There is something a bit demoralizing about really wanting to read an interesting-looking book but being totally unable to comprehend anything about it even as I flip the pages and admire the typography and book binding, the illustrations and the random letters I can pronounce individually. Such is my experience every single time I walk past a bookstore here. What was once a momentary burst of joy when I go walking through shopping malls had become a sad, sad reminder that I am in a foreign land and am just as good as, intellectually-speaking, an illiterate toddler or very drunk man.
My birthdays always end with me in a deep funk. I'm not upset at becoming one year older. I'm upset at how childish I still remain apart from my physical state. I am going to try cleaning up the living room to try to snap out of this negative paralysis before Petra wakes up from her nap, during which she is emitting the saddest cries and whimpers every now and then while still remaining asleep. What cruel incubus is bothering her? Maybe flipping through cloth books of animal pictures and frustratingly pondering what it all means?
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Monday, July 15, 2013
(half) birthdays
My birthday this year coincides with Tisha B'Av, which is a day of fasting for Jews commemorating the destruction of the First and Second Temple as well as other Jewish tragedies, such as the expulsion of all Jews from Spain in the 1400s. It is considered "the saddest day in Jewish history." The Books of Lamentation and Job are read on this day. Go me!
I guess inviting Jewish friends to feast with me tomorrow is out of the question... I'm actually wondering if I could ask Daniel to babysit the kids so I could have extra time to clean the bathrooms and sweep/mop the floors. That would be nice, like when I mopped the floor for the first time since we arrived in Israel with a new mop on Christmas Day. The floor's really been bugging me but I haven't had a chance to deal with it.
Not to be outdone, Petra turned half a year old today. *Applause* For her birthday trick, she has added rolling onto her back from a planking position by flinging her big head backwards in conjunction with a jaunty swing of her chubby thighs. We are entering a new phase in our relationship--one is which Mommy can no longer do chores or be in any other room while Petra's napping/sleeping besides right next to the bed for fear of Daughter crawling to the edge of the bed and plummeting to the cold, hard floor.
Ah, so fun.
I guess inviting Jewish friends to feast with me tomorrow is out of the question... I'm actually wondering if I could ask Daniel to babysit the kids so I could have extra time to clean the bathrooms and sweep/mop the floors. That would be nice, like when I mopped the floor for the first time since we arrived in Israel with a new mop on Christmas Day. The floor's really been bugging me but I haven't had a chance to deal with it.
Not to be outdone, Petra turned half a year old today. *Applause* For her birthday trick, she has added rolling onto her back from a planking position by flinging her big head backwards in conjunction with a jaunty swing of her chubby thighs. We are entering a new phase in our relationship--one is which Mommy can no longer do chores or be in any other room while Petra's napping/sleeping besides right next to the bed for fear of Daughter crawling to the edge of the bed and plummeting to the cold, hard floor.
Ah, so fun.
I'm learning all sorts of skills. Try to keep up, Mom!
Sunday, July 14, 2013
small victories in the food category
Huzzah! On this lazy Saturday (late) afternoon, upon waking up from a twilight zone-ish Carlsberg-induced nap (let this be a lesson never to drink alcohol in the afternoon ever again unless childcare for the rest of the day is provided for), I whipped up a really fast dinner for the family. No longer owning a bread machine since Pittsburgh or knowing where to buy yeast since...a long time ago, I have become a stalker for easy-peasy pizza dough recipes.
This one may be the definitive recipe for my family's homemade pizzas from now on a la tonight's experience. All I did was mix one cup of self-raising flour (even skipping the baking powder and cornmeal part of the recipe) with 3/4 cup of Greek yogurt, and voila--not even needing to refrigerate the dough for 30 minutes according to a previously easy yeast-free recipe that I have now misplaced anyway. While the dough was spread out and being pre-baked on top of a coconut oiled cookie sheet, I chopped up tomatoes and garlic, salted and sugared the mixture, and made tomato sauce. After 10 minutes in the oven, I spread the dough surface with a layer of cheese, then the sauce, then another layer of cheese, then chopped up ham slices, pineapple chunks, and orange pepper bits. Bake for another 10 minutes and so, and even the pickiest eater in the center of the world (Declan) ate a whole slice while saying every now and then between bites, "Mmm, good. Mama made it." Hawaiian pizza is surprisingly hard to find everywhere I've been, even in the States, so it's great to be able to make it at home and with all fresh ingredients to boot.
