The Summer I Got Kicked Out of Camp

Posted on February 12, 2012 by holylandhipstermom

Whitney Houston RIP 2/11/2012

Sometimes in life, events happen that bring old wounds to the surface. Whitney Houston, a legend in her own right, died yesterday at the age of 48. When I heard the news, I felt extremely sad. And then, a flood of difficult memories came into my mind. That box where we store away the difficult moments in our life was opened with her death.

Why? Because, the summer I got kicked out of Camp Hillel sleep away camp, was the summer I spent consoling myself to Whitney Houston’s music.

It’s funny, but this past Shabbat I was talking to my friend about my summer camp experiences, and I mentioned this incident. But sometimes, we can mention moments and still keep them locked away. Today, they all came to the surface.

I was 11 years old and it was the summer after 6th grade. It was my second summer at Camp Hillel sleep away camp in Swan Lake, Pennsylvania. I was in bunk 5A with a couple of friends from elementary school and girls who had been there the summer before. I ended up getting the bottom bunk bed at the entrance to our bunk, directly beneath one of my counselors. My older sister was also at camp that summer, and it was comforting to have her around.

I was a messy kid. I remember unpacking my trunk and not finding any hangers, so I folded my summer dresses and put them in the back of one of my cubbies. I wasn’t dirty though, and always showered when it was my turn, and wore clean clothing.

But, I didn’t make friends easily, and my bunk mates were challenging. A lot of the girls had cliqued off early and it was hard for me to break into the cliques. I was friendly and outgoing, so I was willing to work at it. I was also fairly athletic (didn’t have the weight problem yet) and excelled at swimming. I could also kick that ball really far during kickball.

I made a couple of mistakes about 2 weeks into the summer. One night, after lights out, I sat on my friend’s bed with about four other girls, and we were talking. It was then that I mentioned that I was seeing a psychologist back home. One of the girls asked me what that was, and I explained that he was a doctor I talked to about some of the issues I had at home and at school. That girl later told my counselor, who told our division head, who told the head of girls campus.

So, this is the 1980′s, and going to see a shrink was no where near as popular and accepting as it is today. In fact, if people were in therapy in the 80′s, it was this huge secret. Unfortunately, no one ever told me to be ashamed of it. No one ever told me not to talk about it. And so, I made the big mistake of telling my bunk mates. (Side note: I am extremely thankful that my parents sent me to a therapist, even though there was a tremendous stigma if anyone found out. They cared enough about me to know that I needed some help, and tried their hardest to help me).

Second, the head of girls campus hated my guts. Why? Because her twin daughters were my age and we didn’t get along. In fact, I didn’t get along with them the previous summer, and I’m pretty sure we fought a lot (never physical, just verbal) and Mommy Head Honcho didn’t like it that her daughter’s were having issues with a particular camper. This is an important piece of information to remember as you continue to read my story.

Once the head of girls campus heard about my shrink, she sounded the alarm and put me on probation. However, she never told me she put me on probation. Then, the second Shabbat of camp, there was a major heat wave. And, of course, I couldn’t find my summer dresses. Why? Because I had folded them into a ball in the back of my cubbie and forgot they were there. I had nothing to wear to shul and no one would lend me anything. So, I took out a white sweater dress, and wore it. I had nothing else.

Well, the head of girls campus FREAKED that I was wearing a sweater dress in 90 degree weather. She yelled at me and sent me back to my bunk to find appropriate clothing. Fortunately, my sister saw the screaming and she got permission from her counselor to help me. She knew I had summer dresses, since she was there when my Mom packed me up, and so she started looking for them. We went through the entire closet and then emptied all of my cubbies, until we found the dresses in the back. Truth be told, I was relieved we found them because I was really hot in that sweater. I thanked her, got dressed in a summer outfit, and rejoined my group.

That night, I went to sleep at lights out and was woken up by my counselor when she came in after her curfew. Now, at age 11, I did not do well with being woken up when I was tired. Our counselors thought it would be fun to wake us at 11:00 p.m. and have a little chat, but I wasn’t up for it. And so, I started crying. I was exhausted and all I wanted to do was go back to sleep. I remember the look my counselor and junior counselor gave each other as I bawled and begged to be allowed to go back to sleep. It was the look of “oh, this camper isn’t a team player. She’s the only one upset while everyone else is ready to go and have fun.” Well, too damn bad. I was behaving like a normal, exhausted, 11 year old and they shouldn’t have woken me up to begin with.

