A joint effort

Thanks, everybody, for reading, and the comments, and the emails! I could not fall asleep last night because, like, for real, I have a blog…! and I was wondering how you would take it, and future posts are already forming in my head, and thinking up how to write stuff is always sleep-depriving. But another reason for the insomnia was the unmistakable aroma of My Grandmother's Tchulnt* spreading itself in the whole apartment and settling a faint but persistent hunger at the bottom of our stomachs. I mean, the smell was overpowering. And the excitement of making Tchulnt on my own (with the help of Dear Husband - henceforth DH - of course) made me all giddy… For those of you unfamiliar (I mean really? do any of my American acquaintances read my blog?! because this one is totally for YOU!): Tchulnt is a pot-roast/stew that JEWS make for Shabbat, and because we have weird halachaic interpretations of what constitutes work on the Shabbat, tradition has it that a huge pot is put in the oven on Friday evening, where the Shabbat meal cooks all night on low heat. And then you can put your legs up and not work anymore during Saturday. Of course my interpretation was thoroughly heretical, mainly because I started this whole process on a Saturday in order to kick my heels up on Sunday.
*This is how I write it. I'm putting the L in just for the sake of dubious etymology. DH says the L should be pronounced, unlike the way my family says the word: Choont. Then again, DH's grandmas did not make this dish, so I think between the two of us I am the ultimate authority.

At our family, Tchulnt was always a midwinter festive event at my Grandmother's house. Somehow, though - because everybody's schedule had to be consulted so that no cousin is left out because, say, s/he had a big midterm exam the day after, and could not clear up his/her whole Saturday to EAT and then HIBERNATE - by the time a fit-all Shabbat was settled, it would end up the warmest Saturday of the whole winter. As in, flipflop-worthy warm. That's how Middle-eastern climate is. Chicago,** on the other hand. Well, everything you've heard about Chicago weather is true. For example, we were told this week that it might still snow in May. That is, it's happened before. Friday was truly warm and sunny, but snow was forecast. And I said to myself, hey, a snowy weekend, let's celebrate this hopefully last cold one - I mean, come on, the daffodils are in bloom! - with Tchulnt. And sure enough, we arose to a snow storm Saturday morning. So I called up my Grandma, and asked for the surprisingly easy recipe, including her directions to make the very unorthodox Kugel, aka the Best Part of Tchulnt. The Reason Tchulnt Exists. The Piece of Tchulnt all grandkids fight over who gets the Leftovers. Especially if you are like me and live for the sake of carbohydrate goodness. Our Kugel is a rarely-known species. There are no noodles involved. Basically Kugelach are breadballs (like, meatballs, just without the meat), held together by eggs and onions that have been golden-ed (golden is not a verb but I refuse to believe it) in lots of oil. Remind me to call Grandma to tell her how it went. So I braced myself and went grocery shopping (had to stop by ACE to get a snow-brush for the car. They had already put all the brushes in storage…), made the meat-guy chuckle when I said "I need roast… for a stew…" and he walked me over to where I would find pieces labeled "pot-roast". As in, this is where we sell meat for dummies. But dummies who know, at least, how different dishes in English are called.

**So by now we know not only that I'm an Israeli female (that is assumed by the fact there's this guy I refer to as my husband. But English is so magnificently gender-neutral) that studies Classics, but also that I live in Chicago. Now I know we are all unique and special and one-of-a-kind, but I think as far as pointing to the identity behind whoever is writing this blog, this pretty much sums it up and there is a big flashing arrow above my head pointing at me. My father just asked me about blogging-anonymity ethics. So on the one hand, I haven't written anything stupid on any Classics professor yet and don't intend to, just in case my blog gets a thousand hits someday. On the other hand, googling "Harriet the Spy Greek Tragedy" won't even get you here (trust me, I've tried it) so I guess I'm safe. On the third hand, do spread this blog to all your acquaintances! And on the fourth, what am I, crazy? Put my name on the internet where just anyone can see it and then steal my credit card?!?

Well. Onions were goldened, beans were soaked, meat was touched by DH, breadballs were formed. In the meantime, believe it or not, I made my soon to be world famous Butternut-Squash and Grape (for real!) Quiche (after all, we had to eat something while the Tchulnt was cooking). Now, DH and I were only worried about the pot burning in the oven in the middle of the night, so we kept pouring water in to make sure there is enough liquid. That was kind of a, ahem, mistake. The next morning, DH (he assumes responsibility for this) kept pouring, and then we were suddenly confronted with a pot of soupy-Tchulnt and an hour before guests arrive. This is where I suffer from an anxiety attack/ anger fit/ "The Tchulnt is ruined! YOU ru-innnnned my perfect TCHULNT!" seizure, a condition exasperated by trying out a Kugel that tasted as if it could have been perfect except that it was drenched through and drained out of that immaculate aroma that made me sleeplessly dizzy for the last 16 hours. Tears were SHED. While I, I confess, acted like a total jerk and just wanted DH to admit that he had foolishly sabotaged my family culinary legacy and then I went off to chop greens for the salad and simultaneously bake an unfortunate dessert-cake, huffing and puffing with frustration, and simply NOT CARING anymore, the TCHULNT is RUINED, you can just do what you want and don't talk to me!, DH gallantly transferred all excess liquid, like an unfortunate Sorcerer's Apprentice in a sinking ship, into a different pot to simmer.
And you know what? The result was the best Tchulnt gravy-sauce in the history of my Tchulnt experience. There was never any separate gravy in my Grandma's Tchulnt. DH says it is customary in some cultures. I think it will become a regular in our version.

My anxiety attacks are the mother of his invention, I'm telling ya. I knew there is a reason he sticks around.