If it seems that I am over-the-top proud of this pizza, a simple Italian peasant food, it's because it's really a culmination--a symbol!--of how far I've come in finally furrowing a cost-efficient, organic, good-quality, non-kosher containing path into the puzzling realm that had been grocery shopping in Israel. For a time, I was a weekly customer of an organic CSA farm that delivers a week's worth of produce right up to my door. This had been an invaluable help when I was living on the third apartment level sans elevator in the middle of the cruel Middle Eastern summer, heavily pregnant with Petra. Vegetables in the supermarkets are notoriously high in pesticide level due to some ridiculous kashrut logic, are for the most part under- or over-ripe, and are extremely overpriced compared with their counterparts at the shuk. However, the shuk is two bus rides away, and given our circumstances, not a sustainable source for my mental welfare.
The benefit of the CSA, then, was that good-quality organic ingredients basically comes to my doorstep for the fairly low cost of 130 shekels per week. The downside is that the delivery is often filled with produce that I don't really know how to cook with or even like to eat. It's great that the box got me into the habit of Israeli salad-eating, but that's mainly due to my cluelessness on how else to get rid of such an influx of tomatoes, cucumbers, and parsley every damn week. These three things, you would find, are Israeli staples the way ginger/garlic, soy sauce, and green onions are expected in Chinese cooking. And rendering my American-raised husband and toddler son de facto vegetarians seem a bit mean. I personally started craving bacon and pork just because being told I can't have something makes it oh so desirable.
After about 11 months of making do, I finally took advantage of the facts that (1) Declan being in gan means I don't need to herd an at-times uncooperative and motion-sickness prone toddler with me on bus rides and (2) Petra is still fairly content to be just looking around as I wear her about town to explore the rumors of cheaper organic produce and markets that sell pork and seafood that goes beyond just salmon and tuna. I got lost several times, made more money errors, was cowed by less-than-friendly vendors who clearly scorn non-Hebrew/Russian/Arabic speakers... and survived!
Now I get my organic produce from a woman-farmer named Ilana who has a Friday produce stand in the mall by Merkaz HaCarmel's Cinemathique. For the same load and with better quality, I pay 1/3 the price of those at an organic store that I used to frequent. The Grand Canyon (a little Hebrew pun; "Kenyon" in Hebrew means "mall") stocks other staples such as coconut oil for more decent prices than I'd been paying as well. My kosher lamb and beef source is an Arab butcher whose store is located in Hadar, right by the staircase that leads down to Wadi Nisnas and close to the children's library where I can check out five books per visit for Declan. My source for bacon, ham, mussels, shrimp, and other nonkosher meat items which I haven't eaten or even seen for the last 11 months while in Israel is a Russian supermarket also in Hadar. No longer will Daniel and I need to gorge ourselves on pork during his conference travels to Italy--hooray!
It's really nice that, in Israel, organic produce cost about the same as conventionally farmed produce. So why not eat organic? Especially when one has young children whose bodies are even more sensitive to chemicals, not to mention the effects on soil and water quality, etc. The problem has been that conventional farmed produce is still more commonly sold here, but now that I know where I can go, it's worth the needing to ride on various buses and scheduling shopping on separate days of the week. In the end, I also save a lot more money. Cost of living here is, whew, so high.
No wonder when, as a tourist four years ago, I asked Daniel's childhood friend, Mark, what he misses most about the US since he made aliyah three (at that time) years ago, he said, "Places like Target and Costco...being able to get what I need just by going to ONE place." At the time, I thought that sentiment was "so American", since Taiwan has a similar culture as what tourist-me had observed in Israel--lots of little shops and open-air/narrow-alleyed marketplaces. Then again, even in Taiwan, I wasn't the one providing for the day-to-day needs of the family while trying to make our income stretch for as far as it can go. One of those things one must live to understand.
This one may be the definitive recipe for my family's homemade pizzas from now on a la tonight's experience. All I did was mix one cup of self-raising flour (even skipping the baking powder and cornmeal part of the recipe) with 3/4 cup of Greek yogurt, and voila--not even needing to refrigerate the dough for 30 minutes according to a previously easy yeast-free recipe that I have now misplaced anyway. While the dough was spread out and being pre-baked on top of a coconut oiled cookie sheet, I chopped up tomatoes and garlic, salted and sugared the mixture, and made tomato sauce. After 10 minutes in the oven, I spread the dough surface with a layer of cheese, then the sauce, then another layer of cheese, then chopped up ham slices, pineapple chunks, and orange pepper bits. Bake for another 10 minutes and so, and even the pickiest eater in the center of the world (Declan) ate a whole slice while saying every now and then between bites, "Mmm, good. Mama made it." Hawaiian pizza is surprisingly hard to find everywhere I've been, even in the States, so it's great to be able to make it at home and with all fresh ingredients to boot.