The next day, Sunday, was laundry day. I put all my laundry in, remembered to pin my socks, and used a mesh bag when necessary. I remember being in the shower that night and one of the girls was bullying me from the sinks. I told her to leave me alone and she punched me through the curtain. When I went to complain to my counselor, she ignored me. That was hurtful. That night, before dinner, I was called to the girls campus HQ for a phone call. It was my shrink.

Now, I wasn’t smart enough then to be surprised. I didn’t know how he had the number, why he was calling me, or what was going on. I thought maybe it was part of therapy and I was supposed to have phone consultations with him. The head of girls campus stood listening in the entire time, as I spoke to him on the phone. He basically asked me how I was doing and whether or not I was getting along with my bunk mates. I admitted that some of the girls were more difficult than others but I was having a good time. We hung up and I went to the dining hall, oblivious of what was to come.

When the laundry came back later that week, I was lazy. I decided I didn’t want to fold it and put it into my cubbie. Instead, I opened my duvet cover and stuffed it in there. I figured, when I was ready, I would just put it away some other time. But, I didn’t think that I would get busted during bunk inspection. Sure enough, once the division head found my laundry in my duvet cover, she freaked out! I got punished and had to stay back from an activity to put the laundry away.

That night, I was called to the camp owner’s bungalow for my second phone call with my shrink. Now, never once during this time at camp did I hear or speak with my parents. But, they knew what was going on, as they were working tireless to make sure the camp didn’t kick me out. I also never said more than 2 words to the camp owners,  the people who agreed to kick me out of camp. In fact, while in their bungalow on the phone with my shrink, neither of them were present. My shrink didn’t let on that anything about my behavior was going to get me kicked out. He just asked me how things were going and if I was happy. I answered honestly, that all was fine, as I itched to get back to my friends.

A few days later,  it was all over. I remember sitting at shiur with my bunk mates and seeing a truck rumble past toward girls campus, with a trunk in it. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Then, my name was called over the loud speaker, to go to the girls HQ, and I left shiur early. I arrived at HQ to find my parents. I was happy to see them but really surprised. I remember what my Mom was wearing, a pair of purple capris and a white, button down shirt with a ladies face on it. She put her arm around me and told me that they were there to take me home. I was shocked. I told her that I didn’t want to go home. She said that the camp wanted me to leave.

The next two hours were a complete blur. My Mom and sister packed my trunk with all my stuff while my bunk mates – suddenly my best friends – hugged me and told me they would miss me. The head of girls campus observed everything, she couldn’t wait to get me off of camp property. Our division head escorted us to our car, to make sure we really left camp grounds (or maybe to deal with her own guilt, she her parents attended my parents shul in Queens and she knew I was a good kid). Once again, the camp owners didn’t say a word to me.

I cried the entire drive back to Queens. I kept asking my parents what I did wrong. I kept going over and over in my mind the moments I could have changed. I should have asked for hangers for my dresses, so I didn’t wear a warm sweater dress on a hot day. I could have just put away my laundry, and not stuffed it into my duvet cover. I shouldn’t have told the girls I was seeing a shrink. I shouldn’t have cried when my counselors woke me up late a night.

But you see, what really upset me the most, is that I never broke any of the rules that got someone immediately kicked out of camp. I never physically assaulted anyone. I never went on a raid to the boys camp (although, that’s the story I told everyone back at school, when they asked why I got kicked out of camp. I had to save face and make it seem like I was really bad, got caught on a raid, and deserved to be booted), I never brought non-kosher food to the camp, I never lit a fire or tried to destroy camp property. I never tried to run away or leave camp grounds.

Should I have been kicked out of camp? Absolutely not. The owners of the camp dropped the ball, big time. They had a responsibility to me, and they failed me. Why didn’t they try changing my bunk? Why didn’t anyone ever discuss with me that I was on probation, or that my actions would get me kicked out of camp? I was never, ever warned.

