When you walk outside in my neighborhood, you can tell that there is a holiday coming; not because of the snow on the ground or the many versions of Silent Night playing on repeat in the malls. It isn't because of the glittery Santas hanging from lamp posts or the white lights draped on anything that will stand still. There are decorations, but they are subtle--menorahs line the street lamps and jelly doughnuts line the windows of storefronts, but the houses are decorated with nothing more than the usual orange trees. Songs hailing Judah Maccabee are lacking from the radio, but it is clear: Hanukkah is here.
Kids don't have school next week and there was even a talent show in my Ulpan this week, replete with juice and jelly doughnuts. (Ulpan is an intensive Hebrew school that draw Jews and non-Jews alike from every corner of the earth). No drunken holiday parties where you mistakenly kiss your co-worker and no secret Santa gift swaps. Honestly, the biggest difference between Hanukkah in the US and Hanukkah in Israel is the lack of Christmas. Christmas of course still takes place here. Moreover, it is celebrated in the spots that matter, Bethlehem and Nazareth to name a few, but both holidays are celebrated out of respect for their roots...and the jelly doughnuts.
Growing up in Northern Virginia, my brother and I were the only Jews in our elementary school. When Hanukkah came around, we felt pretty left out. It's not like we were watching all the non-Jews and their candy canes from afar, but Christmas pretty much overwhelmed the senses from October through January and left my brother and I wondering why Judah and Christ weren't on the same level. My mom made an appearance in our school every year around the middle of December. She brought plastic dreidels, jelly doughnuts and gelt. She taught our classes how to play "dreidel" and each year showed us how to make hannukiot from celery, peanut butter and pretzels. She gave Hanukkah a good name.
As the years went by, more and more Hanukkah songs made it into the winter assemblies and as my brother and I got older, we gained more allies in the Hanukkah department. It was a big year in our house when we bought an electric menorah to put in our window. We lived in a neighborhood of non-Jews and many were not terribly pleased that we were there. The electronic menorah was my parents' version of public Judaism.
So, back to Israel. Hanukkah is not Christmas--not in the United States and not in Israel. Hanukkah celebrates the amazing miracle of oil lasting for eight days. It's a great excuse for Israelis to eat foods laden in oil and spend more time than usual with their families, but life basically proceeds as normal. When looked at side by side, the Hanukkah miracle in no way compares with leading the Jews out of Egypt and through the desert to reach the Promised Land. The latter equals no school AND no work.
Despite having to work, Israelis do have some fun with Hanukkah. Jelly doughnuts and latkes are everywhere but it is the bakeries that are the real show. Smells of everything from dulce de leche to hot chocolate to the traditional jam filled sufganiot invade your nose, and all will folds in the face of frosted goodness. There is no doubt--Israelis pride themselves in their doughnuts. Some people take trips, some revel in knowing that latkes can suffice as dinner for eight nights in a row. Most gather for dinners and lighting the menorah. Our family isn't giving gifts this year, thankful instead for health, happiness and love.
Next year in Jerusalem. Oh wait, wrong holiday.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Pimp Your Meal
With eighty degree days and no sign of chill in sight, Thanksgiving seemed a far-off option in a country that is more familiar with religious Pilgrims than the sort that settled New England. But left to some homesick Americans with a penchant for good wine, the holiday can turn into much more than the one celebrated in the good ole US of A--the one preceded by a large parade and capped off with black Friday.
Twelve Americans and one Israeli gathered in a lovely apartment in Jerusalem as the weekend began in the holy land. Two poets, four rabbis in waiting, a computer engineer, a photographer, a teacher and a few visitors began the evening, not with the carving of a bird or the giving of thanks, but with the popping of some bubbly. The notion of this meal was not to follow the dictates of tradition but rather to create something new: five courses, each paired with a specific wine, and lemon sorbet to cleanse our palettes in between.
The first course, appetizers enjoyed before setting down at the table, included veggie antipasto and veggie chopped liver. They were accompanied by a bottle of Cava and a bottle of Brut. These were my favorite wines--cold, sparkling, the perfect start to a fascinating meal.
