The Cupcake Instinct

Can't figure out why I am so obsessed with cupcakes lately...

Actually, I know why. When babies are born, in religious Jewish circles, there are always community celebrations- a circumcision with an accompanying festive meal for a boy, and a Kiddush (basically a big, commemorative 'toast') for a girl. What that means for me is that I have been dreaming about baking and freezing appropriately-colored cupcakes for said upcoming celebrations ever since we found out our baby's gender (sorry, not telling). 

I mentioned (okay. squealed.) to my husband, months ago, that I couldn't wait to make ___-colored cupcakes for the _____ celebration. He burst my bubble by explaining that in our Shul (synagogue), those ceremonies are always hosted on-premises and the rule is that they are all catered by the exact same super-boring 'catering' which includes plastic-wrapped rugelach and yerushalmi kugel, and does NOT include personal additions, like colored, frosted, baby-themed delicacies. 

This information was a crushing blow to my domestic dreams, made 10x stronger and more irrational by my strongest new drive, the Nesting Instinct. This instinct, for those of you who have not experienced it, makes planning ahead seem, not practical, but LIFE-AND-DEATH-CRUCIAL. The world will NOT CONTINUE TO ORBIT if I can't bake and freeze ahead of time in the appropriate baby color! 

In truth, it's a nice rule that they have in our Shul. It eliminates the keeping-up-with-the-insert-name-that-sounds-more-Jewish-than-Joneses syndrome. No one's celebration has to top anyone else's. And it is plain ridiculous for any woman after birth to have to worry about details for celebrations like these. 

Not to mention that my husband is slightly disturbed by colorful, sprinkly desserts. Swiss cakes are usually shaped like tube cakes and rarely, rarely frosted. They're what we Americans would call muffins. Just in a different shape. 

So if the shul won't serve them...

 and my husband won't consider them food....

and I don't want to get anywhere near cakes and frosting for the next few months...

and the baby won't be able to ingest them...

and we don't have a dog...

or a garbage disposal...

I guess there are bigger priorities on my to-do list than these cupcakes. So I've settled for posting professional versions of them on my blog, as a practical alternative to making, freezing, and serving them at our post-birth celebration.*

*back to that counting-chickens thing- the baby has not actually arrived yet, so please continue to keep me in your prayers for a safe birth and healthy baby. 

Bread Recipe

I feel that I need to share this recipe because it is the easiest, most ingenious and ego-satisfying recipe to bake with. Your bread comes out looking like the pride of a french bistro. And it's easier than cutting up a salad and takes less preparation time, believe it or not. 

The Easiest Bread Ever (makes Challah look like hard labor)

From the book, 'Artisan Bread in 5 Minutes a Day"

http://www.artisanbreadinfive.com/- watch their youtube demonstrations as well

Makes about four 1-pound loaves. The recipe is easily doubled or halved.



short version: 
dough...
mix (don't knead, just mix) 3 cups warm water, 1.5 T dry yeast, 1.5 salt, and 6.5 cups flour,
leave on counter for 2 hours in covered tupperware slightly open, then 
 fridge the tupperware of dough, and make bread with it any time in the next 2 weeks.


when you want to make a loaf...
pull off and shape a ball, 
dust it with flour,
 and let it sit out for 20 minutes, ,
slash the top,
then bake at 230 degree c. for 30 minutes. 

I don't get it.

I don't get it. I took a whole chicken yesterday, defrosted, and spent quite some time cleaning it, taking off the skin, cutting it into parts, removing the fat, and preparing 2 dishes- one with the dark meat pieces and one with the white.
The dark meat was browned on both sides and then submerged in a blended pineapple-garlic sauce with curry. It was cooked for about an hour in the sauce. The white meat was cubed into small pieces and prepared in a frying pan with chopped onions and a generous application of curry, cumin, paprika, garlic, and salt. I even followed the recipe (for once) and used the measuring spoons for the spices (for once). These both seemed completely fool-proof. Where's the  risk? Of course they'll be a hit.

