Life at the Poverty Line

Let’s face it – the middle word in the title of this blog is Broke. Unfortunately, this is not a metaphorical broke. The fact of the matter is that my husband and I are running short on funds and we are trying our best to survive.

Not many people would know looking at us – we are people in the community that show up to things. We shower and bathe, and have a home. It’s common knowledge that we are both are unemployed. But what’s not commonly known is the fact that sometimes I look at the refrigerator and wonder if I can afford to get groceries or even eye makeup remover pads. It’s a fear that seems to permeate every waking moment of my life recently. Can we afford this, that or the other? What will it take? Where is the money going to come from? And, above all, when will we get jobs so the uncertainty can end?

Many people I have known in my lifetime, coming from an upper-middle-class life, will probably never know this fear. Someone will come and help them, right? But the truth is that Ari and I have been trying our best to go at it without. We have been fending for ourselves first before trying to ask. Our savings have taken a major hit, but we’re coming to a point where there could be an end, and that is a very scary prospect. Life at the poverty line is a scary thought.

I dream of a time in my life where I will be able to cook and host Shabbat dinners in a house with a large enough dining room table to fit people. I long to have so much in my life, but sometimes it feels like it’s so far away. I dream of a better life than this, where we will have all we desire. I feel like something should come to us easily, but nothing ever has.

Fortunately, I have perspective on my life. Her name is Aunt Esther. She is my grandmother’s only living sibling, and at 95 she has been through the ringer in life. Yet she’s smart, funny and vivacious. And she spent quite a bit of her life in poverty.

Today, I went to go visit her with baklava that my mother got at the restaurant we had lunch at (Itz Kosher at Ventura and Tujunga in the San Fernando Valley – a delicious place which, for some odd reason, had William Shatner in it). I brought it to her, and we had a wonderful afternoon that was simple – it was two pieces of baklava and a knife. Simple and sweet. And she gave me a wonderful piece of advice.

“You can have bread and butter, and if it’s done with love, it’s like nothing you’ve ever tasted. If it’s not, meh.”

And that is really the simple truth. It doesn’t matter really what you have. You can have very little and it can be turned into something great. You can be dressed in rags and one day have the riches, but sometimes you need to remember that it’s the love that drives us forward. It's how two pieces of baklava can turn into a meal of miracles. It's what makes it all work.

It’s true that Ari and I don’t have a lot of money, and I pray to G-d that it changes soon so we can move on and start building our lives – something we have never been able to do since we got married, as we have been struggling with survival since day one. But I need to remember that everything we do, no matter what our income level is, has to be done with the love in our hearts to inspire and to change the world around us.

I’m currently working on several recipes, including black bean burgers, so stay tuned!

Words, Words, Words

I am a big fan of words. Probably any writer or editor would tell you that they are, too. There are so many great ones out there, and they roll off your tongue, dance along your lips or, in my case, flow out of my fingertips. They feel so natural.

There are a variety of words that are fabulous just for the sound or for the meaning, but it doesn’t matter what they are. The truth of the matter is that words are amazing – and yes, even the ones that are considered bad. There are really no such things as bad words, but rather the way that they are used are horrible.

Yesterday, I attended an event through Young Leadership Division of Orange County, which was co-sponsored by the group that I am affiliated with, Hands of Ahava. The discussion was regarding the power of words, and how they affect the people around us. The beautiful Shoshanna, who I have talked about on this blog before (read the article here), addressed the crowd regarding abuse and the statistics associated with them in Orange County. She mentioned that, along with words’ power to heal, they can hurt quicker.

“Well, what about ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me?’” asked a person in the crowd.

“That is one of the biggest lies around,” Shoshanna replied. “Words stay with us.”

There is no going around the bush on that one. The fact of the matter is, throughout the taunts of yesteryear, despite the time that separates us from the words that wounded, you still can’t take them away. Our bodies seem to cling to the words that we hear and the diatribes against us. It does it so much that there are theories that they can cause us to spiral down into anything from weight gain to drug and alcohol addiction.

I can still hear those words that have been said to me over the years. They haunt me, particularly in this period of unemployment:

“You’re the worst writer I’ve ever seen, and the only reason you haven’t been fired is because of me.”

“You need to go back to journalism school to learn to write.”

“You’re delusional.” Or, "You're an idiot."

“Brat.”

I am haunted by these words. I can’t understand why some people love to hurt us with their words. Sometimes, if I’m being attacked, I have a hard time holding back mine, and I hurt others. I don’t mean to. It just happens.

So the challenge that we have is to try not to do this to others. We have to see how our words can hurt people, how we damage people sometimes in order to make us feel like the bigger person -- or even sometimes when it's done unintentionally, in our own grief or misery, when we take out our feelings on others.

Meanwhile, we try to put ourselves back together. It’s like what we did yesterday – rip a piece of paper into little tiny pieces and try to expect us to put it back together again. It doesn't look the same, but we try to put ourselves back together so we can function beyond what is said about us. It’s the toughest thing in the world, to go forward when people try to bring you down, simply because of their insecurities. But it is something we must do. It's a thing we must face.

As Shoshanna said at the end of her presentation, “Words are the most powerful weapons. They are more lethal than any knife.” So my hope for you, YBKers, is that you take your words and use them to create something good rather than make them tear people apart.

