Enough with the blogging already!
I'll just wrap this week up with what has already become a post-backlog since the fount of blogging-inspiration has poured forth upon me in restless nights. (Getting rid of the backlog is another one of the accomplishments before my mom arrives for her extended visit tomorrow. And then hopefully for everyone involved, especially you, dear readers, I will knock it off with all this yappitiyap yap yap blogging. For a while.)
About Bagel Baking:
Just wanted to let you know that I've been there done that. At home. Wasn't to die for but I have not found really good NY-style bagels in a walking distance from my apartment (sob), and hey, it was fun and kept me busy for a whole morning. And it turned out better than last time when the yeast did not dissolve. I still think something went slightly wrong, and suspect it might have something to do with the fact I used the hook attachment of the mixer not just for the kneading part but for the initial flour-and-fluid mixing part as well, where I should rather have used the paddle attachment for that first mixing phase. Suggestions, anyone (that is, mom)? Next time, with a heavy heart I'll ditch my beloved Doram Gont's recipe and try this one.
This is a pretty good cake (whenever I say something is "pretty good", I inadvertently start singing to myself Tori Amos' Pretty Good Year. I once thought I should try updating as many "what's on my mind"s in facebook as possible using quotes from Tori songs. I would probably start with the inevitable "Never was a cornflake girl". But then move on to slightly more obscure lines such as "Got my rape-hat on, honey, but I always could accessorize". How long before someone reports me as an abusive user? File these whole parentheses under: ramble).
And I mean a pre-tty GOOD cake. Yum. I am draining out my supply of frozen butter. Oh dear. Where has all the butter gone? Could it possibly be in my arteries?! Anyway, I used this as my plan B desert in case the cinnamon "pound cake" (I decidedly do not know what pound cake means. The whole basic grounds of American food vocabulary, I'm just not really familiar with it.), made amid Tchulnt-anxiety-attack as well as fretful attempts to halve the recipe and exchange the butter in it for oil, turned out as not the best cake ever. Sorry about that long sentence. Point is - cinnamon pound cake indeed turned out kinda blaah, and I still had half of this very pretty-good-cake left so I served it as dessert for the Tchulnt instead.
You can use whatever fruit you feel like. I used frozen cherries, but should have just dumped the whole 10 oz bag in, instead of measuring 2 oz less for the half-pound required in the recipe (I am truly an expatriate. I almost know my way around the weather forecast in Fahrenheit. And now I can tell you that there are 16 ounces in one pound. Beloved Metric System, you are becoming a nostalgic hazy blur in the back of my mind! No, don't go yet! I miss you soooo! Groan. Sigh).
Next time I am making a muffing version out of this!
(File under: Oh my god, no! This is a food blog! Where I link to other people's what-I-baked blogs! NOOOO!!!)
Mar 23, 2010
Nesher Beer
Friend, poet and fellow-blogger Drifter Again, has kindly linked to my blog. Woohoo!
Check out this, which does a much better job than meta-me in explaining why this whole internet rambling rant is insignificant. In other words, the only real stuff worth writing is poetry.
And to expand this point - not that academic papers are anywhere nearly that significant, but still - DH thought it appropriate to suggest that my writing in English is good (thank you), so why the hell do I have to bitch and moan whenever I have a paper to hand in? And I retort: Ma HaKesher Bir HaNesher?* Why would my fluency in blog-writing reflect a facility to write anything that should have, how shall a put it, some kind of argument?, coherence in it? (Note my use of punctuation marks. Extremely non-conventional in academic standards. You GET the point.)
*When I first heard that expression, somewhere around age 10 at the most, I was not familiar with the beer-brand Nesher. So I thought this random sequence of syllables is a "smichut" that I don't understand. Sorry, non-existent anonymous American reader, you kinda need to know Hebrew to understand this asterisky part.
And another thing: a prerequisite to handing in a paper, on time OR after the deadline, is protractedly whining about it beforehand. At least, I've never done it without the whining part. Which proves my point.
