The Glory of Cheese

Last night, Ari and I went out to Open Sesame – although we have very little money, Ari desperately needed a night out. Plus, I am convinced that the restaurant’s fried potatoes and Moroccan tea have healing powers.

And, as always, we got a really cool server, this time named Angela. She was the traditional Long Beach cool: thicker-rimmed glasses and a punk rock sensibility, but yet incredibly friendly and sweet.

Naturally, we got into conversation, and at one point, we started talking about cheese. Angela happens to be a big fan.

“I went vegan once, and I was so depressed,” she said. “But then I realized it was because I missed cheese.”

I understand her sentiments, because cheese and I have had a lifelong love affair, although I didn’t appreciate really good cheese until much later. It doesn’t matter, though: My name is Reina, and I am a cheeseaholic.

I didn’t start out with gourmet cheeses – mom bought American cheese like so many other mothers across America. But as a nice Sephardic girl, we ate a lot of cheese, as it is a huge staple in our diets (more about that later). So in addition, there were sharp cheeses and different types of parmesan. The adults ate goat cheeses, whereas my sister and I enjoyed cheddar, Monterey jack and Colby. The only cheese I didn’t eat was cream cheese.

My tastes changed when I got older. While working in Santa Clarita, I would go to the Whole Foods and try all the strange and special cheeses that they had samples for next to the fruit. It was an experience as to what flavor could be.

When I began to explore the culinary world, my outlook on cheese changed. From delicious creamy bries to the sharp crisp flavor of gorgonzola, I began trying them in my dishes. Smoked cheeses, herbed cheeses, creamy cheeses and even those that may not be considered the toast of the culinary world (I don’t care who knows it – I love pub cheese). Either way, I enjoy the salty bite, the smoothness on my tongue, and the joy that cheese gives. I’m just crackers about it.

But then comes the catch – the kosher catch. Dairy is a tricky subject in the kosher world, as there are people who observe chalav yisrael – which basically means that you can only eat dairy products that are produced exclusively by Jews (wine has a similar process, too). Although there are a group of Jews who observe this, not all do.

But then cheese gets even more complex – you see, the way cheese was traditionally made was that you took enzymes from a cow’s (or sheep’s, or goat’s) stomach and mixed it in with the milk. This is called rennet, or animal rennet. Orthodox rabbis say that this violates the concept of mixing milk and meat, whereas conservative rabbis say that since it is an enzyme, and not actual meat, that it is perfectly acceptable.

Today, it isn’t as big of an issue, because the vast majority of cheeses are produced with synthetic enzymes, such as vegetable and microbial rennet, instead of animal rennet. But there are difficulties in certifying certain types of cheeses – whereas it’s easy to find kosher mozzarella, ricotta, goat cheese and even spreadable cheeses that are, other cheeses such as cheddar, brie and blue are trickier.

Personally, I follow the conservative rabbis point of view, but I still read every label of cheese. I rarely buy cheeses with animal rennet, but when I go out, I don’t quiz my waiter about it. I love good cheese, particularly Artisan cheeses. I’m currently in a goat cheese phase, and I love Humbolt Fog – it combines the creaminess of brie and the tang of blue cheese with the unique flavor of goat’s milk. It is so tasty that every time I go into a gourmet grocery store, I look for it.

The quest for great cheese is a never-ending one – currently, I’m looking for a great gourmet cheese shop in Long Beach (and may have found one, thanks to Yelp – I will keep you posted). Although I am being more careful about what I eat, I think that it’s important to enjoy flavor. Appreciating the good stuff is crucial. As with life, we should soak up the taste of it, and linger on it even as the months pass us by. We should savor life, like a good wine – or, of course, a fabulous cheese.

Instead of giving a recipe for this, I’m going to make you do the legwork: Visit Wikihow and Food Network on how to make a fabulous cheese and fruit plate so you can enjoy cheese just as much as I do.

Weighty Issues

It’s no secret to anyone who knows me that I am not a tiny person. Whether it’s my height or my size, I’ve always been pretty big. But several days ago, I began to examine myself, and think about things. And I'm ready for a change. But first, let's go back.

For most of my life, I was always little heavier than all the other kids – partially because I was so tall. Thanks to dad, I’m big boned, so I looked a lot bigger than all those petite 7-year-olds. It was something I was always uncomfortable with. At 11, I was put on Speed-derived ADD medication. One of the side affects is that your metabolism is significantly heightened. I was slim, but not dainty: At the age of 12, I was a size 12. I hadn’t even hit puberty yet.

I was never athletic, but I did get plenty of exercise – I walked 1.6 miles every day from junior high home since the end of seventh grade. I also walked home during high school, although since the bus dropped me off, it wasn’t as far.

But then the ADD drug’s effect on my metabolism wore off – I’ve seen a lot of people who have been on these drugs gain a lot of weight once that happens. It started around the end of 10^th grade. I was a little heavier, but not ridiculously overweight by any means. Still, doctors got on my case about losing weight immediately. It seemed like everywhere I turned I was hounded by it – at home, in doctors’ offices and of course by peers.

Then came that doctor with the stupid pill that made my body think it was pregnant. I gained weight so fast that I had stretch marks across my stomach and breasts (they have healed over since then, but I’m still self-conscious). The next year, the doctor put me on an anti-depressant thought to make its patients lose weight. I would be weighed every time I came to his office. It was embarrassing – to this day, I have a hard time stepping on a scale.

My mother purchased clothes for me in high school that weren’t flattering, so I didn’t feel good about my size. She would always reminisce about when I was slimmer, as if things were better then (they really weren’t). But when graduation came and I had to find a dress that could go under my gown, we went and I found myself an adorable little black dress. I didn’t realize that I could be a little bit bigger and at the same time be slightly sexy. This changed me.

As I went to college, I discovered myself in a way that I couldn’t while I was in high school. I found clothes that were cute, and began to experiment with the way I dressed. But weight was always an issue.

At the age of 21, after I had my blood clots, I lost over 50 pounds. I came back to school to guys hitting on me as I would make my way back across Cal State Fullerton. I was doing it in a very unhealthy way, though – I was on a low carb diet, which has messed up my stomach ever since. I also had to deal with a bully who would love to put me down on a regular basis. Depressed, I seemed to gain back the weight almost immediately.

Time went on. I became kosher, and I met my husband Ari always wanted me to take care of my weight, and I don’t think I was really ready – until now.

Two days ago, there were three things that changed me drastically. As I wrote this blog post, I realized that because of my issues with the drugs and the way people viewed my weight gains has affected the way I eat and the way I view myself. I realize that there are certain things that I can blame myself for, but I realize that I was also molded into loathing myself. I had to forgive myself and those who thought they were trying to help.

I also read this article. The fact of the matter was that it was the truth about how we’re taught about our weight: If you’re X size, that will make you happy. But that is never the case. Weight loss can only take care of health. It won’t get you a man, it won’t get you all your far-out dreams, and it certainly won’t make you happy.

And then, of course, I watched my new favorite show, Glee. I only got to see a half an hour, but it was amazing. I watched as Mercedes, a larger African-American girl, was pressured to lose weight now that she was on the cheerleading squad. She was put on a fad diet. Eventually, she saw all her friends as food and passed out. Later, she sang “Beautiful,” by Christina Augilera, prefacing it by asking people how they felt about themselves, if they felt ugly or fat or whatnot. I was moved to tears. I tried to find the whole clip, but the most I could find was on The Daily Beast -- it’s embedded below.

