Where I come from – a country, it is now clearer than ever, where rules not only a pseudo-heroic cult of death (or is the death-cult, actually, a genuine aspect of the heroic?), but also a bullying government of cruel idiots, with an inexplicable bloodlust for casualties on as many sides as possible – Memorial Day is a chauvinistic festival of violent self-justification. While this national day of grief is perhaps the last resort of pseudo-concensus, second only to the "Holocaust Day" that is observed a mere week before (and no less tinged with chauvinism and self-righteousness), our Memorial Day is hard to avoid, no matter how much of a Tel Avivian escapist or post-Zionist activist you are. Whichever stance you choose against the deafening Other-phobia that infiltrates every square foot of this tiny land (and its exterritorial waters), reality is in your face. You know the casualties. You are the casualties.
In the traditional Hebrew "they are out to get us! but we will outsmart them all… MUhahahaHAA!!!" outlook, DH and I are a symptom of what is institutionally called in Israel, allow me to slightly embellish here, "Fugitive Minds". The Jewish womb is failing the Jewish state! It has produced brilliant minds that go live in peace in Hyde Park where they can rightfully disregard the homeless three blocks down and the US killing in Afghanistan because it's not OURS, and perhaps make a living off being an intellectual and have their kids grow up and actually NOT GET KILLED at the age of 19 warding off enraged civilians. You see, Memorial Day here in the US is distant. It it impersonal. From the sheer enormity of this land, war and those who do it are at the outskirts of, if not completely eliminated from, your field of view. Yes, there are (I guess?) some official ceremonies, which are probably meaningful for the young veterans and their families. I can even attest to some bohemian interest in the subject, if a working-draft of a play that I recently got to review – about a young man returning from WAR (is that what we call the terrorist-civilian-soldier confrontations these days?), completely incapable of emotional rehabilitation – is any indication. For the rest of us (us? what first person pronoun do I belong to now?!?), this is a day for SALES and BARBECUES. I have made my cultural assimilation almost complete by contributing to both of these and some other holiday-spirit activities during the 3-day weekend we enjoyed.
Saturday morning, I helped out at a yearly festivity of neighborhood activists of South-Side Chicago, bringing together students (White) and community (Black) for live amateur music, arts and crafts, and free food prepared in a church kitchen where I had the pleasure of peeling sweet potatoes (with a knife!…. arggg) the day before. This is for real: a girl of no more than ten drawing her map of the neighborhood and writing "Stop the Killing" on the top; women referring to me as "Baby GIRL!!". I should have brought a camera but then would have probably felt like a colonialist documenting the beautiful and exotic natives. Later on Saturday: The God Soul of Szechwan at a local theatre some one hundred blocks north from here. Not a black person in sight. Brechtian reflections on social injustice, with cultural translation of the tobacco factory to a heroin dealer's headquarters. Good entertainment that was. But then – what to do about the homeless man lying on the floor literally 5 meters from the theatre entrance, when the smallest change in my wallet is a 5 dollar bill? A CONUNDRUM, I tell you.
Sunday we hosted a slightly-blown-out-of-proportion brunch. Goods were BAKED. Eleven people were seated in our big living room (yay for the best apartment ever. Big living room AND big oven) drinking ice tea and ice coffee and homemade Bloody Marys from scratch that were more like Vodka-infused-Gaspacho and eating home-baked CARBS for a few hours. Special unexpected treat on the verge of performance art: I got a home-made haircut from one of the guests!!! Whoever was left at that late hour saw our floor and my shoulders fill with chopped hair and my head being cropped Jean Seberg-like.
The menu also included a quick tour of Israeli Eurovision highlights on Youtube (how the hell did we get to that subject?!), with me giving a very shallow explanation, using the word "fundamentalist", of the incongruity of the transsexual Dana International being sent as an Israeli representative to the gayest competition in the world. Not to mention the incongruity of the inclusion of Israel in "EUROPE". For the record, DH has his misgivings about my one-dimensional rants about Israel in the presence of people who really know almost nothing about it, and so can not understand the complexity of the situation. I agree that it is as uninformative as an American yuppie ranting that the US is fundamentalist. But I'm not sure whether I am supposed to be informative, or to assume that my hearers cannot take me with the same grain of salt they would their fellow left-wing ranter, and to make explicit that Israel is less oppressive than some Muslim states where little girls are forced into marriage or "circumcised" etc etc.
Also, let it be publicly noted that I misuse and abuse the word FASCIST as a general expletive of vaguely right-wing connotations.
Now that I've set the record straight, I shall not deny you the gory details of how we finally celebrated this national holiday with the most American of all methods: SPEND MONEY, preferably at a designated Memorial Day SALE. Oh yes. And where did we spend nearly two-hundred dollars?
The Seminary Coop Bookstore, of course.
Intellectual Escapism, I tell you. The ultimate BEST kind.
May 31, 2010
May 22, 2010
Not the worst day in the world
Until yesterday, there were roughly three kinds of people in the world for me. That is, of the people who know in any level of detail what has happened in my life in the last 3 months or so, there are those who just carry on business as usual, never asking me anything explicit or acknowledging my loss in any way, which is understandable given that we are not close friends and I assume it's not exactly the easiest subject for them to broach; those who make a conscious effort to let me know they know and care, who assume a worried look and ask in a solemn voice - which is not to say that they do so in a contrived or insincere way - "so how've you been?", to which I usually muster an "OK. Crazy. I'm not sure." if I'm in a talkative mood and then we move on; those who know every up and down of my roller-coaster existence, who hear the second before I fall asleep that I actually think there is not a moment during the day when I do not think of N, that she is there in my head, like a dull pain that flares up occasionally but is always present, with every single thought I have or thing I do; who hear practically every morning that I dreamt of N and that we were fighting the whole night long. Broadly speaking, that last category is DH.