A week and a half later was visiting day, and of course I had to come back to see my sister. Where else would my parents leave me when the entire family came for the day? I was excited to talk to my bunk mates and ran ahead after my Dad parked the car. I asked the girls whose parents hadn’t arrived yet, what I missed being gone. They told me that one of our bunk mates had hepatitis and they all had to get shots in their asses. I didn’t think much of it but I did mention it to my Mom minutes later. She, of course, got pissed off and went to the division head to find out the story. And wouldn’t you know it, but about 20 minutes later I was in the infirmary getting a shot in my ass! And let me tell you, hepatitis shots in the ass are not fun. They hurt. Now envision a 6 hour car ride home. As if getting kicked out wasn’t bad enough, this was the visiting day experience from hell.

But that moment, getting kicked out of camp, haunted me for more than a decade. I suddenly feared I would get kicked out of elementary school, and later high school, for the slightest indiscretion. My seventh grade year was the worst I’d ever had. I was ridiculed and bullied by just about everyone. They had all heard I was kicked out of camp, and no one bothered to ask if I deserved it. They had branded me a “problem child,” and with that brand I endured a year from hell. My issues with my parents exacerbated as the issues with the kids in school got even worse. I was getting it at both ends – in school and at home – and I felt like there was no one there for me. I acted out even more, and felt like there was no one in my corner.

I tried to commit suicide midway through the year. Crouched behind the garbage can in my parents kitchen, I took my Father’s Challah knife and tried to slit my wrists. It was the wrong knife to take, and after a few tries, I lost my nerve. It also hurt a lot, and so I made some cuts on my hand and arm, rinsed off the knife, and went back upstairs to my room. I wasn’t going to get off easy, and I would spend years dealing with my adolescent pain.

I worried and had constant anxiety throughout my seminary year in Israel. I would ask my Rabbi if he was upset with me and if that meant he would send me home. It wasn’t until college, YEARS later, that I finally realized that I wasn’t going to get expelled.

But those scars remained with me. I have spent years going over and over that summer in my mind. As an adult, I could really understand things better. My counselors were shitty little 16 year old’s who had no idea what they were doing. They heard therapist and immediately branded me a sociopath. What did they know? At 16, they had absolutely zero experience working with youth. They weren’t trained to take care of us, and all they cared about was getting a good tip from our parents and meeting boys.

I also realized that it’s never a good idea to have a child in the same bunk/class as a child of one of the administrators/head counselors, etc. Those parents cannot be neutral, they cannot separate being a Mother with being an educator. They cannot choose what’s best for another child at the expense of their own child.

I will make part of my decisions about my girls schooling and other camp/schools based on whether or not they might share a class/bunk with an administrator’s child. If possible, I will make sure that never happens. The head of girls campus never should have made the call to kick me out of camp, or wielded such influence on the decision with the camp owners. But since both of her daughters were in the only other bunks in my division, she would not have switched me into a different bunk. She wasn’t willing to risk HER child having a bad experience, or possibly not getting along with me. She chose her children’s happiness first, I do not think another person would have done the same. But I blame the camp owners for not seeing through her personal stake in the situation, she definitely didn’t want me around.  The responsible action would have been to move my bunk, and see how I did with different counselors and different girls. THAT would have been the right thing to do.

As a Mother today, I understand why she did what she did. Truth be told, if I had been in the same shoes at the head of girls campus, I do not know if I would have made a different choice. I would protect my child at all cost. But who am I kidding?  I wouldn’t put myself in that position to begin with.

It was just my bad luck that I was in the same division as the head of girls campuses’ twin daughters. If I were a year young, or a year older, there could have been other options for me. I’ve stopped asking “what if’s” a long time ago, sometimes – no matter how painful things are – it’s just meant to be.

And so, that brings me back to Whitney Houston. I spent the remaining weeks at home. It was too late to enroll me in any day camp, so I was stuck spending my days at my parents house. My Grandmother took care of me, and schlepped me on all her errands. She taught me how to test the ripeness of a melon or pick sweet grapes (the trick is to eat one until you find the sweet ones). My Aunt Irene Z”L took me to her house and taught me how to bake chocolate chip cookies.