I think of my poor sister, who is so consumed with the fact that she’ll only be happy if she is a certain size, because only then will she be attractive to someone (a total lie – I have found that attractiveness is not as often measure of how someone’s body looks, but rather the confidence they have). She seems to be unable to move on with her life because of this. I realized as I was thinking about my life the other day that it wasn’t my weight that was the issue – it was the lack of control I felt I had in my life, and the pressure that people put me under. I refused to wallow – instead, I was going to change me.

I decided that I needed to change my relationship with food. I need to think about it differently and be conscious about what I put in my body. I love food and I love to cook. I have happy memories over food, but the food is not what makes me happy. It can’t replace feeling good about yourself and your life, and I know that losing weight is not a miracle cure for the pain that is underneath the surface.

But above all, I refuse to let people put me down regarding how I’m shaped or how I eat. I know I will never be super-skinny – thanks to my bone structure and height, I know will probably never drop below a size 14, if that. I refuse to let doctors make me feel like I’m less because I may not be my average weight, or let people treat me differently because I am who I am. As the song “Beautiful” says, you won’t bring me down today, or ever, because I understand that I let people do it all my life. And I refuse to let it happen again.

This morning, I woke up and I looked in the mirror, and for the first time in an incredibly long time, I saw a beautiful girl looking back at me. Not perfect by any means, but beautiful for everything she is and the things that she isn't. And it felt so good to be okay with it all -- and be able to move forward.

Funny Jewish Quotes

Hey everyone! Today has been a funny day (complete with Ari’s story from the Census training, where “military barracks” became “military borekas”), so I decided that instead of the traditional blog post, I’m going to put in some of my favorite funny quotes. Now, before you accuse me of being lazy, hold it right there! You will get a recipe today – and a photo! Woo-hoo!

So here they are, some of my favorite funny quotes, including one from me:

“Koolaid is goyish. All Drake’s Cakes are goyish. Pumpernickel is Jewish, and, as you know, white bread is very goyish. Instant potatoes – goyish. Black cherry soda’s very Jewish. Macaroons are very Jewish – very Jewish cake. Fruit salad is Jewish. Lime Jell-O is goyish. Lime soda is very goyish. Trailer parks are so goyish that Jews won’t go near them.” –Lenny Bruce

“Luck is not a lady for me right now. Rather, it is an elementary school bully that is wonderfully adept at stealing your lunch money on a regular day basis.” –Me

“There’s only one difference between Jews and Catholics. Jews are born with guilt, and Catholics have to go to school to learn it.” –Elayne Boosler

“True love comes quietly, without banners or flashing lights. If you hear bells, get your ears checked. “ Erich Segal

“I don’t believe in the afterlife, although I am bringing a change of underwear.” – Woody Allen

“No one will ever win the battle of the sexes; there’s too much fraternizing with the enemy.” –Henry Kissinger

“Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city.” –George Burns

“When women are depressed they either eat or go shopping. Men invade another country.” –Elayne Boosler

“Age is strictly a case of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.” –Jack Benny

“For every ten Jews beating their breasts, G-d designated one to be crazy and amuse the breast-beaters. By the time I was five, I knew I was that one.” –Mel Brooks

“My father never lived to see his dream come true of an all-Yiddish-speaking Canada.” –David Steinberg

“Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I’m not sure about the universe.” –Albert Einstein

“I once complained to my father that I didn’t seem to be able to do things the same way other people did. Dad’s advice? ‘Margo, don’t be a sheep. People hate sheep. They eat sheep.’” –Margo Kaufman

“I have become my own version of an optimist. If I can’t make it through one door, I’ll go through another door – or I’ll make a door. Something terrific will come no matter how dark the present.” –Joan Rivers

So now that we have our great quotes, it’s time for our amazing recipe: Onion tart, with a pic!

ONION TART

3 large onions

3 tablespoons butter and/or olive oil

1 ready-made pie crust

1 small container of semi-soft cheese, like Alouette or Boursin

1 cup shredded or sliced mozzarella cheese

½ cup parmesan cheese

¼ cup pine nuts (optional)

Slice the onions. Meanwhile, heat the butter/oil in a large skillet. Once hot, add the onions. Allow to cook down for 30-40 minutes over medium-high heat, until they are carmelized.

While this is happening, slightly underbake the pie crust according to package directions. Once cooled, add the semi-soft cheese at the bottom (don’t worry about evenly spacing it out). Add the hot carmelized onions on top of the cheese. Sprinkle the mozzarella and parmesan on top, and add the pine nuts.

Turn up the oven heat to 450 degrees. Place the tart in the oven and allow to cook for about five minutes, or until the cheese turns golden brown. Slice and serve hot. It’s pretty to look at, too!

QUICK TIP: These can be done with mini phyllo shells to make a hors d’oeuvre. Just use less cheese and onion in each one, and bake for less time.

P'tayavon!

Distractions

*DISCLAIMER: I am not a doctor. I wouldn’t ever claim to be one. This is my story with my meds. I am not encouraging anyone to get off of medications. If you are on any prescription medications, you should always talk to your doctor before attempting anything.

Since I was 11 years old, I knew I had ADHD. This just became common knowledge. Until the age of 19, I was on all sorts of prescription drugs to control the ADHD and the factors it came with.

I had a little bit of everything, from traditional ADD medications to anti-depressants. I even took a pill which had the lovely affect of making my body believe that it was pregnant at the age of 16, causing a substantial weight gain. When I got into college, I found out from my psychology textbook that this same medication is used on schizophrenics. Needless to say, I was pissed.

Eventually, I wanted to stop taking my medication. I went to my psychiatrist, who gave me the go-ahead. I wanted to test myself in the real world, sans drugs, as I never had the chance. After some withdrawl, I got into a groove, and I’d say that I found a great deal of success – I became a lot less apathetic and more into enjoying life and everything it had to offer. But as anyone who knows me can tell you, I am still a little ADD-ish.

I find now, more than ever since I have been unemployed, I find that I let these distractions get to me. When I was working, I was in full control and got everything done. I kept myself focused and determined. I was organized and ready to go. But with no schedule or anything to keep me in check, it becomes difficult to keep it together.

Today is probably the best example of this: I woke up this morning, ate breakfast as I always do. I decided today I got to write that blog post, as I haven’t been blogging in a while. Then, as I get on my computer and begin to try to blog, I get distracted by starting to futz around with my iTunes. Focus, Reina, focus! Blog post!

I decided then that I couldn’t stay in the house, what with the TV and everything. I had to get out. I decided to head into Cerritos to my new favorite Coffee Bean (the guy who serves the drinks is a total sweetheart – plus, there’s a Chipotle next door). But with that big shopping center across the street, I couldn’t go without taking a walk. I ended up walking, hopping in and out of stores ogling things I couldn’t afford – so much so that two hours pass!

I finally get to my Coffee Bean, and then check the news – only to get distracted by “Glee,” my brand new favorite show, and their newest guest star, Jonathan Groff, who was in Spring Awakening, a musical I love. So here I am, at the Coffee Bean with my delicious 32-ounce Tropical Passion iced tea with Wikipedia opened to his page, trying desperately to get this blog post out without drifting off into thinking about a grocery list, troubles with finances and job hunting.

