To the latkes I am cooking,
At whose applesauce topping I am looking,
Your potato goodness astounds me,
Your oily needs confound me.
To the cookies I am baking,
With no grain, dairy or sugar I am making,
Will anyone be glad that they are for the taking?
For a Jew in Vermont, a state that despite being blue,
Is still a state of Christmas to which the cows moo.
So I sat with a cat wearing antlers on my knee,
And elatedly helped decorate my first New England tree.
I styled that thing from its limbs to its trunk,
My earnest enthusiasm could not be sunk.
I spiraled garland to add depth to its skinny bark center
‘Oh look,’ I called to my holy day mentor
With ornaments a plenty still dripping with glee
They wanted to see where they would go on said tree.
With glitter from icicles still on my face,
I was in a happy frenzy to keep up the pace.
But one who has designed NYC wreaths and tables aplenty,
Is apparently not appreciated as a north country celebration sentry.
So let me just say with a sigh and lament
At least they didn’t show me to the cold, cold cement.
Was it culture or couture that led to my demise?
Oh, well, I still have my menorah light in my eyes.