Hanukkah Guilt

Now that Hanukkah is finally over – ok, it’s been over for quite a few days – it is time to confront the elephant in the room. Hanukkah guilt. And no, I’m not talking about the jelly donuts.

Eight days is a long holiday. 2000 years ago life had a more leisurely pace, unless of course you were busy running for your life from the Roman Legion. But most of the time things were kind of slow. You’d get up in the morning, milk the goat, tend the wheat field maybe, bake a bit of bread, but that was pretty much it. Lighting candles every night was no big deal because you had to do it anyway if you wanted to see anything.

But in the 21st century life is more hectic. With all the things that each day contains it’s hard to remember to light the candles every night, the candles that come thoughtfully packaged 44 to a box, the exact number you will need. This is especially true if you don’t have children around to tug at you and nag. So after Hanukkah is over, you’re stuck with the box that still has anywhere from 4 to 15 left in it.

What are you supposed to do with them? They’re too small to use in regular candle holders and too big to use on birthday cakes. And they’re multi-colored so they don’t fit in with any kind of décor. So the box hangs around in a kitchen drawer, reminding you of the simple ritual that should not have been too much to ask and still you forgot. Guilt. When I moved out of my old house I found a total of seven boxes stashed in various drawers. Guilt x7.

I can’t help but think that there are other people that this happens to. I can’t be the only one.

The Staff of Life

The young people of the kibbutz are raising money to buy equipment, like a new TV, for their lounge. They do this by selling hot, fresh hallah at noon on Fridays. This makes me very happy. Bread always does.

Have you ever noticed that bread is the one thing you can eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner seven days a week and not get tired of it? There’s a reason for that: we’re hard-wired to love bread. Just the scent of it baking in the oven can inspire rapture. It’s the staff of life.

So you can imagine my consternation when my doctor innocently suggested that I cut my carbs by 20%. Eat less bread? You might as well tell me to breathe 20% less air. Nobody ever tells you to eat fewer cucumbers. It’s only the stuff you really love that you have to give up.

I’m already looking forward to the taste of the dense, sweet, braided loaf tomorrow. Some simple pleasures cannot be denied. I’ll make up the percentages later.

Snapshots Not a Snap

As you can probably see, I have at long last bought a camera. I’ve taken a first few pictures of my house so I can show my dear ones in the States how I’m living, in the process adorning this page with a picture of my back door.

It’s a simple, little camera of the point-and-shoot variety (a Canon A1100) and not at all expensive. It takes lovely pictures to my untrained eye. But whenever I buy anything I feel slightly sick afterward. The more expensive it was, the sicker I feel. I suspect my husband of blessed memory had some nefarious operant conditioning performed on me while I slept because otherwise I can’t explain this. I used to love to shop.

But that is nothing compared to the sheer terror that awaits when you get the camera home and open the box. Then you have to contend with finding where the batteries go, how to open the place where they go, insert the memory card and figure out what all those little buttons with the unintelligible symbols instead of actual words do. And heaven help you if you press the wrong one. At least the instructions were mercifully in blessed English. Of course, in the olden days you just had to know how to load the film.

Oddly enough, the hardest part was transferring the pictures to the computer. I say “oddly” because I work with computers all day long and I’m not afraid of them and I’m not mystified by them. I actually like them. But try as I might I could not get the computer to recognize the camera. Two phone calls to the service department of the camera store were not much help. Then in desperation I rang my friend, Drora, who’s a wiz with all things technical. “Use the USB port at the back of the computer instead of the front,” was her advice. Presto, it worked like a charm.

I plan to illustrate these pages with my photos in the fullness of time. For the present, I’m still a little shaken and suffering from technoshock. It will pass. I will learn how to use all this stuff. But my question for the universe is this: why is nothing ever easy?

If It Ain't Broke, Don't Fix It

Late last week Maabarot voted to remain a kibbutz. You probably heard my big old sigh of relief. I expected the vote to go the other way and was very pleasantly surprised.

What am I talking about? A self-assembled committee put together a proposal to start paying wages for the work the members do just like in the real world. And just like in the real world, the more important your job, the more money you would make. Then the members would pay taxes back to the kibbutz to keep the place running. For months we’ve been bombarded with strident propaganda about how we could forge a better kibbutz. This got right up my nose: I think the kibbutz is already good enough.

Capitalism is a great system, especially for over-achievers, providing prosperity to its citizens. And for anyone who wants to live like that, there are plenty of cities to choose from. But it’s not the kibbutz way. Here we get a monthly budget, everybody gets the same no matter what they do and everyone’s equal. I like this about the place, the Fantasy Island aspect: no material worries, not much money, but enough to get by and even save a little. I didn’t want to give it up to start worrying about scraping by and paying bills in my old age. And I didn’t want to see the unemployed begging for food in front of the dining hall.

I thought I was in the minority, but apparently I wasn’t. The proposal was overwhelmingly rejected and I am grateful. Life is good here on Fantasy Island, so why fix what ain’t broke?

Season Shock

Nothing is harder than getting out of bed on a cold, rainy day. When the sun is shining in a clear, blue sky and birds are tweeting it’s easy to be optimistic about the day’s prospects. But this oppressive gloom does not inspire confidence.

Israel’s seasons turn on a knife’s edge. You flip from hot, sunny, sandal-wearing summer to miserable winter in the space of 24 hours. It’s a bit extreme and is, I think, the result of celestial bad planning. Seasons should transition gradually, almost imperceptibly, charmingly. Not this press-of-the-button, sink-or-swim method. It’s just not right.

Yes, all the people of Israel are rejoicing at the huge quantity of rain that has fallen in the last two days. All the people, except for me. My question is this: if everyone likes rain so much, why do they run for cover when it starts? I suspect this precipitation infatuation is just so much intellectualization.