And my Mom stayed home a few days from work, and put the sprinkler on in the back yard.  I popped my Stacey Q and Whitney Houston cassette tapes into our portable tape recorder, and drowned my sorrows while dancing to the music, underneath the gentle pelting of the water sprinkler.

 

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Chasing the Orange Stroller

Posted on January 18, 2012 by holylandhipstermom

Orange stroller at the Maon in Baka

Two days ago, I witnessed something horrible. I was leaving our apartment building with the baby, who was all bundled up in her Bugaboo and ready for a nice walk in the fresh air. I closed the gate behind me and turned towards my right, trying to decide which route to take on our little walk. In front of me was a woman and a little girl, sitting strapped into an orange carriage. I turned away from them to contemplate walking the other way, when the woman let out a yell. I quickly turned back, just in time to see her punch the little girl in the head. The child immediately howled in pain, as the woman continued to yell at her, while bending down to pick up the cause of the assault.

A blanket. A worn blanket that had been covering the child, slipped off (or was thrown off by the little girl), and the woman ran over it with the carriage and was FURIOUS about it. Angry enough to hit this little child. And then, as I watched in shock, she proceeded to violently wrap the screaming child in this blanket. The little girl, still crying hysterically, started coughing. It was the sound I’m familiar with, when my DD has bronchitis. The woman was still screaming at the child, yelling in Hebrew that she had horrible manners, and who taught her how to behave so badly.

At this point, I wanted to get involved. I wanted to say SOMETHING to this woman, who was definitely not this little girls Mother. She was either a Grandmother or a caregiver, which was making the situation even worse. I wanted to scream at this woman for hitting this child. I mean, for what did she hit this poor kid? Because a blanket fell on the floor? Because it got dirty? That’s something that a 2 year old deserves to get beaten for?

As the woman came towards me, I opened my mouth, and then closed it. She walked past me, oblivious to my presence, continuing to chastise the screaming toddler. I turned my baby carriage in her direction and started following her. But, as she took a left at the corner, I shook my head and continued straight. I fought the urge to cry.

Why couldn’t I say something? Why? Why didn’t I open my mouth and object to what was such outrageous behavior? I didn’t know.

Scenarios kept racing through my mind. One scenario had me confront her, ask her if she wanted to hit someone her own size, and then she actually takes a swing at me. Or, even worse, she takes a swing at my baby. The other scenario has me following her to her home, writing down the address, and then calling the police and reporting her. In a third scenario, I call the police right then and there and then chase after her until they arrive.

But, it was too late, the woman was gone. And only G-d knows what this child endures behind closed doors. I mean, if she is getting such a hit in public, can you imagine what happens in private?

I was riddled with guilt, not being able to get them out of my mind. I took to the Israeli Babies Facebook group and ask the members, what they would have done. Many of the them responded that they would have been all over the woman. I was immediately jealous of those women, I wish I was like that. I wish I was able to open my mouth and object when I see something so offensive, so disturbing, that I can’t do anything but intervene.

And so, I’ve spent the past couple of days, trying to understand my behavior. Part of it has to do with my American culture, part of it has to do with being a New Yorker who’s taught to keep out of other people’s business. Because, as Mom would say, you never know who has a gun. Another part has to do with my personal upbringing, and also my “breeding.” (The whole, A lady is seen, and rarely heard, crap). I also spent years conditioning myself to be quiet, meek, demure, because, heaven forbid, someone should stereotype me as a brass, bold, loud, aggressive fat person akin to Roseanne Barr.

And I felt tremendous shame. I’m ashamed of myself for not saying something, for not getting involved, for not doing what I have a responsibility to do to protect this child!

So yesterday, at exactly the same time, I left the house with the baby. Only this time, the skies were grey, the rain had already started, and the weather was freezing. I walked around the block,  hoping to run into this woman again. This time, I had a plan. I was going to photograph her on my phone, follow her home, and then give the information over to either Child Services, or the Police.