Everyone found their seat, finished off their Cava and moved onto the second course. In an effort to not leave tradition completely in the dark, one of the guests prepared a honey sage cornbread--in my opinion, a modern American classic. Sweet, savory, amazing. This was served with a carrot soufflé--the recipe of a guest's aunt and the perfect retake on the sweet potato marshmellow combination that often graces Thanksgiving tables. As we were now seated at the table, the cries of "Pimp your dish" began--a chorus that followed us through the night and necessitated that the cook give the origins and secrets of his or her recipe. This course was served with Chenin Blanc.
Before moving on to course three, we were served lemon sorbet to make sure our palates were clean and prepared to best enjoy what came next. The third course included a stuffing recipe out of Long Island and a gourmet macaroni and cheese. The mac and cheese truly shamed Kraft--big shells covered in mozzarella, cheddar, and gruyere with tomato slices for color. Sauvignon Blanc, a few rounds of Johnny Appleseed, more sorbet and on to course four.
The fourth course was the real meat of the meal, minus the meat. Salmon done in a cumin rub, sour cream mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli and homemade cranberry sauce. Any other night, this would be the entire meal. On this Thanksgiving, this and some Tempranillo equaled just the fourth course.
With all of the savory food dispensed, we moved on to the best and most important course--dessert. Pumpkin cheesecake bars, chocolate pecan pie, pumpkin pie, dark chocolate truffles and Malbec to boot.
I walked in knowing only the hosts and two other people. I walked out with a handful of new friends, a full belly and real inspiration--this was not a Thanksgiving without thought or hope. This group of temporary expats really redefined the notion of Thanksgiving for me; each course was given its time, its wine and its appreciation. There were true thanks given at this meal--for the food in front of us, for friends new and old, and for the ability to celebrate the holiday despite our proximity to New England.
Twelve Americans and one Israeli gathered in a lovely apartment in Jerusalem as the weekend began in the holy land. Two poets, four rabbis in waiting, a computer engineer, a photographer, a teacher and a few visitors began the evening, not with the carving of a bird or the giving of thanks, but with the popping of some bubbly. The notion of this meal was not to follow the dictates of tradition but rather to create something new: five courses, each paired with a specific wine, and lemon sorbet to cleanse our palettes in between.
The first course, appetizers enjoyed before setting down at the table, included veggie antipasto and veggie chopped liver. They were accompanied by a bottle of Cava and a bottle of Brut. These were my favorite wines--cold, sparkling, the perfect start to a fascinating meal.
Everyone found their seat, finished off their Cava and moved onto the second course. In an effort to not leave tradition completely in the dark, one of the guests prepared a honey sage cornbread--in my opinion, a modern American classic. Sweet, savory, amazing. This was served with a carrot soufflé--the recipe of a guest's aunt and the perfect retake on the sweet potato marshmellow combination that often graces Thanksgiving tables. As we were now seated at the table, the cries of "Pimp your dish" began--a chorus that followed us through the night and necessitated that the cook give the origins and secrets of his or her recipe. This course was served with Chenin Blanc.
Before moving on to course three, we were served lemon sorbet to make sure our palates were clean and prepared to best enjoy what came next. The third course included a stuffing recipe out of Long Island and a gourmet macaroni and cheese. The mac and cheese truly shamed Kraft--big shells covered in mozzarella, cheddar, and gruyere with tomato slices for color. Sauvignon Blanc, a few rounds of Johnny Appleseed, more sorbet and on to course four.
The fourth course was the real meat of the meal, minus the meat. Salmon done in a cumin rub, sour cream mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli and homemade cranberry sauce. Any other night, this would be the entire meal. On this Thanksgiving, this and some Tempranillo equaled just the fourth course.
With all of the savory food dispensed, we moved on to the best and most important course--dessert. Pumpkin cheesecake bars, chocolate pecan pie, pumpkin pie, dark chocolate truffles and Malbec to boot.
I walked in knowing only the hosts and two other people. I walked out with a handful of new friends, a full belly and real inspiration--this was not a Thanksgiving without thought or hope. This group of temporary expats really redefined the notion of Thanksgiving for me; each course was given its time, its wine and its appreciation. There were true thanks given at this meal--for the food in front of us, for friends new and old, and for the ability to celebrate the holiday despite our proximity to New England.
Holy Land or Professional Purgatory?