It’s human nature to love sun and warmth and blue sky. We find it cheerful. We may know we need water and that is has to rain from the sky, but we’d really prefer it didn’t. It’s how we’re wired. Rain and gloom belong in England and upstate New York. This is the Mediterranean, for heaven’s sake.

Oslo Comedy Central

It’s been a long time since I laughed so hard. The Nobel Committee has awarded the Peace Prize to Barack Obama for – absolutely nothing. In one stroke they have turned a once-venerable political award into vaudevillian slapstick. The Norwegians are such comedians! Who knew?

Usually I stay well away from politics in this space. But I cannot let this pass. A Nobel Prize has been awarded to a man who has not accomplished anything other than getting elected apparently for making a few speeches. And he didn’t even write those. Of course, Obama does know how to read a teleprompter. That’s worthy of an award. Plus he did manage single handedly to stop the peace talks in our part of the world. By loudly demanding that Israel stop building houses in all “settlements” including Jerusalem, something no self-respecting Israeli government would ever submit to, he caused the Palestinian Authority to refuse to negotiate until this demand was met. Nice going, Barack. No wonder they adore you in Oslo.

Who was passed over so that Obama could be rewarded? Only some people who actually risked their lives to do a bit of good in the world. People like Dr. Sima Samar who fought for women’s rights in Afghanistan against the Taliban and who really ought to try to find a way to sue the Nobel Committee for malpractice. It is here that the Norwegian joke falls a little flat.

Still, those wild and crazy Norwegians – who can resist them? The Committee might find itself winning a Tony for Best Performance in a Farce. In any case, I invite speculation on next year’s winner. Paris Hilton? Hugo Chavez? I’ve got it: Homer Simpson!

A-tone Deaf, Not Quite

Once again we are about to slide into Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. It’s a lovely, peaceful day, all local television and radio stations are off the air and everything just stops for about 30 hours. Its main feature is a 25-hour fast which is why it’s the most dreaded day of the year.

The logic for the fast is that it frees you to concentrate on spiritual matters, reflect on a yearful of misdeeds and consider atoning for them. Right. Except there’s a flaw in the argument: deny human beings food and water for more than, oh, I don’t know, 7 or 8 hours, 12 tops, and all they will be able to think about is food and water. It’s how we’re wired. Our animal needs have to be met first and then when we’re comfortable we can contemplate loftier subjects.

Rabbis are smart people. Very smart, and educated. So how they came up with this, I can’t imagine. And then, how did they convince an entire people to go along with it? Today if somebody got up and said, “Hey, let’s all fast for a day and pray about our sins,” a solid “Get lost” is probably the politest thing he would hear as he was pelted with apple cores. But somehow, long ago our forefathers thought it was a good idea, and now we’re stuck with it.

I won’t be fasting, I guess that’s pretty much clear. Most people on the kibbutz don’t.
I will enjoy the quiet day without the roar of traffic in the background. And just maybe I will reflect on matters of the spirit. But when I do, I will be well fed and hydrated, and comfortable.

Rosh Hashana Redux

The high holy days have come again. Rosh Hashana, a two-day festival of honey and apples, is well underway and rain has arrived on cue. Everything about it is entirely predictable which, after all, is how people like their holidays.

Rosh Hashana and Passover, not Hanukkah, are the gift-giving holidays in Israel. You get small gifts from your workplace and from the kibbutz. This year the kibbutz gave us a package containing a cookbook of recipes from kibbutz members – I’ll look at that later – a jar of honey, some chocolate, a calendar featuring pictures of factory departments – jeez, these people have got to get lives, this is Socialist Realism run amok – and a choice of potted plants.

I chose a pretty myrtle plant which had been trimmed into a topiary ball. Since I have absolutely zero experience with myrtle I’m just hoping I can keep it alive, unlike last Passover’s begonia. I thought I understood begonias. I kept it in the kitchen window and it thrived through April, May, and June. Then in July it started to contract. This is never good. Leaves started to wither, branches rot and fall over. By the end of August there was nothing to do but pull the sheet up over its head. I don’t understand what happened.

So, in the triumph of hope over experience, I have installed the myrtle in the begonia’s vacated place. What worries me is the carpet of little fallen leaves – all the myrtles on offer had this – at the base. Is it supposed to do this? It doesn’t seem very economical, botanically speaking. Still, it’s showing some signs of actual growth, so I’m hopeful. But then, I’m always hopeful.

Rosh Hashana

Wishing everyone a happy, healthy and prosperous New Year. Shana tova!

First the Retail, Then the Therapy

When I first came to Israel I thought shopping here was a blood sport. You could walk into a department store, and despite the evidence of personnel milling around, you could not get one of them to wait on you and take your money. Sometimes you could throw an object – this is the blood sport part – and hit one of them hard enough to draw attention, then you’d get down on your knees and spread your money out before you and maybe, maybe you’d leave the store with the desired purchase.

After all that, heaven alone could help you if there was a problem with the object and you wanted to return it. Not only would the store not take it back and not give you your money, it would deny ever selling it to you. But I have a receipt! “Anybody can forge a piece of paper.”

The commercial culture did a 180 about a decade or so ago. Now you cannot walk from one end of a store to the other without having to stop every few yards to scrape off the accumulated sales clerks you have clinging to you. The cosmetics departments are the worst. If you’re caught giving even a passing glance at any of the displays, an eager Russian woman will tackle you to the floor and won’t let you up until you hear all the things that are on sale. “Buy one concealer, get 10 free!” I still have 10 from last year, I plead.