Conclusion: if something comes easy to me, it must be worthless. Yeah, I was brought up that way.
Check out this, which does a much better job than meta-me in explaining why this whole internet rambling rant is insignificant. In other words, the only real stuff worth writing is poetry.
And to expand this point - not that academic papers are anywhere nearly that significant, but still - DH thought it appropriate to suggest that my writing in English is good (thank you), so why the hell do I have to bitch and moan whenever I have a paper to hand in? And I retort: Ma HaKesher Bir HaNesher?* Why would my fluency in blog-writing reflect a facility to write anything that should have, how shall a put it, some kind of argument?, coherence in it? (Note my use of punctuation marks. Extremely non-conventional in academic standards. You GET the point.)
*When I first heard that expression, somewhere around age 10 at the most, I was not familiar with the beer-brand Nesher. So I thought this random sequence of syllables is a "smichut" that I don't understand. Sorry, non-existent anonymous American reader, you kinda need to know Hebrew to understand this asterisky part.
And another thing: a prerequisite to handing in a paper, on time OR after the deadline, is protractedly whining about it beforehand. At least, I've never done it without the whining part. Which proves my point.
Conclusion: if something comes easy to me, it must be worthless. Yeah, I was brought up that way.
This week
Things that were accomplished this week, other than cooking and eating and blogging:
My study, which is also the spare room in which my mother will be sleeping during her visit to Chicago that starts tomorrow, is organized. All the way from varnishing the desk to throwing out 6-month old grocery receipts.
In this house-warming vein, we finally put up some of our wedding-related art in our bedroom (accomplishment of last week: getting them framed!). One picture is a print we got as a present, the other is the full version of Chagall's Birthday, part of which was on the back of our wedding invitation. Nails were secured. Kitsch was avoided.
I started reading Leah Goldberg's memoir of the poet Avraham Ben-Yitzhak. Oh, man. Good stuff. (And yes, my verbal capacities will be inversely proportional to the subject matter of my posts.)
I had a girl-blind-date with a charming, beautiful, Israeli friend of a friend who took me out for drinks at a very cool neighborhood eatery-bar place. Go Israeli-networking campaign against I-live-abroad-and-have-only-my-husband-to-talk-to melancholy!
In related cultural/driving up north news, I dragged myself up to Lincoln Park to see Wild Nights with Emily, a comedy about Emily Dickinson's life and relationship with friend/lover Susie. It was like this: after the Tchulnt afternoon was over, I got an email announcing a $5 special for that evening's performance. Now, this email came from the artistic director of the theatre, a woman I've been having a back-and-forth with for the last three months or so, ever since I told her something like: Let me volunteer! for free! and she was generally supportive, but for various reasons no actual cooperation has came out of it so far. I felt too weary from the whole inviting-friends-over-for-Tchulnt-shebang to go, and after a failed attempt to coax a friend to join me, I decided to pass. Around 6:20 pm, 40 minutes before scheduled time of performance and a good 30 minute drive ahead of me, the following words were exchanged in my head: "PROS: $5 tickets. To a show I was planning to see anyway. CONS: 30 minute drive. I would rather shower before but there's no time. I'm tired from the Tchulnt-shebang. It's a contemporary comedy so I probably won't understand half the jokes. I'm lame. PROS: $5 tickets. To a show I wanted to see at a theatre it seems feasible I could be involved in, maybe. CONS: I'm lame. PROS: $5 tickets." Thus passed four minutes or so. Another three passed in getting my jeans and shoes on, which produced the sort of getting-ready-to-leave rustle that prompted the following (real) exchange with DH: "So, are you going?" Me: "I'm not sure".
Thirtysomething minutes later, I was one of the late-seated. The show was good, and I laughed out loud and enjoyed myself AND was glad I came.
Go indecisiveness! GO!