They both flopped. I mean, flopped. The pineapple dish was so bland that it tasted raw even though that was impossible. The white meat cubes (the recipe is called Shwarma, though its a modified Shwarma of course) were just not as good as usual, and the flavor seemed purely paprika, nothing else. Imagine. It was gross. 

So, mistakes happen and I know that I can't get a perfect 10 with cooking every time, but what I don't get is this: it seems like the more effort I put into cooking, the worse it comes out. 

The opposite is also true: I always serve homemade bread for breakfast, and last night, after my husband went to sleep early, I realized I didn't have any bread for his breakfast the next morning (even commercial bread would have been fine, but we had nothing). And because our apartment is small, I can't work in the kitchen with the light on while he's asleep. So I made bread almost in the dark (with the refrigerator door open for light), let it rise, and popped it into the toaster oven in the dark, hoping that the dials were pointing to the correct numbers. And went to sleep. And, irony of ironies, this bread came out, by far, the best and most beautiful I have ever made. 

I don't get it. 


p.s. I was engrossed in phone conversation with my friend Maya during the chicken efforts. I wonder if this led to a lack of  focus on the part of the chef...

The good is always there.

I've been discovering lately that happiness is not something that will come and tap me on the shoulder while I am busy stressing or beating myself up.

Happiness is a decision. The good is always, always there. Waiting to be acknowledged and celebrated. And if I don't see it or feel it, there are so many avenues of access. But it takes initiative.

I was so sad today about something that I had every right to be sad about. Something that is objectively painful and difficult. I spoke it out with my husband, he gave the issue its requisite acknowledgement, and then he did something brilliant. He turned on music and started singing to me. He, by the way, is not a singer and wasn't trying to be one in that moment, which made it all the more hysterical.

 I was laughing and crying for a good 10 minutes. It just moved me so much. It was like saying, okay, some things in life are far from perfect. But who says I can't be silly and happy and smile in the face of anything that comes my way? 

I want to remember this at all times. Happiness is an active choice. The music didn't turn itself on. He turned it on. He decided. And it wasn't escape from the reality. It was acknowledgement of the difficulties, and simultaneous celebration of the rest of what life has to offer. 

Conflicting Messages

Do you ever feel, as a woman, that you're receiving conflicting messages? Because I sure do. I read a book over the weekend that is intended to offer advice on how to be a better woman, wife, and mother, written by a well-respected woman in the Orthodox world. I felt completely bombarded by the 'advice' in this book. Some of the suggestions were:

-always get up on time and before the rest of your household, even when you were kept up at night with one of your children.

-always dress fully before leaving your bedroom in the morning, to start the day off right.

-a woman can successfully raise 12 children in a 2-and-a-half room apartment, and have them be clean and well dressed children, and have the apartment be spotless, and herself be in a constant state of serenity, if she is organized. 

-a woman should always look her best, no excuses. It has a big effect on her family.

-a woman should take the time to pamper herself, always applying lotion after a shower, for example.

Okay, I'll stop. You get the picture. 

As a former subscriber to the infamous 'Allure' magazine, and 'Cosmogirl', I am no stranger to the mixed message. Your hair should be auburn, but it should be blonde. The Look To Have is 'strong'...but....'feminine'. Spoil yourself! But read all these statistics about how we're more spoiled than ever, plus an interview with the lady who heroically chose to live in a tree for a year! 

I am not holding Allure accountable. I didn't read it expecting them to offer me wisdom and guidance. But books like the one I read this weekend this are often penned and recommended by credible people in the religious community. I am very turned off at this author's approach- what if it doesn't work for everyone? What if you fall short of her very-specific picture of what the perfect woman is or should be? Was the mother-of-12 diligently applying lotion after every shower? I somehow doubt it. 

There are many blessings to being a woman. And feminine nature possesses some wonderful strengths. But a major weakness that many of us women walk around with is a feeling of being not-good-enough. It's so easy to compare oneself to others. I don't think books like this are part of the solution- I think they are part of the problem. 

ice water

Ice water is divine. Every time I drink ice water I feel so privileged!

