It was a real Rosh Hashannah kind of day except we didn’t go to synagogue, we didn’t pray.

It was all about BRISKET.

My sister ordered it yesterday from Staubitz in Cobble Hill. As a joke, she called me up and told me they were sold out, it was too late, there was no more brisket in Brooklyn. My heart sank; I believed her. Then she said she was just kidding. Relief raced through me. Good.

Today, in a rush to get the brisket started on its slow-cook way, we took Eastern Car Service to Staubitz at noon. In Cobble Hill, we picked up all the necessary accouterments: a Bermuda onion, beef bouillon, green beans, spaetzle, Steve’s Key Lime Pie, Amy’s French bread. 

In my haste, I forgot about the challah bread, the gefilte fish, the matzo ball soup. So focused was on on the brisket. We’re not traditional, anyway.

When we got back to the apartment, my sister, unasked, did what needed to be done to the brisket. She’d made it last year, from an old family recipe, and received such raves it was imperative that she make it again. She also prepped the green beans and dill, a dish that would be quick cooked just minutes before the meal. My stepmother was bringing the noodle kugel.

Wonderful smells were coming from the kitchen as I set the table with our wedding silver, a table cloth, fancy dishes, wineglasses, and candles.

And the brisket cooked for hours. I assembled a bouquet of flowers from the Apple Market on Garfield consisting of hydrangeas, Gerber roses, and heather and picked up seltzer water for my dad.

The brisket cooked on. My farther, stepmother with her noodle kugel, my sister, brother-in-law and Sonya arrived around 7. My father brought a bag full of neckties and an old Fedora hat for my son. I panicked that we didn’t have enough greens and sent my husband out for pre-washed organic lettuce. The brisket cooked on.

It’s always hard to get everyone to stop talking and come to the table. I cut the brisket, which was perfectly cooked, the meat tender, stringy, soft as it’s supposed to be. The perfect Jewish holiday food.

We ate. "Pass the horseradish!" "More kugel." "Look she loves the kugel." "More meat, please." "Pass the wine." "Just a little more kugel…" "These beans are great." "Salad, anyone?"

It was Sonya’s first high holy day with her new family and she was truly the life of the party. All eyes on the girl, she couldn’t have been more captivating. Vocalizing and making all kinds of sounds, she really seemed to be trying to communicate something. She does a kind of call and response thing with her dad that is adorable. He coos, she coos back, etc. My father seemed smitten with his new granddaughter and she sat squirm-free on his lap for quite some time. 

My daughter and her friend from downstairs even sang a song in honor of Sonya, to the tune of Santa Claus is coming to town ("Sonya Rose is coming to town").

Everything was delicious. Everyone got along. And the brisket…

This new year everything is different. My sister and her husband are parents for the first time; a turn of events that is turning everyone’s world around. L’shanan tovah, Sonya. It’s so good to have you here.

And there’s lots of leftover brisket.