Here is a recipe I made for yesterday's event. It's good, but I recommend eating it hot -- as in, right away.

LEMON PARMESAN TORTELLINI

1 12-ounce package freeze-dried tortellini

2 tablespoons salt

1 lemon

4-5 cloves garlic

2 tablespoons olive oil

1/4 cup parmesan cheese

Boil water in a large pot. Zest the lemon and then slice. Meanwhile, mince the garlic.

Once the water is boiled, add the slices of lemon and the salt. Add the tortellini and cook according to package directions. Drain.

Add the olive oil, garlic and parmesan. If needing extra lemon flavor, add some more of the lemon zest to the past. Serve immediately.

Storytelling

People often ask me why I tell stories in the blog. Why don’t I just focus on the food? Why do I have to talk about all these weird and crazy things going on in my life?

The answer is actually in a movie called “Broadway Danny Rose.” A former co-worker of mine insisted that I watch it – it was an essential part of my film education that I see at least one Woody Allen’s movies, and that was his favorite.

Even though my favorite Woody Allen movie is “Annie Hall,” there is a very special moment that connected with me in the former film. The movie begins with a group of men meeting over a meal, laughing and talking about a variety of stories. “Hey, do you remember when Danny Rose…” and the men would laugh after they tell it. They ate and they shared stories about the wild and wacky things that were going on.

I was entranced by the magic of this concept, simply because it was so real. There are many ways to get the story going in a movie, from the fairy tales book a la Disney classics to wicked and wild voiceovers giving important backstories. And it answers the questions above: For me, it’s not just about the food, but what happens when we consume it.

Yes, the food is good, and often they leave impressions on us. But with those foods come the stories. Life connects us with our food, including the weird and unusual tales that are related to when we consume our meals.

For example, to sit down with a Jeff’s Gourmet Sausage is not just eating a sausage – it’s telling the story of how last summer, I brought a huge insulated bag and bought $50 worth of hot dogs and sausages from them to take with me to a Huntington Beach Bonfire for Gesher City Long Beach. I had an insulated bag worth of delicious goodies that we opened and were completely gone by the end of the night.

As I eat dessert, it’s not just a sweet treat, but the sweet and hilarious story of my grandmother’s rice pudding and the entire family trying to make it just like Nony (as far as I’m concerned, I have come the closest to the original flavor. I just need the texture right). It’s also remembering Nony running her spoon along the bottom, trying to get that little drop of pudding on her spoon with the burnt edges along the bottom, and trying to teach me to do it, too.

When I eat watermelon, I flash back to Washington, D.C. I was an intern hanging out with a friend of mine, whose roommate got kicked out of our program. She said, "Dude, she left a watermelon." The girl didn't have a knife, so I was forced to carry it to my apartment at Georgetown. Her apartment (and hence, the watermelon) was so cold that in the humidity it fogged up my glasses, and she had to lead me up the stairs. I cut it and when I ate it, it was one of the sweetest watermelons I ever had. It is a story that Ari still loves to hear.

And a Shabbat dinner at my friend Merav’s house? The special stories that come out, whether people discover that I can actually sing, trying desperately to make a birthday cake with Merav or passing a camera around the table for all of us to take pictures with. The food is great (and I am going to figure out her Honey Mustard Curried Chicken and post the recipe), but what makes it special is that we all my Orange County family is together and celebrating just being with one another and smiling and laughing. Not unlike the men in "Broadway Danny Rose."

It’s amazing what food does for us. It can not only nourish our bodies, but can also fill our souls. It gives our minds memories to cherish in addition to full tummies. There are so few things in this world that fulfill us in so many ways. My heart could just explode thinking about the beauty of it.

So as we head into Shabbat, I wish you memories and stories to tell around the table. I wish you laughter and joy as you eat your challah. And above all, I wish you the bliss of delicious food and everything that comes with. P'tayavon!

A Birthday Thought

Today is my 28^th birthday, and even though it’s supposed to be my day of receiving gifts, I’m going to give a birthday thought to you. And this comes with the help of my friend Sari.

Sari is a beautiful girl, petite and blonde with stunning features. Lucky for us, her outer beauty is matched by her inner, as she is a wonderful person to talk to and is humble and sweet.

During Shabbat dinner at Merav’s Friday night, I sat next to Sari and I asked her how she was.

“Depressed!” she said.

“How come?” I asked.

“I’m turning 38 next week.”

Obviously, I asked her what day her birthday was (it was the 22nd), and told her that I was turning 28. She said she felt like that she was getting old and that things was passing her by.

I told her the story of the kid at the Coffee Bean, and I said at the end of my schpiel: “So you’re 38. You’re alive, aren’t you? Instead of saying, ‘Oh no, I’m 38,’ you should say, ‘Wow, I’m 38!’”

Most people probably wouldn’t agree with that sentiment – and speaking frankly, I probably won’t feel that way when I turn 30 in two years. Particularly with women, growing older is something to fear. But I don’t fear it. In fact, sometimes I’m surprised I am growing older.

When I was saying what I said above to her, two images flashed through my head. One was of me in a hospital bed. The truth was that the odds were stacked against me at the age of 21. After having five blood clots, three of which were pulmonary embolisms, I could have easily spent my last days at Los Robles Hospital in Thousand Oaks. Instead, I lived on. I graduated from college, got married and found a wonderful (broke) life.