Of course, the modern world has provided the perfect solution when something really needs to be bought: online shopping. It’s hassle-free, or relatively so, your purchase arrives at your door and you don’t get battered in the process. The only thing you have to worry about is identity theft.

That Funny Green Powder

One of the miracles of Israeli life is zaatar. It’s an herb blend with some sesame seeds thrown in – everything in Israel has sesame seeds thrown in – but the main ingredient is hyssop.

My first experience of it was when I learning Hebrew and working on Kibbutz Ramat Rachel in Jerusalem. Our teacher took our class on a nighttime tour of the city, buying us beigelei – rings of bread that have nothing in common with bagels – and encouraging us to put the zaatar on them. We looked at each other and at the funny green powder with doubt and suspicion. Then one brave soul (not me) tried it and pronounced it really good. We all munched happily.

But the real initiation came a few years later when my husband and I lunched at a restaurant in a small village and were served humus topped with olive oil and zaatar. It was a revelation. I had never liked olive oil before but when mixed with zaatar it was heavenly and I was hooked.

The odd thing is that zaatar doesn’t really work on vegetables. Put it on your average green salad and the result is a big so what. But on bread with a drizzle of olive oil it is fabulous. A note to potential exporters: I think zaatar could be a hit in America, but you’d have to give it a new, pronounceable name.

Nahal Alexander

To call the Alexander a river is somewhat overstating it. The part of it that forms the northern border of Kibbutz Maabarot is little more than a drainage ditch with delusions of grandeur. In the summer, the slow-running, nearly stagnant water becomes choked with algae and is a putrid green.

This wasn’t always so. People my age tell me they remember when they were children riding on inner tubes in it all the way to the sea. While that sounds like gobs of fun, the thought of actually touching that water now not only makes my skin crawl, it makes it scamper back home to a safe corner and assume the fetal position.

Yesterday a woman’s dismembered body was found in the river, where exactly I don’t know. It’s horrific. I have watched endless “CSI” episodes and I’m a great fan of murder mysteries. But never before has it come to the stream where I live, and I am outraged.

The victim has not yet been identified, at least not to the media. But whoever she was, I want to extend my heartfelt condolences to her family and friends. I pray you will have justice.

Summer with a Vengence

I like summer, as I’ve noted before in these pages. I like the heat and the long, bright days. Most of all, I like not having to struggle to stay warm. But even for me there can be too much of a good thing.

This past week has been so hot and humid that I find myself developing a certain, shall we say, glow. This is not like me. I’m cucumber-cool. I do not perspire. Yes, I could turn on the air conditioner. I do have one that I use for heating the house in the winter. But air conditioning quickly becomes too cold for me and then when you turn it off you get hit by that blast wave of hot, humid air which seems extra-oppressive. So I prefer to do without and open up the house to the breeze.

Fortunately I have stumbled on quite an effective heat-buster: frozen grapes. You just wash them and stick them in the freezer and they’re amazing, like Popsicles that you don’t have to feel guilty about because even the Fitness Police approve of fruit. In fact, it’s so comforting that I find myself wondering what else can be eaten frozen. Carrot and cucumber slices? How about pizza? I think I’m on to something.

The Film Industry

Nothing can be more frustrating that wrestling with cling film. You try to pull out a smooth sheet but then it sticks at one end of the roll. You try to coax it free and the loose end bunches up. You tease that out as straight as you can and then the whole roll jumps out of the box and you have to start all over again. This is an engineering problem, I think. A well-designed product would unroll smoothly and stay in the box.

This has daily significance because every food item you buy in Israel has to be in some way repackaged. Everything. This is because nothing, except for excellent infant formula, comes in re-sealable packages. Whether it be frozen peas, breakfast cereal or blue cheese, once you’ve opened it unless you plan to use the whole thing – unlikely if you don’t have a family of 25 – you’re going to have to figure out a way to keep the rest. It’s a daily annoyance, one I don’t remember having in the USA.

Until very recently – listen up, America, this will make you rub your eyes in disbelief – all milk came in plastic bags. That’s right, bags. You needed a special pitcher to put one in, then you snipped off a corner to pour. Of course, re-sealing was out of the question and they often leaked. They are now thankfully pretty much gone, having been replaced by rational cartons.

What this all means is that because of cheesy, poorly-designed packaging, one is forced to use lots and lots of cling film, all of which eventually winds up in the landfill. So you know my next question: where are the Greens when you need them? Why aren’t they lobbying manufacturers for a solution? In the meantime, I’m looking for a way to cash in. I wonder what cling film stock goes for?

Laundry Day

The number of tasks a person has to complete in any given day can be staggering. Brush your teeth, shower, get dressed, feed the animals, make breakfast, wash the dishes, water the plants, make lunch, wash the dishes, dust, make dinner, wash the dishes, and then the day is gone. You get the idea. It takes endless work just to maintain your own existence.

Of course there are labor-saving devices, like washing machines. Probably most people on the kibbutz now have one. I don’t. It’s not that I have anything against them. If I had to choose between a washing machine and taking my clothes down to the river to beat them against a rock, I'd choose the machine every time. And, yes, I could budget the money to buy one.

But where would I put it? There isn’t really a space in my house marked, “Washing machine goes here.” Most people here build separate storerooms and put them in there. I could do this, too, but that would take some real money. And besides, I don’t really want to add all that sorting, washing, drying, folding, ironing to my daily to-do list. I’m much too lazy.

Fortunately, there’s another option: the kibbutz laundry. I drop off my clothes each week and get them back clean, neatly folded and ironed – even the T-shirts. Yes, there is the danger that something will get lost, I guess that should be “lost”, but most of the time it works just fine. I get my clothes, there’s less stuff for me to do every day and I can rest satisfied in the knowledge that I have provided employment to my fellow kibbutzniks. Life just doesn’t get better than this.

