Turkey Day

Sometimes I really miss the US, especially on the forth Thursday in November. There's no point in trying to celebrate Thanksgiving on the kibbutz because it's so specifically tied to the settling of America. Besides, where would you find a whole turkey? In Israel only the legs and wings are grown.

Thanksgiving is the one American holiday a Jew can enjoy guilt-free. At Christmas time you can see the lights and decorations, hear the carols and sip the eggnog and pretend not to like it. Those Christians are so over-the-top. "What about your freakish fondness for fruitcake," you ask? You mean a Jew can't have a sweet tooth? But Thanksgiving has no particular religious component other than the thanking G-d thing. It's just an excuse for families to gather and fabulously over-eat.

My mother would always make the bird with her chestnut stuffing. It was her mother's recipe, she said, and it was the normal bread stuffing flavored with onions and sage plus the heavenly addition of cinnamon and lots of chestnuts. I loved it not only because it smelled and tasted great, but because it was a tangible connection to the grandmother I never knew, she having died before I was born.

When chestnuts arrive at the kibbutz shop, as they should do in a few weeks, I'll try to recreate the stuffing, but in a chicken not a turkey. It won't be the same of course. But at least a chicken will fit in the oven.

Just One Bite

There's nothing I like more than a good vampire story. A sultry blood-sucker looking longingly into your eyes – what could be more appealing than that? "Buffy" was my favorite television series ever. I'm thinking about this because I just heard on the news that vamp lit is all the rage.

Some things you cannot talk to kibbutzniks about. I mean Israeli kibbutzniks, not us born-elsewhere transplants. Mention a fondness for science fiction or, I guess vampire stuff would qualify, occult fiction and they'll look at you as if you're from outer space. It's a subject that has zero resonance and I'm wondering why.

You'd think in a country perpetually at war, burdened with an inept government and leaders for whom mediocrity would be a vast improvement, that people would be desperate to escape into fantasy, although I suppose that's what the peace process is for. Kibbutzniks can't even turn to religion for comfort because they're all devout atheists.

There's something about growing grapefruit that makes people too down-to-earth. Put down the hoe for a while, I say, and think about the stars whizzing above our heads and all the forms of life they may support. Dream of the dark stranger who comes to murmur in your ear as he bites your neck. It's very pleasant.

Coughing Up the Cash

I flipped through the weekend newspaper this morning until I came to my favorite feature, the shopping page. It shows thumbnail pictures with short descriptions of new stuff that has reached the local stores and can be had for a price. Two things caught my eye: a black plywood – plywood! – chair for 18,000 shekels and a cup and saucer for over 400 shekels.

Excuse me? Can I have read this rightly? In this time of economic melt-down complete with weeping and gnashing of teeth, what space alien from the planet Bizarro would charge these prices for these entirely common objects? And who would buy them?

Let me say plainly: I have nothing against rich people. If they want to fork over large sums of money on an opulent life style, I wish them joy. I just resent seeing them exploited by anyone who would take such sums for plywood. On the other hand, it strikes me that I could be missing the boat. I could make a papier mache table to go with the chair and sell that for, I don't know, 20,000 shekels. I could be sitting on a gold mine.

Clearly, I've been on the kibbutz too long. Simple life, simple house. Carefree. I'm out of touch with the fashionable world. Economic crisis or no, life must go on and people must be chic. I just want to know when plywood became chic. What's next, MDF Nouveau?

Leaves of Grass

Just past the back of the garden, after the lawn, the boulders around the perimeter and the rosemary that grows on top of them, is a triangular section of dense, wheat-like ornamental grass. It's more than a meter high with beautiful seed heads that wave in unison in the breeze.

The odd bit is that, like the corn field in the film, "Field of Dreams", things go into it and things come out of it. But you never see them go in and then come out. I've watched pets including my own cats dive into it and since they always turn up for dinner I haven't worried. Yesterday I saw three of the neighbors' children gallantly fight their way in, the grass completely swallowing them up. As I continued with my task, namely, washing dishes, I heard their squeals and laughter so I knew they were in no danger. But I never actually saw them come out.

I don't mean to suggest that this is some Bermuda Triangle wannabe. I just cannot escape the feeling that something captivating or at least entertaining is happening there. Various species, dogs, cats and boys disappear, staying gone for quite a while, apparently having a high old time.

I remember as a child going with my friends to a wooded park near our homes. We would pick out a secluded spot bounded by trees where we could play our games. It was an adult-free, intrusion-free zone where for a few hours we were totally happy. I suspect the grassy triangle may be serving a similar purpose. But it will remain a mystery. I have no wish to intrude. Everyone needs a place to get away to now and then.

Crunchy Soup

One of the finest elements of Israeli cuisine is something called soup almonds. Why they're called this, I don't know since they neither look nor taste like almonds. What they are, are tiny, crisp, puffy squares of stuff that – this part of the name does not mislead – are intended for soup. What do they taste like? Fried wonton is the closest thing I can think of.

Once upon a time – and I am old enough to remember this – meals in the kibbutz dining hall were free. Three times a day you could go and feast on all you could grab for nothing. Then soup almonds were a rarity, trotted out only for the Shabbat evening chicken soup. But of course, socialism has been as big a failure here as it has been everywhere else (Obama supporters be warned) so now most everything has been privatized. It's a testament to capitalism that soup almonds are now readily available in the dining hall. You can buy a little bag of them for a shekel.

I put them in everything. I add them to my rice to make it crunchy. You can add them to broccoli to make it crunchy and lessen the cooked-broccoli taste. In fact, they're so versatile that you'd think their creators would advertise accordingly, but it doesn't seem to have occurred to them. I think they should put me on retainer.

NEWS FLASH: I just heard that a big piece of space junk, a container full of ammonia, having been discarded by the Mir space station a year ago will strike the earth tomorrow. No one knows where it will hit. It's like a great, big lottery. If I were a little more paranoid I'd plan to spend the day hiding in the house with a helmet or two on my head. But I never win anything, so I don't expect my odds here will be any better.