Until yesterday. Yesterday morning, in the most unanticipated scenery - me musing alone in the coffee break of a conference where I didn't really know anyone well enough to be engaged in conversation, where I was out of my "Classics" water but also particularly gloomy (if we're looking for psychological reasons here) since I was a wannabe artist in a room mostly full of art-theorists (which I am not, either) addressing the question of praxes-theory dichotomy - here another category of people emerged. He came up to me, kissed me on both cheeks in a semi-formal semi-friendly way, asked me how I was, and I started to cry.
THE END. (Well, no, the end was actually that I promptly excused myself and went to wash my face while 4th category jokingly said I was condemning myself to self-exile. Indeed).
And to other neurotic news. I helped a friend pack, who is leaving Chicago for the whole goddamn summer (it is going to be 88°F = 31°C tomorrow. I rest my goddamn CASE) and subletting their apartment (her husband is already away so that's why I was there. Partly I guess). So just for some background information on the situation: this packing occasion taught me you can buy a queen-size (or king, or whatever your humungous American-size mattress) plastic bag. Let me pause here. A plastic bag in which a mattress can fit. I am IN HEAVEN. The heaven made explicitly for Neurotics with Severe Obsessive-Compulsive Hoarding Plastic Bags Disorder. DH can just leave me here and come back in a week. I will be much easier to handle then. (Indeed, part of what ensued is no doubt due to the fact that I did not stay to bathe in the light of Plastic Bag Creation long enough.) In any case, you might have been wondering why we needed to pack the mattress if she's subletting the apartment. You're right to wonder! So the thing is (background info etc): this friend does not want to, how shall I put it, SHARE every single thing she and her husband own with the subletters. That's what the old IKEA mattress is for. And so a huge walk-in closet was to be transformed into a no-zone storage room, contents of which subletters where kindly asked not to inquire about. And so I was there to help wrap a good-quality (i.e. pretty heavy) mattress with a yellow plastic bag, drag it across the floor and into the closet, and then help with decision-making on what to pack for four months (isn't that the most nerve-wrecking decision making in the world), as well as in the end remove sticky notes from a library-book due back before closing hours, only to make a little list of the page numbers where these sticky notes were stuck (that was my very own initiative), so, like every respectable PhD-student, my friend can re-check the book out in the fall and skim over again what she has already diligently read in careful intellectual selection. Granted, the realization that there are people with working-habits as bad as mine should have been pay enough for my time and support - not that I was in it for compensation. But I guess I did offer some valuable help countering mattresses and loneliness-decision making AND self-doubts lest her subletting policies may be unacceptable, and so deserved the freshly-frozen Wholefoods salmon steak and other random perishable foodstuff that the fridge still contained at 8 pm on the eve of subletting day and was thus handed over to us (by that time DH was already there to say goodbye too).
And now here's what happened: I glanced over at the Organic Raw Sugar, shimmering in non-even size crystals the color of extremely clean sand, and said "You're leaving them this expensive sugar?!" Please believe me that in the context of the giveaways and store-aways of the few hours that preceded, I was wholeheartedly naive. I mean, yes, it's sugar, nothing perishable. And I had time enough to respond to the "You can have it" she addressed me with "No way, you have to leave them sugar, here, put some in this jar", time enough, that is, to figure out that I was acting like someone who really WANTS to HAVE this ORGANIC RAW SUGAR. But my brain is weird and its workings are set in indescribable paths. So we get home after a frenzy of schlepping stuff of various shapes and weights, including beer bottles and a yoga-mat I received on loan, and the ORGANIC RAW SUGAR package is retrieved from one of the bags. And I act surprised: "She gave us the sugar?!" DH: "Yeah, you totally wanted it".
Here's where I have an emotional heart attack combined with an epileptic seizure. NO WAY, HOW could I have BEEN SO GREEDY as to HINT THAT I WANT HER EXPENSIVE SUGAR!!! "Well, you helped her pick out the jar and everything. It's fine though, I really don't think it was so odd or anything. And I don't think you're GREEDY." Poor DH. Trying to talk reason into me. I HAVE TO GO BRING IT BACK. "No, you don't". WWWWWWWOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEE. I AM A GRRReeDY HORRRRRIBLE PERSON, make that A SHADOW OF A HUMAN BEING. "Um, Lou? You're overreacting." YOU OBVIOUSLY DO NOT UNDERSTAND ME AT ALL!!!!!!!!!!!! Probably because I AM A COVETOUS GREEDY INSATIABLE IDIOT, THE EPITOME OF THE OPPOSITE OF A FRIEND not to mention the PARAGON OF MEDIOCRITY! (I am very eloquent when I'm overreacting) WHO would EVER WANT TO KNOW ME! HOW can you STTTTTAND BEING AROUND ME?!?
Conclusion of several hours and a nights-sleep afterwards: I think I still have at least two friends in the world. One willing to talk sense into me and fall asleep by my side every single night. Isn't he brave, people? The other on the way to the Mediterranean for the summer. Bonne Voyage!
