The first time I saw my rabbi dressed up as Buzz Lightyear I knew I was in the right place.  Most adults stared uneasily, not sure what to make of this grown man bounding happily in a bright green and white suit, but I felt right at home.  My children were with me at the time and quite naturally declared:  ”Look, there is rabbi Andrew!” just as they would if they’d seen him at Publix, the park, or up on the Bima.  There was no mention of the outfit, I assume because he wore it quite well, quite naturally.  I’d step out on a limb and confess he even seemed more comfortable in it than the stiff grown-up jackets he’d have to, on many occasions, wear.  This was, after all, Purim, the Jewish holiday that, not only allows, but expects ...Read on]]>

The first time I saw my rabbi dressed up as Buzz Lightyear I knew I was in the right place.  Most adults stared uneasily, not sure what to make of this grown man bounding happily in a bright green and white suit, but I felt right at home.  My children were with me at the time and quite naturally declared:  ”Look, there is rabbi Andrew!” just as they would if they’d seen him at Publix, the park, or up on the Bima.  There was no mention of the outfit, I assume because he wore it quite well, quite naturally.  I’d step out on a limb and confess he even seemed more comfortable in it than the stiff grown-up jackets he’d have to, on many occasions, wear.  This was, after all, Purim, the Jewish holiday that, not only allows, but expects silliness to reign. So it seemed fitting that Ramat Shalom would have a real life Buzz Lightyear headed your way.

Sure, there’s the whole logical story behind it:  Purim commemorates how Queen Esther and Mordechai saved the Jews from Haman, the evil minister of the Persian king.  On this holiday, costumes are worn and the Megillah (the Book of Esther) is read to recount this tale of survival.  Hamantaschen, (also called “Oznei Haman”, or Haman Ears in Hebrew) are the treat of choice.  I nibble on my husband’s ear on ocassion, but it pales in comparison to this: tiny triangles of tender, buttery pastry curled up against a dollop of tangy apricot, hearty prunes, or, for the lucky ones, rich melted chocolate.

For my kids Purim is equally important in their repertoire of holidays.  I assume they’d have to agree with Rabbi Andrew and say it’s because of the costumes- the opportunity to relive the splendor of Halloween, without having an ominous light to it.  Catalogues of costumes are meticulously scanned by my daughter and of course, there will be the mandatory visit or two to the party store to scour through their costume section.  It is much leaner than the selection they carry in October, but then again, so are the crowds of shoppers, so I don’t mind going several times to appease my kids.

They look at pictures of witches and fairies and superheroes and eagerly discuss amongst themselves what they are going to be.  Then, they both turn to me and their eyes light up, two sets of beautiful almond eyes flanked by swooping long lashes lock on me and I know I am in trouble.  Their eyes are pools of irresistible power and when they shine in the light just so, swirling in a sea of butterscotch and they blink blink blink those eyes are powerful weapons and I know, whatever it is they want, I know they will get.  They know they’ve got me by the way my body just slows to a stop and I wait.  Wait for it. Whatever it is.  They smell victory.  They are good at this, they know.  Years of practice pays off.  So they ask me, not if, but what I am going to dress up as?  If I weren’t under their spell I’d try to tell them Purim is just for the kids to dress up, but I can’t say that, I won’t.  After all, their rabbi knows it’s all about goofy fun and is headed to infinity and beyond, so why shouldn’t I?

This is the day that your headache won’t go away, regardless the amounts of Advil you’ve wolfed down with a Tums chaser so you won’t get an ulcer with the water so you’re not left with chalk jammed in your teeth. This is the day you’ll be stuck behind Grandma driving 37 miles per hour on the freeway and you will honk and curse and huff and puff like an idiot in a rush to go nowhere just because it’s that kind of day.

You can’t see her well, Grandma. She’s shriveled down to a solid 4’8” and that’s including the lavender hair but you could swear when the sun hits at an angle just so and you squint and look at her rearview mirror, well, you could swear that that little old lady is smiling at you. ...Read on]]>

This is the day that your headache won’t go away, regardless the amounts of Advil you’ve wolfed down with a Tums chaser so you won’t get an ulcer with the water so you’re not left with chalk jammed in your teeth. This is the day you’ll be stuck behind Grandma driving 37 miles per hour on the freeway and you will honk and curse and huff and puff like an idiot in a rush to go nowhere just because it’s that kind of day.

You can’t see her well, Grandma. She’s shriveled down to a solid 4’8” and that’s including the lavender hair but you could swear when the sun hits at an angle just so and you squint and look at her rearview mirror, well, you could swear that that little old lady is smiling at you. Or at life. Or at something you certainly aren’t smiling with her about.