Then I saw an image in my head of J laughing. If you have read this blog, you know all about J and how he succumbed to drug addiction (if you are a new reader, the article is here). J died at 22. There was so much he hadn’t experienced yet, because every year we get on this earth is another opportunity to do things that we haven’t done yet.

We really do have so much life to live. As much as I am sad that I don’t have a job and horrible things happened to me in my 27^th year, I’m thankful that I have woken up every morning to a husband that loves me, a family that has been supportive and wonderful friends who have tried to do everything to help us in our time of need. We may not have everything and we may struggle, but I am absolutely grateful for what we do have. And I am looking forward to my 28th year of life -- one hopefully filled with more laughter, more love, and definitely some more money and prosperity!

Since it is my birthday, none of my recipes will be posted today. However, I will be linking to a recipe that I do like. My friend Christina had the most amazing vegetarian lumpia at her surprise birthday party, and she posted the recipe on her blog, Pinoy Vey! Here is the link: http://www.pinoyvey.com/lumpia-filipino-egg-rolls-with-sukang-or-swee

The Kid at the Coffee Bean

Since Ari and I don’t have wi-fi in our place, my computer and I have to find other places so that I can get the Internet access needed in order to post for the blog. There are a couple of places that I frequent more than others, but one of my favorites is The Coffee Bean – amazing drinks, certified Kosher and thankfully dotted across the southland.

Last week, I had a special experience at my favorite Coffee Bean in Cerritos. I went into get a refill on my 32-ounce iced tea, and there was a small blonde kid talking to one of the baristas. There are a lot of high school kids who frequent this area, as it’s close to Cerritos High School. But unlike those kids who act like they’re wannabe punks, this kid was very different. He was talking to the barista, a blonde girl with piercings and a kind face.

“You’re talking like you’re so much older!” she said.

I then began to engage the kid in conversation (he told me his name, but I like this kid, so I want to protect him). When he spoke about his dreams of becoming an architect and going to USC. He then told me about his dad – an electrical engineer and immigrant to America who came with only $50 in his pocket. He was a sweet and nice kid excited for the rest of his life.

This conversation was only for several minutes of small chitchat, but it had a profound affect on me. I was amazed and inspired by him. When I was his age, I felt similarly to the way he did – I wanted to take over the world. I had different dreams than he did (I for one did not want to become an architect). How did I lose that energy? I even felt that way five years ago, that I was able to do everything and anything that I wanted, and nothing was off-limits.

I guess the world happened. I went out and found out that not all my dreams were to become realities, and that people – and life – often got in the way. Unemployment knocked me down a few pegs, not to mention abusive bosses. My dreams changed. My life changed. I changed. Perhaps I became too jaded or felt that I wasn’t good enough. Or maybe I didn’t want to delude myself into thinking that I was the next this-or-that. Trust me, delusion is far from pretty.

But the truth is that we shouldn’t throw away our dreams. I realized when looking at him that we can still be hopeful. We can still go for it. It really doesn’t matter how old we are – if we’re 14 like the kid or about to turn 28 like I am on Wednesday – the world should be our oyster. Nothing should hold us back.

So I encourage you all to THINK BIG (I even put it in all caps to emphasize the point). Perhaps we should all learn to think like my little ambitious 14-year-old friend and feel that the world is unlimited to us.

So in honor of my new Coffee Bean friend, I want to dedicate a recipe. Although it may be summertime, I feel that there is something about soup that is all about the possibility that lies before us. The French say that one of the greatest tests of a chef is to make a fabulous soup, as it is something that is basic and truly speaks of the person who is making it. I picked this soup because it reminds me of him: unusual yet bright.

This Peanut Butter soup is adapted from the Mount Vernon Inn in Virginia. I changed the tastes to my liking, but it does speak a lot to where we came from in America and what I added to the pot. Peanut soup was a traditional soup in colonial times, and I add my favorite flavors to bring it up to my sense of taste. Best part: You probably have most of the ingredients in your kitchen.

PEANUT BUTTER SOUP

1 medium onion

2 cloves garlic

¼ cup margarine or butter

1 tablespoon all-purpose flour

8 cups water plus 8 teaspoons chicken bullion

1 cup smooth peanut butter

1 tablespoon Worcester Sauce (see Kosher Alert!)

1 bay leaf

1 tablespoon chopped thyme, or one tablespoon za’atar

Heat the water and broth in a saucepan. Make sure it’s not overly boiling, but still hot enough for steam to rise. Saute the onion and garlic in the margarine in a large soup pot. Stir in the flour to make a roux. It should be light to a golden brown.

Add the chicken broth little by little in order to maintain the thickness of the soup. Bring the mixture to a boil. Add the peanut butter, Worcester sauce, bay leaf and thyme. Stir and allow to simmer over a low heat until ready to serve. Garnish with a small sprig of parsley.

KOSHER ALERT!: Worcester sauce has many goodies in it that give flavor, but it also has fish. In kosher tradition, meat cannot be served on the same plate as fish, although they can be served during the same meal. I recommend using a pareve bullion in that case.

