A stitch in time saves nine, comedians like to keep their audiences in stitches and then there are just plain stitches….
My boys were seven and five years old and playing in the backyard on Shabbat afternoon, when my younger son came running in. “It’s not my fault,” Jeremy kept on repeating. “Daniel told me to throw the block of wood up to the bush so the ball would fall down, I didn’t know it would fall on his head.” Having never seen a head wound before, I was shocked at the amount of blood. Hatzalah said he would definitely need stitches but could wait till after Shabbat, which was three hours away. Once the bleeding stopped, I prayed he would not remember me scolding him earlier in the week. My choice of words, in trying to get him not to jump on the bed with his brother might have not been appropriate, I realized, especially now. Just then he started to cry and I told him the bleeding had stopped and the doctor in the hospital would be quick and get him in shape in no time. “But you said if I was wild and fell and hit my head I would need stitches, and they would have to take a really big needle and thread and sew me up.” I explained that I just said that to scare him so that he wouldn’t be wild. I admitted I shouldn’t have and that although he needed stitches, it wouldn’t be half as bad as I described it. Not quite sure I ever got over the guilt of having unintentionally caused him such fear--but he got me back.
In 2004, when he was in yeshiva in Israel for the year, his chavrusa (learning partner) was kiddingly running after him. It seems there was an indoor window that went unnoticed, until Daniel crashed through it. Dazed, bleeding and in pain, Daniel still insisted that no one get in touch with his parents. He reasoned that he was 18 and could be responsible for himself. And besides, going through a window with his face was one thing, having to explain it to his mom thousands of miles away and having to hear her hysteria was quite another. He and his friend were waiting at the Kotel entrance for a cab to take to the hospital and were about to get into one that had just dropped off some passengers, when one of them asked, “Daniel? Daniel Pollack is that you?” It was his Aunt Renee and Uncle Jack, in Israel for their grandson’s bris. “Yes,” he replied, as blood poured down his face. “Promise me you won’t tell my parents. I don’t want to worry them,” he said. To this day my sister thinks he was actually in a fight. There are still safety decals in Daniel’s honor on the new window in the yeshiva.
You didn’t actually think that Jerry wouldn’t have a story about stitches did you?
As a child, my husband loved nothing more than spending time in the park a few blocks from his house. Unfortunately, his mom always needed to finish cleaning, do the laundry and prepare dinner before taking Jerry and his brother to the park. As long as Superman and The Three Stoogens, as his mom called them, were on TV, Jerry was satisfied, but when those shows were over and he was subjected to listening to Art Raymond on WEVD radio, yiddish records including The Barry Sisters, Al Jolson, various chazanim and “other similar, assorted children’s entertainment,” Jerry started to climb the walls. Suddenly, it hit him, if he could only fly, he could get to the park without his mom. He was five after all, very independent and adventurous. This should be a piece of cake, he thought. So, when his mom went down to the basement to do the laundry, he decided to activate his strategy to get to the park. “Seme,” Jerry called, “hurry up, I’m going to fly down the stairs like Superman, then fly on to the park. You run down the stairs and just in case my plan doesn’t work, you catch me so I don’t get hurt.” This was not the first time he deputized or drafted his brother to play a key role in one of his wacky plans. Seme, all of four years old, waited at the bottom of the steps. He held his breath hoping the plan worked, it just might, after all his older brother was wearing a blue towel wrapped around his neck; he sort of looked the part. Jerry then took off, and in no time crash landed like one of the early Wright brother’s failed attempts at flying. There he was, Superman, sprawled out on the concrete, his chin split open and bleeding profusely. “Seme, you were supposed to catch me,” Jerry cried. Seme often had to play a difficult no win role in Jerry’s adventures. Needless to say, many stitches were involved.
This week’s recipe was a choice between bloody Marys or crown rack of lamb, which is two racks of lamp chops “STITCHED” together to form a crown. I went with my favorite.
Crown Rack of Lamb
Crown Rack of Lamb: I always order it ahead of time at Gourmet Glatt. Rabbi Berel will have it sewn together for you, so all you have to do is marinate and roast it. He can be reached at 917 687-0006.
n 1/2 c. brown sugar
n 4 tsp ground ginger
n 1/2 c. soy sauce
n 1/2 c. lemon juice
n 2 cloves of garlic, crushed
n Preheat oven to 375 F
Combine brown sugar, ginger, soy sauce, lemon juice, and garlic. Brush the marinade over the chops and place in a Bundt pan, bones side up, with the center of the pan coming up through the middle of the roast. Cover the exposed bones with aluminum foil so they won’t get burnt. If you don’t have a Bundt pan, just stuff the middle of the roast with a ball of foil.
Bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until the meat reaches an internal temperature of 130 F, (approximately 8 to 12 minutes per pound) which is medium rare, or 140 if you prefer it more well done.