It's a standard trope in portrayals of assimilated Jews to open with a scene built around a Christmas tree. That's how Tom Stoppard's " Leopoldstadt" and Alfred Uhry's " Last Night of Ballyhoo" begin, and also Ian Buruma's memoir about his grandparents, " Their Promised Land." The idea is, as soon as you show that, you've got the audience's full attention, especially if it's a Jewish audience, because it's so peculiar.
St. Patrick was a missionary. He came to spread faith and goodness, and he did so in an incredible way. He planted the seeds of faith, and we are seeing those seeds still alive and flourishing today. He is not only a saint of the past, but a living presence in our hearts—and that's what we're celebrating today.
On Staten Island, Shrove Tuesday is a chance to celebrate with neighbors and friends before the hush of Lent settles over the borough. But the tradition has grown surprisingly scarce. This year, based on my research, only three congregations are firing up their griddles for the pre‑Lenten ritual-all free, with freewill donations accepted-serving pancakes, sausage, and the kind of fellowship that has defined the day for generations.
There's something about the holiday season that makes us all feel like kids again. Maybe it's the crisp air, the smell of pine, or the anticipation of gathering with loved ones. For me, though, it's the lights. Those twinkling, shimmering displays that transform ordinary streets into something magical. Across America, entire towns take this tradition seriously, turning themselves into winter wonderlands that draw visitors from all over the world.
I'm chowing down on a mini King Cake, my breakfast. It's a braided cinnamon Danish sprinkled with purple, green, and gold edible glitter, with a cream cheese filling and a little plastic baby perched astride. The baby represents the infant Jesus and is said to bring luck (and an obligation to host the next fête, if he shows up in your slice.)