Ten Years of Advice

Ten years ago, I stood in front of 3,000 people and gave a speech at my high school graduation. It was an incredible moment of my life, and somewhat of a miracle – I wandered through high school as a rebellious mystery. Out of all the people who auditioned to give a speech, I probably had the lowest GPA, and I certainly wasn’t valedictorian material. Yet somehow it seemed fit to give me a spot on the graduation program.

On top of it, my speech wasn’t traditional material – while everyone else sought inspirational tidbits, I told the honest truth that I was just thankful to leave. I was ready for the rest of my life, and I thought to myself, There has to be something more than high school.

Thank G-d that I was right. Although looking back, I admit that I was naïve about the world at the age of 17, I still was full of good advice. I used some of those pieces of advice as I moved on, and although ten years after my high school graduation I am unemployed, the truth is that I have had a wonderful, amazing, unusual and unconventional life. And I am extremely grateful for that.

Now, my cousin Jacob is graduating from Yale summa cum laude, my cousin Griffin is graduating from high school and getting ready to go to Loyola Marymount, his sister Lindzey graduated from Loyola Marymount and Ari’s cousin Brian (who I love to pieces) is graduating high school and gearing up for the adventure of his life: a year studying abroad in Israel through Young Judea. I love all of them, and I dedicate this blog post for them. I have ten years worth of advice to give, but as not to make this blog post an eternity, I am limiting this to ten points:

1) Just because you are a star now doesn’t mean it will last forever, but just because you aren’t now doesn’t mean you won’t be again. My father always told me “And this, too, shall pass,” and it is true for every stage of life. Never take for granted that things will always be right, and never think that just because things are rotten things won’t change. It’s that incredible middle ground that we need to all learn to walk like a tightrope. But then again, as Rabbi Nachman of Breslov always said, “The world is a very narrow bridge. The most important part is not to be afraid.”

2) Speaking of the world, it is a difficult and cruel place. You are shielded from it in college, but once you are kicked into it, you’ll learn that not everyone wants to help you succeed, that sometimes you will fail and that it will not necessarily mean just an F. It means more, but like the Fs you receive on assignments, it’s sometimes okay to fail, and it will help you learn. It’s not all sunshine and butterflies; it’s seriously hard work.

3) You shouldn’t be naïve about the world, but at the same time, you shouldn’t let it get your innocence. Just because the world is a cruel place doesn’t mean you have to sacrifice who you are for it. The fact is that if you do, you will wake up one day and realize what you did and face the hard truth that it will be too late to get it back.

4) Money is not an automatic. Know how to handle your finances. It’s absolutely essential if you’re going to function in life. When you go out into the real world, know how much you’re worth. Companies like to pretend you’re not worth as much as you are. However, money is not everything – remember all the poor people in this world who have true happiness, and all the rich people who are camped out at their therapists’ offices popping anti-depressants.

5) No one is going to take care of you for your entire life. Your parents may love you, but you’re not a baby. Take responsibility for your own actions, no matter what they are, and no matter what has happened. Don’t hide behind them.

6) Love is the most incredible gift that was given to human beings. It makes life worth living when times are tough, and they make life sweeter when life is good to you. We may break hearts and we may have our hearts broken, but giving up on love, or even the concept of it, shuts out the world and people from us. Love openly, and never shut anyone out just because of trivial things like politics, appearances or social standing. We need to learn to love people for everything they are – and everything they’re not.

7) Robert Frost gave me some of the most important advice I took into life: “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I/I took the road less travelled by/and that has made all the difference.” I made choices in my life that were pretty unconventional. People wanted me to do a certain thing, and I followed my gut. No one can give you advice quite like your gut instinct. They have usually led me to some of my best choices. Trust yourself, and although it may feel like the wrong decision at first, it may not be the worst choice in the long run.

8) Sometimes it’s okay to fall apart. We break down from time to time, and need some TLC. Take the time to take care of yourself when you know you need it. If you repair yourself as needed, you’ll be ready to face challenges as they come. Sometimes the strength to deal with things comes from the ability to hit rock bottom.

9) Life is meant to be lived, so don’t hold back. Explore, dance, laugh and appreciate everything in the world. It’s crucial to do this, as life is incredibly unpredictable. Sometimes things we thought would last forever are taken away too fast. So live freely and share the experiences with those you care about. Never take a single breath you take for granted. Trust me, as this comes from a girl who for a while couldn’t breathe. Even your heart beating is sacred.

10) Oh, and it’s still okay to be different. No matter what anyone says. As I had said before, thank goodness for Lady Gaga and Glee.

Congrats, class of 2010! And Jacob, Lindzey, Griffin and Brian… I love you guys, and all the best as you set forth into the world and begin your amazing journeys! Mazel tov!

Looking Back: What I learned about me in high school from my yearbooks

Ah, yearbooks – we all have them from back in our high school days, and some people even have them from college. My high school yearbooks have been sitting on the bottom shelf of our bookcase in the living room, hidden by the fact that it’s so close to the TV set that it’s hard to pull them out.

And yet, while I was desperately searching for books and other items to sell (after all, we do need some cash), I pulled them out and began to read all the notes that people wrote to me over those four years. As I tried my best to remember all the people who wrote nice things to me, I looked back at my life, which seems like a previous one. I learned a lot about myself then and now. I was given the keys to go forward by a glimpse at how things used to be.