Today at work, someone peed their pants. No, I am not being idiomatic - nor am I am being funny. I work somewhere where someone literally peed their pants. This would have been quite a tale to tell had it been at my last job, a large non-profit in Washington, D.C. As I am currently living a few bus stops north of Tel Aviv, I no longer work there. I now work with mostly 7 year olds, teaching them English for 3 hours after their school day ends. In many ways, this could be an important, even effective job. Some days it probably is, but most days it feels more like glamorized babysitting. Peeing your pants barely makes the headlines.
I use this example not as a vehicle to complain about life or rue my choices (Masters in Near Eastern and Judaic Studies?) or lack of Hebrew (really, even with the masters?). Instead, I wish to examine the life of the immigrant, or in my case, the pseudo-immigrant biding her time on a tourist visa. In a nutshell, I am qualified for nothing. I am not a nurse, nail artist, carpenter, or one of the other very popular categories of job possibilities. I, as many of my friends, have woven a complicated web of education, jobs and even publications that qualify for nothing outright when plucked from an English speaking work world and dropped on the corner of chutzpah and hummus.
I have been lucky in my three weeks in Israel. I have found gainful employment, I have found a magazine who will pay me to write (in English!!), and I have the ever-attractive lure of Hebrew classes three mornings a week to get me out of bed. All in all, it is enough to keep me busy and even make enough money to pay for those Hebrew classes and the bus to get there and back. I am lucky. English is my first and best language and it will carry me the world 'round - if I am willing to take whatever job I can get.
This is the source of my frustration. I am willing to take whatever job I can get as I know that without Hebrew, my choices are limited. I am frustrated that I can't have the jobs I want. I want to work at a nonprofit and spend the daylight hours dreaming of how I can help hungry people eat and homeless people find homes. There are many things I love--writing, traveling, teaching--but mostly I love to know that I am making a difference in someone else's life, no matter how small. I am frustrated that without Hebrew that passion of mine is stifled.
I will find a way to express it. I will look harder, I will volunteer, I will network. You always hear about engineers and doctors who come to the US and drive cabs because their qualifications no longer exist once they are an American citizen. Where do they find their meaning? Is it enough to put dinner on the table and some money in savings? How hard do you fight to do what you love even when there is no job title for it? I know the answers are not simple so I will keep searching. In the meantime, I am hoping my students learn to raise their hands when number one is imminent.
I use this example not as a vehicle to complain about life or rue my choices (Masters in Near Eastern and Judaic Studies?) or lack of Hebrew (really, even with the masters?). Instead, I wish to examine the life of the immigrant, or in my case, the pseudo-immigrant biding her time on a tourist visa. In a nutshell, I am qualified for nothing. I am not a nurse, nail artist, carpenter, or one of the other very popular categories of job possibilities. I, as many of my friends, have woven a complicated web of education, jobs and even publications that qualify for nothing outright when plucked from an English speaking work world and dropped on the corner of chutzpah and hummus.
I have been lucky in my three weeks in Israel. I have found gainful employment, I have found a magazine who will pay me to write (in English!!), and I have the ever-attractive lure of Hebrew classes three mornings a week to get me out of bed. All in all, it is enough to keep me busy and even make enough money to pay for those Hebrew classes and the bus to get there and back. I am lucky. English is my first and best language and it will carry me the world 'round - if I am willing to take whatever job I can get.
This is the source of my frustration. I am willing to take whatever job I can get as I know that without Hebrew, my choices are limited. I am frustrated that I can't have the jobs I want. I want to work at a nonprofit and spend the daylight hours dreaming of how I can help hungry people eat and homeless people find homes. There are many things I love--writing, traveling, teaching--but mostly I love to know that I am making a difference in someone else's life, no matter how small. I am frustrated that without Hebrew that passion of mine is stifled.
I will find a way to express it. I will look harder, I will volunteer, I will network. You always hear about engineers and doctors who come to the US and drive cabs because their qualifications no longer exist once they are an American citizen. Where do they find their meaning? Is it enough to put dinner on the table and some money in savings? How hard do you fight to do what you love even when there is no job title for it? I know the answers are not simple so I will keep searching. In the meantime, I am hoping my students learn to raise their hands when number one is imminent.
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