I remember, I remember when I lost my mind.

My phone has been run over. My ibook is dying a slow death. From exhaustion. I spent my afternoon at the DMV. And then cleaning up the puke of a child, not my own. Both of my children were still awake at eight p.m.

I may run away from home.

Whiner.

We are mourning today, and fasting besides, for the destruction of the Temple in Yerushalayim. Here is an inappropriate list of what I'd like to eat, in lieu of said fast.

An entire bag of Lay's Potato chips with French onion dip.

Ok. That's really it. Just that. And a large cherry Coke to wash it down, but the kind you get at a real diner, with cherry syrup, not the kind Coke makes. I like the way the syrup collects at the bottom of the glass, bright red, swirling up into the brown fizz. The last sips are always the sweetest. Yum.

Phony Story

At eight o'clock this morning, my husband, Charles, says to me, we need to be out the door by eight thirty if we're going to make it to Brentwood by nine thirty. Which is true enough, except we needed to be at the dentist for a fun filled family outing by nine. So in roughly ten minutes, we got ourselves, a ten month old, and four year old ready and in the car. I shoved some Cheerio's in a baggie, along with a banana, and called it breakfast for the four year old. I believe we even took out the dog, and I left the house wearing a passable amount of make-up. But, alas, no coffee.

We made it, and in time. A trip to the dentist is mundane, surely, but the only thing worse than going to the dentist, is not being able to go to the dentist.
So, at eleven this morning, I found myself on a street corner in Brentwood, uncaffeinated, with the baby in the stroller, waiting for my husband to bring the car around. What do you do when you're standing around doing nothing? Text! Well, me too.

So, I start texting my friend Dee. But by then C has pulled up and I know I can't just stand there and text while he waits for me to get the car seat back in the car, and the stroller in the trunk, because that would make me an a**hole, so in haste, I send the message and toss the phone in my purse, which doesn't close because I'm too lazy to live without it for a week to get the zipper repaired. So. I HAVE to have some coffee, and we drive to a Coffee Bean about six blocks away. The four year old has to pee, so I get out of the car with her, and as I'm running away I say to the husband, 'Text me with your order!'. After the potty break, I start digging around for my phone. Where IS it? Hm. I get my order (large iced coffee no room for cream and a honey bran muffin) and the big girl's (a small no-caffeine chocolate iced blended with whipped cream, a vanilla yogurt and a chocolate chip muffin.) I mean, let's face it. A lost phone is one thing, but I wasn't going to go without my coffee. I'm not sure what would happen to me if I went past noon without it.

I digress. My phone. I get back to the car and tell C that my phone is gone, so I didn't get his texted order. We look for it on the floor of the car. He calls me. Silence. Did you leave it in the dentist's office. No, I was texting on the street corner. Definitely had it. Is it in the trunk? NO. He calls me again. Silence.
I think I know where it is.
Where?
I'm just hoping some do-gooder hasn't picked up my abandoned phone, searching my contact list for my ICE number. I just want to find it, and bring 'er back on home.
Drive back to where you picked me up. Around the corner, down the street, around two more corners...
Stop! I see it.
What? Where?
There.

I hop out of the car. There is it, still open, the back of the phone two feet away, laying in the street just six inches from the curb. I pop the back on, close it, open it, see it's been run over and cracked on the cover.
There's a text. Which I can read!
"S. caramel ice blnded n jalapeno cheese croissant"
So, we go back to Coffee Bean (which was oddly quiet for daytime L.A. Do you have this where you live? No one has a job here, so people crowd coffee shops to smoke outside and type away on their laptops), and I get C's order.

I'm due for a new phone this month anyway, but the thing works. It creaks a bit when you open it, and there is that crack across the front plexiglass. But, I mean, I can still text, and isn't that what really matters?

How lovely art thy dwelling.

A list of the crap-tastic, ghetto fabulous stuff on my front porch.

Pink umbrella stroller
Giant Jeep jogging stroller
The wheel chair that brought on my labor with Orly because I insisted Charles push me to shul for Neilah on Yom Kippur.
(I'm emotionally attached)
A blue cooler
A somewhat dead looking potted plant
Beach umbrella with fish theme
Two sets of garden gloves, one Amalia sized.
A hand trowel
Empty box from the side view mirror we had to replace because I backed out of the driveway too fast. (The fence fared better than the car.)
Welcome mat

We just need to put the car up on some blocks in the middle of the front lawn, and we're all set.

The pointing finger is not the star.