Since I am coming up on ten years since I graduated and left Westlake High School, I decided to make a list of all the things I learned from my yearbooks way down the line, when we have forgotten so many people who wrote in them:

People need to make their names more legible. I can’t tell who half the people who signed my yearbook were. Same goes for the light-green pens.

I find it funny that most people described me as “nice” and “interesting.” Interesting must mean weird. And I’m okay with that.

I never made it to SFSU. Thank G-d: Two years after I was accepted but never made it, the Hillel was attacked and two people ended up in comas. I would probably have been involved with Hillel, and I could have been right in the middle of it. Life works in mysterious ways.

All my three crushes in high school (the two minor ones and the major one) were total dorks. Looking at my husband, my taste for nerds has never changed.

A lot of people left phone numbers and e-mails in my yearbook. I should have contacted them and hung out with them. I should have kept up with them through the years. Luckily, there’s Facebook – it’s time to reconnect, people.

I totally forgot Nick Rutherford’s nickname for me: “Reinstabitch.” I think I may take it up again. Other nicknames include Chyna and Reina VICTORY Slutske.

It’s nice to know that, after all these years, there is one friend who I see regularly and maintain a strong friendship with despite the crazy times that high school had to offer. Lindsay King, you’re the best.

The truth is, I’m dying to speak in front of 3,000 people again. It’s a greater high than anything in this world.

Still wondering what happened to my archrival Phillip Chang.

I think that if Lady Gaga and Glee were around during my adolescence, I would have had a much easier time being weird.

Speaking of “Glee,” there is a great quote about high school from it: “One day, all of you are gonna be gone, and all of this, all of us, will be nothing but a hazy memory.” So sad how true that statement is, and sometimes it is sweet relief.

There are a lot of Sailor Moon drawings in my yearbook – not to mention other weird anime drawings. Most of them were Reggie’s.

I love the funny memories that these yearbooks make me think of. Highlights include: Marc locking me into a dark dressing room with Rhett, having my dad’s car end up on Ben’s driveway wall, sitting at Applebee’s with a huge group of people before the last choir show, and Zeb getting in my face and singing, “A-santa-sana-sqash-banana-we menu-menimia-bana.”

Still find it funny all the guys that people I should have gotten together with: JD, Jon, Dan, Joel, Zach… the list goes on. Never got together with any of them, though.

I have come to the conclusion that “Have a great summer” is what you say when you have nothing better to say to that person.

I wish I remember half of the weird inside jokes that are in here, such as being attacked by smurfs, “I am an evil carrot,” pink flowers have been known to attack, the duck quacks at midnight, etc. Guess they lose their meaning with time – unless it’s with Lindsay, because she remembers all of them.

Israel was not as fun as people thought it would be. However, it was dramatically changing – the evidence is how people viewed me in my senior yearbook versus my junior one.

Was WAY too obsessed with choir. I should have done something else other than that. Oh yeah, I wrote poetry. In the middle of history class. And then gave them to Nikki to read.

The sweetest thing in the world is to find out that my major high school crush, based on a yearbook message, actually loved me in his weird, twisted way. I should have known it all along – and I’m glad to know that, despite the insanity of my particular brand of adolescence, that there was someone who truly cared during that time. We may have not ended up together, but not all love is meant to last forever. Sometimes, we are meant to leave it behind and move forward. Their love is what pushes us along in life and allows us to love again.

Here is the best thing I ever wrote in anyone’s yearbook. I will never forget it, as I was just obsessed with this song at the time, which was during our freshman year: “For the life of me, I cannot remember – what made us think that we were wise and we’d never compromise? For the life of me, I cannot believe we’d ever die for these sins. We were merely freshmen.”

This is part one of two -- I have an interesting post coming up this week that should hopefully resonate with all the upcoming graduates. Until then, here is a recipe to cool you down in the hot months. It comes from my brother-in-law's wife, Renee, but it has some of my adjustments. Enjoy!

TACO SALAD

1 bag of romaine lettuce

1 red pepper

1 can corn

2-3 scallions

1 can black beans

½ cup shredded cheese

1 cup soy crumbles (see Quick Tip 1)

½ cup sour cream

½ cup avocado dip (see recipe, page )

1 tablespoon barbecue sauce

½ cup crushed corn chips (see Quick Tip 2)

Pour the lettuce into a bowl. Slice the red pepper in half and remove the stems, ribs and seeds. Chop into ¼ to ½ inch pieces. Cut the tips and roots of the scallions and chop into ¼ inch pieces and add both to the bowl.

Drain the corn and beans and put on top. Top with the cheese. Add the avocado dip, sour cream and barbecue sauce and toss together. Serve topped with the corn chips.

Quick Tip 1: The soy crumbles should be hot when you put them on the salad. A simple way is to just zap them in your microwave for 2 minutes. You can also warm them on your stovetop in a small frying pan.

Quick Tip 2: Unless you love soggy corn chips, don’t top your salad with them until you’re ready to eat. They’ll get mushy.

The Quest for the Perfect Bagel

Wednesday, I had the pleasure of talking to a fellow food blogger about my blog. She currently lives in San Francisco, but is originally from New York. Being from New York, she has particular food tastes that lean toward the Jewish side of things. She also told me about her greatest food quest.

“I love smoked whitefish,” she said. “But it’s so hard to find in San Francisco.” She told me about her looking for it, and how eventually she found it at her Costco.