Maybe one day I will take ADD medication again, although I am resistant to. There are days where I suspect that I may have been addicted to my medication, because there are times where I feel that the only thing that can solve things is a bit of Adderal or some other Speed-based ADD medication. Instead of the side effects of medication, the only effect that I have is that I am Captain Oblivious. Personally, I find it more endearing than those I got from the medications.

But I realize now that it weakened me in so many ways. Once I got myself off the drugs, it seems like my life turned around. I became a better student and found myself. I carved my own path. My decision to do what I did was not smiled upon, but I took my life into my own hands. Prescription drugs were no longer a crutch, and I took responsibility. I had to.

I am not discouraging anyone from taking medication – in fact, there are many people who need their prescription drugs, both for the safety of themselves and the safety of others. In many cases, medication is crucial; in mine, it was standing in my way. I know that I am a rare case, able to make a choice about my life. And life has never been sweeter.

So here is my favorite sweet treat: Chocolate-dipped fruit. As Ari’s cousin/my kindred spirit Sabrina once said, “You men have your beer and football, us women have chocolate-dipped strawberries.” Plus, you will save tons of money instead of buying dipped strawberries at a chocolate shop for $3 a pop.

CHOCOLATE DIPPED FRUIT

2 cups chocolate morsels

1 cup strawberries

1 banana

½ navel orange (see Quick Tip 1)

Toothpicks

Prepare a baking sheet with a sheet of wax paper on top.

Peel the banana and slice into 1-inch pieces. Wash and dry the strawberries. Peel the navel orange and tear into segments. I like doing this by slicing off the top, then slicing slighting into the skin of the orange and peeling with my fingers. Put toothpicks in them. Set aside.

Melt the chocolate chips in a bowl. Microwave for 30 seconds and stir. Repeat until all the morsels are melted. Once completely melted, dip the fruit into the melted chocolate and place on the wax paper. Continue until all the fruit is dipped.

Put the baking pan in the refrigerator and allow to cool for at least 1 hour. Serve.

Quick Tip 1: If you don’t like any of the fruits above (for example, I don’t like bananas), feel free to substitute with raspberries or blackberries. They work well with the dipping process.

Quick Tip 2: When you wash the fruits, make sure that all the fruit is dry before you dip them. Otherwise the chocolate won’t stick to the fruit and the water will mess up the chocolate.

Fun and fabulous photos

Hi everyone!

As we go into Shabbat, I figured it would be nice to have some photos of food and fun. Here are some great photos over the past few months.

A jar of homemade marinara sauce. It's so good when it's homemade! I'm pretty close to nailing this recipe, and I know what ingredient I'm missing. Once I have it confirmed, I will make it and post it.

A picture of the first attempt at tofu coconut curry. I'm going to take another shot at it pretty soon!

Great food and great friends go together so perfectly... just like Josh and Nelli!

Mmm... Jeff's pastrami burger...

Aroma Cafe up on Sunset in Los Angeles is one of my favorites too... best hummus ever!

And finally, one of my delicious noodle bowls... Ari just loves noodle bowls!

I'm making mac and cheese this afternoon, and hopefully I will be able to get some incredible pictures from that as well to post. P'tayavon!

The Question

Today I had a job interview with Response Magazine. This magazine was possibly the first place I have ever had an incredibly enjoyable job interview, and I am hoping to get a callback.

Why do I bring this up? Because this interview had the most interesting and intriguing interview question I have ever had. It came from the publisher, and he asked this: “Say we hire you in three weeks. In the meantime, we give you the corporate credit card to spend on whatever you want. There is no limit. What would you do?”

Not your typical interview question. It wasn’t a question of ethics, because he said it was specifically a personality question. But it still intrigues me even as I sit in Panera. Imagine that we could live our lives with no financial limitation. We wouldn’t have to worry about where our next dime came from. We could live our lives freely. How would our decisions change? How would our lives change?

It’s particularly strange for me to think about, because I have been living almost my entire married life in complete and total financial limitations (there were two months where that wasn’t the case, but over the course of two and a half years, but still). I couldn’t be able to dream what we would do first, how our lives would so dramatically change if there was no limitation to what we can do.

I try to think about whether it would be a positive or negative. Being a person who has lived their life many a time without money, I think of the wonders and joy that would come if we didn’t have to worry about that. No need to be concerned where the next paycheck comes from! We’d be able to buy a house, go on vacations, have a dog! (I really want a dog) I would have my wonderful kitchen and serving area, complete with all the dishes and servingware that I would need to host a crowd. We might even be able to have a baby, as we would be able to afford the high price for a surrogate.

And yet, I know that the problems that already exist don’t go away just because there happens to be some money thrown around. Just because you can afford everything your heart desires doesn’t mean there won’t be problems – after all, some of the richest people in the world happen to be the saddest ones.

Plus, I realize the things that we will get later in life, when we can afford them, will be that much sweeter when we receive them. After all, who really can appreciate a house when they can just plunk down some money for one with no problem, or haven’t worked to get one? My trip back to Israel will be so much sweeter than if I was able to do it ten years ago with no problem. And if we were able to afford to get a surrogate in the future, however unlikely it may be, wouldn’t it be a truer blessing if we thought it was an impossibility at one point?

In a world that runs almost exclusively on money, hope is the greatest way to stay afloat during poverty. When we have money, I realize it will only solve one problem we have. Money can solve financial issues, but it can’t take care of love or give you peace of mind about everything (it only gives you peace of mind that all the bills are paid).

I’m not going to say that money doesn’t matter – trust me, I know it does, from personal experience. But the truth of the matter is that it shouldn’t be all that there is.

Oh, and the answer I gave? First I would pay off the website, then take Ari to a nice dinner. This would be followed by me buying myself a plane ticket to Israel, visiting all my buddies out there, then hopping through Europe. Upon my homecoming, I would cook a gourmet dinner for everyone -- friends, family and even the guys who interviewed me. How insanely Jewish could you get with the last part?

So, as a cheapo, here is my cheapo recipe for a chick’n parmesan. It’s soy, and if you want, you can make it vegan.

CHICK’N PARMESAN

3 soy chick’n patties or 12 soy chick’n nuggets

½ cup grated mozzarella cheese or soy alternative

¼ cup parmesan cheese or soy alternative

1 cup spaghetti sauce

Preheat the oven to broil. Microwave or cook the soy patties/nuggets according to package directions and place them on a baking sheet.

Cover the patties/nuggets with spaghetti sauce and parmesan cheese. Put mozzarella on top. Put the pan into the oven for 3-5 minutes, until the sauce is hot and the cheese is melted. Serve over spaghetti.

Exile from the Holy Land: A Love Story

In honor of the holiday of Yom Ha’atzmaut, I am finally going to tell my Israel story. It’s not the prettiest of stories, but after 10 years, I refuse to hide anymore. I will tell, because I will not allow my silence to eat at me anymore.

Every Jew has been to Israel has a story about their adventure there – like, “Remember when we went down the Jordan River?” or “Remember the Dead Sea?” Every story comes with an amazing laugh or a great reminiscing smile.