I look Jewish. If you've known me for more than ten or fifteen years, that might seem a ridiculous statement, because, I don't look Jewish. Am I going to get myself into trouble here? I have a round, moony, pale Midwestern face, blue eyes, reddish hair, and I'll just say it, a tiny, straight nose. My accent is decidedly reformed Minnesotan and my speech is peppered with cornpone-isms like , "I'm going to see a man about a horse.", "Straw's cheaper, grass is free" ( in response to someone saying 'hey!'), and "That dog'll hunt." When the weather is hot, I actually say, "Hot enough for ya?". I can't help myself. It's in my genetic makeup to say things like I'm reading from an ancient Andy Griffith Show script.
But I look Jewish. Real Jewish. Women in our local Ralph's grocery store ask me kashrut questions. Do you trust the half moon K on this orange juice carton? (Sure) Where do they keep the Duck Sauce? ( Uh. ) What holiday is it NOW? (Shavuot) Now here's the thing, I don't know very much. I mean, I do, compared to some. It's all relative. But seriously, I know nada. The ladies at Ralph's don't see the Midwestern in me. The non-Jew. The goyishe kup. Because what they do see is my hair, which is covered by a scarf, tied behind my head into a sort of scarf-bun. (Think Erykah Badu's turban, but not so huge. ) They see the quite modest length of my skirt (always a skirt) and my elbow length (at least!) sleeves. They see the ultimate frum accessory, my baby. I look Jewish. I look religious. I look the part, ready to clarify all of your pressing grocery store confusion.
Looking the part, while not being utterly meaningless, is only a signifier. It points the way to what I am, and what I do, and what I believe to be true (ok, and some things I, let's say, struggle with). But even this isn't enough, just to believe.
I wasn't born this way, Jewish. And I can observe every mitzvah I get my hands on, but it still doesn't make me Jewish. No amount of candle lighting on Friday nights will do it. No matter how strict I am about saying blessings before and after I eat will change my status. Depending on whom you ask, the conversion I completed eight years ago made me Jewish, but not Jewish enough, or even at all. So I'm going around again. Another conversion, and another wedding. Same people.
Don't ask me why I'm doing it. Certainly don't tell me why I'm doing it. When I try to explain it to myself, or an inquisitive new friend at Shabbos lunch, the words crumble in my mouth. It's not logical and makes little sense to the feminist, artsy-fartsy, liberal person I thought I was. I think it's fun. (is that shallow?) I like Shabbat. I love the emphasis on study. It's where my heart is. How corny is that?

Will you take me as I am?

I was lonely when I lived in Chicago. I had friends, and in fact, I lived with them. We'd all gone to college together and had been in the same choir. We'd ridden in the back of tour buses, losing brain cells from inhaling exhaust fumes and bus bathroom blue disinfectant. I'd say my roommates and I had a connection which passed all understanding. It was like being family with people I would have chosen, but we really didn't choose each other. We were sorted out and thrown together by God, like all families, but this time God showed Himself in the form of Weston Noble, choir master extraordinaire. So after college, I followed these four, which later became three, to Chicago.
I was adrift. At first it was wonderful to be with them, and live in a city bigger than Minneapolis, where I'd come from, and unknown to me. Everyone I became friends with, nearly everyone, drank. I don't. I mean I really don't, so that was boring at best and dangerous at worst.
I left Chicago today, nine years ago, to move to Los Angeles. I did not arrive until six days later. It's funny, but I don't remember leaving, really, not as a concrete memory. I drove my Jeep Wrangler, which was stuffed to the gills, and I remember being nervous I might be stopped by the Highway Patrol because I couldn't see out the rearview mirror. I do remember arriving in L.A., and I remember every stop along the way.
I followed much of Route 66 from Chicago to St. Louis to stay with Mary, then a very long drive to Amarillo, TX, where I had amazing Mexican food, then another long drive to Tucson to visit Juanita, Phoenix to see Aunt Cindy, Brock and Morgan, and my Aunts Bev and Beth (where my Aunt Bev hosted a beautiful Cinco de Mayo dinner for me and ten other guests, including several of my Aunt Beth's ex-girlfriends), and finally to Los Angeles. What did I think I'd find here? I kept telling people I moved here for the weather.
So, I've been thinking about that time in Chicago the last few days as this anniversary approaches. I'm in contact with all of my former roommates, almost daily now, with the advent of Facebook. We're scattered thither and yon. L.A., Germany, rural Iowa, D.C., and Boston. I miss them, each a character, distinct and dear. I really feel I could meet any one of them tomorrow for lunch and spend all day talking as if we had not parted.
But while I was living in Chicago, around the time I decided to move, I had hit an emotional rock bottom. I was unmoored, sad, depressed, and my friends had their own lives and pursuits. I had shut down, and could barely be reached. Of course the answer was obvious to me. I'd move. I remember telling the Chazan I was studying with at the time that I wanted to move to Los Angeles, that I wasn't happy in Chicago. She just said, "I hope you can find what you're looking for." Now I see it was a compassionate way of saying, "You won't find what you're looking for, but I won't judge you for looking anyway." At the time it just sounded condescending, though I knew her only to be kind and gracious.
I've written it here before, and it's true, so much of why I came here was to convert in peace. I don't mean to make too much of family meddling, because there was virtually none. It was really to give my mind peace, to make it simpler to not go home, or harder to have visitors, to give myself some breathing room, which was entirely about my own perceptions. My family has been nothing but respectful, it must be said.
But I was lonely there, in spite of my love for Cory, Aaron, Kenz and Nicky.
And at first, I was lonely here, too. But then I began to add layers over my life, doing things lonely people don't do. I had old friends here, then made new ones. Then I had a boyfriend, and soon after, a dog. Later there was another boyfriend, who became a fiance, and husband, and now there are two beautiful little girls. To say my life has changed is an understatement. I wonder what the hell I even did with myself nine years ago. Thought about me, I imagine.
A few nights ago, an old friend emailed me and, to put it simply, apologized to me for something that happened while I lived in Chicago. I didn't need him to do that, but I understand why he did it, and I graciously (I hope) accepted, offering my own admissions of wrong-doing. I think that, more than anything else, more than the anniversary of moving here, made me think about how much of my life has changed. It made me think about how I am the absolute opposite of lonely at any given time of the day and that I am exactly as happy as I am required to be. Does that make sense? I believe a little bit of discontent is good for me - it keeps me moving ahead. But I'm happy with my marriage, my children, and even my dog. I want more from my life, too, but when you stop wanting more, you're dead.
At the time, I admit, I had my feelings hurt, and wanted, more than anything, an apology, which would have done nothing to alleviate how I felt. Now I get the apology, when I no longer feel it necessary. Ain't that the way?