Pancake Realization

Lately, I can't think of what to make for lunch and dinner. This didn't happen for an entire first-year of marriage (as I was warned it might), but it's definitely a problem for me this week. It doesn't help that I am overdue to go grocery shopping- the less you have in your house, the less options come to your mind.


So today, I decided to make pancakes. 

Pancakes were a great idea because a) I usually make them for Rosh Chodesh and this month I didn't, so I made up for it by making them a few days later, b) they don't require any special ingredients, just flour, salt, sugar, water, and oil, c) I used up a couple of near-brown bananas, d) my husband loves them. He actually never tried them before we were married (it's the European thing- when I described pancakes to him, he kept asking if I meant crepes). But they turned out to be right up his alley.

When I have made pancakes in the last year, they have come out sort of black (even when they aren't exactly burned), or the oil has become black, or they are overdone on the outside and a little gooey in the middle. This doesn't happen in a vaccuum, rather, through some sort of cause-and-effect. So today, I asked myself (before starting)- 
what has been off in my approach that has contributed to an undesirable outcome?


And I realized the following:


 My pancakes weren't turning out well because I had the heat too high. This was sometimes inattentiveness, sometimes impatience. Today I accepted that each individual pancake would take it's own significant amount of time in the frying pan (they are 'cakes', after all, not eggs...), and I even made each one larger and individually, to minimize conflict amongst the pancakes as they cooked. I left the heat on LOW (I almost never do this). And they turned out golden, dare-I-say picturesque. 


Everything we approach in life comes down to our character traits. And very, very frequently, the outcome of our efforts is a direct result of those character traits.


When I examine and shift my routine approach to a task, even slightly, it makes a huge impact on my overall awareness. I love the lessons that G-d tucks into the physical world and how it functions. You can't be an impatient person and make good pancakes at the same time! 

it really is a miracle!

Maybe I just won't sleep until the birth.

I know that's a bad idea, because you're supposed to store up all your energy for labor, which can be a marathon and involves a lot of pushing at the end. 

Right. Try telling that to my subconscious, because I feel like I am walking around in outer space and will remain there until this pregnancy has ended. I just burned my finger on the potatoes I felt the need to boil at 1:00 AM, you know, JUST IN CASE there is a desperate need for potatoes tomorrow and I don't have the opportunity to boil them in the daytime like a normal person. There's something about the imminent arrival of a child to this planet. I couldn't sleep prior to my nieces' arrivals. And this is...my own child?

Disclaimer: it's important not to count my chickens before they hatch. I am continuing to pray that, with G-d's help, my baby will be delivered safely into my arms. I know that nobody owes me a healthy child or a safe birth, and that these things can only happen through G-d's infinite, undeserved kindness towards me. 

Okay, now that I have disclaimed that,

I can't believe I am going to have a baby!! It really is a miracle!!

Philosophy

Someone asked me yesterday,


What's the point of philosophy?


I asked them,
 How do you know you exist?


They said, 
because I know.


I asked,
If you dreamed about Florida, how do you know it was a dream? If you took a bus, how do you know that was real and Florida wasn't?


They said, 
because...I can verify with another person that I took the bus. 


I asked, 
How can you know that the other person is real?

At that point, they said,
Oh. I get it. 


Personally, I love Philosophy and I believe in its relevance, especially as someone leading a religious lifestyle. I have to have a clear-headed picture of why I am doing this. I can always go back to:
Is there a G-d?
How do I know?
How do I answer the classical arguments against G-d's existence, launched by people who were no slouches in logic or intellect?
If there's G-d, who says He's directly involved in my life? Who says he stands behind my particular religion?
What makes me think that Judaism is divine in origin?
What makes me think that the Judaism practiced and observed today is that which was divinely given 3,300 years ago?
What makes me think that there is an intact tradition from the original giving of the Torah until today? 