Until yesterday. Yesterday morning, in the most unanticipated scenery - me musing alone in the coffee break of a conference where I didn't really know anyone well enough to be engaged in conversation, where I was out of my "Classics" water but also particularly gloomy (if we're looking for psychological reasons here) since I was a wannabe artist in a room mostly full of art-theorists (which I am not, either) addressing the question of praxes-theory dichotomy - here another category of people emerged. He came up to me, kissed me on both cheeks in a semi-formal semi-friendly way, asked me how I was, and I started to cry.
THE END. (Well, no, the end was actually that I promptly excused myself and went to wash my face while 4th category jokingly said I was condemning myself to self-exile. Indeed).
And to other neurotic news. I helped a friend pack, who is leaving Chicago for the whole goddamn summer (it is going to be 88°F = 31°C tomorrow. I rest my goddamn CASE) and subletting their apartment (her husband is already away so that's why I was there. Partly I guess). So just for some background information on the situation: this packing occasion taught me you can buy a queen-size (or king, or whatever your humungous American-size mattress) plastic bag. Let me pause here. A plastic bag in which a mattress can fit. I am IN HEAVEN. The heaven made explicitly for Neurotics with Severe Obsessive-Compulsive Hoarding Plastic Bags Disorder. DH can just leave me here and come back in a week. I will be much easier to handle then. (Indeed, part of what ensued is no doubt due to the fact that I did not stay to bathe in the light of Plastic Bag Creation long enough.) In any case, you might have been wondering why we needed to pack the mattress if she's subletting the apartment. You're right to wonder! So the thing is (background info etc): this friend does not want to, how shall I put it, SHARE every single thing she and her husband own with the subletters. That's what the old IKEA mattress is for. And so a huge walk-in closet was to be transformed into a no-zone storage room, contents of which subletters where kindly asked not to inquire about. And so I was there to help wrap a good-quality (i.e. pretty heavy) mattress with a yellow plastic bag, drag it across the floor and into the closet, and then help with decision-making on what to pack for four months (isn't that the most nerve-wrecking decision making in the world), as well as in the end remove sticky notes from a library-book due back before closing hours, only to make a little list of the page numbers where these sticky notes were stuck (that was my very own initiative), so, like every respectable PhD-student, my friend can re-check the book out in the fall and skim over again what she has already diligently read in careful intellectual selection. Granted, the realization that there are people with working-habits as bad as mine should have been pay enough for my time and support - not that I was in it for compensation. But I guess I did offer some valuable help countering mattresses and loneliness-decision making AND self-doubts lest her subletting policies may be unacceptable, and so deserved the freshly-frozen Wholefoods salmon steak and other random perishable foodstuff that the fridge still contained at 8 pm on the eve of subletting day and was thus handed over to us (by that time DH was already there to say goodbye too).
And now here's what happened: I glanced over at the Organic Raw Sugar, shimmering in non-even size crystals the color of extremely clean sand, and said "You're leaving them this expensive sugar?!" Please believe me that in the context of the giveaways and store-aways of the few hours that preceded, I was wholeheartedly naive. I mean, yes, it's sugar, nothing perishable. And I had time enough to respond to the "You can have it" she addressed me with "No way, you have to leave them sugar, here, put some in this jar", time enough, that is, to figure out that I was acting like someone who really WANTS to HAVE this ORGANIC RAW SUGAR. But my brain is weird and its workings are set in indescribable paths. So we get home after a frenzy of schlepping stuff of various shapes and weights, including beer bottles and a yoga-mat I received on loan, and the ORGANIC RAW SUGAR package is retrieved from one of the bags. And I act surprised: "She gave us the sugar?!" DH: "Yeah, you totally wanted it".
Here's where I have an emotional heart attack combined with an epileptic seizure. NO WAY, HOW could I have BEEN SO GREEDY as to HINT THAT I WANT HER EXPENSIVE SUGAR!!! "Well, you helped her pick out the jar and everything. It's fine though, I really don't think it was so odd or anything. And I don't think you're GREEDY." Poor DH. Trying to talk reason into me. I HAVE TO GO BRING IT BACK. "No, you don't". WWWWWWWOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEE. I AM A GRRReeDY HORRRRRIBLE PERSON, make that A SHADOW OF A HUMAN BEING. "Um, Lou? You're overreacting." YOU OBVIOUSLY DO NOT UNDERSTAND ME AT ALL!!!!!!!!!!!! Probably because I AM A COVETOUS GREEDY INSATIABLE IDIOT, THE EPITOME OF THE OPPOSITE OF A FRIEND not to mention the PARAGON OF MEDIOCRITY! (I am very eloquent when I'm overreacting) WHO would EVER WANT TO KNOW ME! HOW can you STTTTTAND BEING AROUND ME?!?
Conclusion of several hours and a nights-sleep afterwards: I think I still have at least two friends in the world. One willing to talk sense into me and fall asleep by my side every single night. Isn't he brave, people? The other on the way to the Mediterranean for the summer. Bonne Voyage!
May 17, 2010
Jesus loves me
I do actually do stuff other than bake and take photos, you know. But because I've recently mastered the brilliant technique of placing the camera on some sturdy piece of furniture, like say, a dining table, so my hand doesn't shake when I push the button (my pictures turn out blurry because I breathe. for real), and since I apparently am a sort-of-wannabe blogger-with-nice-food-pictures, I bring you these close-up of grapes.
