Welcome to our peculiar(ly) Jewish world

Then, just as we sat ready to light the candles, two of the kids started squabbling and the six-year-old began to cry. And then to scream. The more we tried to get him to stop, the more frantically he yelled. We were clearly in for the long-haul.

There was only one practical option: I carried him into the living room and sat there with him, barring the door so the rest of the family could made kiddush.

Once he’d calmed down sufficiently and we were able to go back into the kitchen, I realised that, in the chaos, I’d forgotten to steam the vegetables. Feeling even more stressed now, I flung them in the pan and turned it on.

“What’s that smell?” asked one of the kids a couple of minutes later.

“The oven gloves are on fire!” cried my husband, Anthony. I’d left them too close to the hob. Grabbing them by the (non-burning) end, Anthony carried them into the garden and proceeded to stamp out the flames, the children watching agog. This was the most exciting thing that had happened for ages. All the while, Emma sat politely observing our Friday night ritual.

We’ve had au pairs living with us for ten years, and I often wonder what they think of our Jewish practice.

They have come from around the world and for many, we are the first Jewish family they’ve met. This is — naturally — a big responsibility, and we always try to be as inclusive as possible and to explain things as we go along.

But there’s no getting away from the fact that it all must seem pretty strange.

From a practical point of view, we need to ask them to buy into the whole kashrut business. I always discuss this in quite a lot of detail when I’m interviewing, to give potential au pairs a chance to run for their lives before it’s too late. The “no pig or shellfish” part of the explanation tends to be pretty straight forward.

Most people who know anything about Jewish life are aware of that. It’s when we get on to the milk and meat rules, the separate pans and plates, the two dishwashers, that things start to sound extremely peculiar.

But it’s the festivals that are the hardest thing to rationalise to an outsider.

We seem to have had a disproportionate number of au pairs arriving just at the beginning of one of the big ones, meaning that their only experience of our family for the first week or two is through the lens of the chag in question.

However much I try to explain that this is not our “normal” life, I’m not sure how convincing I am.

Conversations tend to go something like this:

Me: “We’re going to spend the next week eating in little huts in our friends’ gardens. The problem is, the huts don’t have solid roofs — there are gaps in them, because you’re meant to be able to see the stars.”

Au pair: “But if it’s raining, doesn’t that mean you get wet?”

Me: “Yes.”

Au pair: “…”

And if our au pair is actually interested in learning about Judaism, our own family minhag is likely to muddy the waters in that respect.

For example, on a Friday night we have become used to covering our heads, not with kippot, but with any hat from the box by the front door — the more incongruous the better. Anthony will wear our daughter’s pink pompom hat; one of the kids will put on Anthony’s white panama… and so on.

This was a joke at first, but we’re now so used to it that no one even comments, and there’s therefore nothing to prevent our au pair assuming this practice is written into Jewish law. After all, it’s not any sillier than much of the other stuff.

Despite everything, among all our past au pairs, who have nothing to connect them either geographically or culturally, I have never seen a microsecond of negativity towards our Judaism.

Some are really curious (we have even taken one to shul on her request) and some completely indifferent; I’ve no doubt that they talk privately to their family and friends about the barmy people they’re living with and our peculiar ways; but I’ve never seen anything but courtesy, and an open willingness to stick by our bizarre and unfamiliar rules.

I think that’s pretty impressive.

@susanreuben