My story of Israel doesn’t come with a lot of these memories. There are some, but they are overwhelmed by one particular memory. Most people don’t know, but my Israel story comes with a different side of Israel. It’s one of heartbreak and exile.

I don’t often talk about it, but the story goes something like this: It was July 16, 1999. I was on an Israel program, 10 days into a six-week trip. We were about to leave the kibbutz we had been staying on that weekend, when the director of the program called me into the small kibbutz office. He put my mother on the phone, who was forced to tell me that they were kicking me out of the program. No reason was given. They just were, and I would leave the country that evening. They tried to blame me, but it was all a lie.

The last day – from talking to the girl who would become my friend for the next 10 years to spending 45 minutes in the Old City – was a blur. Random flashbacks show up from time to time, whether it’s my red-headed friend running across the courtyard, her face red and streaming with tears after she found out I was leaving, running my fingers across the Wailing Wall and sobbing, or the sun setting over the city of Jerusalem. But will never forget holding my friend Eve’s hand and crying from the glorious beauty that was Old City when my eyes first came across it.

The horrible things that happened after I came home – from finding out that I was just a turnkey in a plan for that Israel program to avoid going out of business to being offered a legal settlement that was never paid upon, being told to not tell my story to anyone, ever – don’t matter anymore. I realize how much this experience, of being thrown away like a piece of garbage from this program and being thrown out of Israel for an unknown period of time, changed me.

I became much tougher, not letting the world get to me as much as it had before. I was wounded, but it gave me strength. I found the positive aspects that come from such a negative experience, and instead of letting it become my crutch, it became the stepping stone that I have used throughout the course of my life. The sense of ethics it gave me – not tossing aside any person just because it would save my own skin – was crucial to how I live my life. It inspired further study into what ethics really meant, both for this world and for me. What that horrible director did to me gave me strength -- so much so that last year I actually decided to commemorate the 10th anniversary of the worst day of my life.

And yet, I miss Israel with every sinew of my body. I long for my return to the Promised Land, being able to land in Tel Aviv and kiss the holy ground. I yearn to be able to touch the Wailing Wall, to be able to let it dry my tears. I miss even what I have never had the chance to see before – the Dead Sea, the shores of Tel Aviv, and Sfat, where I have always longed to spend a Shabbat with the mystics. My heart has ached for Jerusalem and its holy light ever since the day I left.

It wasn’t like I never had the chance – a lot of people I knew lied that they had never been to Israel before in order to go on the Birthright Israel trip. “You can just lie,” they said. They thought I was so stupid to refuse to do that – after all, didn’t I want a free trip to Israel? Didn’t I want to go back? The answer was absolutely, with every molecule in my heart – but I was lied to as I was kicked out of Israel. I refused to lie to get back in. I was better than that, better than that evil man who sent me into exile.

Still, I fill up with jealousy as I watch my friends and other people I know go back and forth to Israel like it was a hop, skip and a jump away. Most of them don’t know the truth about me. In fact, my own former roommate didn’t know until I had told him about a month ago over dinner with him and his amazing girlfriend. I came to the conclusion then that I should no longer be holding my exile inside of me. It was a cancer on my soul. I decided that I shouldn’t lie to anyone who asks me whether I had been or not. I am way past that point in my life of deluding anyone or telling people, “It’s hard to talk about,” or even just whispering about it.

And I try desperately to comfort myself, tell myself that one day I will return. Ari has told me that we will go someday, although every day that we are both unemployed, it seems more and more unlikely that we’ll be able to make it there. I have thought about attending the Jerusalem Culinary Institute, but it’s another one of those impossible dreams.

I then wonder about our ancestors, who saw the Second Temple destroyed in 70 CE and then were forced into exile, never to see their homeland again. Their descendents only got it back 62 years ago. I understand their mourning, the pain our ancestors must have felt to leave their home, and the desperation to find a new place to call home.

Fortunately, I did find a home in the end – Orange County, and then Long Beach, became my home, and I love it with all my heart. But no matter how far away I am, I don’t stop dreaming about the Old City at sunset, the blue of the Red Sea and the first time I laid eyes on the world’s largest crater, where there was nothing but earth and sky, and fell in love with a country half a world away from anything I had known.

And one day, I will return. I will return to the land from my exile, and G-d willing, in my lifetime, I will see the Holy Temple built up once more, and we will celebrate in its joy and perfection. We will see the end of war, strife and sorrow, and find the cause for celebration.

I wish you all a happy Yom Ha’atzmaut, celebrating all that Israel has given to us. I know it gave me something to live for throughout the dark times of my life. Let Israel be the light that shines on for us and guides us through the darkness.

Life in the Deli

Last night, I was watching one of my favorite shows, “Gene Simmons’ Family Jewels” (could there be any doubt after an article like this?). Gene was in a deli with a reporter, and he sat there explaining all the food that was laid out in front of her. This girl didn’t understand – a Jew like me was just sitting back and drooling as Gene was showing her pastrami and corned beef sandwiches, not to mention delicious potato pancakes.

I can’t think of a food experience more Jewish than going out and having delicious delicatessen food. For my family, this was a great bonding experience. When it’s time to flash back on some of the happiest memories of my childhood, it often features sitting down at the deli for some sandwiches.

When I was a kid, it was tradition to go out to our deli in the San Fernando Valley – Art’s Deli on Ventura Boulevard. It would be my uncle, aunt, cousin, grandparents, parents and sister. I remember going over Coldwater Canyon with my grandparents in the car, looking forward to dinner with them in great anticipation. My grandmother would play games with my sister and me in the back seat. For me, I cherished every moment of this part of my life. It was the great part of being just a large, happy family.

We would get there and pass the deli counter, filled with giant roasts and various salads, to get to the counter and put our name on the list. It was a comfort to always hear, between the parties of four, three and two, something along the lines of “Bob, party of nine.” To this day, I still love going out with a ton of people. It feels like family, like home.

There we would sit in a large booth with orange cushions, and we all would order our favorites. Nony would order a lean corned beef, and mom would order tongue (hey, people – don’t knock it until you’ve tried it! It’s good!). Shosh and I would split tongue and corned beef. Dad would order some dish like a kishka that he remembered from his childhood – when his grandmother, an immigrant from Romania, was still able to cook.

Eventually it was served – a divine stack of thinly-sliced meat, in between two tiny pieces of rye bread. I would slather on some spicy mustard and curiously eye my sister as she put ketchup on her corned beef (yes, I know – VERY STRANGE). The slightly sweet yet hearty flavors would dance on my tongue. We’d all eat happily, and I will never forget that image of the nine of us sitting in that corner booth – my grandmother lovingly watching over her two children, their spouses and her three grandchildren with such love and joy. We were nine people coming together in this strange cross section in time, enjoying each other.

Afterwards, we'd wander down Ventura Boulevard, sometimes stopping into the various shops and bookstores. Eventually, we'd get to a hole-in-the-wall Baskin Robbins (or, as my uncle called it, "BR-BR"). I remember sitting there and snacking on our ice cream, laughing. There was also laughter, and the smiles of my Papu and Nony shining down on us.