My study, which is also the spare room in which my mother will be sleeping during her visit to Chicago that starts tomorrow, is organized. All the way from varnishing the desk to throwing out 6-month old grocery receipts.
In this house-warming vein, we finally put up some of our wedding-related art in our bedroom (accomplishment of last week: getting them framed!). One picture is a print we got as a present, the other is the full version of Chagall's Birthday, part of which was on the back of our wedding invitation. Nails were secured. Kitsch was avoided.
I started reading Leah Goldberg's memoir of the poet Avraham Ben-Yitzhak. Oh, man. Good stuff. (And yes, my verbal capacities will be inversely proportional to the subject matter of my posts.)
I had a girl-blind-date with a charming, beautiful, Israeli friend of a friend who took me out for drinks at a very cool neighborhood eatery-bar place. Go Israeli-networking campaign against I-live-abroad-and-have-only-my-husband-to-talk-to melancholy!
In related cultural/driving up north news, I dragged myself up to Lincoln Park to see Wild Nights with Emily, a comedy about Emily Dickinson's life and relationship with friend/lover Susie. It was like this: after the Tchulnt afternoon was over, I got an email announcing a $5 special for that evening's performance. Now, this email came from the artistic director of the theatre, a woman I've been having a back-and-forth with for the last three months or so, ever since I told her something like: Let me volunteer! for free! and she was generally supportive, but for various reasons no actual cooperation has came out of it so far. I felt too weary from the whole inviting-friends-over-for-Tchulnt-shebang to go, and after a failed attempt to coax a friend to join me, I decided to pass. Around 6:20 pm, 40 minutes before scheduled time of performance and a good 30 minute drive ahead of me, the following words were exchanged in my head: "PROS: $5 tickets. To a show I was planning to see anyway. CONS: 30 minute drive. I would rather shower before but there's no time. I'm tired from the Tchulnt-shebang. It's a contemporary comedy so I probably won't understand half the jokes. I'm lame. PROS: $5 tickets. To a show I wanted to see at a theatre it seems feasible I could be involved in, maybe. CONS: I'm lame. PROS: $5 tickets." Thus passed four minutes or so. Another three passed in getting my jeans and shoes on, which produced the sort of getting-ready-to-leave rustle that prompted the following (real) exchange with DH: "So, are you going?" Me: "I'm not sure".
Thirtysomething minutes later, I was one of the late-seated. The show was good, and I laughed out loud and enjoyed myself AND was glad I came.
Go indecisiveness! GO!
Mar 21, 2010
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.
*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.
Mar 20, 2010
Ode to Mayonnaise
I love mayonnaise. No. Let me rephrase that. If it were legally possible, I would marry a jar of home-made mayonnaise. Since that is not an option in the countries I have lived in so far (and, alas, I am already married!) I try my best to be united with the ideal essence of mayonnaise every so often. To that end, I do, indeed, make my own at home. It takes about 40 seconds. More if you count the time it takes to take the stick-blender out of the cabinet, assemble it and plug it in the socket.
My mother used to make this when I was a child (and, after trying out some alternative recipes, I am back to hers: one whole egg, a pinch of salt, a heaped spoon of dijon mustard, a splash of cider-vinegar, and one cup of canola-oil). Then she stopped making it for fear of salmonella. Since reading in The Joy of Cooking (one word: get yourselves that book) that one can procure fresh pasteurized eggs (who knew? I mean, really, who knew how far this "land of opportunities" will go in blowing my mind), and then figuring out which of the two supermarkets in my neighborhoods holds them, I have started making my own, free of hypochondriac qualms. You put the ingredients, in that order, in a glass jar, you stick the stick-blender inside and you push the button. Do not move. After about 10-15 seconds you can start moving the blender around in slightly circular motions, as much as the jar allows, to incorporate the rest of the oil on top. That's IT. I could just have this on toast for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Some of you will probably be grossed out by this revelation, and I must confess I think my husband still is to some extent. On the other hand, said husband, if he had a blog, would post an Ode to Eggplant and would wax lyrical of its resemblance to, are you seated?, the Banana. So he's got his own metaphorical, quirky food preferences. And he just somehow lives with my obsessive love of mayo. And he already knows he should not venture to disagree with me when I say that mine is better than the ghastly Hellmann's, and that I can explain precisely why, but that as long as I live in the land-of-opportunities-and-fresh-pasteurized-eggs and have my wits about me and the physical strength, I will not deign to give him occasion to even have to hesitate and choose between H's mayo and his wife's. Because I do not want him to make that mistake. Neither does he - he knows I will kick him out. So I just keep a jar of fresh home-made mayo in the fridge. Out of altruism.
