Dear Healthy Jew,
I’m not much of a drinker; just the smell of alcohol gets me nauseous. Maybe that’s a blessing, maybe it’s a curse (our French relatives think so), but I’ve come to accept that most days I’ll retain my complete mental faculties.
On Purim, however, I try becoming “spiced,” the Talmud’s colloquialism for the day’s mitzvah to get “under the influence.” Yet many years I haven’t even managed to drink a cup of wine before the nauseating aromas finished me off.
Several Purims ago, a beloved brother-in-law brought some tequila to the Purim feast, and suggested downing shots with a pinch of salt. That combination made things manageable: not enough to get hooked on the potent potion, but at least once a year I have a pathway to the realm beyond reason.
Given this background, I had a good laugh when I happened upon these two agave plants, the not-exactly-cactus that tequila is made from (don’t ask me how), right behind Bait Natif, the hill right next to Ramat Bet Shemesh where I often guide foraging walks. Every day when these agaves wake up they peer down on the Elah Valley where David fought Goliath some 2800 years ago.
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Be well,
Rabbi Shmuel Chaim Naiman
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