If it seems that I am over-the-top proud of this pizza, a simple Italian peasant food, it's because it's really a culmination--a symbol!--of how far I've come in finally furrowing a cost-efficient, organic, good-quality, non-kosher containing path into the puzzling realm that had been grocery shopping in Israel. For a time, I was a weekly customer of an organic CSA farm that delivers a week's worth of produce right up to my door. This had been an invaluable help when I was living on the third apartment level sans elevator in the middle of the cruel Middle Eastern summer, heavily pregnant with Petra. Vegetables in the supermarkets are notoriously high in pesticide level due to some ridiculous kashrut logic, are for the most part under- or over-ripe, and are extremely overpriced compared with their counterparts at the shuk. However, the shuk is two bus rides away, and given our circumstances, not a sustainable source for my mental welfare.
The benefit of the CSA, then, was that good-quality organic ingredients basically comes to my doorstep for the fairly low cost of 130 shekels per week. The downside is that the delivery is often filled with produce that I don't really know how to cook with or even like to eat. It's great that the box got me into the habit of Israeli salad-eating, but that's mainly due to my cluelessness on how else to get rid of such an influx of tomatoes, cucumbers, and parsley every damn week. These three things, you would find, are Israeli staples the way ginger/garlic, soy sauce, and green onions are expected in Chinese cooking. And rendering my American-raised husband and toddler son de facto vegetarians seem a bit mean. I personally started craving bacon and pork just because being told I can't have something makes it oh so desirable.
After about 11 months of making do, I finally took advantage of the facts that (1) Declan being in gan means I don't need to herd an at-times uncooperative and motion-sickness prone toddler with me on bus rides and (2) Petra is still fairly content to be just looking around as I wear her about town to explore the rumors of cheaper organic produce and markets that sell pork and seafood that goes beyond just salmon and tuna. I got lost several times, made more money errors, was cowed by less-than-friendly vendors who clearly scorn non-Hebrew/Russian/Arabic speakers... and survived!
You have no idea how happy I am to be roasting some bacon in Israel
It's really nice that, in Israel, organic produce cost about the same as conventionally farmed produce. So why not eat organic? Especially when one has young children whose bodies are even more sensitive to chemicals, not to mention the effects on soil and water quality, etc. The problem has been that conventional farmed produce is still more commonly sold here, but now that I know where I can go, it's worth the needing to ride on various buses and scheduling shopping on separate days of the week. In the end, I also save a lot more money. Cost of living here is, whew, so high.
No wonder when, as a tourist four years ago, I asked Daniel's childhood friend, Mark, what he misses most about the US since he made aliyah three (at that time) years ago, he said, "Places like Target and Costco...being able to get what I need just by going to ONE place." At the time, I thought that sentiment was "so American", since Taiwan has a similar culture as what tourist-me had observed in Israel--lots of little shops and open-air/narrow-alleyed marketplaces. Then again, even in Taiwan, I wasn't the one providing for the day-to-day needs of the family while trying to make our income stretch for as far as it can go. One of those things one must live to understand.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
enough with the labels
Just before Daniel and I went to bed for the night at the end of his 29th birthday, we read about the Boeing 777 that crashed at SFO. I admit that the most vital information that I instinctually sought first were: Where was the plane from? Oh, from Seoul? Any Taiwan citizens on board that were taking the flight as a transfer?
Basically, I cared first and foremost whether any Taiwanese people/family were affected. Once my fears were assuaged, my net of concern widened to general casualty, cause of crash, history of mechanical defect, etc.
I do not admit the above without some shame. This is worth remembering by actually writing down because it touches upon something that's been bothering my mind at its periphery even more acutely since I started studying the Israeli-Palestinian conflict from ground zero (so to speak). Namely, the question of whether or not group identification, of which nationalism is one, is a good or bad thing. The report filed by a Taiwanese news source that I subscribe to via FB was followed by numerous comments roughly translated (sanitized) to: "Why should we care?"..."Those dead Chinese had it coming."... "Guess you can't rely on Korean products!"
What in the world? I'm so glad for the comments that rebuked such sentiments, that reminded all of us that we should care because they're PEOPLE. That we need to have more empathy because their families are grieving as we are taking it all in. At the same time, I can't believe we have to be reminded. Yes, I understand the prejudice and animosity Taiwanese people have towards mainland Chinese people. I am aware of the racial tension towards Koreans. But we are all just people in the end, and why can't we get past the cultural vendettas to this basic truth?
