It's funny what we remember from our childhood.
In America, there is a day other than Shabbos and Yom Tov
when most people have time off from school and work.
When I was growing up in New Jersey, my parents would use
Sunday afternoons to host their relatives for dinner at our
house, or sometimes we would all pile into the car and go
visit aunts, uncles and cousins in New York.
Whether we were en route to Brooklyn or to Queens, we always
stopped at a particular candy store on 34th Street in midtown
Manhattan to buy a box of candy. Since this was the only
candy store chain that had a reliable level of kashrus at
that time, our visitors would bring us a box of the same
chocolates as well.
There was a whole section of candies that were dairy, but I
don't remember seeing anyone ever buying those at all. This
was in the early 1950s, the period shortly after World War
II, when meat was readily available after being rationed
during the war. Therefore, everyone who could afford it,
served a meat meal to their guests.
As a result, the two most popular selections in the candy
store on Sunday afternoons were the pareve ones: an
attractive box of dark chocolate-covered fruits and nuts, and
an equally appealing box of dark chocolates filled with a
variety of flavored parve creams.
The personnel at the candy store were happy to gift- wrap
your purchase for you. In order to accommodate the busy
Sunday afternoon rush, the clerks would pre-wrap a whole pile
of boxes of the fruit and nut assortment and put an unwrapped
box on top as an indication. At the other end of the counter,
they placed a similar tall stack of wrapped packages of the
pareve creams.
There was nowhere to park in Manhattan. My parents would drop
me and one of my sisters off at the store and we would run in
and buy a box of chocolates while my parents circled the
block. When we came out with our purchase, my parents would
pull up and we would hop back in. This stop en route was just
as much a family ritual as was visiting the relatives.
When we arrived at our destination, or more often, when our
guests got to our house, we would visit and play with our
cousins while the adults talked in the living room. Then we
would all enjoy a festive dinner followed by the piece de
resistance -- the chocolates.
The children would try to remember from the patterns on the
candies what filling to expect inside each. We would take a
guess at which one we wanted, take a tiny nibble, and see if
we were correct. If we guessed wrong, we could usually find a
sibling or cousin who was willing to trade.
I remember I liked the one with the leaf, but I can't recall
what filling it held. [Raspberry jam, Bayla?] We probably
lingered over the chocolates longer than any other part of
the meal.
Because of the many pleasant family dinners, all with the
accompanying boxes of candies, to this day I enjoy having
guests and also look forward to being a guest at the home of
a friend or relative. The message I got from my childhood
experiences was simple: Hachnossas orchim is sweet.
Here in Eretz Yisroel, Sunday is a regular work day as any
other and therefore, there are no back-and-forth family
visits. However, we try to have our married children and
their families or other guests for most Shabbosim. I enjoy
the planning and the cooking. The family members or other
guests usually help with the serving and clearing, and then
we all pitch in to wash the dishes and straighten up.
In addition to the meals that I prepare for my guests, I
always try to serve candy or some other special sweet treat.
I want my children and grandchildren to have the same
positive associations that I have towards the important
mitzva of hachnossas orchim.
Why am I so careful? Because I once knew someone who rarely
entertained; they almost never had guests. I spoke to her
once about it and this is what I learned:
Her mother liked to have a clean house. Clean is not a strong
enough word. She liked everything eat-off-the- floor perfect.
In order to keep the children busy while she and the maid
were both scrubbing everything in sight in anticipation of
the arrival of guests, she would send the little ones off to
put away ALL of their toys and the older ones into their
rooms to clean their desk drawers, saying, "You never can
tell. One of the guests might come into your room and find
you with a messy desk drawer and wouldn't you be ashamed?"
My friend grew up with the idea that guests were nosy people
who were coming to your house to snoop, to rate your
housekeeping efforts and examine the contents of your
drawers! How could they like someone like that who put them
on constant guard, even if it was only in their imagination?
Of course, as an adult, this person only has guests on very
rare occasions when the house is immaculate, there isn't a
hint of dust anywhere and all of the drawers and cupboards
are beautifully arranged.
Another friend who rarely entertains has different childhood
memories. Once a guest came to their house and smoked a
cigarette, which he placed in a tiny glass ashtray on the
edge of the dinner table. During the meal, the cigarette fell
off the ashtray and onto the floor, where it burned a hole in
the carpet -- a rather expensive thick Chinese rug. This
friend's parents spoke of the incident very often. He grew up
thinking guests are inconsiderate people who destroy your
property -- another recipe for failure.
As parents, we should keep in mind that our actions as well
as our words are creating memories and inclinations in our
offspring. Do we want our children to look forward to the
mitzva of inviting and providing for guests, or do we
want to prepare them for a lifetime of antipathy towards
guests?
I know that Avrohom Ovinu served his guests tongue with
mustard, and there was a popular song years ago that went,
"If I knew you were coming, I'd have baked a cake." But my
own special association with hosting guests is the gift-
wrapped chocolates of my childhood, with their important
message:
Hachnossas orchim is sweet.
