Welcome to Shabbat

A love letter to my favorite night of the week.

Welcome to Shabbat. We never know what or who may be. This week, Tcha Limberger’s¹ at my home. There’s hot fish with caraway seed bubbling on the stove. Nathan’s strumming his guitar as I’m wiping the counters down. We’re getting ready for others to come.

I’m listening to Tcha and Nathan chat in between their makeshift jam. I’m thinking to myself thank God Nathan likes Tcha. It’s easier to host when we feel the same about our guests. But also, it’s easier to host when our guest is Tcha.

I forget to light candles as the doorbell rings. It’s 20h01 and Alex is here. He’s looking nice with a white wool sweater for Shabbat. He says hello and finds a seat. I’m finishing setting the table and keeping my hands busy. I like to putter around—it helps me feel at home.

The bell rings again and my dog barks too loud. I put him in the guest room to calm down. Sofia and Adam make their way up. They do Taekwondo with me. As usual, they brought a drink and dessert. We make the introductions and my phone lights up. Someone else is downstairs.

Marc Sabbah² is coming over for the first time. I told him that Tcha’s at my house just a few hours earlier. He said he has to come. He has to see Tcha. Now I’m thinking about what I’m wearing, because Marc is just one of those guys. One of those guys that makes me aware of what I’m wearing.

I know Tcha’s hungry and pull everyone around the table. We’re 9 in total. I have 8 matching cups so Nathan gets a whiskey glass. He makes the blessing on wine and then I remember that not everyone knows what he’s doing. We review the small rituals: bless the wine, bless the bread, then eat, eat, and eat some more. Everyone drinks from Nathan’s blessed whiskey glass.

I introduce the salads: babaganoush with tahini, egg salad with fried mushrooms and truffle, fava beans in cumin, turnips with harissa and lemon, garlic confit, marinated lemons, and sweet pickles. We start to eat. For a brief moment, it’s silent. Just long enough for me to worry. Then the talking starts. Everyone’s got something to say. Adam’s 15. The whole table is giving him dating advice. He’s scared to ask a girl out. He finally agrees to invite her to dinner next time I do Shabbat. I’m beaming inside.

The problem with Shabbat dinner is that there’s always too much food. Warm challa with all the salads for the first course, a hot and heavy second course, and a few desserts. I try to bring the fish out quickly before everyone’s too full. It’s good this week. Maybe it’s because of who is in my home.

Just as we get to dessert, Sylvine knocks on the door. She’s my Sabom’s³ girlfriend. I only got to know her recently, and I really like who she is. Funny, easygoing, and with a crazy amazing voice. You’d think she’s got an instrument hidden away in her throat. I pour her a glass of wine.

The best part of Shabbat dinner starts when people wander off to the couch. Someone starts to strum a Portuguese tune; Sylvine starts to sing. Someone else takes Tcha’s violin. Maybe it was Tcha, maybe it was Marc. Everyone’s quieting down now. Some people pull up chairs, and some sit on the floor. I got this apartment for the living room space. Tonight’s another night when I’m grateful for my home.

I sit cross-legged on a chair my neighbor gave me before he moved. I can’t talk. There’s a violin, there’s a guitar, and it keeps being switched between hands. Two greats entertain each other and we get to watch. They play Jewish songs and gypsy songs, some more Portuguese tunes and music I don’t know the genre of. Marc keeps showing us and Tcha (though mostly Tcha) some of his compositions. Sometimes, Tcha also strums along.

I prop my camera up on the counter. I know, and everyone knows, that tonight will never happen again. Someone asks about my neighbors. It would be impossible to bother anyone with such beautiful music. Tcha and Marc go on and on. And on. And on. It’s about midnight now, and the first guest leaves. I know the FOMO he’s feeling, but he’ll miss his last train.

Marc takes a break. I take a moment and tell Tcha how I’m feeling. I don’t really have words for it though. I just want to be closer to him. His music emanates such energy; I almost understand why artists call themselves mediums. I think with Tcha, it’s different, though. He’s not channeling some outward energy; he channels his shining soul.

Tcha takes the stage again. I asked him to keep playing; I don’t think I needed to ask though. High, high, high notes take me somewhere far away. Marc comes back. We all listen to Tcha. We take his energy in. Does he get tired of giving so much of it away? My sister starts to clean up from dinner. Her clanging of pots barely bothers me. I’m stuck on the couch, watching. I’m stuck listening. I don’t want to think that the music may stop.

I feel the night wrapping up. It’s 1am. My sister makes me some digestion tea. I want one more song, just one more note to play. I don’t remember if anyone played again. It was not enough if they did. But, we’re done. And I’ve found out what Shabbat may be.

1. https://www.tchalimberger.com/bio

2. https://www.marcsabbah.com/about-marc

3. Taekwondo Teacher