Succot, Oddly

This is the oddest holiday in the Jewish calendar. I thought this as I sat in a succa looking at the stars through the palm fronds. Succot, of course, has just ended. I had a nice time, sitting in some friends' succa with a few other people from the kibbutz, eating, drinking and talking about nothing special.

Still, the holiday is odd. It's another of those marathon holidays, the kind that test your endurance until the timer runs out. Christians don't have these, unless you count Lent which is a Catholic invention. We're supposed to build these huts out of nothing substantial, decorate them with species of the plant kingdom, and sleep or at least eat in them for a week. I have a problem with this from the get-go.

I'm not a builder. As a kid, Lincoln Logs were a mystery to me. As an adult, Ikea fills me with fear and trembling and is pretty much out of the question. So no hut will be built. But if I had a hut I wouldn't want to decorate it with fruits and greenery that have to be perfect to be acceptable. This is simply insulting and if I were a vegetable I would howl in protest. Wildly imperfect human beings demanding plant perfection – it's laughable. Perfection is not for this world, certainly not for anything that lives.

By now all the huts have been taken down and thrown on the compost pile. Succot is over and there are no more holidays until the next marathon one in December. Hanukkah at least features jelly donuts.

Cornbread Heaven

Today I'm baking again, cornbread this time. I have always loved it. Corn muffins have been my favorite breakfast since childhood. But I was in Israel for years before I knew that it could be done here.

There was a restaurant in either Raanana or Kfar Saba, I can't remember which, that was this American expatriate's idea of heaven. They served barbecued steak with barbecued beans – you see where my heart lies – and cornbread. I don't think the place lasted very long because it was just too American. Israelis want their plates of humus and don't seem to like gastronomic experimentation. I asked the proprietor where he gets the cornmeal and he said it's readily available in every supermarket.

Sure enough, they even have it in the tiny kibbutz store. Turns out it's the main ingredient of something called mamalika, a porridge-like concoction similar to polenta. The cornmeal is a finer grind than I would like, but it still makes acceptable cornbread.

The best thing about baking cornbread is that it's so forgiving. You can add one egg or two, milk or water or buttermilk, mix the ingredients in any order you like and the results are infallibly delectable. Served warm with the melting butter just disappearing into it – it's happiness on a plate. And how can anyone have too much happiness?

Blessed Quiet

One day a year everything is blessedly quiet. No street noise, no loud music, no shouting. Just glorious peace and twittering birds. I'm speaking, of course, about Yom Kippur.

This is a secular kibbutz, aggressively so. It's part of a movement that is so left wing that in the early days adoring pictures of Stalin were hung in the children's classrooms, a bit of information I would file under "What the hell were you thinking?" When we got married so many years ago it was forbidden to have a huppa in the public areas – rabbis were forbidden. You could have it at your house, but not at the dining hall. While this rule has since changed, the attitude has not. So it's fair to assume that most people here don't fast.

Still, the day is treated quite respectfully. Why this is, I don't really know. Maybe because it's tradition, or part of Jewish identity, or because the rest of the country has shut down and there's nothing else to do. For whatever reason there are no barbecues and no kayak races on the fish ponds. One day a year, those precious hours of silence. It's marvelous.

The Lime Tree

Israel is a country with a long history of growing just about every kind of citrus except one. Stroll through any market I know of and you will not find limes. There are oranges and grapefruit of every description, pomelos and a gazillion lemons, some of which are deceptively green. But if you want limes you pretty much have to grow them yourself.

I loved my lime tree from the moment it was planted. The gardener called the next day to apologize for not checking with me about the price and offered to replace it with a smaller, cheaper one. I said no thanks, we've already bonded. But the tree has never been the kind of lush citrus that I see in other places and I didn't know why.

It has its own watering system controlled by the garden guy's computer and the soil is the same as in the rest of the kibbutz. When I talked to the gardener he said I should give it more fertilizer. This produced more limes but still not so many leaves and branches. The poor thing was looking so scraggly and unloved that I was quite distraught. What could be the problem?

Then it dawned on me. I would never dare besmirch the garden guy's automated system, his knowledge of plants or his computer controls, but maybe it wasn't getting enough water? I started to take a bucket out to it every day. After two weeks it had tiny green leaves sprouting all over. That was a month or two ago and the tree is noticeably better. Still not lush, but better.

New problem: what am I going to do with all these limes? Lime pie, limeade. There are only so many gin-and-tonics one can drink. Margaritas. Does lime go with rosemary garlic chicken?

Rosh Hashana

Wishing everyone a healthy, prosperous and, most importantly, happy new year. Shana tova!

Summer's End

It rained yesterday for the first time since April. Summer is gone and no amount of wishing can bring it back. Those hot, steamy, sunny days – all gone. Sensible people here pray for rain. We depend on it since our benighted government can't seem to manage sufficient desalination. So the water has to come from the heavens.

I don't like rain. It's wet, nasty stuff. It gets under your collar and runs down your neck. It's cold. And just when you think it's over, a great big drop hits you smack in the eye. But, and I realize this might seem like a contradiction, I love water. I love the look of it and relish every glimpse of the sea. When I have enough money for a water feature in the garden, I plan to spend every free minute just sitting and looking at it.

What I don't like is being attacked by those cold little drops from the sky that leave sludgy spots on the windows. This could be because I come from a place where it rained all the time, except when it snowed. We saw the sun once a decade if we were lucky. So Israel's glorious heat and relentless sunshine is a miracle to me.

It rained yesterday and again this morning. As I look out into the garden, the plants look wonderful. They've all been washed of their summer grunge and seem to be grateful for the extra water. I'll try to find comfort in this.

Banana Bread Nostalgia

For comfort food, there's nothing better than banana bread. Why it's called bread when it's clearly cake, I don't know. Maybe because it's eaten unfrosted, like zucchini bread and pumpkin bread. But of this I'm sure: when fall is on the horizon, it's time to bake a batch.

Of course, Israel has it's culinary delights, like humus with zaatar (an herb mixture whose main component is hyssop) and olive oil. Anything with zaatar and olive oil. Warm pita. Halla with raisins. With Rosh Hashana almost upon us, most people here probably dream of honey cake. Not me, I find it usually too dry. And let me add that I cannot swallow much of the Eastern food so common here – coriander tastes like rot and cumin smells like sweaty socks.

Different people have different tastes, that's part of the diversity of humanity. I know this well. When I've shared banana bread with my coworkers it has met with mixed reviews. Some found it good enough, but others thought it inedible. I admit I was taken aback. It's a wonderful cake – bananas, butter, walnuts – what's not to like? It could be an American taste.

There is something about the fall that makes me long for home and the gorgeous leaves and fresh apple cider. So when the summer heat has passed and a stiff breeze whips through the house as it does today, I comfort myself with a little baking. The aroma fills the house and a mug of raspberry tea is ready and waiting. There, the oven just dinged!