These most-sweet-tasting vine-fruit we have procured since arrival in North America, and possibly ever, sat in the fridge, on the upper shelf near the light bulb. So that every opening of the fridge door produced an explosion of pink radiance that prompted me to share, and burn it unto my hard-drive, this photo-botanical wonder. Art capturing the fleeting beauty of nature as a commentary on the transience of human experience. In other words: get a loada those grapes.
Speaking of loads, I went to see a therapist for one session, and decided it's not worth the time and money (oh my god, so much money) to start re-narrating to a stranger the whole story of my life to eventually possibly figure out things that might just need their own time to heal. I still am experiencing good days and bad days, naturally, with the bad days being really horrible and frightening and devastating and insane, but these usually also gleam with some hope thanks to the kindness and amazing trust of DH. Sometimes it is almost heart-shattering (in a good way. There must be a good way to understand your heart being shattered. Like exploding into a million pieces from, well, compassion. Egads the spirituality) to realize how well one man knows you.
Speaking of spiritual: so I called up one of the local soup kitchens to get information about their volunteering program. And it seemed it was never a good time because I always got their answering machine, telling me in a deep, very slow voice of a Morgan Freeman combined with, oh I don't know, (I'm so cliche it's sad, I cannot think of any other African-American figure of preachy wisdom) that Pastor Something is attending his flock at the moment and what the hours of service are and after the third time I finally waited the length of the recorded message to leave my number (they never called me back, which seemed suspicious to me. What? You've got TOO MANY volunteers at your soup kitchen? I knew it, huge pots of seething brew are SO SEXY, people are just standing in lines...). Point being: their message ends with "May God bless you. REEEAL GOOOOD."
Meanwhile, I joined a group of students engaged in a project of mapping the University of Chicago and its surrounding neighborhoods, most of which are fairly-to-extremely poor and crime-ridden. The crime part may be more a bit of mythological terrorism than a statistical fact, fueled by the University, who is itself a major landowner in the city, and has been leading a deliberate process of gentrification and segregation for decades. In other words, I have become a mild activist.
And lo, the immediate need for therapy and/or volunteering for the needy has subsided. I detect several reasons for this:
1) The obvious one, I am busier (including some independent Aeneid reading that I'm getting done. Excuse me while I rejoice. Yeah!), which of course makes me feel like a bit of a sell-out, as if the whole urge to make a difference in others' lives simply originated in my own boredom.
2) My own interest is in "mapping" (I still have to figure out exactly what form that will take) the homeless people of the neighborhood, specifically the borderline-homeless selling Streetwise. In the face of utter nihilism and despair (thoughts such as: poverty and crime are such global, deep-structure problems that there is nothing even the most enthusiastic students can do to change them), perhaps being part of a group of people who want to raise awareness to our mutual situation is, at least to some degree, effective? Stress on the group. Not me alone in my room. Not me in front of a computer screen on the online hotline of RAINN (did I tell you about that? well, another one of my attempts to get myself out there… and help victims of sexual assault. An option that from the outset seemed overwhelming, or: not the right thing for me to do at this point in time, and was thus soon, but not without heartache, dropped.)
3) The therapy experience was not like "sinking into a good couch", as my mother put it when I was deliberating with her if I should go on with this. Herself a psychologist, she said there should be no question marks about it: it should feel good. And realizing that verbalizing my sisterhood plight is not what I need right now, I guess I am in search for my comfortable couch.
I do assume that if anything is prompted in me following this load of indescribable grief, it would be to consciously (re-)shape the way I tell my story to myself, to my loved-ones, to whoever happens to be my sss (probably different people at different times), to "my" world and to the "others" I choose to see and embrace as inhabiting it.
Wow. I totally did not intend to write this conclusion. Which means it might actually be sincere. Go stare at grapes, people.
These most-sweet-tasting vine-fruit we have procured since arrival in North America, and possibly ever, sat in the fridge, on the upper shelf near the light bulb. So that every opening of the fridge door produced an explosion of pink radiance that prompted me to share, and burn it unto my hard-drive, this photo-botanical wonder. Art capturing the fleeting beauty of nature as a commentary on the transience of human experience. In other words: get a loada those grapes.
Speaking of loads, I went to see a therapist for one session, and decided it's not worth the time and money (oh my god, so much money) to start re-narrating to a stranger the whole story of my life to eventually possibly figure out things that might just need their own time to heal. I still am experiencing good days and bad days, naturally, with the bad days being really horrible and frightening and devastating and insane, but these usually also gleam with some hope thanks to the kindness and amazing trust of DH. Sometimes it is almost heart-shattering (in a good way. There must be a good way to understand your heart being shattered. Like exploding into a million pieces from, well, compassion. Egads the spirituality) to realize how well one man knows you.
Speaking of spiritual: so I called up one of the local soup kitchens to get information about their volunteering program. And it seemed it was never a good time because I always got their answering machine, telling me in a deep, very slow voice of a Morgan Freeman combined with, oh I don't know, (I'm so cliche it's sad, I cannot think of any other African-American figure of preachy wisdom) that Pastor Something is attending his flock at the moment and what the hours of service are and after the third time I finally waited the length of the recorded message to leave my number (they never called me back, which seemed suspicious to me. What? You've got TOO MANY volunteers at your soup kitchen? I knew it, huge pots of seething brew are SO SEXY, people are just standing in lines...). Point being: their message ends with "May God bless you. REEEAL GOOOOD."
