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?
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Saturday, May 9, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
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!
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!
Saturday, April 18, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Saturday, April 4, 2009
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.
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.
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