It would be foolish to dismiss nationalism as a necessary force for good just yet. It is the only thing holding some groups of people together and preventing civil wars. It is still in some ways a compelling force for community excellence that aims to bring honest-to-goodness and well-deserved acclaim for one's heritage. Perhaps it's one of those seemingly paradoxical forces of life, like predestination vs. free will, state vs. federal power, true freedom through abstention of hedonism, etc. I've come upon the preachings of self-proclaimed Christs and Buddhas who say that any identification or loyalty for one's particular country, ethnicity, gender, spouse... is limiting to one's true capacity to love everyone and everything. I think that's stupid. But I find myself examining the details of their logic in between the smugness.
This is a ginormous topic for one blog entry, and there're so many things I'm still reflecting on regarding this matter. Just want to jot this down to remind myself to curb my inner racist, and study why I am this way. May God heal the seriously injured passengers as they recover in the hospital, and bring comfort to the loved ones of the two people who died. I read that there's also an infant on board. I hope she or he is spared any permanent harm.
Basically, I cared first and foremost whether any Taiwanese people/family were affected. Once my fears were assuaged, my net of concern widened to general casualty, cause of crash, history of mechanical defect, etc.
I do not admit the above without some shame. This is worth remembering by actually writing down because it touches upon something that's been bothering my mind at its periphery even more acutely since I started studying the Israeli-Palestinian conflict from ground zero (so to speak). Namely, the question of whether or not group identification, of which nationalism is one, is a good or bad thing. The report filed by a Taiwanese news source that I subscribe to via FB was followed by numerous comments roughly translated (sanitized) to: "Why should we care?"..."Those dead Chinese had it coming."... "Guess you can't rely on Korean products!"
What in the world? I'm so glad for the comments that rebuked such sentiments, that reminded all of us that we should care because they're PEOPLE. That we need to have more empathy because their families are grieving as we are taking it all in. At the same time, I can't believe we have to be reminded. Yes, I understand the prejudice and animosity Taiwanese people have towards mainland Chinese people. I am aware of the racial tension towards Koreans. But we are all just people in the end, and why can't we get past the cultural vendettas to this basic truth?
It would be foolish to dismiss nationalism as a necessary force for good just yet. It is the only thing holding some groups of people together and preventing civil wars. It is still in some ways a compelling force for community excellence that aims to bring honest-to-goodness and well-deserved acclaim for one's heritage. Perhaps it's one of those seemingly paradoxical forces of life, like predestination vs. free will, state vs. federal power, true freedom through abstention of hedonism, etc. I've come upon the preachings of self-proclaimed Christs and Buddhas who say that any identification or loyalty for one's particular country, ethnicity, gender, spouse... is limiting to one's true capacity to love everyone and everything. I think that's stupid. But I find myself examining the details of their logic in between the smugness.
This is a ginormous topic for one blog entry, and there're so many things I'm still reflecting on regarding this matter. Just want to jot this down to remind myself to curb my inner racist, and study why I am this way. May God heal the seriously injured passengers as they recover in the hospital, and bring comfort to the loved ones of the two people who died. I read that there's also an infant on board. I hope she or he is spared any permanent harm.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
the case of the disappeared ice cream (brand)
Pretty soon after our little family returned to Israel towards the end of last month, Daniel attempted to re-start the Talk.
I'm so sick of the Talk. The Talk of Where to Go after Next Year. My life plans have been in flux ever since college graduation. According to my five-year life plan at that point (in that distant year of antiquity: 2004), I would be currently married to a traditional Cantonese boy I'd been dating for three years by that point, living somewhere in the U.S., and teaching English/literature at an inner city public school. I did not foresee meeting a half-Jewish/half-Irish red-headed boy, getting married to him, moving as if on the run from Pittsburgh to China to Seattle to Taiwan to Israel in less than two years' timespan, and not working professionally but rather squeezing out human beings from my body twice and guarding the home and hearth while trying to keep said human beings alive and--on my more ambitious days--shaping them to be future productive members of society.
The biggest lesson I took from this near-decade of living is to not bother making plans. Is that a healthy attitude? I don't know, and by this point, I don't really care. Still, I guess it's necessary to make some kind of vague gesture towards some sense of direction. And that direction seems to be out of Israel after the next year or so.