Meanwhile, I joined a group of students engaged in a project of mapping the University of Chicago and its surrounding neighborhoods, most of which are fairly-to-extremely poor and crime-ridden. The crime part may be more a bit of mythological terrorism than a statistical fact, fueled by the University, who is itself a major landowner in the city, and has been leading a deliberate process of gentrification and segregation for decades. In other words, I have become a mild activist.
And lo, the immediate need for therapy and/or volunteering for the needy has subsided. I detect several reasons for this:
1) The obvious one, I am busier (including some independent Aeneid reading that I'm getting done. Excuse me while I rejoice. Yeah!), which of course makes me feel like a bit of a sell-out, as if the whole urge to make a difference in others' lives simply originated in my own boredom.
2) My own interest is in "mapping" (I still have to figure out exactly what form that will take) the homeless people of the neighborhood, specifically the borderline-homeless selling Streetwise. In the face of utter nihilism and despair (thoughts such as: poverty and crime are such global, deep-structure problems that there is nothing even the most enthusiastic students can do to change them), perhaps being part of a group of people who want to raise awareness to our mutual situation is, at least to some degree, effective? Stress on the group. Not me alone in my room. Not me in front of a computer screen on the online hotline of RAINN (did I tell you about that? well, another one of my attempts to get myself out there… and help victims of sexual assault. An option that from the outset seemed overwhelming, or: not the right thing for me to do at this point in time, and was thus soon, but not without heartache, dropped.)
3) The therapy experience was not like "sinking into a good couch", as my mother put it when I was deliberating with her if I should go on with this. Herself a psychologist, she said there should be no question marks about it: it should feel good. And realizing that verbalizing my sisterhood plight is not what I need right now, I guess I am in search for my comfortable couch.
In one of my first-year courses of my BA, on early Christianity, the TA - who was training to be a clinical psychologist - introduced us to Lacan's "sujet supposé savoir". In that particular context (the mystic-mental trainings of the frankly obsessive Evagrius in his struggle against all demons), the sss - it was implied - might be understood as Christ. I'm not sure what I'm getting at here (or if that Lacan link has any relevance at all to this stream of associations), but these things have all been swirling around in my head lately.
I most certainly do not think I have seen the light, or that I will deal with the grief over my sister's death by some spiritual overflow of Mother-Teresa-ish giving to the world.
I most certainly do not think I have seen the light, or that I will deal with the grief over my sister's death by some spiritual overflow of Mother-Teresa-ish giving to the world.
I do assume that if anything is prompted in me following this load of indescribable grief, it would be to consciously (re-)shape the way I tell my story to myself, to my loved-ones, to whoever happens to be my sss (probably different people at different times), to "my" world and to the "others" I choose to see and embrace as inhabiting it.
Wow. I totally did not intend to write this conclusion. Which means it might actually be sincere. Go stare at grapes, people.
May 10, 2010
Disappointment Galore
The much anticipated bread post. Full of disappointments. Yes, even this best challah recipe caused me a bit of discouragement. Not because it was not indeed the best challah recipe I've yet tried, yielding perfection from the first knead to the last leftover toasted bite. However, considering it was only the second recipe I've ever tried - with the first originating in my beloved, the faultless, the essential, the most comprehensive food encyclopedia, aka the invincible Joy of Cooking - some disillusionment entailed. JoC is vincible, my friends. I inwardly grieve the Joy's defeat. I outwardly cannot wait to make this challah again and again and again!
I still consider the JoC to be the ultimate authority on all things foody. And yet, the discrepancies between different versions of recipes for seemingly straightforward and indisputable dishes, such as pancakes, or Potato Gratin (Doram Gont's version, people. Israeli lovers of potatoes-and-cream, just get yourself his cookbook. The man knows what he is doing.), never ceases to amaze me. The real consternation, though, arises from the realization that JoC's recipes aren't always the most foolproof. I've tried their challah, it was not bad in any way, but SK's version calls for fewer eggs (2 per loaf, I think that's what makes it tastier) and is in no way benefited from the use of the stand mixer. Speaking of which, I think it's giving me some weighty buyer's remorse. I mean, I hardly use it anymore. Alas, DH is not a fan of cheesecakes, the preparation of which normally require some heavy beating facilitated by the mixer's presence, and I have yet to prepare meringue for any sort of occasion. However (I am tangent-ing out of control here, please bear with me) this cheesecake (and my adaptation) was quite successfully received by DH (YES, THERE ARE LEFTOVERS, JUST COME ON OVER) and offers a nice cinnamony twist on the creamy variant. Plus, the crust was based on a homemade graham cracker dough I might have mentioned here once already. Molasses-buttery goodness, indeed, but it was so hard to handle that it ultimately yielded these cute cookie-leaves - cutting the leftover dough in a clean line was impossible, but it really has a verisimilitude affect of rugged-edged leaves, don't you think? I, in any case, was pleased.