We’ve all had these days but the grin on Grandma during mine threw me for a loop to the extent that when the steroid-happy 18-wheeler finally flew by me on my left side, allowing a window of opportunity to pass Grandma’s cruising rate, I opted out and obediently chugged along behind her, suddenly wondering what that mind that held that grin was so damn happy about.

It could be her grandson’s bar mitzvah she was going to, I concluded silently. She was so proud of that boy. Michael was her oldest of 12 grandchildren but he was her favorite (even if his hair was too long.) He held her same smile, no doubt, and she was pleased at how assertive and grown up he was becoming. He would be outfitted in an oversized dark blue suit and nervous as hell. But then her outfit was too casual for a bar mitzvah. I could see that from here (as I realized how precariously close I was to her Cadillac).

Maybe she was returning from bingo with the girls. Or bridge. Or some sort of social cliché for octogenarians. She would spend a couple of hours of company, away from the solitude of her tiny apartment, together they’d drink Old English tea (sometimes a shot of something to loosen the morning along) and many shared laughs. She’d almost always win too. Again, the smile: a dead giveaway of some sort of glorious happiness.

But then I noticed some bags poking out of her trunk, which I realized wasn’t properly shut. (I also realized it was time for me to back off a bit.) They where grocery store bags and it all clicked as I understood the smile. Grandma was a cook. She was having the whole clan over for brunch and it would be the typical spread with eggs and lox and bagels but what would make this meal stellar would be Grandma’s killer blintzes. They would be moist and tender and slightly salty on the inside, snuggled within a blanket of dough and doused with a fresh berry sauce, none of this canned jelly stuff from the diner.

Grandma would have stories about picking berries like these off the mountain as a child while hiking with papa in some distant European land. She would retell tales of her youth as everyone bit into her clouds of heaven and in quiet oohs and ahhs they’d listen, with eyes closed, as if this where a symphony of memory with taste and everyone in that table, yes, everyone, I know, would grin. Because grandma had the power to do that. Even to me. Even on such a day. Even at 37 miles an hour, how I longed to follow her home.

Blintzes de Queso con Compote de Fruta: Decifrando una Sonrisa

Este es el día que tu dolor de cabeza no se marchará, ni si quiera con las cantidades de aspirina que has tragado y las tabletas Tums para no terminar con una úlcera de tanta pastilla tomar. Este es el día que manejarás detrás de la Abuela que conduce 37 millas por hora en la autopista y blasfemarás y resollarás como un idiota en una prisa no para ir a ninguna parte sólo porque es aquella clase de día.

No la puedes ver bien, la Abuela. Ha marchitado como una florecita vieja y casi no las vez detras de su volante, incluyendo el pelo de color lavanda pero si podrías jurar que cuando el sol golpea en un ángulo y bizqueas y miras su retrovisor, pues jurarías que aquella pequeña vieja señora esta sonríendote. O a la vida. O sobre algo que tu seguramente no compartes con ella.

Hemos tenido todos días como este pero la sonrisa de la Abuela me dejo pensando y cuando tuve oportunidad de pasarla, opté no hacerlo y seguí tras ella obedientemente de repente preguntándome que era esa sonrisa que la hacía tan feliz.

Esto podría ser el bar mitzvah de su nieto al que ella iba, concluí silenciosamente. Ella estaba tan orgullosa de aquel muchacho. Michael era el más grande de 12 nietos pero él era su favorito (aun si su pelo fuera demasiado largo.) Él sostuvo su misma sonrisa, sin duda, y ella estuvo contenta en que tan asertivo y crecido estaba. Cargaría puesto un chaleco azul oscuro que le quedaría demasiado grande y estaría nerviosísimo, el pobre. Pero entonces ví que su vestido era demasiado informal para un bar mitzvah.

Tal vez volvía del bingo con sus amigas, o alguna clase de cliché social para octogenarios. Gastaría un par de horas de la compañía, lejos de la soledad de su apartamento diminuto, juntos ellos beberían un té ingles y compartarían cuentos de los nietos o los novios…Ella casi siempre ganaría también. Otra vez, la sonrisa: símbolo de alguna clase de felicidad gloriosa.

Pero entonces noté algúnas bolsas saliendo de su tronco, que realicé no fue correctamente cerrado. (También realicé que esto era el tiempo para echarme atrás un poco.) Y entendí la sonrisa: Abuela era una chef! Ella tenía el clan entero para el desayuno-almuerzo y esto sería la comida típica con huevos y salmón curado y bagels, pero lo que haría esta comida estelar sería los famosos blintzes de la Abuela. Ellos serían delicados y deliciosos y ligeramente salados en el interior, bañados con una salsa de moras frescas.