Salad Days

Nothing says summer like potato salad. When the weather turns reliably hot I find myself craving its creamy and crunchy pleasures. It’s only a matter of time before I boil and chop enough for a great big bowlful.

Of course, they do make potato salad in the kibbutz. But just between us, it’s pretty awful. No onions, no celery. Instead, they add canned peas and carrots. Ghastly. In fact, there are a number of classic dishes they get horribly wrong: artichokes with mayonnaise instead of garlic butter, potato soup made with chicken soup powder instead of leeks and cream, roast beef that has been boiled until you can mash it with a fork.

You get the picture. I find myself wondering how kibbutz cuisine took this left turn into dreadful. The pioneering generation came from countries with rich culinary traditions – Germany, Hungary, Russia to name a few. So what happened? Did the Old Countries forbid cooks to emigrate? Did you only go to the kibbutz movement if you lacked the cooking gene?

I have a feeling this will remain a mystery. If you try to ask people they get all defensive – “What’s wrong with the food? It’s wonderful food! Be grateful you have something to eat!” – so I‘m not going there. Tonight I will be welcoming summer with my traditional steak and potato salad feast, convinced it will be delicious. The rest of my comrades don’t know what they’re missing.

Mad Dogs and Englishmen

I guess this qualifies as old-home week. My ulpan roommate has been visiting from England. Last night as we sat in the lounge after Shabbat dinner, who breezes over but Bernard, an unforgettable Scot who had also been in the ulpan with us a hundred years ago and had not been seen since. You could have knocked me over with a feather. I mean, what are the odds?

Merle has, I think, often regretted that she didn’t stay in Israel and so she arranged this little trip to investigate the possibility of rectifying the mistake. It’s impossible not to like her. She’s mad, outgoing and says exactly what’s on her mind. The precise opposite of me. So I did what I could to help her with her mission. I got her into the kibbutz guest room – I think there’s only one or two of them, so this took a bit of luck – and tried to be encouraging about the prospects of finding work and a place to live. But the whole project quickly tanked: Merle cannot take the heat.

I suppose if you live in a perpetually chilly place like Liverpool you can forget the sultry challenges of an Israeli summer. Still, in true British fashion she spends her time walking all over central Israel in the heat of the day. There is something splendid about the British can-do attitude and refusal to surrender to tropical torpor. All of which brings me to Noel Coward.

I’ve been humming his song all week. “Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.” Associating Merle with this immortal send-up of British colonial behavior is not quite fair to her (Sorry, sweetie!) because the poor woman is melting and will soon make her escape to cool, green England. But I couldn’t resist. Anyone who has two and a half minutes to spare can catch the great man himself singing his song on YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vdEnxNog56E

A Pretty Picture

Isn't this a pretty painting? More about this later. Building a house anywhere is a monumental undertaking. But when you build in a kibbutz, or to be more precise, on a kibbutznik’s budget, the task is awesomely overwhelming. So when my turn came four years ago I put every shekel I could scrape together into the structure – windows, floors, cabinetry – those things that could not be easily changed and put off buying furniture until I had amassed some more money.

I like wood, solid wood. But because I am a humble kibbutznik there is no way I could afford the solid oak furniture of my dreams. Instead I had to settle for mahogany and rosewood. Yes, that’s right, in this upside down world the luxury woods of the past are now imported cheaply from the Far East, which is how I could buy a French-style solid mahogany sleigh bed last year. This completed the bedroom except for one galling thing: the great, big empty space over the bed.

This brings me to the painting. It’s a reproduction of a screen by the Japanese artist, Ogata Korin, offered by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It’s beautifully serene, perfect for the lilac bedroom. Last month I finally pried open my wallet and ordered it, only to be disappointed when I got a message from Customer Service saying because the piece is so large – about a meter long – there would be an extra $174 shipping charge and offering the option to cancel. I did. However, when I got my credit card statement this month I found I had been charged for the painting at the original amount.

My very polite question to the Customer Service lady resulted in a very apologetic reply, saying that the cancellation had been duly sent to the warehouse who shipped the painting anyway and cancelled the extra shipping charge. She said if I don’t want it I can refuse to accept it and they will credit my account when they get it back. But I do want it. And now I have a dilemma. I don’t want to stiff the museum for the extra charges, but the mistake was not mine, I have behaved quite properly, and I can’t afford the extra money. If I return it they’ll have to pay the extra charges twice. So assuming it doesn’t come postage-due, it looks like I’ll be getting the painting after all. And I can kiss the great, big empty space good-bye.

Cheesy

We have just celebrated Shavuot, the cheese holiday. I find this Holy Day to be something of an enigma. My step-daughter says it’s beautiful, just think of the whole of Israel walking to Jerusalem to pay their tithes to the Temple, celebrating receiving the Torah. All well and good, but what’s the connection with cheese?

Were the tithes paid in cheese, two wheels of cheddar and a ball of mozzarella per family? Did they eat cheese on the way?
“We’re walking to the Temple please
Will you pass the mac and cheese?”
I don’t know how this was excluded from the Psalms. Maybe cheese was all they had left after they paid what they owed.

The connection between cheese and religion is not an obvious one but apparently it exists. I heard on the news recently that someone found a Cheeto shaped like Jesus Christ. Someone dubbed it “Cheesus”. Be that as it may, on Shavuot we are commanded to eat cheese and I happily comply. My only reservation is the blandness of the local product. Producers considerately grace the market with a few different varieties at this time, but none of them are sharp or tangy.

This strikes me as odd. Israelis won’t eat anything unless it’s heavily seasoned. They say olives are tasteless unless they’re loaded with garlic and lemon. And yet the whole nation prefers low-taste cheese. Like I said, this holiday is an enigma.

