple with these questions while still trying to make their mothers proud.

These are the questions that particularly drive me, as a secular Jew living in New York City who is in the business of Jewish literature (and ideas, history, culture, etc.). With each new book that tackles the subject, I revisit the ideas I considered in that first blog post and the questions we sought to address at the oy!hoo and consider my own life choices and where I want to go from here.  I eagerly anticipate the 2012 crop of books that are concerned with similar questions.  

With that out of my system...your final JBC Bookshelf before I pack up and head to Ireland for a week! See you in January...

Breaking and Entering: A Novel, Eileen Pollack (January 2012, Four Way Books)
Read an excerpt here

Flatscreen: A Novel, Adam Wilson (February 2012, Harper Perennial)
Check out The Faster Times, Adam is a founding editor

New American Haggadah, Jonathan Safran Foer, ed.; Nathan Englander, new trans. (March 2012, Little, Brown and Company)
Read reviews of Safran Foer's Eating Animals, Everything is Illuminated, and Incredibly Loud and Incredibly Close on the JBC website
Read an excerpt here