A lot of foodies have some form of food quest – the journey of obtaining that one perfect item of food that seems to complete our very souls. We get very picky, because almost nothing is good enough for us. While other people eat it just because it’s there, we are hypercritical. It has to be just so, or the experience is completely ruined.

So while my San Francisco friend has the quest for smoked whitefish, mine is simple: the perfect bagel. I have probably loved bagels since the day I was actually able to chew them.

Lucky for me, Papu and Nony only got I & Joy Bagels. These were the best bagels on the planet – crunchy bottom covered with cornmeal, chewy texture, topped with fresh onions and poppy seeds. To put it simply, they were perfect.

Unfortunately, I & Joy does not exist anymore – they became Manhattan Bagels. Luckily, they are still good, and they are made right. Some mornings, I would go in and actually seem them boiling the bagels. That’s authentic, people. I can never forget how many mornings my dad and I would share bagels as he was taking me up to the University of Judaism (now the AJU) for Hebrew High.

But the problem is Manhattan Bagels are few and far between now, and are not in Long Beach. Hence, I needed to find a great bagel here. I’ve had good bagels in this area – Grounds, a coffee shop near us, is pretty good, and Noah’s is a tolerable bagel if I am in desperate need, but not the best by any means. But for a long time, there was nothing great.

You’ll probably ask me if I have Western Bagels here. We do – and Western Bagels is my sworn enemy. They are the most evil bagels in the world. It’s bread trying to pretend that it’s a bagel, and when you take that first bite, you feel like the creators of Western Bagels are laughing at you as you have that icky look on your face. For the non-bagel connoisseur, I guess this works fine. Not for me. I’m particular. I want it all.

And then it happened: One day, I had a bagel from Katella Deli. From the very beginning, it looked good – the fresh onions and poppy seeds on the top were calling to me. Such attention to detail is always a good sign when it comes to bagels. And then I bit in, and the magic began.

It was all there – that crunch on the bottom, the chewy texture, that bursting onion flavor dancing on my tongue. It had been a very long time since I had a bagel that good. This was comparable not only to Manhattan Bagels – I would one up it and say it was very much like this amazing bagel I got from a hole-in-the-wall bagel shop near NYU when I was visiting New York City back in 2004. And, might I add, this bagel is in ORANGE COUNTY, the last place you would imagine finding a good bagel.

Of course, there is a huge downside – Katella Deli is way off the beaten path. There are very few things near it, and I am rarely in that neck of the neighborhood to go grab myself a bagel. Therefore, I must implore Katella Deli to open a bagel shop and bakery here in Long Beach. If they did, bagel-wise Long Beach would be a much better place. They are our only hope.

In the meantime, the quest continues…

Desperation

Being unemployed, I have found a tense feeling in the way things are going down with money. When the credit card bills come in, there is a slight shiver in my body. I think of my savings account, and I think of the lives of Ari and I in the next couple of months. What if there is a time where we have to live on the streets because we can’t afford our rent? What if neither of us find work for a long time? Will anyone help us?

Meanwhile, I continue to go on job interviews. But yesterday’s job interview was a controversial one. There has been debate as to whether I should take it if it is offered to me (and there is a chance that it might be). Ari is operating on survival skills, which means taking anything. For me, I’m trying to consider the long and short-term benefits and consequences of taking one job versus another.

The question is, of course, is how long do we go before we give up everything that makes us who we are in order to survive? Yes, a person needs to eat, but the sacrifices that you make to put food in your mouth can cost you dearly in the long run. The threshold is different for each person, and I’m not quite at mine where I am willing to do absolutely anything to make a buck. There are certain things that I don’t want to sacrifice.

It reminds me of Freud, talking of the id, the ego and the superego. The id, our primal instincts and the like, are the most primary functions in our brains. The superego talks about our morals, our values and critical nature, not to mention the way they shape our lives. The id and the superego are both parts of the ego itself, where we make our judgment calls and is more organized and rational.

We have all these elements in our consciousness, but the truth is that we are really tested when it comes to the id, ego and superego when things become bad. We can stand high on our principles easily when things are fine, when money comes easily and situations aren’t as serious. But when push comes to shove, that’s when we show our true colors. What do we really believe? Do we seriously practice what we preach? Do our actions speak louder than the words we say?

It’s one of those many choices we make, and many times we have to pay for the consequences of them (this sounds familiar….). But the question is how do we respond to desperation and whether we compromise ourselves. I could have easily forgone being kosher due to these desperate times – after all, unkosher meat is cheap, and it’s available right down the street! But I refuse, even in poverty, to exchange who I am.

Perhaps it’s letting my superego get the best of me. But I’m okay with that. After all, “If I am not for myself, who will be there for me?”

And so, in honor of my (crazy?) self, I am posting a recipe for my family’s traditional meatballs, albundegas and kufeteekas (and for those who recognize the name albondigas, they are also the name of Mexican meatballs). One is cooked in vinegar, while the other is in tomato sauce. Either way, both are good. And Ari loves the words.

ALbundegas and KuftEekas

1 pound ground beef (see quick tip 1)

2 slices whole wheat bread (see quick tip 2)

1 egg

½ cup matzo meal

Salt and pepper

½ cup white vinegar (for abundegas)

¼ cup dried or fresh parsley (for kuftekas)

1 small can tomato sauce (for kuftekas)

Mix the ground beef, bread, egg, matzo meal, salt and pepper. If making kuftekas, add the parsley as well.

