Saturday, July 26, 2008

Power can never be taken lightly

Coming home from work is always my favorite part of the day. Stepping through the door into the warmth of orange walls and wood is a pleasure that never disappoints. I admit here to one bad habit that I developed after my husband, may his memory be blessed, passed away. The first thing I do is turn on the television. I like the sound of voices in the house and even if I am not exactly watching, without the TV the house is just too quiet.

On Wednesday afternoon we all got SMS's informing us that the power is out in most of the kibbutz and that the situation is being worked on. Sure enough, when I get home there is no electricity. It won't be long, I thought, so I do all the straightening/wiping/sweeping/weed-pulling I can bear. Still no electricity. Have a shower, lovely and cool. When I get out – still no power.

This is starting to look serious. Catch up on all the unread newspapers. Now what? Around about 6pm my neighbor has news: the power is back in most of the kibbutz but for us it will take a while longer. This is when I start to lose my mind. What on earth am I to do with myself? Read my book? No, that takes concentration, and all I can think about is the ice cream melting in the freezer. 7pm – still nothing. In desperation I start playing with the cell phone just to see the glowing screen.

7:30 – it's starting to get dark, where are the candles? 8 – it is dark and there aren't enough candles in Israel to properly light this barn. There will never be electricity again. It will be like living in the 18th century, only without the pretty clothes. 8:15 – appliances are beeping, the fridge starts to hum. The power is back! Dinner can be cooked, life can be lived, the mind can be entertained. Some things just can't be taken for granted.

The next morning I get an SMS: a broken pipe means there will be no water for a while. Here we go again.

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Some like it hot

It's high summer in Israel. Not a cloud in the sky. Hot, hot, fry-your-egg-on-the-pavement hot. And humid in this part of the country. I love it. I love being able to open up all the windows and let the breeze waft. I love the sun-drenched greenery all around. Most of all, I love not having to struggle to keep warm.

I am always amazed by the number of Israelis I hear complaining about the heat. I realize it is human nature to complain about the weather. Sometime around January I do it ad nauseam. However I cannot really understand those who long for the cold, gray, rainy days of winter. Considering human origins somewhere in Africa, you'd think we'd all be hard-wired to love the heat and eschew the glacial fjords of Scandinavia. But it's not so.

To me, this weather is glorious. It's a Saturday afternoon and except for an occasional twitter of birds there is not a sound to be heard. No screaming children, no roaring all-terrain vehicles, nothing but complete quiet. I guess it's hot out there. G-d, I love summer!

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

The hunt for purslane

When I was a child there were two bushes in front of our house. Along with needle-like thorns they bore the very reddest of berries. My parents impressed upon me that these berries were not to be touched. I was not to eat them. I was not to give them to anybody else to eat. They were poison.

Some children might have found them irresistible as a result, the delicious temptation of the forbidden fruit (and wouldn't you have expected G-d to know better as he stocked his Garden of Eden, but I digress.) I however had the opposite reaction. I developed an aversion to eating anything I see growing in anybody's garden. Don't bring me your home-grown tomatoes or zucchini, I won't touch them. And I would never, ever eat a mushroom that didn't come wrapped in cellophane, no matter how expert the hand that picked it.

So one day last week a friend, a fellow American expatriate, breezed in to tell me all about her new discovery of purslane. It's a common weed that's edible, she said, and what is more, it's a good source of omega-3. This got my attention. Omega-3 is the stuff we're all encouraged to eat fish for or at least to plop down hundreds of shekels for the capsule form. And purslane is free. After providing me with a sample of what to look for growing in the dirt, she breezed out, leaving me with a dilemma.

After some searching, I found what I think may be purslane growing by the lamp post in front of a neighbor's house. I pulled a few plants out of the ground and stuck them in a pot of dirt where they are growing nicely. And quickly. They're tough little plants to be doing so well after such rough treatment, all of which makes me suspicious. What if I got the wrong plants? What if they're not edible at all? What if they're poison? You can see my dilemma: on the one hand, free omega-3. On the other hand, agonizing death by alkaloid poisoning. Do I dare try it? Tonight I chopped and sprinkled a bit of it on my cottage cheese. The taste is rather lawnish, but no worse that parsley. Did I get it right? Only time will tell.

Saturday, July 5, 2008

How many kibbutzniks does it take to change a light bulb?

One of the conveniences of kibbutz life is the availability of trained professionals, like electricians, to help with any problem you might have. Living in Real World, America I never actually saw an electrician in the flesh. They were the guys who worked in your apartment before you moved in, and then you had no more use for them. If you had a light bulb on the ceiling that had to be changed, you either climbed the ladder and did it yourself -- in my case, not likely -- or you cultivated friendships with tall people who could be imposed upon to do it for you.

But in the kibbutz, you phone the electrician or today just put in a request through the website, and a good-natured guy shows up with a ladder and quickly solves the problem, kindly asking if anything else needs doing before he leaves. It may be the American in me, but this is a privilege I don't like to abuse. So I will do whatever it takes to avoid making that call.

All this came to mind the other night when I turned on the bedside light. There was a pop, there were sparks, and the light bulb came shooting out of the lamp, landing in my sandal. I was amazed. This was the first time I had seen the electrical equivalent of projectile vomiting. Then came the realization that I was in real trouble: the glass bulb had separated from the metal base which was still in the lamp.

How to get it out? Pliers? Too big. Fingers? Too tender. I remembered hearing that a raw potato could be jammed onto the base letting you unscrew it, but this seemed like a wanton waste of food at today's prices. Thank G-d for eyebrow tweezers! With this divinely inspired tool I was able to grab and gently turn the base, getting it out. And that is how one kibbutznik changed a light bulb without the help of an electrician.