Now, things are very different. My grandparents are long gone, and things will never be the way they were when my sister and I were little. My uncle is now married to a different woman (and I don’t take anything away from her – I love my Aunt Katie very much). Ari and I are kosher now, so we wouldn’t be ordering a corned beef sandwiches from Art’s – we would go to Pico Kosher Deli, which is actually kosher, not just kosher style. I’m not even sure if my cousin Amy even remembers these special times.

All I know is that in my mind’s eye, I can still see the part of Ventura Boulevard where Art’s is. I can see that nine-person booth and even taste that corned beef sandwich simply melting in my mouth. All I know is that you couldn’t pay me a million dollars for those memories. It reminds me, in all the craziness of childhood, I was always surrounded by love and a wonderful family. None of those people at the table were perfect people, nor did we ever become perfect. But we cherished each other. And I will never forget.

In honor of all things deli, I am bringing out something I love – my mother-in-law’s mock liver. We eat this on Saturday afternoons for Shabbat lunch at her house, and it is so tasty. Remember to chill it thoroughly, as eating it warm is like drinking warm beer. No bueno.

IMA’S MOCK LIVER

1 can well-drained peas or 2 cups defrosted peas (see Quick Tip)

1 large onion, chopped

3 tablespoons margarine

3 cloves garlic

2-3 hard-boiled eggs

¾ cup finely chopped walnuts

¾ teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon black pepper

Paprika

Chop the onion and sauté it in the margarine. Finely chop the garlic and add it to the onions and stir. Meanwhile, hard-boil the eggs. Finely chop the walnuts until reaching ¾ cup.

Once hard-boiled eggs are done, cool and peel them. Put the canned peas or the defrosted peas in a bowl, smashing them with a fork. Add the onion mixture, walnuts and eggs and smash into the mixture. Season with the salt and pepper, and put in the refrigerator to cool until serving. Serve with paprika sprinkled on top.

Quick Tip: Canned peas often have a chartreuse hue to them, which might make them slightly unappetizing for some. If you like the stronger green color of fresh peas, I suggest you go for the frozen and just defrost them before adding them.

Is G-d on Twitter? That and Other Musings on the Holy One

As we go into Shabbat, I had a very interesting experience. This morning, as I was moping around about my lack of job (and money), I decided to go on Facebook and ask for a job. I was sick of it – I was getting rejected job after job. I would like a place to settle down.

And, then, almost as if it were willed, I got a call for a job interview for a senior editor for a magazine. Not only is it local (yay not having to go to LA for a job interview!), but it is an amazing magazine. I’m so excited for my job interview next week, and hopefully I will post soon that I will be slightly less broke than usual, as I will get that job.

But then it got me to wondering: How does G-d know stuff like this? Does G-d read Facebook? I posted this on Facebook, and my friend Sarah laughingly responded, “I wonder if G-d is on Twitter?”

It does make me curious – where is G-d in our lives? We always question things like this on a regular basis. People who are suffering will often scream to the stars about it. There are so many interpretations of it. But it’s still worth the question.

There are many people who don’t like to believe there is G-d. I respect their opinions and understand that you don’t have to believe. But after everything I have studied in my life, ranging from science all the way to the arts, there is no doubt in my mind. I may have chosen not to pursue science (although I was actually pretty good at biology in high school), but I am constantly fascinated by it.

Think about the study of atoms alone – these little protons, neutrons and electrons come together to form the smallest parts of so many different elements. And on top of it, there are millions of them making up your cellular structure, which makes up your own body! Life after life after life! How can you say that a higher power doesn’t exist and this is some form of accident? This is why I subscribe to the teachings of Maimonides and believe that it’s important to learn about everything, since everything is from the Holy One, blessed be he/she.

G-d is everything, and everything is G-d. From the small ant that wandered across this desk at Barnes and Noble to the air running through the leaves outside our window. G-d is man, woman and child.

I won’t say that G-d is perfect, because I don’t think anything in this universe is. G-d is capable of showing the world the greatest good and yet the most horrible evils. However, I don’t think G-d is without a sense of humor, however twisted it may be (how else can you explain the President of Iran, who is evil incarnate while looking like a monkey and wearing a Member’s Only Jacket?).

As we go into Shabbat, I remember the first Jewlicious festival, where the beautiful and amazing Dena Hundert taught me how to “walk with G-d” – not unlike Noah did before the floods came. Throughout the history of the Jewish people, we have had the most unusual relationship with the Holy One – we have walked with, debated and cried out to G-d. We were led through the desert with G-d, and yet sometimes we have led the way for G-d to be invisible in our lives, not unlike the story of Queen Esther.

But I find the name of our people – the people of Israel – to signal the nature of our relationship. Israel means, “to wrestle with G-d,” or “to struggle with G-d.” I prefer “to struggle with.” Because we go through life. We fight, we talk, we cry, but we remain forever entwined with one another. And that is the way it was always meant to be.

I am going to link you up with one of my favorite blogs today – MyKosherLA.com. There, YBK is featured with two different recipes, which are perfect for Shabbat dinner and then perhaps a lunch. Enjoy and Shabbat Shalom!

Reina's Manifesto

Since YBK has a manifesto, I figured I need one too. I think everyone needs to be able to state their principles and goals in a genuine manner. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel really good to write what I believe in and what I would like to do with my life. If you feel like writing your own manifesto, feel free to send to me at youngbrokekosher@gmail.com. If I like it, I will post it here.

So it goes a little something like this. Hit it!:

I believe in love and life. We must love with all our hearts and live as much as we can. In turn, I believe we should share our lives with the ones that we love and not waste time on those who can’t respect us.

I believe in not fussing over trivial matters. Life is just way too short for things like that.

I should try to get out of the house every day – you know, for something other than blogging. Meet with friends, go kayaking… or perhaps both at the same time?

I must find a way to make money. Dinero. Moolah. Hard cash. Unfortunatley, no one is currently paying for my blog. Yet.

I believe in constructive criticism. I do not believe in negativity and being bullied. I graduated from college – I feel that I am WAY past the stage of having a bully to try to make me feel like less of a person.

I believe in loving yourself for everything you are and aren’t. It’s a difficult task – one we must strive to achieve every day.

I am going to do stuff for others. I will participate in charity work. Even if I don’t have money to give, I have two hands and a brain that is capable of many things.

I’m going to try to eat less cheese and ice cream. Maybe.

I do not believe in judging others. I will accept people for who they are – not because of anything that they just happen to be.

I believe in laughing. A lot. I also believe in finding joy in everything.

I will learn how to focus. I will take control of my ADH… ooh look! A bird!

I will spend more time with my husband. When he’s not listening to the radio or making strange noises, that is.

I believe that the whole world is a very narrow bridge. The most important part is not to be afraid.

I believe in forgiveness. I try my best to forgive, as sometimes it’s the hardest thing in the world to do. I will confess that it is something that I am still trying to work on, particularly not holding grudges.

I will try to work out more. It’s hard to sometimes keep at it. I may need a friend to help out with this one.

I will stop procrastinating. Tomorrow.

I don’t believe in hurting anyone if at all possible. Sometimes it’s unavoidable. But we have to do what we can to prevent all harm.

I believe in having as many people eat at my table as possible. Or that it can hold – I have very little space, and not that many chairs. At one point, I hosted a dinner and my friend Cindy had to sit on the yoga ball.