Give Me an Extra Scoop of Vanilla

I just heard a remarkable piece of information on Fox News: thanks to tasty dressings, salads can have many more calories than a pint of ice cream. I feel vindicated. I have always thought that people in general need more ice cream in their lives and that vegetables are over-rated.

This tidbit takes on new significance thanks to the budget our benighted government has passed putting a 16.5% tax on fruits and vegetables. Aside from the obvious point about what kind of idiots raise taxes in the middle of a recession is the deliberate cruelty of levying a big tax on the staple of the Israeli diet. Have you ever known an Israeli who could get through a morning without the salad of tomatoes and cucumbers chopped into teeny, tiny little pieces?

So I propose that we the beleaguered citizenry eat 16.5 % less vegetables and 16.5 % more ice cream. I apologize to any farmers out there, but these are hard times and stern measures are required. When our government announces its intention to keep spending like drunken sailors, it is our responsibility to take away their cash cards.

Ice cream is key. By eating this we can deny the government its ill-gotten gains while we actually consume fewer calories and I contend, improve the national mood. I mean, who can be glum while chowing down on a big bowl of chocolate chocolate chip?

Serafine, In Memorium

She was the smartest cat I ever knew. She was the first to figure out how to use the cat flap and she would burst through it, mewing and trotting over to wherever the action was. Serafine was smaller than most cats, but was nevertheless an accomplished hunter. In the first few months in the new house she brought me presents of a dead rat, a live mouse and she killed a snake before my eyes.

Serafine was about 4 months old when I first met her. She was sitting in the basket of my late husband’s bicycle. I didn’t want any more cats so I didn’t let her in. But she persisted in her determination to get adopted, and of course I relented pretty quickly because she was such a sweetie. That was 14 years ago. This past Wednesday I found her dead in the parking lot next to the house. She didn’t show obvious signs of having been run over, but I can’t think what else could have happened to her. I buried her, shrouded in a dark blue towel, in the garden next to the lavender.

I am heart-broken. Her favorite place in the house was, naturally, the kitchen. She would weave around my legs, meowing the whole time, whenever I wanted to cook even though I assured her it wasn’t for her. It drove me mad. Now I miss it and wish she would do it again just once more. She meowed a lot. I used to tell her that there were too many meows and that someday she would run out of them. I guess she has.

Kicking Out the British Day

We have just celebrated Independence Day in recognition of the day the British finally packed up and went home for tea. The festivities on the kibbutz are always the same – fireworks then barbecue then public sing-along in the dining hall. It’s all predictably nice. In America we also celebrated the official Kicking Out the Brits Day with fireworks and barbecue, but the actual events had not happened in living memory so no one remembered what it was like to live under their iron thumb.

The British as a whole are polite, civilized people in their own country. As rulers, however, they can be very different. This is the story of what happened when they came here to Kibbutz Maabarot on June 30th. It was told to me by my late husband who fought in the Jewish Brigade of the British Army during WWII. He held the rank of captain and was home on demobilization leave. The year was 1946 and the Brits came looking for members of the Hagana, an organization which was officially illegal, but essential if you were Jewish and interested in survival.

All the men were rounded up and held under guard for questioning. When they asked my husband if he was in the Hagana, he said of course, it was under their orders that he had enlisted in the British Army to fight the Nazis. While the men were being questioned the women were in the kitchen putting together little packets of pepper which they then threw into the eyes of the soldiers. In those days, nobody had pepper spray. Skirmishes were breaking out and the lieutenant in charge came to my husband to ask his help in calming the situation, saying he didn’t know how much longer he could control his men and he was afraid of a massacre. (Why my husband? Because he was still a British Army officer and he was also the most affable man in the world so he was naturally the one to be approached.)

Calm was restored and tragedy averted, but the Hagana men were arrested and held for several days. Before the Brits left the kibbutz, the soldiers ransacked the living quarters, taking whatever struck their fancy, like blankets. This was cruel. The kibbutzniks were poor. Some were living in shacks but many were in tents. They had close to nothing and the British wouldn’t even leave them that. From my husband they took a book and the only good overcoat he had. When he was released he filed a formal complaint with the Army but the answer came back that there was no evidence of theft.

This is the story as I remember hearing it. Whether from Israel or America, the British are thankfully gone. The fireworks are beautiful and the steak from the grill is comforting. And this year I raise my beer in tribute to the heroes who brought us to this point. Salute!

Going Green

It’s been a magnificent spring. The wisteria burst into full bloom just in time for Pesach along with the calla lilies and the bright orange nasturtiums. With the backdrop of the ever-blooming lavender the view from the pergola is very, very pretty.

I love the color purple, and also the color orange. I especially like purple and orange together. It’s a warm, sunset-y combination. When I was a child my favorite color was green (a color I still love but am particular about: primary green or bluish greens are fine, no yellow-greens, olive or avocado shades are acceptable.) The family always obliged by funneling any green artifacts my way. My mother liked to tell the story of my green shoes.

For the family trip to North Carolina, a subject touched on previously in these pages,
I was bought a new pair of shoes in green patent leather. I adored them. But I was told they were for North Carolina and I was not to wear them until then. The trip by car was long and, I’m sure, difficult. Like any five-year-old with an undeveloped concept of time and distance, my conversation consisted mostly of, “Are we there yet?” Finally, my mother announced that we had crossed the state border into North Carolina. At this point I perked up and insisted on my right to wear my green shoes now. I could not be denied, so my father had to stop the car while my mother unpacked the fabulous shoes which were now on my very satisfied feet.

I still remember how happy those shoes made me. But in all the many years and hundreds of pairs since then, I don’t think I’ve ever had another pair of green ones. I find this very sad. So sad that I am now resolved: the next shoes I buy will be green.