Now, part of why husband and myself still live in the same house, is that in some, select few (read: can be counted on a single hand. A four-fingered Bart Simpson hand) respects, our culinary inclinations concur. Most notably in the case of the Tomato. We both agree that if all vegetables on the planet had to go extinct except one of our choice, it would be this one. We further agree that a tomato-hating person is what we call in Hebrew psul-hitun, i.e., a person whom morality decries as ineligible for marriage. Good thing we found each other. Interestingly, I have come to realize that what tomato-haters hate about the tomato is essentially what makes this fruity vegetable so wonderful and indispensable in my life: its mushy gooey-ness that moistens everything it touches with a sweet tartiness. Do you see where I'm getting at? NO?! Do I have to SPELL IT OUT? Okay, then: Tomato and Mayonnaise. A Match Made in Heaven.
Something that will seem like a tangent but isn't: one of my earliest moments of (truly visceral) identification with a fictional being came to me when reading Harriet the Spy. (Dear me. I have just googled that title and learned of a film adaptation of that truly great book. Why? WHY?! Why was that necessary in this world?) You've all read that book, right? If not, just adopt a ten year old, for a few days really, no big deal, so you can have an excuse to read the books they check out of the school library. This book is a gem, and I read it many times and loved it, and wrote a book report on it when I was about 12, and naturally thought Harriet was the coolest, smartest, most sensitive kid around. Now, on top of her burgeoning literary talent (point of identification number one? Or rather: I am jealous of those people that carry a notebook around with them everywhere and just write. Write write write. And then become writers. And this will take me on a slippery incoherent tangent slope of how the fact that those famous bloggers I mentioned become famous writers and sell their books does not necessarily mean that what they, or I, fill the blogosphere with is truly significant in any way and worth procrastinating on. It's all a capitalistic bubble that has gone berserk and hopefully will explode soon before global warming kills us all. But I would like to someday write my own stage adaptation of a tragic Greek myth and I think it might happen without me magically transforming myself into one of those notebook-carrying, napkin-scribbling, waiting-to-be writers, but I still hold a sort of self-belittling resentment to those types. So…) besides the literary thing that made me feel I'm kinda like Harriet, all this girl ever wants for lunch is a tomato sandwich. She adamantly refuses to have any other kind of sandwich in her lunchbox. Now I didn't really get it at first, until some point in the book where she starts praising the sublimely perfect viscosity of the union of Tomato and Mayonnaise that materializes between two slices of bread. (She didn't exactly say it like that. I will have to look it up and quote it. Exciting prospect.) And then I understood, of course. It's a Tomato AND MAYONNAISE sandwich. Why didn't she say so in the first place? Indeed, there is no reason for any other sandwich to exist on earth. Harriet? She's smart. And gastronomically articulate. I like her.
And I've liked her ever since, and consider her the ultimate authority on the necessity of Mayonnaise, preferably in the vicinity of a tomato, in my life.
P.S.
I can't give Harriet sole responsibility for my mayonnaise fix. I'm pretty sure my mother had something to do with it… I remember recounting to my mother the exciting find concerning the contents of Harriet's favorite sandwich. She did that eyebrows-arched, blissfully half-smiling chin-rocking nod of hers, which was the ultimate sign of approval of the palate-soul-mate I had found in Harriet.