 I have worked out the answers to these questions, as every person should, both for their own sanity and for their future children's. So now, if I lack clarity, I can start at step one (Is there a G-d) and work my way down to why I am living my life the way I am.


Religious Judaism is very detail-oriented and permeates every aspect of a person's lifestyle and routine. If you're Jewish and non-observant, I would ask you,
 How do you that your interpretation is correct? 
How do you know G-d doesn't care about the details you are choosing not to fulfill? 
If you are Jewish and observant, I would ask you, 
Why?
Says who? 
How do you know there is anything/anyone out there listening and observing your actions, thoughts, and words? 
On what basis have you structured your behaviors to be complaint with the Torah? 


(I probably WOULDN'T actually ask these to someone who was not my friend, because it seems like an attack. But for me, when I ask myself these questions, and go back to my personal answers, it enriches my life and restores my inspiration)


I have always loved philosophical questions. When I can answer them, I feel that the ground is more settled under my feet. When I have a clear conscience, I sleep, wake, think, and live better. 

But this person (who asked me about the point of Philosophy) explained to me that not everyone has a deep need for it, that most people can get by just fine without asking these questions. Without needing the answers.

I can't decide if I agree or not. Some people are certainly more predisposed. I remember waiting for my dentist to start cleaning my teeth while memorizing Hamlet's Soliloquy ('To be or not to be...'). The dentist noticed the book in my hands and asked me what it was.


"Hamlet".
Why are you reading it? For school?
"I am not reading. I am memorizing."
Why?
"Because everyone should have this memorized."


I was 11 years old. That's called a predisposition.


But the question is, does the uninterested person need Philosophy? Do they need to answer the same questions I do, if they aren't asking?


Tell me your thoughts!

Stories from my Apartment Building, part II

Last Friday, my husband had a serious stomach virus. And as much as I tried to take care of him, I was pretty useless (I am 9 months pregnant and had recuperated from the same virus with the help of an IV, the day before). After trying different teas, rest, water, homemade Gatorade, and various remedies, I decided that I needed to get him medication. I managed to get dressed, find cash, and drag myself out of the house, not looking forward to the odyssey of finding an open pharmacy so close to Shabbos (everything closes early on Fridays) or the possibility that the pharmacy would demand a prescription for the equivalent of Pepto-Bismol, which I did not have. This happens in Israel- for some reason, you need a prescription for many things that are over-the-counter in the US.

As I crossed my apartment threshold, I tripped over my neighbor, Mrs. S, who lives on the sixth floor- she was busy chatting with the mentally challenged teenage girls who live and study together through the organization Alei Siach, which occupies the apartment next door to ours. I greeted her and asked her if, by the way, she knew of any pharmacy that would still be open. She ignored my question and said 'What do you need?'. I started to repeat myself and she interrupted me and said, 'why should you go out now? What can I give you?'.

I sheepishly followed her up to her apartment (she took the elevator for my sake), and she gave me her entire bottle of Israeli Pepto Bismol, a separate set of instructions in English, and a packet of rice cakes, which she recommended along with the medication, to settle his stomach. As a mother of quite a few children, she knew exactly what needed to be done.

My husband recovered fully from the virus within 24 hours from the onset of his symptoms. When I returned the bottle to Mrs. S., it was almost empty (the doses are large and frequent). And even though she clearly uses it on a regular basis for her own family, she wouldn't hear of my replacing it.

In my building, this is typical. I hope that one day, the entire world will act like my neighbors.

Stories from my Apartment Building, part I

Well, there is the elderly widower on the top floor, who has 12 married children living in Jerusalem or the surrounding areas. He has some physical ailments that make it uncomfortable to travel and visit his children. So the children came up with a rotation where each one of them moves in, with their entire family, once every 12th weekend, just to keep him company and show him how much they love him. During the weekend visit (they all bring their own food and pots and pans for the visit), the mother of each of the 12 families will cook meals for the grandfather and leave them in his fridge so that he can have home-cooked food all week, until the next of his married children visits with their family and leaves him the next week's meals. He has a granddaughter whose family lives outside Jerusalem, and since she has to study in the city, she sleeps there during the week, keeps him company, and keeps the house clean. 