But, she was no where to be found. Since there are at least 4 child care facilities within a 2 block radius, I decided to go to each one and see if I could spot the orange stroller. Or, better yet, to run into the woman and child again. I walked up the block to the first day care facility and waited until a parent came to pick up their child. A Mother arrived,  keyed in the code, and let me in. I walked up the ramp towards the entrance and surveyed the carriage. And my heart literally skipped a beat. There it was! The orange stroller, with 2 bags hanging on the handle bar. I took a picture, went inside, and told the woman in charge that I was looking for a gan for my daughter for next year. It wasn’t a lie, I actually am looking for a gan for next year, but that really wasn’t my purpose. She gave me some information, and then I left. I stood watch by the door for the next 30 minutes, pushing the carriage to keep warm, watching each person that went in and out of the gan. And then, a woman with dark brown hair and glasses walked past me and inside the gan. I looked through the hole in the tarp and saw that the orange stroller was the only one left, and my palms started sweating. I called my husband, told him that I had found the stroller, and that I was waiting to confirm that it belonged to the little girl. He told me that I didn’t need to have a confrontation, and I affirmed that I was simply there to take a picture so I can go to the proper authorities. And then the woman walked out, pushing the orange stroller and holding the hand of a 2 year old boy.

I was so crushed that I almost started crying on the street. She passed me and said hello, and I waited until she turned the corner before I left.

How could that be? I mean, how many people have an orange stroller with handles? I picked up my eldest from gan, came home, and buried my disappointment in drooly kisses, toilet training, dinner and bath time.

Today was no different. At the same time, I bundled up the baby, stepped outside the apartment and turned to the right. The woman and child were not there. I walked around the block, twice, keeping my eyes out for the orange stroller. On the third trip past my door, I ran into my friend Rachel. I didn’t tell her what was going on, and since I had time before gan pickup for my eldest, I decided to join her for a little walk. We chatted for a few blocks and then, before we crossed Reuven street, I saw him coming towards me with the orange stroller.

Second orange stroller at a gan in Baka

The adrenaline started pumping and Rachel and I parted ways. I had to run a bit to catch up with him, but I was determined to keep up. My husband drove past as I was racing down the block and I tried to wave him down, to tell him that I was in pursuit of an orange stroller, but he continued past. I was half a block away when I lost him. Fortunately, I knew that he had gone into one of the gan’s on the block and I simply had to look for the orange stroller. Breathless, I arrived at the first gan, and there was the orange stroller in the courtyard. I didn’t need the code to get in, I simply parked myself outside the door and waited for him to emerge. My phone was at the ready.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the door opened and the man emerged. Holding the hand of another little boy.

At that point, gan pick up was over and the parents and children had thinned to a mere trickle. I joined my husband to pick up our eldest daughter and filled him in on the story. I showed him the two photos of the orange stroller, and held back tears that I had failed to find the little girl. He urged me to stop trying to find her, but I dismissed him.

He says I don’t need to pay penance for not getting involved at the moment. I think he’s wrong. I shudder to think what this child could be going through a home, and how I might be the only person who has an inkling into her suffering.

And so, as long as I physically am able, you can find me around 3:00 p.m., walking around the neighborhood, searching for the orange stroller.

If you happen to live in Baka and want to help, keep an eye out for a little girl in an orange stroller, similar to the one photographed above. She had brown hair and brown eyes, is around 2 years old. There was a Shilav bag hanging on one of the handles, and she was wearing a pink coat. The Israeli woman pushing her had white/blonde hair, wore clogs, had a raspy voice from one too many cigarettes, and dark sunglasses. Thin built, average height, speaks only Hebrew. If you see someone matching this description, please take a picture and send it to me.

What would you have done in this situation?

 

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One Potato Miracle

Posted on December 22, 2011 by holylandhipstermom

Preparation for the first night of Hanukkah!

When we think about Hanukkah, we think about miracles. Well, the first night of Hanukkah, we had our own little miracle. Where I was able to get, from 1 medium to large sized potato, 20 small latkes for our family Hanukkah party. And they were delicious!