Me and mom, we had a moment there.
My mother used to make this when I was a child (and, after trying out some alternative recipes, I am back to hers: one whole egg, a pinch of salt, a heaped spoon of dijon mustard, a splash of cider-vinegar, and one cup of canola-oil). Then she stopped making it for fear of salmonella. Since reading in The Joy of Cooking (one word: get yourselves that book) that one can procure fresh pasteurized eggs (who knew? I mean, really, who knew how far this "land of opportunities" will go in blowing my mind), and then figuring out which of the two supermarkets in my neighborhoods holds them, I have started making my own, free of hypochondriac qualms. You put the ingredients, in that order, in a glass jar, you stick the stick-blender inside and you push the button. Do not move. After about 10-15 seconds you can start moving the blender around in slightly circular motions, as much as the jar allows, to incorporate the rest of the oil on top. That's IT. I could just have this on toast for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Some of you will probably be grossed out by this revelation, and I must confess I think my husband still is to some extent. On the other hand, said husband, if he had a blog, would post an Ode to Eggplant and would wax lyrical of its resemblance to, are you seated?, the Banana. So he's got his own metaphorical, quirky food preferences. And he just somehow lives with my obsessive love of mayo. And he already knows he should not venture to disagree with me when I say that mine is better than the ghastly Hellmann's, and that I can explain precisely why, but that as long as I live in the land-of-opportunities-and-fresh-pasteurized-eggs and have my wits about me and the physical strength, I will not deign to give him occasion to even have to hesitate and choose between H's mayo and his wife's. Because I do not want him to make that mistake. Neither does he - he knows I will kick him out. So I just keep a jar of fresh home-made mayo in the fridge. Out of altruism.
Now, part of why husband and myself still live in the same house, is that in some, select few (read: can be counted on a single hand. A four-fingered Bart Simpson hand) respects, our culinary inclinations concur. Most notably in the case of the Tomato. We both agree that if all vegetables on the planet had to go extinct except one of our choice, it would be this one. We further agree that a tomato-hating person is what we call in Hebrew psul-hitun, i.e., a person whom morality decries as ineligible for marriage. Good thing we found each other. Interestingly, I have come to realize that what tomato-haters hate about the tomato is essentially what makes this fruity vegetable so wonderful and indispensable in my life: its mushy gooey-ness that moistens everything it touches with a sweet tartiness. Do you see where I'm getting at? NO?! Do I have to SPELL IT OUT? Okay, then: Tomato and Mayonnaise. A Match Made in Heaven.
Something that will seem like a tangent but isn't: one of my earliest moments of (truly visceral) identification with a fictional being came to me when reading Harriet the Spy. (Dear me. I have just googled that title and learned of a film adaptation of that truly great book. Why? WHY?! Why was that necessary in this world?) You've all read that book, right? If not, just adopt a ten year old, for a few days really, no big deal, so you can have an excuse to read the books they check out of the school library. This book is a gem, and I read it many times and loved it, and wrote a book report on it when I was about 12, and naturally thought Harriet was the coolest, smartest, most sensitive kid around. Now, on top of her burgeoning literary talent (point of identification number one? Or rather: I am jealous of those people that carry a notebook around with them everywhere and just write. Write write write. And then become writers. And this will take me on a slippery incoherent tangent slope of how the fact that those famous bloggers I mentioned become famous writers and sell their books does not necessarily mean that what they, or I, fill the blogosphere with is truly significant in any way and worth procrastinating on. It's all a capitalistic bubble that has gone berserk and hopefully will explode soon before global warming kills us all. But I would like to someday write my own stage adaptation of a tragic Greek myth and I think it might happen without me magically transforming myself into one of those notebook-carrying, napkin-scribbling, waiting-to-be writers, but I still hold a sort of self-belittling resentment to those types. So…) besides the literary thing that made me feel I'm kinda like Harriet, all this girl ever wants for lunch is a tomato sandwich. She adamantly refuses to have any other kind of sandwich in her lunchbox. Now I didn't really get it at first, until some point in the book where she starts praising the sublimely perfect viscosity of the union of Tomato and Mayonnaise that materializes between two slices of bread. (She didn't exactly say it like that. I will have to look it up and quote it. Exciting prospect.) And then I understood, of course. It's a Tomato AND MAYONNAISE sandwich. Why didn't she say so in the first place? Indeed, there is no reason for any other sandwich to exist on earth. Harriet? She's smart. And gastronomically articulate. I like her.