The Bread of Affliction

As of this writing, we are well into the king of the Jewish marathon holidays. After the Seder, the gefilte fish and the Had Gadya, the week of Pesach is all about not eating bread. Some people find this difficult. Some even keep a secret stash of buns in the freezer.

I can be sympathetic to this. I also love bread. Have you ever noticed that bread is the one thing you can eat three times a day – breakfast, lunch and dinner – every day and not get sick of it? Still, I have no problem with Pesach because I just adore matzot. Not plain, of course, because that way it tastes like a piece of bread that someone stomped on with a dirty boot. But with the right topping it is really quite tasty.

Chopped liver, chicken, tuna or egg salad all do well as does a thin smear of butter. Of course the traditional spread is schmaltz which is something I have never tried. In fact, I find just the idea of it – rendered chicken fat – a little off-putting. But my very favorite topping is … drum roll, please … spaghetti sauce.

I love spaghetti sauce and have been know to eat it out of the jar on a spoon. Pasta for me is just an excuse to eat more sauce. Imagine my delight some years ago when I dared to put some on a piece of matza and found the result to be entirely palatable. At one time I might have been more circumspect in recommending this. But here in the Middle East they put a variety of sauces and spreads in little bowls in front of you and call them salads.

Happy holiday!

Wishing everyone a happy and kosher Pesach!

The Peacock's Evil Eye

Today I spent some time just gazing out the kitchen window. One of the peacocks from the zoo across the way had perched in the bow of a tree and was sitting in all his magnificence with his iridescent plumage fluttering in the breeze. He was a beautiful sight. But he was not, alas, music to my ears.

If you have never experienced a peacock up close, which I hadn’t until I came here, it may surprise you to learn that the voice does not match the beauty of the bird. In fact, its crow is harsh and very, very loud. I am left wondering if this is a principle of avian existence. Premium songbirds like larks and nightingales are embarrassingly brown and plain while the showy glamour-pusses like peacocks and parrots make your ears bleed.

Of course, everyone knows that peacock feathers supposedly are bad luck because of the “evil eye” portrayed on them. This is a concept I have never understood – the evil eye, I mean. How, I ask myself, in a rational world can anyone bring harm to anyone else just by looking at him? So in the spirit of reasoned investigation, I tried to develop this powerful eye.

I concentrated. I squinted and glared. I glowered. Then – nothing. I never made anybody’s head explode, just gave myself a headache. I guess I just don’t have the talent.

Two Hours in Limbo

The new administration in Washington is flirting with socialized medicine. I wish them luck. If my experience with Israel’s version of it is anything to go by, they’ll need it.

On Thursday I had an appointment at a local government hospital. This was lucky. If it had been at a Kupat Holim clinic it would have been canceled thanks to a strike. But at the government hospitals it was business-as-usual. I arrived on time for my 11:40 appointment, the sort of thing you would expect to be in-and-out in 10 minutes for, and sat and waited my turn. 2 hours. I waited for 2 hours.

It’s a huge amount of time. I could have watched a whole feature film in that time. Or 3 full episodes of “24”. Or run the 4-minute mile 30 times. Or eaten a plateful of lasagna, polished off a bottle of Chianti and still had time for the tiramisu. Instead, I sat helplessly watching the office door for any sign of life. Oh yes, I was patient. But as some dictionary somewhere defines it, patience is just a form of despair disguised as a minor virtue.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful to live in a society where I can get adequate medical care without having to rob a bank to pay for it. But the flip side is that you wait 2 months for any kind of test or procedure and then when the time has come and you have arrived with all the necessary forms and certificates, all signed, stamped and dated, you then must sit and wait. And wait. And wait.

Once Upon a Time the Sun Gave Off Warmth

Spring officially arrived yesterday at 13:44 local time. Nothing could be more welcomed. The gladiolas are in gorgeous full bloom – note to self: plant more of these next fall – and the wisteria is budding, meaning more gorgeousness is on the way. We are blessed with brilliant, sunny days. The only thing missing is warmth.

I happen to think that global warming would be excellent news if it were true. I mean, here I am in this Mediterranean paradise in late March and it’s still too cold to open a window. This would have been magnificent weather in January, but now we deserve better. With the forecast promising no real improvement for the foreseeable future I can’t escape the feeling that something is not right.

We seem to be experiencing seasonal drift. Summer hung around until November. Winter arrived in February. And now with Pesach fast approaching it should be spring. Yes, it looks like it. It even smells like it, that glorious, sweet fragrance of citrus blossom. But it’s too, too cold. So, waiter, I’d like to order up an extra-large, super-size portion of global warming, and don’t hold the ozone.

Comfort Food

I love tuna, always have. It’s the one thing I could eat everyday and not get sick of it. Nothing is more reliable – you know what you’re going to get every time you open a can.

Some decades ago tuna was something of a rarity in the kibbutz. They had a few tiny cans of it in the store, but you needed protekzia to buy them. I was fairly new then and I remember waiting hopefully at the counter while the shop clerk asked the Lady-In-Charge if I could be permitted to buy one. She looked around the corner to see who had the temerity to ask for it. “No.” This was my first actual encounter with Stalinism.

Those days are thankfully gone. Today I am allowed to buy all the tuna I can hold. So I decided the other day to attempt to recreate my favorite dish from childhood, the staple of Middle America, tuna casserole. My mother, of blessed memory, had many sterling qualities, but cooking skill was not among them. Tuna casserole was the one thing she could make well.