The Merry Month of Maying.

In many ways, menu planning is a loathsome task. Don't I have deeper thoughts to ponder? Haven't I got better ways to engage myself? But the reality is, I love to eat, and I have small children to feed. Well, one small child and a husband to feed, really, and while I do eschew the idea of being a Hausfrau, I am, in fact, at home. I consider it a point of pride that my family not eat cold cereal for dinner more than twice a month, and so here I am, planning out the meals for the entire month of May.

I will skip Friday and Saturday nights. Friday night is Shabbat, and that's chicken soup with knaidlach and schnitzel. Saturday nights are left overs from the (over) abundances of the Shabbat's meals, or peanut butter and jelly.

So that breaks down to 19 dinners for May, minus three meals for leftovers, minimum. I can do this. Because if don't no one else will. I have gleaned (a.k.a. stolen) these recipes from a gajillion other sources and I have provided links to recipes where I found them.
Let's break it down by category, just for this month.

Chicken
1. Crockpot Aromatic Chicken
2. Asian Chicken Wraps w/ creamy sesame dressing
3. Garlic chicken spaghetti
4. Sweet and sour chicken-tofu stir fry

Beef
5. Slow cooker pot roast
6. Beef and Veggie noodle bowl
7. Greek Beef and Tomato Orzo Bake
8. Burgers and hot dogs
9. "
10. "

Dairy/Vegetarian Meals
9. Homemade Waffles
10. Omelets
11. Cheese quesadillas w/refried beans, rice & roasted veggies
12. Seitan chicken parmesan
13. Walnut raisin bread & swiss grilled cheese w/carmelized onions
14. Rotini w/pesto cream sauce w/green salad
15.Baked potato bar
16. Eat out
17. Eat out
18. Left overs
19. Left overs

Shavuot is the 18th of May, and I'll make a cheesecake, (click for the link, and if you make it, don't get your cholesterol checked for at least a month afterward) which frankly, we can eat for two days straight.

Red beans and rice.

In my back pocket I keep the fantasy of moving to New Orleans and becoming a voodoo priestess. Of course, you know I'm kidding. But still, New Orleans. It calls.
Well before the storm it was my escape hatch, which I do believe has always been that city's role in the U.S. Where all the crazy people and outcasts go when they're done running from one place to another.
Visit Aunt Mary on Sundays and eat red beans and rice on Mondays. Could be worse.

Post Script

We had delicious waffles and carrot ginger soup for dinner.

No there there.

Some time in the 2000's, I left the Midwest. I shoved everything I could into my Jeep Wrangler, basically a duffle bag on wheels, and drove West. I had five thousand bucks, and acquaintance who offered me his couch and my sheer dint of will. I had been living in Chicago for a little over a year, working in retail, hating myself, losing whatever dreams I'd had and freezing half to death. I left at the end of April, and it was still Winter when I drove away.

I had been attending a synagogue in Chicago. Perhaps not anything so extraordinary, except that I wasn't Jewish. I'd been once or twice before, but now I was making myself a regular. I was starting to study a little Hebrew. A little Bible. But there aren't a lot of Jews in Chicago. New York or Los Angeles seemed the places to go, but I had no couch on which to surf in New York. Not completely true. I had a couch in New York but it came with a crazy person.