Making Hanukkah a celebration for my little family is so important to me, especially since so very many of the Jewish holidays of my youth were hijacked by the Holocaust.  DH has amazing memories of these massive Hanukkah celebrations with loads of Uncles, Aunts, Grandparents, cousins, second cousins, etc. My memories of Hanukkah’s past includes my parents, siblings, and Grandparents. My father is an only child, and well, Hitler took care of any of the other relatives that could have been on my Dad’s side. Our celebrations were intimate, small, and very sweet. One night out of the eight, we would go to my Grandparents house where my Grandfather would be busy hand grating the potatoes for the latkes. My Grandmother, meanwhile, was mixing up all the ingredients and frying them in the pan. She never used a spatula, turning each one with either a fork or her fingers. Her fingertips were already numb by then from all the hard work in the concentration camp and then as a seamstress in Manhattan’s sweatshops.

Her latkes were thin, delicious, and perfect. And somehow, the tradition of lighting candles, singing, eating latkes and then finishing them off with Carvel flying saucers were born. My Grandmother made sure we all had our favorite flavor of choice, mine being pistachio, my parents enjoying chocolate and vanilla, my sister liking pistachio, the other sister liking chocolate, and my brother going for the vanilla. We never got together with my Mother’s side of the family since it was usually a school night and my Dad didn’t want to drive into the City. So that was it, our Hanukkah celebration. During the week, we lit candles and then went back to doing our homework. Nothing overly exciting. Sometimes we would get gifts, but for the most part, Hanukkah just wasn’t that big a deal.

So, what happens when you have one person whose Hanukkah celebrations weren’t that big of a deal, married to someone whose Hanukkah celebrations were eight nights of gigantic family get togethers, loads of gifts, gelt, latkes, sufganiot, music, laughter and overall merriment? Well, you have a lot of compromising.

I like to try to incorporate some of DH’s traditions, with some of my low key ones. That being said, I want to make Hanukkah fun and exciting for our kids so they don’t end up riding the school bus in High School and singing Christmas carols at the top of their lungs while looking at all the neighborhood Christmas lights (which are gorgeous!!). I want them to grow up excited about 8 days of joyous festivities, where they get gifts (within reason), spend time with family, learn about the miracles of Hanukkah, and just feel the love of a holiday season.

So, as we work on created new traditions for our little family, we agreed to have a first night of Hanukkah where it’s just us. That made me happy, as we are spending 5 nights of Hanukkah with various members of DH’s family. And, since I have no family on my side in Israel (yet), I have to stand up for myself and insist that small, intimate, little family celebrations at home are also fun and joyous.

I prepared for Hanukkah for a long time. Starting back in August, when we were in the States, and I picked up all the gifts for Baby J. at Target. Everyone laughed at me for doing that, but believe me, it was much cheaper shopping then than it is shopping now. DH and I also decided to tell each other what we wanted as gifts, and they were very reasonable. DH got a book by his favorite author, and I got three CD’s.

While Baby J. was in gan, I got to work on setting up the apartment. I took out our Chanukiah and took a pair of chopsticks to them, getting out as much of last year’s candle wax as I could. Then, I set up the windowsill with plenty of silver foil and tied back the curtains. DH had gone to Roladin the day before and picked up sufganiot, and he got one of each flavor so we could have a sampling! Check out my food blog at FatGirlFoodie in a few days for my review!

I put the sufganiot on the table, surrounded them with an Elite candle full of candy that Baby J. picked up at the supermarket the other day, some dreidels, and put on a CD of Hanukkah music. The house felt warm and festive, but I felt that something was missing.

My Grandmother’s latkes. Sigh. What I wouldn’t give to be back in their tiny, overheated apartment, watching my Grandparents prepare the latkes for us. Unfortunately, my Grandfather has been gone now for a number of years and my Grandmother no longer has the strength to make us her favorite fare. I thought, wouldn’t it be great if we had some latkes too? As I started to reach for the phone to call DH at work to ask him to buy some on his way home, I remembered that I had one potato. The potato that didn’t make it into the Chulent soup that I made 2 weeks ago, had been hanging from the kitchen chair in a pink bag. I peeked into the bag, expecting to see tons of eyes and perhaps some other growths from all this time, but it was almost pristine!