Sorry, back to the disappointments:
I don't remember if I used the mixer for JoC's challah, though I probably did because I thought it was cool back then. Other bread recipes have disappointed in the past, perhaps owing to mixer involvement (hmmm… it was Doram Gont's bagels that I ultimately graded "not so great and totally not worth the trouble".) Anyway, the "best" challah is quickly and easily assembled in a bowl, using a wooden spoon, and makes a smooth, fragrant, warm dough that is easily kneaded. The first time I made this, I forgot to add the additional sugar, and ended up kneading in half of the required amount into a done dough, one that was already supposed to be resting. I was worried a bit, but no harm was done to the dough, and the result was just the right degree of sweetness. Conclusion: better than store bought (and I mean the kind you can find in Israel…) but at the same time, as "professional", slightly-industrial in a good way, boutique-bakery kind of, taste! Winning Challah recipe added to the Wall of StickIt Fame above our stovetop, and shall heretofore be baked by yours truly every Rosh HaShana and other mundane occasions. Though for the Rosh HaShana ones, I really should figure out the six-strand braiding technique. I should have practiced beforehand on some string or something, like my dad would probably have done.
Other seeming-disappointments that - because this post is chronologically going backwards - will end with world-shattering full-fledged devastation: this No Knead Bread seemed perfect, and I set out to baking it right after my mother and I found an enameled-coated cast iron grill pan in pristine condition at a thrift store. Sure, it's not meant to be used as a pizza stone, but what could possibly happen to it, right? Well, it is still fine, though the enamel seems a bit chipped and nothing but RUST could possibly be seeping out. Which is exactly what the whole enamel coating thingy was supposed to prevent. And the reason we bought it. Because my mother, who has been there done that regarding every possible cooking skill there is, admonished us not to get a cast iron skillet, IT WILL RUST ON YOU NO MATTER WHAT, kinderlach. Well, my mother's wrath-prophecies tend to come true even more cynically then she could ever imagine. I think now I might give a regular cast iron skillet a try.
But that's not the point here. Second time around (remember, this post is going backwards), I used the enameled-pan upside down as a stone, and put a water-filled aluminum pan at the bottom of the oven. The bread rises nicely and has a crunchy crust, granted. But I found it severely unpleasantly salty. This was after halving the recipe for the second time - this time adding the right amount of yeast and salt. Maybe it's the Curse of the Halves, I don't know. From obvious lack of salt to thirstening saltiness, and all around a too-mooshy dough - could all this have been avoided using the whole recipe (or, for that matter, actually waiting till it cools to slice it? I'm not good with timing my bread baking to my hunger…)? I don't know and never will, because I won't try this again. Why the presence of my aluminum pan did not occur to me for more than 2 seconds in a row when I was first pondering baking this bread, wondering which pan I will use to pour hot water on after it spends 20 minutes in a HOT heated oven, oh no, my non stick cookie sheets won't do, they're much too fragile. I eventually used this, a marvelous pie pan found in the same pristine condition in the aforementioned thrift-hunt conducted with my mom. I swear, every time DH mentioned my round aluminum pan - the one I had already scratched cutting out slices of cake from, because it is obviously not intended for anything but cakes that are to be plopped upside down right out of the pan and slathered with frosting or some other all-American atrocity (reason for my buying it: undetermined; most probably: lack of premeditation and sufficient research). It still works though - every time DH mentioned it, because he, unfortunately for him, partakes in my baking incertitudes and consequent brainstorming, I blinked and said: "what aluminum pan? oh, that one, yeah". So no. I did not use pre-mutilated and apparently durable aluminum pan. But rather beautiful, marvelous, vintage-looking green-brown pie pan. Insert tragic exclamation of your choice. (Do you see where this is heading?)
So, the first time around, I followed instructions. Pretty-hot water was poured on steaming-hot ceramic pan. Bread was extracted from the oven, and enjoyed though slightly undersatled, and despite suspicion that it was too sticky to be true (only later did I figure out my measurements were all wrong. By then I was kicking a corpse. The corpse was my career as a bread baker. Or just plain me). Crust was drooled over. "Best bread you've baked" was professed. (Wrong! Woe!) I reasonably waited for the oven to cool, before retrieving the pan. Now, there was no more water in it anymore. It was parched. Ha, look, the water left these interesting traces where it was evaporated. Wait. What the...? These aren't traces. (Gulp). (Gasp). Traces are cracks.
NO!!!!! I am a pile of tears and frustration on the floor. HOW COULD I BE SO STUPID?!?! In other words: WOE. IT BROKE.
My mother is shaking her head right now. How could her offspring be so devoid of brains. Typically Lou, she is saying to herself: be neurotically indecisive about something, get a household or two involved, and then make the WRONG choice. Add to that a sort of uber-sentimentalism I had already developed over this mother-picked pan, as over all items purchased or events enjoyed in her visit, and you might understand how there were two thousand deprecating voices ringing in my ears, shaking their heads at me in disdain and disbelief.
So yeah. It took me at least a month to post about this, partly because I just did not want my mom to find out. (How lame is that?) Also, this particular incident was part of my pretty bad streak of life, when I was not posting. So now I consider myself finally purged.
P.S.
This is not a food-blog. Notably because I don't have to apologize for "my need to over-share" as JB nicely put it. So, remember that procrastination video I posted? (By the way, if you did not find it at least remotely hilarious, please refrain from reading this blog, ok? You and I will never have a real understanding between us. It's nothing personal against you. It's just well, me. How I live). And how I "get my stuff done", which was awarded expression of the week and has been used ever since. So will someone please explain to me how it is that I have spent 6 hours in the library today, and have accomplished the following: wrote some emails (it takes me a languishingly long time to write emails. Especially to professors, officials, or people that may be ever so slightly cooler than me, so, obviously, they spend their whole day dissecting my choice of virtual words. Which means: it takes me forever to write emails), had a sandwich and an apple, got up for some tea, tried to figure out my future health insurance student-coverage, with the appropriate email-writing ensuing, had a short skype-conversation with mom, and wrote this monstrous post. And I haven't even uploaded the photos that I will eventually link to. In other words, some days this blog is my "stuff" and I just have to get it done. Which makes me think that when grad school starts I shall be a-bloggin' no more. I should probably start worrying about that now, though, just in case.