La abuela tendría historias sobre la recolección de moras de la montaña como niña yendo de excursión con su papá en alguna tierra europea distante. Ella volvería a contar cuentos de su juventud cuando cada uno de su familia mordía sus nubes del cielo y en oohs y ahhs ellos escucharían, con ojos cerrados, como si una sinfonía de memoria con el gusto estaria tocando y cada uno en aquella mesa, sí, cada uno, sé, sonreiría abiertamente como la abuela tenía el poder de hacer esto. Incluso a mí. Incluso durante tal día. Incluso en 37 millas por hora, como tuve ganas de seguirla a su casa.

Blintzes con Compota de Fruta

(Adaptado del Libro de Alimento Judío, por Claudia Roden)

Para el blintz:

1 taza de harina

1 ¼ taza de leche

2/3 tazas de agua

1 huevo

½ cucharilla de sal

1 cucharón más para engrasar la cazuela

Para el relleno

1 libra de queso cottage

½ libra de queso de crema

½ azúcar de taza

cascara de una naranja

3 yemas

½ extracto de vainilla de cucharilla

2-3 cucharones derritieron la mantequilla

nevazucar para rociar encima

Añada la leche y el agua a la harina gradualmente. Añada el huevo, la sal y el petróleo y golpee el rebozado hasta liso. Deje al rebozado sentarse, 1-2 horas, preferentemente durante la noche.

Para la compota de fruta:

2 ½ tazas frambuesas congeladas (aproximadamente 11 onzas)

2 tazas 1/2 moras congelados (aproximadamente 11 onzas)

12 onzas de fresas frescas, partidas por la mitad

1 taza de azúcar

1 cucharilla rallyada de cáscara de naranja

1 cucharon de maizena

jugo de medio limón

Combine las frambuesa, mora y fresas, el azúcar y la cáscara de limón en un tazón grande. Dejelo a temperatura de cuarto hasta que las frutas se descongelen, el azúcar se disuelve y forma jugo en el tazón, moviéndose de vez en cuando, aproximadamente 1 ½ horas.

Cuela las frutas y reserva el liquido. Agriega maizena en cacerola media pesada. Gradualmente añada jugos reservados a la maizena, batiendo hasta liso. Bate sobre el calor alto hasta que el jarabe está grueso y claro, aproximadamente 2 minutos. Quitalo del fuego y enfriarlo 15 minutos. Agrega frutas a la mezcla de jarabe. Ajuste la acidez con el jugo de limón. (Puede estar listo 3 horas delante. Tapa y enfrie.)

Precaliente el horno a 375 grados. Caliente un sartén de 8” (o una cazuela de crepes si usted lo tiene) sobre el calor alto medio y engrase ligeramente con el aceite. Prepárese como un crepe: vierta una cucharada grande en el centro de la cazuela y haga girar la cazuela en el movimiento circular hasta que la superficie entera este cubierta. Cocine un minuto y el de le la vuelta con una espátula para medio minuto más. Siga hasta que todo el rebozado sea usado y montóne blintzes en un plato. Para el relleno, mezcle el queso cottage y el queso de crema con el azúcar, cascara de naranja, yemas y vainilla en un mezclador. Tome cada tortita, 1 a la vez, y ponga 2 cucharones que amontonan del relleno en el fondo mitad, plegado del borde de la tortita sobre el relleno y doblando los lados para cerrar. Enróllelo apretado, como una tortilla mexicana. Coloque los rollos lado al lado en un plato de horno engrasado. Rocie de la mantequilla y hornee durante 20 minutos. Haga la compota de fruta: Sirva caliente con nevazucar del y compota.

Hace 12 blintzes

I could say if I just look at the slope of her nose (ever so slight with a generous finish) I’d recognize that it is exactly like mine and unmistakably connect us but I know what you are thinking: there is so much more to a face, so many more crevices and cracks to throw you off course. You’d say the eyes, the chin, even the hair. And I’d agree, one cannot gage another by merely the slope of the nose but in this case it really is all it took.  Because when she turned and I saw her profile, I saw myself in her; ten, maybe fifteen years earlier I was there, only with different colored hair and different colored eyes but still me and I knew right then and there, that even though we never crossed ...Read on]]>

I could say if I just look at the slope of her nose (ever so slight with a generous finish) I’d recognize that it is exactly like mine and unmistakably connect us but I know what you are thinking: there is so much more to a face, so many more crevices and cracks to throw you off course. You’d say the eyes, the chin, even the hair. And I’d agree, one cannot gage another by merely the slope of the nose but in this case it really is all it took.  Because when she turned and I saw her profile, I saw myself in her; ten, maybe fifteen years earlier I was there, only with different colored hair and different colored eyes but still me and I knew right then and there, that even though we never crossed paths before, we were indeed sisters.