What I'm trying to say here, what I'm trying to express, is the why of it all. I left, I came here, to this bizarre city, is to get away from my family. I love them. I miss them. But I needed to be out of sight, out of earshot, so that I could study this religion. Can you spell individuation?

I was raised Lutheran, in what is now the ELCA, a fairly liberal, mainstream brand of Protestantism. Lutheranism is nice. Lutherans are nice! We lived in Milwaukee, then in a small town outside of Madison, then suburban Minneapolis. Milwaukee has heart and soul. It has it's own culture. But I'm getting ready to start a rant about suburban life and the utter void of culture in a place where housing developments are sandwiched between strip malls of corporate chains and big box stores. I longed for something deeper. Community. Culture. Purpose. We affix this small scroll of Hebrew text to each and every doorpost in our house because we always have. Because this other, bigger scroll we believe God himself delivered to us tells us to. As a testament. I wanted THAT. I wanted a reason for doing the every day things. Why I eat this, but not that. Why I don't answer the phone on Saturday. Why I wash my hands before I eat bread. Even if the only reason is because God says so.

Not in a million years did I think I would be religious. I always equated religious with self-righteous and proselytizing. I'm definitely self-righteous, but that was true before I was religious. But you'll never see my try to convert you.

So that's what this thing has been about for me. I wanted to find a center, something around which I could build a life of meaning. The journey continues.

Inside of a dog it's too dark to read.

I don't remember a time when I didn't read. I try to remember that age, maybe four or three, when the letters didn't make sense yet, when an 'A', a 'T' were just shapes like triangles and squares. When was that moment, the crossing over to words?

I've always had a book in my lap, in my hands, hiding in the corner of a party, curled up next to me in the dark and illuminated by flashlight, then later book-light.

As I even profess to believe in a particular religion, the truth is, reading is my religion. Reading is my meditation, my prayer. At every twist and turn of my life it's been there to buoy me. I have grasped novels like life rafts in the dark night of depression, pushed out greif, banished boredom, and sought out hope, with books.

I have a small collection of library cards, one from each of the cities I've lived. After securing a permanent address (or strong-arming a friend into letting me use his address), it's the first place I go. For if ever there was a Beit HaMidrash, it is the library.

Down in the L.A. , just me and my baby

My entire life right now is shaped around the feeding and care of two small children. I am either making food, feeding it to others and myself, putting someone down for a nap or to bed and then trying to recover from these activities.

I'm pretty obsessed with making everything I can from scratch. I look at a package of tabouli mix, and compare it with the giant package of cracked bulgar wheat on the shelf near it for half the price, and wince. Do I feel guilty? Am I trying to prove something? Perhaps I'm cheap? No, that's not it, I am definitely not cheap. Partly I am motivated to avoid unnecessary additives found in most convenience foods. But it's more than that. It's actually progress for me to buy it anyway and save myself the time.

Here's the question I asked my husband. "Do I look as bad as I feel?" He just stared at me, and stammered .

"Don't answer that." I responded. And because he's a good husband, he didn't.

Dinner!

Here's my plan for getting dinner on the table for the next couple of weeks:

Friday - Shabbat dinner

Chicken soup w/knaidlach aka matzah balls

Roast chicken

Baked potato for Charles

Kasha & bowtie pasta aka kasha varnishkes

Shabbat lunch - Tabouli salad, Egg salad & Cheeses

Sunday - Tacos

Monday - Vegetarian Chicken (seitan)& Eggplant Parmesan

Tuesday - Chicken schnitzel w/potatoes au gratin (parve)

Wednesday - Omelets

Thursday - Tortellini w/creamy garlic sauce & sauteed broccoli

Friday - Shabbat dinner

The Witching Hour

My baby is fussy. My three and a half year old daughter is on her way home. My husband is shopping for dinner. I am sitting on the couch writing. An early bed time has been eluding me the last few weeks, and the lack of sleep is on adding to the feeling of being overwhelmed. I need a break. I need a vacation. I feel like I can't catch up, because really, I can't.

Before Passover, I was organized. During Passover, I was organized. But now, I am disheveled. Where did all of this laundry come from?

Burgers and hotdogs on the grill, courtesy of Charles tonight.

Class at shul from 7:45 until who knows when.

Tomorrow night is Shabbos.

This is my least favorite time of day. I'm ready to check out, and everyone else is needy. I grit my teeth to get through it.

Wish me luck.

Menu Plan Wednesday

What can I say? I wanted to plan for the whole dang month, but I'm starting with Wednesday night.

And now my husband is home so I can leave the house, which is better than doing this.

Guess that didn't work out.

Like I said, I'm lazy.

But I now have two children, a husband and a self to feed, so I turn myself over to organizing the living daylights out of my meal planning, be it local, or otherwise procured food.