P.P.S.
"Under My Thumb", one of the funnest songs ever, you must agree. But I've just realized what the words are. Somewhat unpleasant…. do you still enjoy great songs whose lyrics are really harsh and/or demeaning? Am I overinterpreting this?
I still consider the JoC to be the ultimate authority on all things foody. And yet, the discrepancies between different versions of recipes for seemingly straightforward and indisputable dishes, such as pancakes, or Potato Gratin (Doram Gont's version, people. Israeli lovers of potatoes-and-cream, just get yourself his cookbook. The man knows what he is doing.), never ceases to amaze me. The real consternation, though, arises from the realization that JoC's recipes aren't always the most foolproof. I've tried their challah, it was not bad in any way, but SK's version calls for fewer eggs (2 per loaf, I think that's what makes it tastier) and is in no way benefited from the use of the stand mixer. Speaking of which, I think it's giving me some weighty buyer's remorse. I mean, I hardly use it anymore. Alas, DH is not a fan of cheesecakes, the preparation of which normally require some heavy beating facilitated by the mixer's presence, and I have yet to prepare meringue for any sort of occasion. However (I am tangent-ing out of control here, please bear with me) this cheesecake (and my adaptation) was quite successfully received by DH (YES, THERE ARE LEFTOVERS, JUST COME ON OVER) and offers a nice cinnamony twist on the creamy variant. Plus, the crust was based on a homemade graham cracker dough I might have mentioned here once already. Molasses-buttery goodness, indeed, but it was so hard to handle that it ultimately yielded these cute cookie-leaves - cutting the leftover dough in a clean line was impossible, but it really has a verisimilitude affect of rugged-edged leaves, don't you think? I, in any case, was pleased.
Sorry, back to the disappointments:
I don't remember if I used the mixer for JoC's challah, though I probably did because I thought it was cool back then. Other bread recipes have disappointed in the past, perhaps owing to mixer involvement (hmmm… it was Doram Gont's bagels that I ultimately graded "not so great and totally not worth the trouble".) Anyway, the "best" challah is quickly and easily assembled in a bowl, using a wooden spoon, and makes a smooth, fragrant, warm dough that is easily kneaded. The first time I made this, I forgot to add the additional sugar, and ended up kneading in half of the required amount into a done dough, one that was already supposed to be resting. I was worried a bit, but no harm was done to the dough, and the result was just the right degree of sweetness. Conclusion: better than store bought (and I mean the kind you can find in Israel…) but at the same time, as "professional", slightly-industrial in a good way, boutique-bakery kind of, taste! Winning Challah recipe added to the Wall of StickIt Fame above our stovetop, and shall heretofore be baked by yours truly every Rosh HaShana and other mundane occasions. Though for the Rosh HaShana ones, I really should figure out the six-strand braiding technique. I should have practiced beforehand on some string or something, like my dad would probably have done.
Other seeming-disappointments that - because this post is chronologically going backwards - will end with world-shattering full-fledged devastation: this No Knead Bread seemed perfect, and I set out to baking it right after my mother and I found an enameled-coated cast iron grill pan in pristine condition at a thrift store. Sure, it's not meant to be used as a pizza stone, but what could possibly happen to it, right? Well, it is still fine, though the enamel seems a bit chipped and nothing but RUST could possibly be seeping out. Which is exactly what the whole enamel coating thingy was supposed to prevent. And the reason we bought it. Because my mother, who has been there done that regarding every possible cooking skill there is, admonished us not to get a cast iron skillet, IT WILL RUST ON YOU NO MATTER WHAT, kinderlach. Well, my mother's wrath-prophecies tend to come true even more cynically then she could ever imagine. I think now I might give a regular cast iron skillet a try.
But that's not the point here. Second time around (remember, this post is going backwards), I used the enameled-pan upside down as a stone, and put a water-filled aluminum pan at the bottom of the oven. The bread rises nicely and has a crunchy crust, granted. But I found it severely unpleasantly salty. This was after halving the recipe for the second time - this time adding the right amount of yeast and salt. Maybe it's the Curse of the Halves, I don't know. From obvious lack of salt to thirstening saltiness, and all around a too-mooshy dough - could all this have been avoided using the whole recipe (or, for that matter, actually waiting till it cools to slice it? I'm not good with timing my bread baking to my hunger…)? I don't know and never will, because I won't try this again. Why the presence of my aluminum pan did not occur to me for more than 2 seconds in a row when I was first pondering baking this bread, wondering which pan I will use to pour hot water on after it spends 20 minutes in a HOT heated oven, oh no, my non stick cookie sheets won't do, they're much too fragile. I eventually used this, a marvelous pie pan found in the same pristine condition in the aforementioned thrift-hunt conducted with my mom. I swear, every time DH mentioned my round aluminum pan - the one I had already scratched cutting out slices of cake from, because it is obviously not intended for anything but cakes that are to be plopped upside down right out of the pan and slathered with frosting or some other all-American atrocity (reason for my buying it: undetermined; most probably: lack of premeditation and sufficient research). It still works though - every time DH mentioned it, because he, unfortunately for him, partakes in my baking incertitudes and consequent brainstorming, I blinked and said: "what aluminum pan? oh, that one, yeah". So no. I did not use pre-mutilated and apparently durable aluminum pan. But rather beautiful, marvelous, vintage-looking green-brown pie pan. Insert tragic exclamation of your choice. (Do you see where this is heading?)