I will learn to do more things for myself – particularly when it comes to computer stuff.

I will learn to be a stronger person – mind, body and soul.

And this, above all, to thine own self be true. And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not be false to any man.

And on that note, I’m going to post a recipe for foccacia – a very easy, quick bread that can compliment any meal.

FOCCACIA

1 ball pizza dough (see quick tip)

2 tablespoons olive oil

Any of the following ingredients:

· Sundried or fresh tomatoes

· Minced garlic

· Fresh basil

· Rosemary

· Artichoke hearts

· Oregano

· Parmesan cheese

· Red bell peppers

· Red onion

· Minced garlic

· Black olives

· Zucchini

· Mushrooms

Knead the pizza dough to get rid of any air bubbles. Roll out on a cookie sheet or pizza pan. Pour the olive oil on top and spread with either a pasty brush or with your hands.

Top with your favorite toppings, preferably one herb, garlic and 1-2 vegetables. You don’t want to go overboard. Bake at 350 degrees for approximately 20 minutes. Serve hot.

Quick Tip: You can get a ball of pizza dough at almost any pizza place you like and keep it in your freezer.

In the Hands of Love: Shoshanna's tale

Last night, I met a girl by the name of Shoshanna. She was an incredibly stylish 20-something, in a lovely dress and the perfect high heels, her long curly hair draping her shoulders. If you were walking down the street, you would just see a beautiful girl and walk on.

But then came the truth: Shoshanna, this lovely girl, was a victim of domestic abuse. At the age of 19, she got engaged to a man who hurt her, isolated her from her family and friends and took away her dignity. Eventually, she had to escape – leaving Southern California in order to get away from her abuser.

The thing that made it scarier? Shoshanna was set up with her abuser by a rabbi. The rabbi’s wife was good friends with the abuser. The abuser was an observant man, yamulke and all. What made it even scarier was that at one point that she talked to a religious rabbi about it. His response? If the woman was a good wife/girlfriend, then the abuse wouldn’t happen -- which, for anyone who is familiar with domestic abuse, knows is total bulls**t (sorry, nobetter word here).

The truth is that domestic abuse doesn’t have a dividing line. It’s in every community, even if we don’t see it. There isn’t just physical abuse – there is psychological abuse, verbal abuse and sexual abuse. It’s in every color, creed, sexual identity and gender. And yes, for the record, men can be victims of abuse just as much as women can. The ramifications of this abuse can last a lifetime, and even reverberate into other generations. I know this to be true – I will not go into detail, but a diseased leg of my family tree has been exposed to the horror of sexual abuse, and I see it lingering in the children.

We ask ourselves, “Why don’t they just leave?” Shoshanna can attest to the reason why – because it’s deadly. Her abuser stalked her and desperately tried to find her after she left. She said that recent statistics indicate that women who leave abusive relationships are at tremendous risk for being killed.

Instead of sitting around and feeling sorry for herself, Shoshanna founded Hands of Ahava in Orange County (for those who don’t know, “Ahava” means “Love” in Hebrew). Their mission is to provide crisis intervention, shelter, emotional support, medical care and counseling for victims. The goal is to help them break free of abusive situations.

In addition to the crisis intervention, Hands of Ahava would like to encourage education regarding abuse at schools and community organizations. They started this last night at a screening of the movie “Sin by Silence,” about women in prison for killing their abusers, as they felt there was no other way out of their hell.

I met Brenda, an amazing lady who founded a support group when she was in prison for killing her abusive husband. It was for women who were abused, called Convicted Women Against Abuse. About two years ago, she was allowed a retrial and her conviction was overturned. Despite the horrible things she went through, she has a positive attitude. I just had to hug her afterwards, and she was very happy I did. “They didn’t allow hugging in prison,” she said.

I was so glad to meet and get to know Shoshanna and Hands of Ahava. Shoshanna is like her name – she a beautiful flower that blooms in our Jewish community, but with strong weapon of a powerful voice against a horrible thing. She encourages us to talk about what goes on behind closed doors, to not be afraid of the concept of domestic abuse, and not let us think, “Oh, it can’t happen to us.” The truth is that yes, it can and it does. We are not immune. We must stand up and fight back.

In honor of the lovely Shoshanna, I dedicate this appetizer for her. It’s Pesto Pinwheels, which were featured at a recent Shabbat dinner. They are oh-so-delicious, and I hope she enjoys them.

PESTO PINWHEELS

1 sheet of frozen puff pastry (see Quick Tip 1)

For the Pesto:

2 cups fresh basil

4 cloves garlic

1 1/3 cups olive oil

1/2 cup walnuts (see Quick Tip 3)

Salt and pepper

½ cup parmesan cheese (optional for dairy)

Take out the puff pastry to defrost. It takes about 40 minutes on the counter, but if you need more time, stick it your fridge.

In a blender, combine the basil, garlic and nuts. Stop the blender occasionally to make sure that everything is being chopped together. Once that is completed, while pulsing, add the olive oil slowly until smooth. Pour into a bowl, add the cheese and mix. Set aside.

Meanwhile, roll out the sheet of puff pastry on top of a cookie sheet. Spread the pesto on top evenly. Roll the sheet together and wrap in plastic wrap and put in the freezer for at least 30 minutes. This will make them easier to slice. Meanwhile, clean the baking sheet and grease it slightly. Preheat your oven to 400 degrees.

Take out of the freezer, unwrap and slice into ¼ to ½ inch slices and place on the sheet. Cook for 15-20 minutes, until the pastry is golden brown and puffy.

Quick Tip 1: Puff pastry is sold in any market. You can actually get pareve brands as well.

Quick Tip 2: If you don’t want to make your own pesto, you can always pick up some jarred.

Quick Tip 3: Traditionally, pine nuts are used in pesto sauce. However, since they are more expensive, I choose walnuts. The flavor is just as good.

The YBK Manifesto

Hello everyone!

I’m sorry for my inconsistency of blogging – Passover has really gotten in the way of my normal schedule. So, in order to get back to our usual pace, I have decided to write a manifesto for the blog and (upcoming) website. I feel that it’s important to outline the principles and the goals of this blog and website – which may launch as soon as this week!

Don’t worry, fair readers, I am not a communist, but manifesto is the best definition of my declaration of principles and goals. Here we go:

At Young, Broke and Kosher, we believe in many things, but most of all, what’s important here is good food and great stories. When it comes to the food, though, I firmly stand for the best food possible. I don’t believe in “good for kosher food.” We will always stand for food that’s good – and it just so happens to be kosher.

We refuse to alienate anyone, particularly based on religious observance. We don’t care if you wear a sheitel, hug your guy friends, or eat out at non-kosher restaurants. Hell, we don’t even care if you’re kosher, let alone Jewish! This blog is for anyone and everyone to share and enjoy, not to mention laugh and have fun with. If I do alienate you, I apologize.

We will not care if someone is eating bacon in front of us. But we, as a website and blog, will not be posting recipes with ham, lobster, shrimp, scallops or bacon. Unless there’s a miracle and lamb bacon is somehow available on the market. Yum.

We believe in fresh fruits and vegetables. We believe in wacky fruits and vegetables too, ranging from romanesco cauliflower and purple carrots down to blood oranges. But either way, we love things that come from the ground, as well as from beautiful trees.