Then there's the extremely learned Rabbi and his wife from the 6th floor who constantly call us and check up on us to see that we're okay (in a kind and sensitive manner, not invasive). He is well past 70, but teaches Torah every day to many devoted students, as he has done for the last few decades. On Shabbos he can be seen climbing the 12 half-flights of stairs to his apartment, with a smile on his face.

Then there's my landlady. We live right next door to her, since our apartment was originally part of her own. She lost her second husband, our noble and gregarious landlord, this past winter. He passed away suddenly, due to a blood infection. But seeing her living life day-to-day is remarkable. She is always looking out for us, she brings us a warm potato kugel every Friday afternoon. She often goes swimming, she works as a nurse, and she always has a smile and a kind word for us. She has many children and grandchildren of her own who sing so loudly and happily on Shabbos that it reverberates through our adjacent windows. All of the members of this woman's family are in mourning along with her this year for their husband/father/grandfather. But there remains so much palpable strength in her spirit that it strengthens their spirits by extension. 

There are many more outstanding individuals in this apartment building- to be continued. 

Being 25 Years Old

I am 25 years old.


I remember being six years old and sitting on my grandmother's rug in her sunny living room, in Michigan, thinking, "I can't wait to be 25. What will I look like? What will I wear? Who will I be? I know I will be grown up and cool and I won't be chubby anymore..."


I had decided that 25 was the magic age in life where I would be fully grown into my best self.


One thing I should point out is that I was not actually chubby. I developed that view from the youngest age simply because my build has never been like the willowy girls. The size of my head, shoulders, and bone structure are much larger than willowy people. But that's not 'chubby'.


 Sadly, I dwelled on this 'chubbiness' for a very, very long time until last year, when I was getting married and therefore in search of a wedding dress to rent in Jerusalem, the world capital of wedding dress rentals. I absolutely could not find a wedding dress that fit my...shoulders. Every dress I tried on would fit my body but simply wouldn't accommodate my shoulders. I ended up wearing the wedding dress of my friend who was also, thankfully, born with broad shoulders.


 It was just as difficult to find a wig (see earlier post about covering my hair, part 3). In fact, my wig had to be made from scratch by an ingenious wig maker, because no existent wig on the market would fit the proportions of my head, according to the industry sizing charts. And to create the template for this custom-made wig, my wig maker had to cover my head in Saran Wrap fastened with tape and write on it in marker, because no regular wig template would fit, either.


These two incidents led me to the realization that 'hey! I couldn't lose or gain weight in my head or shoulders if I tried! I can't even have a head or shoulder reduction! I have about as much control over those features as I do over the size of my spleen! Maybe all those years when I thought I was 'fat', when I compared the size of my face and body to others and despaired that I was bigger, I was completely wasting my energy!'


It's true that I have had times when I was in better shape than other times. Taking care of myself is crucial, regardless of my G-d given shoulder size. But I cannot express to you the depths of relief I have felt upon realizing that I can't have unrealistic expectations of my body, which will never, ever be...willowy. Not even at that magic age, 25!


When I got engaged to my husband at 23, I thought, "well, I guess I was wrong about '25'!"


 When I got married at 24, I thought, "I guess all of those years I longed to be 25, I really meant 24..."


But my 6-year-old self was right. My husband and I got to celebrate our one-year anniversary this week, which I consider one of the greatest feats of my life. I think that to build what we've built this year is such a miracle and such an accomplishment. 


And this is the year when I am becoming a mother. I am so happy to be 25 and so utterly blessed by what I've been given.


p.s. I wonder what my six-year-old self would have thought if she knew that I would also be, not chubby, but GARGANTUAN at 25. I am at that stage where most of my maternity clothes just don't cover my stomach anymore. If anyone is renting out their circus tent for the next three weeks or until my body returns to normal, please contact me!