Of course, the story doesn’t start or end there.  There are many hurdles and heartbreak and mending when one learns one’s father has led a double life and has a whole separate family as a result. It took years to get here and years I was grateful my mother was not alive to live this.  But the slope of the nose is where we met and it was followed by the big-hearted smile and the prominent chin:  all trademarks of my father’s Abbady genes I had thought for the most part of my life I carried alone only to quickly learn those traits where clearly molded on one of my half-sister’s face as well.

We met on a chilly foggy night in the Andean city of Quito, the remote spot my father had picked to form another life that on this memorable night merged with mine.  There was too much past to clutter a future with these two young women, my two half-sisters I never knew about, and so it was time to move forward together. 

And with the reliable mediator of food, we did.  To begin with, there was the fact that I had landed on the equator, which opened up the door to plenty of exotic and delightful Amazonian fruit with equally strange names such as parcha, tomate de arbol, and naranjillo.  There were many I had already encountered growing up in Venezuela such as maracuya (passion fruit) and mora (blackberry), all of which begged to be gobbled up with nothing but impulsiveness and greed.  All my mother’s proper Philadelphia stock was put to shame as I dropped any social etiquette and lost myself in a world of sweetness and flowers and juice which I couldn’t fully experience without fingers, extra drool and a very drippy chin.  To think Eden lost it all for a measly apple?  Oh the damage that could have happened here!

We had the fortune of our visit coinciding with Semana Santa (Holy Week), which, in a country where Roman Catholicism reigns, is taken very seriously, right down to the food.  Large makeshift shacks abound housing sweaty women stirring big pots of fanesca, a traditional hearty soup served during this meat-prohibited time consisting of beans and dried cod and garnished with eggs, fried plantains, heart of palm, and (if you’re fortunate) fried cheese empanadas.  You can pick any crowded intersection in Quito, drag a dirty plastic chair up to the communal table and dig in alongside businessmen in grey Armani suits, families overflowing with children, or curious tourists like me.

 There were other succulent flavors with the indelible stamp of Ecuador: Ceviche de Camaron, plump, marinated shrimp swimming in a bath of citrus, cilantro and red peppers or Encocado, which translates to “in coconut” and is the country’s trademark fish dish of sea bass bathed in fresh coconut sauce served alongside fried green plantains and a big mound of white rice.  Salchipapas, the popular street food consisting of thick slices of fried hotdogs served on a bed of French fries and coated with your choice of pink, yellow or spicy aji sauce easily elevated frankfurters to a whole other level.

Of course, we ate our way through any awkwardness, quietly comparing notes of our parallel lives guided by the same patriarch and by the end of each meal we were fuller and better for it, one step closer to closing the enormous gap of secrecy and time that lay before us.  And then we had our Passover dinner, the ultimate family meal for a group learning to be a family.  There was laughter and prayers and countless glasses of sickly sweet wine, and then, alas, there was food, lots and lots of food.  My sister and half-sisters where all there, the children ran around freely and my father, with his partner Lucia by his side, had a twinkle in his eye I hadn’t seen in years.  And just as this strange trip began to settle into a faint sense of normalcy, something happened that seemed to seal the deal:

                        Dessert was served.

And not just any dessert.  A delicious dessert. A wonderous dessert.  A very Abbady dessert.  Something I could see my aunt Miriam present in her cramped Jerusalem apartment along with a pot of Café Turki.  After all, this was Crème Bavaria, an Israeli favorite.

The ethereal square of white gently drizzled with rich chocolate and dusted with a bit of chopped walnuts was placed before me.  Lucia sat humbly next to my father, weathering the silence of a group of already tough critics.  Her eyes jumped nervously between my sister and I and our families as she contended with the room’s silence.  But the silence was soon broken by harmonious oohs and ahhs as, one by one, we all fell prey to the smooth and light creaminess of her Crème Bavaria, quickly and gently forgiving the misstep of using leavening during Passover as we bit into the rum-infused sponge cake resting on the bottom. 

It was an instant of wonder and hope where I realized that as painful and real as many of the circumstances that created this group where, there was a chance that through such delicious moments, things could and should get better.  My half-sister and I were sitting across each other.  Half way through our dessert, among the buzz of contentment, our eyes met and we grinned the same grin.  We were both blissfully stuffing ourselves with Crème Bavaria, making a start in the right direction guided by a happy, full stomach.