And I've liked her ever since, and consider her the ultimate authority on the necessity of Mayonnaise, preferably in the vicinity of a tomato, in my life.
P.S.
I can't give Harriet sole responsibility for my mayonnaise fix. I'm pretty sure my mother had something to do with it… I remember recounting to my mother the exciting find concerning the contents of Harriet's favorite sandwich. She did that eyebrows-arched, blissfully half-smiling chin-rocking nod of hers, which was the ultimate sign of approval of the palate-soul-mate I had found in Harriet.
Me and mom, we had a moment there.
I guess this would be the Introduction
So. I can't believe I've started a blog. Who do I think I am, dooce? No. But - that's who I'd like to be when I grow up! A woman who has gifts sent in the mail to her from readers, and tweets about the misadventures of getting her washing machine fixed. And makes a living for her whole family off her blog and the whole dooce-phenomenon that emanated from it. Yeah, that sounds about right as far as my career aspirations go. But let's get this straight. First of all, I am not a mommy-blogger (alas, I am not a mommy). Though, strange as it may sound, I initially got into reading blogs through some of the most famous moms in the blogosphere. So, with all fairness, they (or you? is this how this medium works? I am supposed to assume they might be reading this?) are acknowledged as a source of inspiration for me here.
Nor will I ever be a fashion blogger, especially not one of those who take a picture of their daily outfit, that is a DAILY picture of themselves, and analyze it to bits. Don't get me wrong, I am obsessively narcissistic - just not in that way. OK, I confess, the best of these have been interesting to read, and fun to use for stylistic inspiration, or the other way around.
Nor, unfortunately for some (i.e., my husband), is this going to be a food blog (now really who do I think I am, ZM?). No, the world has enough of what-I-baked-today blogs written by far better, more experienced cooks than myself, and oh, look at the pretty pictures, here's where I pour the egg mixture into the flour and spice mixture, why yes, I am an octopus, how else do you think I take these gorgeously-lit photos while pouring batter into a pan? NO. Frankly, as far as photography is concerned, I am just not talented enough, and it is not going to become a serious hobby of mine with some practice and a better flash, sorry (so as not to leave your eye-candy craving unsatisfied, I urge you to click here).
Come on, I just barely understand how to, what do you youngsters call it, link stuff in this here blog. Do not expect this medium to be any more technologically oriented than that. More than what it inherently is, I mean. The sheer fact that I am actively contributing to the amount of rant and ramble that already exists on the public platform known as the world wide web is a high-techy miracle and, more than that, an epistolary revolution.
Let me go on with the disclaimers just for a bit - I guess whenever I am really personally engaged in something I write, I feel obliged to explain my sources, and clarify the hell out of why I am writing it in the first place. I call it meta-me that's doing that introductory part of the writing - because this last point about epistles may not be so obvious. I am, or should I frankly say was (but would like to think of myself as still am), an avid letter-writer. I will, maybe, elaborate on my letter-writing history in a later post, but let's just say that my family and friends at home seem to enjoy my long, overflowing with minutiae, sporadically sent emails about my pre-graduate-school adventures in the Midwest. This blog will probably replace those. So, is that what this is, an extended travel-journal? Yes, I guess, and if anything, it could fit the category of "exciting and not so exciting (read: culinary and not so culinary) mishaps of my life abroad". I hope said family and friends will forgive the not-so-obvious choice of writing in English instead of Hebrew, their mother tongue, while these Israelis, let's face it, constitute my sole readers (at least of this first post. Let us not forget my dream of internet-fame and thousands of anonymous strangers virtually poring over my life!). Why should I suddenly go public with my everyday impressions of life in America, academic misdemeanors, and experiments in the kitchen, I do not know. I simply do not have a truly convincing answer to the question why this blog exists.