We will try new things and experiment, all while trying to stay true to classical ways of cooking. We will honor French, Indian, Middle Eastern, Asian, Italian and Mediterranean cuisine, along with any other cuisine that may come our way.

We will have no fear when it comes to food. Anyone who says it may be too hard for us will be proven wrong. Unless it comes to developing my own baking recipes. That will be a little trickier.

We will share food with friends – particularly those who are willing to hold a camera for us in order to create our first video for the website. First recipe will be lasagna Florentine! On that note, we will also make sure to post videos and have great recipes featured in them.

We will have more photographs. That much is certain. And Kim will probably be taking them. Thanks, Kim!

We will launch the website… all I need to do is make sure I have $20 for the activation fee.

We will make the stories that we explore on the blog special. They will be funny, poignant, odd, sweet, sad, happy, confusing, controversial and/or sarcastic. But they will always come from the heart.

We will post more recipes – particularly the ones that I come up with in our kitchen on a regular basis, including the one at the end of this manifesto, which was developed on Passover. In turn, we will also welcome other people’s recipes if they are willing to share. (E-mail them to youngbrokekosher@gmail.com if you’re interested).

We will try to bring people together from all over the United States and beyond, whether hailing from the South all the way up to the Northwest. We will become the meeting place for people who love food, no matter how they eat – whether it’s vegan, vegetarian, kosher, not kosher, etc. So, p’tayavon, people!

STRAWBERRY CHICKEN SALAD

1 cup leftover chicken

1 medium head of romaine lettuce, chopped

1 small jar of hearts of palm, rinsed and sliced into 1/2-inch pieces

1 can olives, rinsed

3 green onions, sliced diagonally into ½-inch pieces

1 medium basket strawberries, sliced

DRESSING

See recipe for Strawberry Gorganzola salad (see School of Salads for the recipe)

Combine romaine, hearts of palm, green onions, strawberries, and olives in a bowl. Shred the chicken into pieces and mix into salad. Add dressing and serve cold.

The Story of Henry: A Holocaust Memory in honor of Yom HaShoah

I must confess that I interact differently with the Holocaust versus other Jewish people I know. One is that I don’t have any family who lived through or even died in the Holocaust – the closest I had was Rabbi Jacob Ott, a family friend who was a liberator of a concentration camp during World War II.

Second was my mother, who worked for the Survivors of the Shoah foundation from the time I was 13 until I turned 19. She was a cataloguer, and every day she watched people give their testimonies about the horrible things the Nazis had done. Many times, she would come home to our dinner table and tell a horrible story about some survivor and the hell that they were put through. By the time I was 16, I was completely desensitized to that time period in history.

I met survivors over that time, many of whom would never speak of their story again after their testimony with the Shoah foundation. After hearing the stories I had over the years, I could not begin to imagine the horrors. But there was always one story I remembered, and I could probably never forget. My mother gets tears in her eyes whenever we talk about him.

His name was Henry Rosmarin. He was a volunteer who worked at the Shoah foundation. He played the harmonica so simply and beautifully. It was this skill that saved his life during the Holocaust.

As a child in Poland, Henry learned to play the harmonica with great skill. He mastered many classical pieces. When he was in a concentration camp at 17, a commandant found out about Henry’s great talent. The officer ordered Henry to play for him, and Henry said he knew that if he didn’t play perfectly, he would be shot.

The officer was satisfied afterwards, and assigned him to kitchen duty. Every night, he would play music for the officers in their mess hall. This was what kept him fed and watered throughout the war.

He was liberated in May 1945, but this came with a fight – Henry had to survive two death marches before the Soviet armies found him. It was an almost impossible feat, but the truth was that sometimes things are meant to be. In this case, Henry was meant to live.

He was meant to marry his wife and have two sons. He was meant to work at the Shoah Foundation. And then he was meant to tell his story.

Henry would talk to anyone who would listen. He often spoke to high schools, and would play his harmonica. In fact, Beverly Hills High School students gave him a harmonica in thanks for his services. It was engraved: “To our adopted Grandpa.” He was written about in newspapers, had books written about his experience, and there is even a documentary from the Shoah foundation, called “Henry’s Harmonica.” (There's a video down below for those who want to see.)

Sadly, Henry died of cancer in 2001, at the age of 75. My mother attended the funeral, and she said it was staggering – there were thousands of people in attendance, from teenagers who were touched by his stories to people who were involved in the foundation itself. Steven Speilberg showed up late. He had to wait outside, as there was no room left in the chapel. And this was all for a man who simply played the harmonica to survive.

As much as I have problems with Yom HaShoah, I’d like to think that Henry still has something important to teach us after all this time, even though he has been gone for so many years.

Perhaps it’s that one person can, indeed, change the way people think, even if he seems small. Perhaps it’s the fact there is sin in silence when it comes to this. We should tell people about the horrors of the horrible things that go on in the world, whether it’s the terror in Darfur or the evils of Iran silencing those who are defiant by death. Or maybe it’s the power of music, whether it’s to save lives or to be able to tell a story that simple needs to be told, and can get too harsh if it’s told any other way.

All I know is that Henry felt that he had some responsibility to people in the world, as we all should. He realized that we need to live for something more, that we are here for a reason, and that we need to find that reason. Perhaps it’s to inspire or to educate, or maybe just to be there. Either way, Henry taught us to live.

So on Yom HaShoah (or even the day after – no one has cleared up for me when exactly it is), I encourage you all to live. Instead of dwelling in the horror of the past, take a look at the beauty of the present, and feel blessed. Meanwhile, fight for those around on you, because it’s an incredibly important part of life itself.

There doesn’t seem to be a recipe appropriate for today, but I am going to give you a link. It’s to my friend Christina’s blog, and she has some fabulous recipes for you, too – a merging of Filipino and Jewish foods. It’s www.pinoyvey.com. The other is a video of Henry. It's a long video, but if you haven't seen him, it's well worth it. Please enjoy both!

Half Breed

When it comes to my identity, I often remember a story from when I was in college. I went to go have dinner with my grandparents, of blessed memory, and my great aunt. We were eating all this traditional Sephardic food that I love and adore, laughing and talking.

At one point, totally randomly, as if to condemn me, my great aunt blurted, “You’re not Sephardic!”

I was in shock. Although my father is from Ashkenazi descent, I didn’t know that much about the culture – I didn’t even eat kugel until I went to college. “But mom’s Sephardic. I’m Sephardic.”

“If you were Sephardic, you would be able to eat an olive like your grandfather does!”

I watched carefully as my beloved Papu picked up an olive, put it in his mouth, ate the flesh, pulled out the pit and put it on his plate. As I never back down from a challenge, I picked up one of the olives from the tiny little glass jar that Nony kept them in. I put it in my mouth, moved it around perfectly, and was able to put my pit on my plate, clean as a whistle.

My great aunt looked down at it, and then at me, and said loudly, “That still doesn’t make you Sephardic!”

It’s the story of my life when it comes to my identity. No one will let me live in peace and let me call myself Sephardic. Sometimes it’s because my father is Ashkenazi, and culture is supposed to run through the patrilineal line (although my father’s family had as much Jewish culture as a communion wafer). Other times it’s because I have hung out with Ashkenazim so much that I am lumped in with them – Sephardis have a lot of pride, and if they feel you don’t hang exclusively with them, I’m not Sephardic. There’s also the fact that I married an Ashkenazi Jew – so aren’t I supposed to start making gefilte fish by now?

