A large sephardic family living in Beit She’an added another member to their six person group this weekend. I was their guest, and together we were bursting out of the kitchen. While the meal was delicious and the prayers lovely, the best part of Friday night in the Uzan household was what happened before Shabbat even began. Seven year old Orel was watching spongebob in the living room and Corral, back from the army for the weekend, was taking a nap. Their mother bustled to and fro in the kitchen, calling Sapir (my peer) to set the table. I asked if I could help and she told me I should not, as I was a guest. But I insisted and so was given the task of washing the silverware. They had no machine for the job, and so I washed and dried the knives and forks in the cramped kitchen, my back nearly rubbing against that of my Israeli mother, who was standing by the oven monitoring the roasting salmon.
At the risk of sounding terribly spoiled and adolescent, I will confess that I had never washed silverware by hand before, and while I hope my parents don’t get any ideas from hearing me say this, it was fun. Orel was laughing the background and his father was trying to get him to put on his kippah. Sapir was running back and forth from the living room with plates and glasses. My Israeli mom and I were hilariously trying to communicate despite my limited Hebrew and her lack of English. We laughed. We dodged each other and ducked under each other. Corral lightly snored through the extravaganza. My Israeli father told me about the family’s Shabbat traditions and taught me how to properly perform the ritual hand washing.
Strange as it sounds, it turns out that the best part of Shabbat was washing the dishes. The chaos was quaint and was, for me, such a clear picture of everyday Israeli life, a life not so unlike my own. If our dishwasher even breaks, I’ll break out a washcloth and scrub, humming Shabbat songs and remembering the experience of an Uzan shabbat.