So, the first time around, I followed instructions. Pretty-hot water was poured on steaming-hot ceramic pan. Bread was extracted from the oven, and enjoyed though slightly undersatled, and despite suspicion that it was too sticky to be true (only later did I figure out my measurements were all wrong. By then I was kicking a corpse. The corpse was my career as a bread baker. Or just plain me). Crust was drooled over. "Best bread you've baked" was professed. (Wrong! Woe!) I reasonably waited for the oven to cool, before retrieving the pan. Now, there was no more water in it anymore. It was parched. Ha, look, the water left these interesting traces where it was evaporated. Wait. What the...? These aren't traces. (Gulp). (Gasp). Traces are cracks.
NO!!!!! I am a pile of tears and frustration on the floor. HOW COULD I BE SO STUPID?!?! In other words: WOE. IT BROKE.
My mother is shaking her head right now. How could her offspring be so devoid of brains. Typically Lou, she is saying to herself: be neurotically indecisive about something, get a household or two involved, and then make the WRONG choice. Add to that a sort of uber-sentimentalism I had already developed over this mother-picked pan, as over all items purchased or events enjoyed in her visit, and you might understand how there were two thousand deprecating voices ringing in my ears, shaking their heads at me in disdain and disbelief.
So yeah. It took me at least a month to post about this, partly because I just did not want my mom to find out. (How lame is that?) Also, this particular incident was part of my pretty bad streak of life, when I was not posting. So now I consider myself finally purged.
P.S.
This is not a food-blog. Notably because I don't have to apologize for "my need to over-share" as JB nicely put it. So, remember that procrastination video I posted? (By the way, if you did not find it at least remotely hilarious, please refrain from reading this blog, ok? You and I will never have a real understanding between us. It's nothing personal against you. It's just well, me. How I live). And how I "get my stuff done", which was awarded expression of the week and has been used ever since. So will someone please explain to me how it is that I have spent 6 hours in the library today, and have accomplished the following: wrote some emails (it takes me a languishingly long time to write emails. Especially to professors, officials, or people that may be ever so slightly cooler than me, so, obviously, they spend their whole day dissecting my choice of virtual words. Which means: it takes me forever to write emails), had a sandwich and an apple, got up for some tea, tried to figure out my future health insurance student-coverage, with the appropriate email-writing ensuing, had a short skype-conversation with mom, and wrote this monstrous post. And I haven't even uploaded the photos that I will eventually link to. In other words, some days this blog is my "stuff" and I just have to get it done. Which makes me think that when grad school starts I shall be a-bloggin' no more. I should probably start worrying about that now, though, just in case.
P.P.S.
"Under My Thumb", one of the funnest songs ever, you must agree. But I've just realized what the words are. Somewhat unpleasant…. do you still enjoy great songs whose lyrics are really harsh and/or demeaning? Am I overinterpreting this?
May 3, 2010
The wholer point
Well. Responses to the last posts included sincerely worried concerns on the one hand, and enjoyment in my authentic heap of borderline quirkiness on the other hand. I aim to please, people. Indeed, it turns out blog-readers revel in the everyday online eccentricities of their fellow meshuggenas. I mean, sure, I knew that. I'm a blog-reader myself, and I guess I was kind of counting on my readership's capacity for amused identification. In any case, I was pleased to learn that crying in the presence of cake-and-5-o'clock-tea invitee will not make her ban me for life, but rather refer me to another blog that is just possibly more verbose than my own, and certainly more avowedly mentally disturbed: check out how spot on she is about the hardship of decision making in the land of online shopping. Sisterhood of Indecisiveness. (That will totally be the title of my next blog.) Said invitee professed her undying friendship and moral support by sending me this cartoon depiction of, oh, my life. Indeed, I am not alone, but part of the League of Procrastinators.
I also have a Challah dough (just so! on a Tuesday!) rising to keep me company. Which means that a bread post is coming up. Which means that I will finally tell you the story of why, see this no-knead bread and I? it didn't work out between us. I have been evading this post for a while, mainly because the break up was messy and teary and made me feel like a total idiot. I know this is a tendency of mine, but you better believe that when the recipe and I are not meant to be, and you add to that 450 degrees F, things can get distressing.
I am scarred but a wholer person now. Ha! "wholer" is not a word? What are you dictionary-compilers, some kind of idealistic Platonists? As far as I'm concerned, the whole point of blogging about your obsessions is to become a WHOLER person.
I also have a Challah dough (just so! on a Tuesday!) rising to keep me company. Which means that a bread post is coming up. Which means that I will finally tell you the story of why, see this no-knead bread and I? it didn't work out between us. I have been evading this post for a while, mainly because the break up was messy and teary and made me feel like a total idiot. I know this is a tendency of mine, but you better believe that when the recipe and I are not meant to be, and you add to that 450 degrees F, things can get distressing.
I am scarred but a wholer person now. Ha! "wholer" is not a word? What are you dictionary-compilers, some kind of idealistic Platonists? As far as I'm concerned, the whole point of blogging about your obsessions is to become a WHOLER person.
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