Which got me thinking about the things that I would miss here, and one of the biggest things would be this particular ice cream brand that Declan helped me discovered. I used to go nuts for Magnums, at 12 shekels a bar, after my first encounter with this ultra-rich ice cream brand in Paris during the summer of 2005. On one afternoon, however, Declan caught sight of a purple-wrapped ice cream bar and was quite insistent about getting that over a Magnum. It turned out to be two shekels less, and what's more, was freaking delicious. It has a hard chocolate shell, vanilla ice cream of a more watery kind (which I prefer...more thirst-quenching), and a hard milk chocolate core. My instantaneous switching of brand loyalty from that moment on is proof that product quality is more compelling than any marketing tactic.
However. When I returned from Europe this time, and caved to a craving for this specific ice cream, I went to my source as usual--the park across the street from our apartment. And could not find it anywhere. Not at that park. Not at the convenience store one block away from that park. Not at four other ice cream stands in Merkaz HaCarmel, one of the most happening shopping areas in Haifa.
What. Is. Going. On. The sad thing is I don't even know what this ice cream is called. So I can't even request it by name. I could only describe it by how it looks and tastes like the illiterate I am, and met every time with "No, we don't carry that anymore." Anymore! Which means it did exist!
I tried googling it to find an image of this longed-for ice cream, with admittedly vague terms such as "Israeli ice cream" and "purple wrapper" and got a bunch of pictures of gelato and goat-milk yogurt. I tried "Unilever" and "Strauss", which are popular ice cream brands here. And got nothing. Nothing!!
Well, I did find a box of the same brand and similar-style-bars at the supermarket the other day. But it doesn't have a milk chocolate core. It has a bunch of food-coloring-rich funfetti sprinkles. Disgusting.
One thing for me to start missing about Israel already, I guess. Why did the entire country suddenly stop carrying my favorite ice cream bar in all the world during my two-week absence? Israel, why do you like to tease me so?
I'm so sick of the Talk. The Talk of Where to Go after Next Year. My life plans have been in flux ever since college graduation. According to my five-year life plan at that point (in that distant year of antiquity: 2004), I would be currently married to a traditional Cantonese boy I'd been dating for three years by that point, living somewhere in the U.S., and teaching English/literature at an inner city public school. I did not foresee meeting a half-Jewish/half-Irish red-headed boy, getting married to him, moving as if on the run from Pittsburgh to China to Seattle to Taiwan to Israel in less than two years' timespan, and not working professionally but rather squeezing out human beings from my body twice and guarding the home and hearth while trying to keep said human beings alive and--on my more ambitious days--shaping them to be future productive members of society.
The biggest lesson I took from this near-decade of living is to not bother making plans. Is that a healthy attitude? I don't know, and by this point, I don't really care. Still, I guess it's necessary to make some kind of vague gesture towards some sense of direction. And that direction seems to be out of Israel after the next year or so.
Which got me thinking about the things that I would miss here, and one of the biggest things would be this particular ice cream brand that Declan helped me discovered. I used to go nuts for Magnums, at 12 shekels a bar, after my first encounter with this ultra-rich ice cream brand in Paris during the summer of 2005. On one afternoon, however, Declan caught sight of a purple-wrapped ice cream bar and was quite insistent about getting that over a Magnum. It turned out to be two shekels less, and what's more, was freaking delicious. It has a hard chocolate shell, vanilla ice cream of a more watery kind (which I prefer...more thirst-quenching), and a hard milk chocolate core. My instantaneous switching of brand loyalty from that moment on is proof that product quality is more compelling than any marketing tactic.
However. When I returned from Europe this time, and caved to a craving for this specific ice cream, I went to my source as usual--the park across the street from our apartment. And could not find it anywhere. Not at that park. Not at the convenience store one block away from that park. Not at four other ice cream stands in Merkaz HaCarmel, one of the most happening shopping areas in Haifa.
What. Is. Going. On. The sad thing is I don't even know what this ice cream is called. So I can't even request it by name. I could only describe it by how it looks and tastes like the illiterate I am, and met every time with "No, we don't carry that anymore." Anymore! Which means it did exist!
I tried googling it to find an image of this longed-for ice cream, with admittedly vague terms such as "Israeli ice cream" and "purple wrapper" and got a bunch of pictures of gelato and goat-milk yogurt. I tried "Unilever" and "Strauss", which are popular ice cream brands here. And got nothing. Nothing!!
Well, I did find a box of the same brand and similar-style-bars at the supermarket the other day. But it doesn't have a milk chocolate core. It has a bunch of food-coloring-rich funfetti sprinkles. Disgusting.
One thing for me to start missing about Israel already, I guess. Why did the entire country suddenly stop carrying my favorite ice cream bar in all the world during my two-week absence? Israel, why do you like to tease me so?
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