I couldn’t exactly recreate the dish. Sadly, there is no Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup in Israel – why doesn’t Campbell export? – and the kibbutz store doesn’t have egg noodles. I had to improvise with real mushrooms, sour cream and pasta shells. Topped with buttered bread crumbs and baked in the fine baking dish my step-daughter gave me as a house-warming gift, it turned out pretty well. In any case, the taste of tuna, mushrooms and pasta was enough to time-warp me back home. Sometimes, nostalgia can be very comforting.

Money Is Just Dirty Paper

I watch the news from America and it is grim. Mostly all they talk about is the deepening economic implosion: plunging stock prices, rising unemployment, foreclosures. It seems there was never a better time to be a kibbutznik.

I don’t have to worry about my portfolio being suddenly worthless. I never met Bernie Madoff. The kibbutz owns my house so I have no mortgage. Of course, I also have no money, so no matter how bad it gets I’m unlikely to be worse off. I find that actually somehow comforting.

What puzzles me is why anyone thought the American economy was so great before this, better than it was, say, forty or fifty years ago. I grew up in a middle class family. My father worked, my mother stayed home and kept house. On one income we had a house, a new car every three years, all the food we could eat and enough gadgets to keep everybody entertained. This is the way it was with everyone I knew. All this changed sometime in the 70’s. Suddenly it took two incomes to keep a family afloat. Few of my generation are living better than our parents did and I think it’s likely that the future one won’t live as well as we are. This is profoundly sad.

Not so on the kibbutz. Fifty years ago people lived in asbestos-roofed shacks. Things are infinitely better now. Socialism may well have failed everywhere it was tried, but capitalists have no cause to gloat at the moment. True, I still have no money, but in this socialist society I don’t deserve any.

Gray is Beautiful

Getting a haircut on the kibbutz is a scary experience. This is mainly because the cutter in question tends to get a little drunk with power. Instead of the light trim you asked for, you are likely to find half your hair suddenly on the floor. Not only that but every single time I go she discovers to her surprise how much gray I have.

It’s not a surprise to me. I’m well aware that the clock does not go backward. More to the point, the gray in my hair is appropriate to my age and I feel no need to cover it up. I’m actually happy to be getting old because it’s so much better than the alternative.

Of course, this all can be attributed to my background. I grew up in a very conservative city. Divorce was unheard-of, women always wore skirts and never trousers, and they never, ever dyed their hair. I rarely speak of this now. People will think I grew up on a different planet.

Perhaps I did. In any event, I take my graying head as a survivor’s merit badge. I earned every gray hair, and most importantly, I’m still here.

Hearts and Flowers

I didn’t post last week, never quite got around to it. It was my birthday as it happens and my step-daughter came to visit. It was the first time she saw me in my new natural habitat and we had a nice visit, lunching at The House of Wine.

Having my birthday on Valentine’s Day was always something of a mixed blessing. My parents played the heart theme to the hilt. I had hearts on my pajamas, heart-shaped pillows on my bed, heart-shaped rings on my fingers. After a while, corresponding with my progression into adolescence, it got to be a bit much. Then there were the strangers’ reactions whenever I had to give my birth date. “Your birthday is on Valentine’s Day? Aw, that’s so sweet!” With typical adolescent grouchiness I vowed that someday I would live somewhere where Valentine’s Day did not exist.

That of course came to pass when I moved to Israel. Nothing connected, however tangentially, with any Christian saint is officially sanctioned here. Under the chapter heading of Be Careful What You Wish For, I found I missed the sweet Valentine birthday specialness. I missed the ownership, the feeling that Valentine’s Day belonged to me in a way that it didn’t to most other people. I missed the chocolate hearts.

Not to worry, Valentine’s Day has been making a grassroots appearance over the last decade or so. This has been spurred I think by the vast marketing opportunity the holiday represents. Flowers, chocolates, romantic restaurant dinners, pieces of jewelry – the potential is too good to pass up. So if the trend continues, I may find myself back where I started. But this time without the grouchiness.

Love is Forever

There’s nothing like a good wedding to give you a rosy glow for an entire week. Two young people, bonded in love, joyous and radiant – nothing is better than this. Then there’s the added bonus of schmoozing with people you haven’t seen for far too long. G-d, I love weddings.

My step-granddaughter was married on Sunday in a ceremony that was understated and elegant. There was no phony opulence. The bride was not drowning in masses of white tulle and did not arrive in a horse-drawn baroque carriage. No doves were released. Instead, she wore a gown that was gorgeous in its simplicity. The hall was decorated with white lilies. All was simple and tasteful.

Her grandfather would have been so proud. I drank a whiskey in his honor. Ok, two. He really didn’t drink a lot, but there was nothing that man liked more than a shot of scotch, a trait he shared with my own dad who taught me how to drink it.

I’m a romantic. I admit it. I believe that everyone has a soul mate. I believe that some things are just meant to be. Most of all, I believe that love is forever.

Bagel Bagel

Back home in America there was no nicer way to spend a lazy Sunday morning than by reading the paper while munching freshly baked bagels bought from the neighborhood bakery. Bagels are the quintessential Jewish food and one of oddest things about Israel is how rare they are here in the Jewish homeland. It’s counter-intuitive.

Of course, there’s no end of round bread. But dense, chewy bagels are as rare as water in a desert. I’ve heard that there are a couple of places in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem where they can be had, but that’s too far to shlep. Once upon a time a local baker delivered lots of them to the kibbutz shop. These were golden days for me. There were plain bagels, onion bagels, garlic bagels, raisin bagels and – my personal favorite – blueberry bagels. But they stopped making them, no demand. I’ve been bereft since.