If you think this is starting to sound too apologetic, you're right. I graduated and then TA-ed in a prestigious but malfunctioning program in the Humanities division of a prestigious but malfunctioning institution: I got a lot of experience in, and then was valedictorian (seriously) of humanities apologetics. I am soon to be a Classics graduate student who will, unless things drastically change, write about Greek Tragedy. In other words, blog or no blog, I could, and probably (that is, hopefully) will, make a living writing about the question why write. And read. And live. The End.
HOWEVER. I wasn't totally honest with you before.* And I've already started to give it away: I will indeed post about food. And if anything finally did make me sit down and write - no, it wasn't my husband's inciting to "take lots of pictures of everything we make" (Generally speaking, I do the baking. He does the stocking up on chicken-, fish-, and beef-stock. And touches the meat. We're really gendered that way) "…and then next year, when we're both graduate students and have no time to cook, we'll post those photos on your what-we-ate-today blog. They won't understand HOW WE DO IT!" Sorry. No. - it was a jar of home-made mayonnaise. Which warrants a post of its own. That is, an ode.
So yes, the time left before I start grad school I intend to devote (among other things! like getting my Latin grammar back in shape! I PROMISE…!) to improving my baking skills, buying baking paraphernalia, and in general baking a lot.
*But here's the real, hardcore piece of honesty. As some of you may have guessed, a possible reason behind this blog is The Event that Shall NOT BE Named - TESNOBEN (yeah, yeah, lamest acronym ever. Just keep the suggestions pouring in). In other words, the only remotely appropriate alternative title to my blog at this particular point in my life would most likely be: My sister died when I was 27. Subtitle: The hard part was that I kept on living.
Whoa, whoAA! Too much information? Well, yeah, but you know what? I figured that a) my closer friends, who know of TESNOBEN, were already kinda saying something along those lines to themselves, or as my dear friend TK put it: Latin is a dead language and all those dead people ever wrote is essentially about death anyway. For your emotional health: Bring on the butter! (I'm actually curious to hear if TK approves of this exhibitionist splurge and whether or not it's therapeutic) b) my remoter friends did not just suffer from TMI-induced choking on their latte, for they have stopped reading, out of boredom and embarrassment, somewhere along "alas, I am not a mommy", and c) if there is any one of you anonymous readers out there, you might think this is an interesting turn of events that warrants your attention to my share of humiliatingly-sincere internet rant. Enjoy.
Nor will I ever be a fashion blogger, especially not one of those who take a picture of their daily outfit, that is a DAILY picture of themselves, and analyze it to bits. Don't get me wrong, I am obsessively narcissistic - just not in that way. OK, I confess, the best of these have been interesting to read, and fun to use for stylistic inspiration, or the other way around.
Nor, unfortunately for some (i.e., my husband), is this going to be a food blog (now really who do I think I am, ZM?). No, the world has enough of what-I-baked-today blogs written by far better, more experienced cooks than myself, and oh, look at the pretty pictures, here's where I pour the egg mixture into the flour and spice mixture, why yes, I am an octopus, how else do you think I take these gorgeously-lit photos while pouring batter into a pan? NO. Frankly, as far as photography is concerned, I am just not talented enough, and it is not going to become a serious hobby of mine with some practice and a better flash, sorry (so as not to leave your eye-candy craving unsatisfied, I urge you to click here).