Other times it’s because I don’t LOOK Sephardic -- after all, aren’t all Sephardics dark? (And just for the record, they’re not – both my grandparents were rather light, and both of their families hailed from Turkey.) That’s not an issue for me alone – I have plenty of Jewish friends of all different cultures who get the phrase, “You don’t LOOK Jewish.” Just try it with my friend Inbar. She and her 180 goats will attack you -- long story. But it’s just as offensive when it comes to my identity.

As a kid, it wasn’t cool to be the Sephardic Jew. In fact, as a teenager, as a Jew it was only cool if you had a family member who survived the Holocaust, and although there were Sephardic Jews who did survive, there weren’t that many who were persecuted, as they were often in countries that weren’t invaded. I didn’t know what gefilte fish was, and I was just that strange kid who liked her vegetables, as that’s what good Sephardi boys and girls like to eat. As I moved on to college, people loved to challenge my identity. One girl loved picking on me for it. She immediately shut up when a wonderful rabbi explained that I was Sephardic, as that was the prominent culture in my parents’ home.

There are still people who just love to question who I am. My friends accept me and appreciate me (and the Sephardic foods I make), but not everyone does, a lot of it stemming because I look like my father. Hell, even my own mother looks down on me, thinking that I have gone astray, as I am not involved very much in Sephardic temple life and sometimes say the word “Oy.” Obviously, Sephardic Jews don’t say, “Oy.”

I have had to come to terms that I am a half-breed, never really having a place in either community. It’s probably one of the reasons why I drifted towards Long Beach – a place where no one really cared what you were -- as long as you were Jewish, it was totally cool. It doesn’t matter where your family is from, as long as we are together. Together, we share cultures, great food and stories of our ancestors, no matter where they once called home.

Perhaps its because we find ourselves looking towards something that’s better. We realize that when we meet G-d, whenever that time is, G-d will not care what the hell we were, whether we were Sephardic, Ashkenazi, Mizrahi (and you know I love you guys!) or converts. What G-d wants is that we live good lives that we share with others. G-d cares whether we decided to let love be our guiding light or if we chose to be petty and turn on others if we feel like we don’t like their identity or can’t accept them for who they are.

This will be something that I will be taking into my Sephardic Cooking Class that I will be teaching at our local JCC next month. And with that, I will be reposting a recipe that I posted at the beginning of this blog, but my friend Paul needs again. It’s Spinach Macaron, the delicious casserole dish that blends both Ashkenazi and Sephardi cultures so perfectly.

SPINACH MACARON

1 large onion

½ cup (one stick) of butter or margarine

1 pound elbow macaroni

1 box frozen spinach

Small container of sour cream

4 eggs, beaten

1 cup parmesan cheese, plus extra

Salt and pepper to taste

Sauté onion in the stick of butter or margarine until onions are translucent. Boil macaroni until al dente. Defrost spinach according to package directions and drain, making sure to squeeze out all the water. Let all of them cool.

Combine macaroni, onions, sour cream, eggs and parmesan cheese, as well as salt and pepper to taste. Fold all the ingredients together as not to destroy the macaroni.

Spray the casserole dish with non-stick cooking spray. Put the macaroni mixture in. Put extra parmesan cheese on top. Bake for one hour until it gets golden on top and the bottom gets crusty. Serve with salad.

Quick Tip: Due to all the butter in the dish, I like to use healthier alternatives, like whole wheat macaroni and light sour cream in lieu of regular. However, in the case of the sour cream, light doesn’t have as much flavor as the regular, so make sure that you season your mixture well with salt and pepper.

And if you made it this far in the post, here's a video... just because of the title alone. Cher is awesome, and helping us tall girls of the world not feel like... well, half breeds!

The Joy vs. The Particulars (An End-to-Passover Ode)

First of all, I need to apologize profusely for not blogging as much as I should have been over Passover. Two Yom Tov days, one Shabbat and then another two Yom Tov days makes my schedule for blogging a little bit tumultuous.

But on Shabbat, as I observed the Yartzeit/Anio (read: anniversary of death) for my beloved grandmother, the guest rabbi at the temple made a sermon about – what else? – Passover. But it was also about the hectic nature around the holiday.

“It seems like everyone gets crazy around Passover,” he said. Let’s just say he’s not kidding. What with the cleaning and the spending of hundreds of dollars and hours to get everything just perfect, whether it’s groceries or cleaning, Passover has become more of a hassle. In fact, I heard a woman nearby whisper “cleaning,” with a tone of stress and tiredness in her voice. (It seems like this is the time of year is where women suffer more. I joke around with Ari, as he says that Passover is his favorite holiday, and I say, “You don’t have to do most of the cleaning and preparing. That’s why it’s your favorite holiday!”)

And as though the rabbi read my mind, he asked, “But where is the joy?” He explained that Passover was supposed to be eight days worth of simcha and celebration.

What he asked was something I wondered myself through all the struggle of not eating chametz, the cleaning and kashering and what seemed to be piles and piles worth of dishes in the sink, made to look even bigger by the bins that I put in there to prevent the dishes from touching the sides. Meanwhile, I’m cooking and preparing every meal and trying to make do with the horrible Passover ingredients that I have been allotted for the holiday.

I wonder why Passover has to be so hard. We are supposed to celebrate our exodus from Egypt, and we are made slaves to the insane demands that this holiday requires – not to mention the horrible foods.

As we exit the holiday, we need to think about this for the next year. It’s something worth thinking about. Particularly for a holiday about freedom, we should never become slaves to the particulars. I know I am going to make a lot of people who follow every rabbinical teaching absolutely nuts with this one, but can we not be so paranoid when it comes to Passover? I would rather have kitniyot in my house rather than drive everyone in my life up a wall. I would rather look forward to this holiday with some joy instead of having it bring fear into my heart.

And speaking of kitniyot, it’s something worth thinking about. If you study the laws of kitniyot, the only reason why it happened was because the rabbis noted that wheat was being ground up with beans and rice (corn wasn’t really a factor in Eastern Europe, as it’s native to the Western Hemisphere), so they outlawed them altogether. But with the world changing as it is and the way the food is processed, there are many people who are bringing kitniyot back into their diets – particularly vegetarians and vegans, who need good sources of protein during the holiday.

As Israeli rabbis are fighting the issue out for Ashkenazim in Israel (here’s a great article about it from YNet, and here's another great one from The Forward), it’s something I am also considering for next year. I found out from my mother that my family, as Sephardim, eats certain types of beans and legumes for Passover (we always ate peanut butter on matzah, and also ate green beans happily on the holiday). I’ve talked to Ari about it, and it’s something we’re definitely thinking about doing next year.

Either way, we’ve got to rethink this holiday. It shouldn’t be reduced in joy because certain members of the family are slaves to their kitchens or the high price of Passover foods. Perhaps if we find a way to relax about this holiday, whether it’s being not as crazy when it comes to kitniyot or whether we buy our kosher for Passover products at not-kosher-for-Passover stores, we need to figure out how we can really say, “Let my people go!” – and actually mean it.