Heat one inch of water with either the vinegar or tomato sauce to a boil. Lower to medium heat. Form the meat mixture into balls and drop in. Simmer until they are cooked through.

Quick Tip 1: This recipe is also good for ground turkey. Personally, I don’t like it as much with the turkey, but it’s your call here.

Quick Tip 2: My mother uses whole wheat bread because she says it adds body to the meatballs. However, if you have plain old white bread or challah, the world won’t end if you use it.

The Consequences of Our Actions

First of all, let me apologize about not blogging as much as I should have been. Things have gotten a little bit out of control lately, but I have learned a lot about many things. I have learned what it’s like to hit rock bottom, but I also saw truth. And the truth is that sometimes we have no idea – sometimes until it’s too late – about the consequences of our actions.

I don’t think most people understand this. We act foolishly, and then realize years down the line how we shouldn’t have done this, that or the other, but yet can’t repair what we have done. Sometimes, we don’t even act foolishly; in fact, there are times where we do what we should, what we are meant to do or even what is the right thing, but there are even consequences to them. It seems like it's the statement for both the world around me and what's going on directly in my life.

The truth is that sometimes we just cannot win. Our actions cannot satisfy everyone, and I believe there are very few actions that do. But the fact is that we should think about how we respond to our circumstances and how we affect people through our actions. Do we use them exclusively for our comfort, or do we do them to help others? Do we use them to shut out those who love us, or do we do them to try to bring people in?

Recently, I watched as actions, both present and past, came bubbling to the surface. They had been happening for years, but now they came to a head. Actions that were both right and wrong took their tolls, and as a result, it broke my heart and led me to my rock bottom. Luckily, friends and my husband came swooping in to try to help put me back together again; I could not have gotten through without their love.

Judaism tells us to do certain things in our lives and understand our actions. We should never embarrass others and be there for them. We should come together, and never let our actions divide us. Above all, we should love. But it doesn’t tell us we should ignore those who love us, walk all over people, or treat people like they’re nothing or order them around because of one thing or another. We should not hurt others. Yet we seem to do it often.

I live with no regrets, and I feel that I have tried my best to make the best decisions and take the right actions in regards to myself and others around me. But the fact is that, as my beloved mother-in-law said to me so wisely the other day, even though she really had no idea as to what was going on with me, “We cannot change others. We can only change ourselves.” No truer words have been said.

So I may not be able to change the fact that my actions are viewed a certain way, even if I know the truth that it’s the right thing to do. I cannot change that no matter what I do, some people will always view me as what I was back then, and not what I am now. What I can do is eliminate the negativity in my life, not let people push me around and not let those in who treat me like I’m not worthy of their time be the be-all and end-all of my life.

Instead of lingering, perhaps it’s time to move on. Perhaps it’s time to be happy and to let go of the pain. For Ari, he does it with sports, which often means bar stuff, such as nachos. So this is for my rock who has been so amazing through this difficult time – even if now he says he won’t eat them because they’ll make him fat.

NACHOS
5 cups corn chips
2 cups cheddar cheese
2-3 scallions
½ red pepper
½ can black beans, drained and dried
½ can black olives
½ avocado
½ jalapeño (optional)

Put the corn chips in a bowl. Top with the cheese. Microwave for 2 minutes and 30 seconds, until the cheese is bubbling.
Chop the scallions, red pepper and jalapeño finely. Cut the avocado into thin slices and slice the olives. Top the nachos with them, along with the beans, while the cheese is still hot.

Quick Tip 1: If you don’t have a microwave, or you prefer your oven, just spread the chips on a cookie sheet, top with cheese and bake at 425 degrees, then top with your ingredients. The microwave just happens to be easier.

Quick Tip 2: If you like chili cheese nachos, you can buy soy chili in your local market. Just zap it and top your nachos. Or, if you make soy chili, you can use your leftovers on top of these goodies.

An Open Letter to My Father

Hope everyone had a wonderful Memorial Day weekend! Unfortunately, mine wasn't too great, except for a few precious moments. One of them was giving my father this letter on his birthday. He has allowed me to post it for all of you to see, so I hope you enjoy!

Dear Dad,

Today is your birthday, and I can’t wait to spend your special day together. I think that I should tell the world a little bit about who you really are, because the world may see you as simply a business guy or a networker, but to me, you are always and forever my father. So, dad, this is your life, as told by your daughter, Reina:

Bob Slutske was born May 29, 1942 (yes, I am calling you out on your age, dad), the eldest child of Saul and Ruth Slutske. He seemed to take his responsibilities very seriously, particularly when he worked at his father’s grocery store, the Hi-Ho Market in Inglewood. There, he barbecued and developed a hatred for bananas and a love of celery. He was growing up an all-American boy in a perfect suburban home in Beverlywood. He was tall and broad, and played football – until an injury sidelined him permanently.

Despite the injury, he learned about something that would later become his passion – the theater. Dad was entranced by it, loved it passionately. He wasn’t the best student, even as he got into college, but once the Vietnam War hit, he sure became one in a hurry. He began to study and adore Shakespeare, one of the many things that we share a love for. Yet he was a child of the ‘60s, and when he directed “A Midsummer’s Night Dream,” he decorated Oberon’s afro with silver spray paint and twinkle lights.