Come on, I just barely understand how to, what do you youngsters call it, link stuff in this here blog. Do not expect this medium to be any more technologically oriented than that. More than what it inherently is, I mean. The sheer fact that I am actively contributing to the amount of rant and ramble that already exists on the public platform known as the world wide web is a high-techy miracle and, more than that, an epistolary revolution.
Let me go on with the disclaimers just for a bit - I guess whenever I am really personally engaged in something I write, I feel obliged to explain my sources, and clarify the hell out of why I am writing it in the first place. I call it meta-me that's doing that introductory part of the writing - because this last point about epistles may not be so obvious. I am, or should I frankly say was (but would like to think of myself as still am), an avid letter-writer. I will, maybe, elaborate on my letter-writing history in a later post, but let's just say that my family and friends at home seem to enjoy my long, overflowing with minutiae, sporadically sent emails about my pre-graduate-school adventures in the Midwest. This blog will probably replace those. So, is that what this is, an extended travel-journal? Yes, I guess, and if anything, it could fit the category of "exciting and not so exciting (read: culinary and not so culinary) mishaps of my life abroad". I hope said family and friends will forgive the not-so-obvious choice of writing in English instead of Hebrew, their mother tongue, while these Israelis, let's face it, constitute my sole readers (at least of this first post. Let us not forget my dream of internet-fame and thousands of anonymous strangers virtually poring over my life!). Why should I suddenly go public with my everyday impressions of life in America, academic misdemeanors, and experiments in the kitchen, I do not know. I simply do not have a truly convincing answer to the question why this blog exists.
If you think this is starting to sound too apologetic, you're right. I graduated and then TA-ed in a prestigious but malfunctioning program in the Humanities division of a prestigious but malfunctioning institution: I got a lot of experience in, and then was valedictorian (seriously) of humanities apologetics. I am soon to be a Classics graduate student who will, unless things drastically change, write about Greek Tragedy. In other words, blog or no blog, I could, and probably (that is, hopefully) will, make a living writing about the question why write. And read. And live. The End.
HOWEVER. I wasn't totally honest with you before.* And I've already started to give it away: I will indeed post about food. And if anything finally did make me sit down and write - no, it wasn't my husband's inciting to "take lots of pictures of everything we make" (Generally speaking, I do the baking. He does the stocking up on chicken-, fish-, and beef-stock. And touches the meat. We're really gendered that way) "…and then next year, when we're both graduate students and have no time to cook, we'll post those photos on your what-we-ate-today blog. They won't understand HOW WE DO IT!" Sorry. No. - it was a jar of home-made mayonnaise. Which warrants a post of its own. That is, an ode.
So yes, the time left before I start grad school I intend to devote (among other things! like getting my Latin grammar back in shape! I PROMISE…!) to improving my baking skills, buying baking paraphernalia, and in general baking a lot.
*But here's the real, hardcore piece of honesty. As some of you may have guessed, a possible reason behind this blog is The Event that Shall NOT BE Named - TESNOBEN (yeah, yeah, lamest acronym ever. Just keep the suggestions pouring in). In other words, the only remotely appropriate alternative title to my blog at this particular point in my life would most likely be: My sister died when I was 27. Subtitle: The hard part was that I kept on living.
Whoa, whoAA! Too much information? Well, yeah, but you know what? I figured that a) my closer friends, who know of TESNOBEN, were already kinda saying something along those lines to themselves, or as my dear friend TK put it: Latin is a dead language and all those dead people ever wrote is essentially about death anyway. For your emotional health: Bring on the butter! (I'm actually curious to hear if TK approves of this exhibitionist splurge and whether or not it's therapeutic) b) my remoter friends did not just suffer from TMI-induced choking on their latte, for they have stopped reading, out of boredom and embarrassment, somewhere along "alas, I am not a mommy", and c) if there is any one of you anonymous readers out there, you might think this is an interesting turn of events that warrants your attention to my share of humiliatingly-sincere internet rant. Enjoy.
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