Then along came “The Jerusalem Post” with a bagel recipe which of course I had to try. I spent most of this afternoon kneading, shaping, boiling, glazing, baking and hoping for the best. Shaping them was the hardest part. After bagel number 8 I started getting the hang of it. 9 through 12 are ok, but the others are the ugliest things ever baked by man. How do they taste? Reasonable, but still not chewy enough. Maybe I’ll try again, but intensity of the labor is a little off-putting. Laziness after all is my weekend objective. I think I’ll go lie down.

January Blahs

I am struggling with a fit of January gloom and doom. I blame the weather: I woke this morning to find the air heavy with – what is that? – it looks like fog but I think it’s dust. The promised rain has not arrived and there’s nothing to clear the air of this stuff.

January is the hardest month. Long, bleak days. Sunless, doomy skies. Nothing to do but wait for spring. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be. But this year is different. Not so cold, plenty of sunshine which sometimes also gives off heat. As Januarys go, this one is not the worst.

Complaining about the weather is my winter ritual. I can gripe about the Siberian temperatures and the rainwater in my shoes and always find a willing ear among my fellow sufferers. Then at the appointed hour spring appears, sort of. The odd thing about spring and fall in Israel is that they consist mainly of alternations between winter and summer. A few days of each back and forth until one day somebody pushes a button and it stays summer. Or winter.

But this year’s mild temperatures and virtual rainlessness – worrisome in itself – have not saved me from the January blahs. Just one week to go until February arrives with its promise of better days ahead. There, I think I’ve almost cheered myself up.

The Kingfisher

A kingfisher was hanging around my house the other day. I don’t know why. There are no fishing opportunities in the immediate area so I can’t imagine what was here to interest him. He perched for a long while on the pergola and then later I saw him out front on the signpost. He was absolutely gorgeous – bright turquoise with a red breast.

I remembered hearing a saying from the American South that if there’s a bluebird on your porch on New Year’s Day it portends financial difficulties for the year. Like you’d need a bird to tell you that. Given the global crisis you’d have to be crazy not to be at least a little nervous. But, I told myself, this was not a bluebird and it wasn’t New Year’s Day, and this isn’t even any kind of South. And anyway, I don’t believe in portents.

I realize it’s human nature to look for patterns in random events. In a big, scary world being able to see the signs and predict the future would be a considerable advantage. But it’s just an illusion, the sort of matrixing and pattern recognition that’s hard-wired into our brains. The bird represents nothing but his beautiful self.

I haven’t seen him since, but he’s welcome to come back. Maybe a fish pond would tempt him back. I’ll have to think about this because clearly, a splash of turquoise is just what the garden needs.

At Last a Palm

I’ve always had a soft spot for neathebella palms. It was the first houseplant I ever bought way back when I was in college. I cared for it tenderly year after year as it grew from a little thing to a quite reasonable size. Then my heart was broken when it was stolen from my front porch back in hometown America. I never got over it and I never replaced it, until this New Year’s Day.

For months I had noticed a palm in the kibbutz store stuck against a wall far from any light source. It was in the place where they put orders that will be picked up later so I always assumed that a) someone was coming to get it or b) it was part of the décor – I don’t know what I was thinking here, the place has no décor. On New Year’s Day I was buying provisions for the weekend and I could not get my mind off this plant. It was bone dry and begging to be rescued so I asked if it was for sale. There were two staffers on hand, one said yes, the other no.

Then as luck would have it the manager happened to call for reasons of her own and said I could have the palm for 35 shekels. I bundled up my prize and flew home without the faintest idea where I was going to put it. But as soon as I walked in the front door the answer was obvious: by the back door where the cats have their water bowl. It’s a place just crying out for a point of interest. All I had to do was move the bowl forward a few inches.

Cats can be difficult to live with – very demanding – and as it happens, they don’t like to drink where they eat. So to accommodate this idiosyncrasy their water is on the opposite side of the kitchen. I moved it into its new position, carefully leaving enough clearance for bowl, cats and plant. I innocently believed there would be no problem. Wrong!

Usually when a new object comes into the house the cats sniff it thoroughly and maybe insert a claw or two to gauge the reaction. But this time all three just sat in a row and stared at the invader that was menacing their water bowl. This showdown was not going to be pretty. The cats were mean and thirsty, and the palm was not giving an inch. I put one cat by the bowl, defusing the situation when they all saw he could drink without interference. But it was touch and go for a while there.

Sylvester Who?

Now that we’ve survived Hanukkah and the grease-fest of jelly donuts and potato latkes we might expect an enjoyable, uncomplicated New Year’s Eve. I mean, at this time who couldn’t use a drink? But no. In Israel it’s officially forbidden and unofficially celebrated and herein lies the rub.

New Year’s Eve is called Sylvester in Israel as it supposedly is somewhere in central or eastern Europe. This story is spread by word of mouth: the reason it’s forbidden is that it’s named after a Christian saint who may or may not have also been Pope and therefore the rabbis will not allow the celebration. My solution is simple…rename it! Call it New Year’s like everywhere else and problem solved.

Before I came to Israel I had only heard of two Sylvesters, Stallone and the cartoon-cat nemesis of Tweetie Pie. Beyond the name issue, the real problem is that the holiday is unofficial. That means you still have to work on New Year’s Day which for people like me means there’ll be no ringing-in the New Year at midnight. Of course, most people just take the day off. Whole departments are gone from the kibbutz enterprises leaving only a smattering of kibbutzniks here and there working like the drudges we are.

It’s unfair. More than that, Israel needs and deserves one holiday that we can celebrate with the rest of the world. The Jewish New Year is heavy with the consciousness of sin and prayers to the Almighty to be allowed to live for one more year. But the secular New Year is just fun, a party to lavish good wishes on friends and family, and celebrating it should constitute no threat to the Jewish soul or the rabbis. One secular holiday should not be too much to ask.

Wishing everyone a happy and prosperous 2009!