Unlike many Jewish mothers, my grandmother wanted my father to marry an extremely tall redheaded woman. But once he met the beautiful Jacqueline Amira, he was smitten. He would wax poetic about how they met, and how amazing she was, with her black hair flowing all the way down her back. My dad, being the romantic he was, proposed to her six weeks after they met. Mom’s response? “Are you nuts? I’m not marrying you!” She promptly slammed the door in his face and broke up with him. Lucky for me, she was convinced to marry him, and they did in 1968, and have been together since.

Dad travelled all across the United States for his craft, often taking my mother with him. He went to Texas, Hawaii and New York. But then, in 1971, at the age of 29, tragedy struck: his father had died of a heart attack. Things started to change, and his family split apart. Soon after, my dad left the theater behind.

Eventually, mom and dad settled down in North Hollywood, and would end up with two dogs and two children. Growing up in a house with all boys (except for his mom), it must have been the shock of his life to have two little girls. But with his sensitive soul, he was perfect for it.

But with fatherhood came a new reality, and dad began to travel for his work. He has always said that when he was young and working at the Hi-Ho Market, he’d watch the planes fly in and out of LAX, and would say, “Dear G-d, let me fly all over the world. Let me never be home.” He would say that he got his wish, and paid the price – it got to the point when, at four years old, I was convinced that dad lived at the airport.

We eventually moved to Northern California, and Dad travelled all over Europe and Asia, and even occasionally to Australia. I remember him bringing back little trinkets – a boomerang, little Dutch shoes and Asian-style dresses for my sister and me. However, when he was around, I remember walking down Slida Drive with the dogs and my dad walked beside me with his cane. He would jump in the pool and spray us with the Super Soaker that we got him for his 50^th birthday. Dad had life and vivacity.

Dad travelled for most of my childhood, and would often be out of the country when someone in the family was in the hospital. While we lived in San Jose, we had difficult times, including my father being laid off from his job with a mortgage to pay. Dad took some interesting jobs, one of them including a summer at Skywalker Ranch. This is how I became the envy of Star Wars fans the world over, as during Fourth of July, my father took us for a picnic up at the Ranch and we swam in the lake.

Eventually, we moved back down to Thousand Oaks, and around my bat mitzvah, dad’s travelling began to slow. Although he still went away, it wasn’t as often, and I really started to get to know my father. He also got to know me and my “hippity-hoppity music,” as he liked to call it.

As I got into my teenage years, as my mother and I fought constantly, dad’s soft voice could calm me the way no one else’s could. He got me in a way that no one could get me, understood my desire to create art and the creativity that had nowhere to really go. It was dad and I who had long drives together (with me constantly changing the radio stations to songs I liked) and who would pick me up from choir shows with his old-time radio shows playing in the background. At 16, I started watching and studying movies with him, and he was the first person to watch “The Godfather” and “Citizen Kane” with me – something I will always be grateful for.

At 17, when I experienced my horror in Israel, it was dad who was waiting for me at the gate in the airport with a balloon and a flower to hug me and tell me, “It wasn’t your fault.” He was also the first one who told me the truth about what happened to me there, as no one there was willing to.

Dad was beside me as I learned to drive and when I graduated from high school and sending me off to college. He was there for long talks and fun times. It seemed like no matter where I went or what happened, my dad seemed to really get me and encourage me to go in the direction of my dreams, no matter where they would take me. As he said to me since I was little, “You can do it.”

I often joke around with my dad – like dad yoga, where position one is sitting back with the arms crossed thoughtfully and position two is dad leaning on his cane. But the truth of the matter is that my dad is an amazing soul and an incredibly thoughtful person.

I’ve always been amazed at how my female friends and even the young women at his office were drawn to my father as a father figure, whether it was because they didn’t have good relationships with their own dads or they had lost their fathers too young. I realized that if every girl had a dad like mine, the world would be such a better place, because they would grow and learn and be safe under their care. Their fathers would rather die than see their daughters shed a single tear, would help them laugh and encourage every dream that they had. They would be able to find calm in a crazy world and find a reason for everything. And, of course, he would try his best to goof around. And that when I point out something very important to me, he takes note of it and listens carefully.

My dad has only one wish, and that would be to go to Israel. I pray to G-d that he gets to see the Holy Land. I want my dad to see Jerusalem. I don’t want anything to stop him – as much as I long every day to see the Old City at sunset once more, if I ever had the choice between the two of us, I would send him, as it’s the only place in the world he has never been and has always dreamed of.

I wish the world could know about this amazing gentle giant known as my father. I want everyone to meet him and understand how special he is. Perhaps it is not meant for everyone else to know, and only meant to be shared between a father and his daughter. I understand this love as I go out in the world and see that when I do certain things, I know where they come from. And when he asks from where, I just say, “Eh, from some old guy."

Dad, happy birthday. I love you so much, and you should just realize how much you are loved, and how special it is to just be your daughter. I feel like you never get the amount of appreciation you deserve, and you need to understand that no matter how many times I tease you, no matter how many times I touch your bald spot and drive you crazy, that you are the best dad a girl can ask for.

Love,

Reina Victoria