Excitement began to build and I quickly looked around for all the other ingredients. Onion, check. Matzah Meal, check. Salt, pepper, eggs, oil, check! Within minutes, I was hand grating that one potato, marveling at how my Grandfather had the upper arm strength to hand grate all those potatoes for our family, back in the day. I formed small, thin patties, and fried them in oil until brown and golden. I jabbered excitedly at Baby J. and Baby S., telling the story of my Grandmother’s latkes, and exclaiming how these would be just as good. Baby J. barely looked away from the TV to listen to what I had to say, but at least I got a drooly smile from Baby S.

And, a miracle occurred. From one potato, I managed to get 20 small, perfect, delicious latkes for our little family celebration.

And Baby J. didn’t touch even a one.

What type of holiday traditions do you have on Hanukkah? Let me know in the comment section below!

Chag Sameach to everyone celebrating the Festival of Lights!

And may the miracle of Hanukkah extend to little Ayelet Galena, and may she have a complete and total recovery. Please keep Ayelet Yakira Bas Chaya Hinda Matel Nechama in your prayers/tefillot this holiday season.

 

 

 

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New Thanksgiving Traditions

Posted on November 24, 2011 by holylandhipstermom

Snoopy Balloon at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade

Thanksgiving is probably my favorite holiday. And I’m including the Jewish ones in that list. I absolutely love everything about Thanksgiving. Growing up, my parents would let us sleep in and then my Mom would make us a pancake breakfast. Then, we would get dressed and go watch the parade in their bedroom. I got all excited when Santa showed up, because it signaled the end of the parade and the official start of the holiday season. I know I don’t celebrate Christmas, but there is just something so climactic about Santa showing up during the parade. After the parade, it was usually time to pile into the van and head to the Lower East Side for Thanksgiving dinner at my Aunt Amy’s house. When we were really younger, the meal wasn’t as important. We would play with my cousins and then all of us would watch the Godzilla, King Kong and The Blob marathons on TV while the adults languished over dinner and dessert. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I was also very happy to leave the TV for a piece of my Aunt’s apple pie. It is delicious.

As I got older, and during the single years, Thanksgiving wasn’t as exciting for me. It was pretty difficult to be at the dinner table, surrounded by my married siblings and cousins, and all of their children. That, and there was no longer any Godzilla, King Kong and The Blob TV marathons. We still had the parade, but I was usually sleeping it off on Thanksgiving mornings. The beauty of being an adult on Thanksgiving is hitting the bars with friends on Wednesday night.

But when I got married, I was so happy about bringing the Thanksgiving tradition to my new family. I didn’t marry an American, and while DH is very supportive of my culture, he doesn’t share the same connection to the holiday. The first two years of marriage, I went all out and made these big Thanksgiving feasts. The first year I invited my husbands entire extended family, and we even had some non-relatives crash the party. I slaved over the meal for a week and made 2 turkeys. The food was great, but something was missing. I decided the second year to scale down the invitations and just have his immediate family and our friends Jen and Zvi, who were in Israel visiting. Baby J. was almost a year old at the time and we were so excited about her first Thanksgiving. Once again, I cooked like a fiend, made two turkeys, and set a gorgeous table. DH’s family seemed to enjoy the experience, but again, I felt like something was missing.

Obviously what’s missing is my family. I miss my Aunt Amy’s turkey and apple pie, watching my cousin’s Larry and Neil dive into the dessert with gusto (this is after a huge meal), holding my nieces and nephews, making sure my Zayde A”H cup is full, fighting with at least one of my siblings and/or parent, gossiping with my Grandmother, the annual joint birthday cake for both of my parents,  and then reminiscing about days of yore and how much we loved watching Godzilla, King Kong and The Blob. That, and how funny it was the year we accidentally threw my sister’s retainer in the trash and how my Dad had to go through 3 apartment buildings worth of dumpsters FULL of Thanksgiving trash before he found it (he smelled great when he got back to the apartment with the retainer, BTW). Or the year New York City got socked with a heavy snow storm and we were holed up in our house, sans turkey, but with plenty of love, good cheer, snowball fights, and hot cocoa.

Not wanting to make an elaborate Thanksgiving meal for just the four of us, especially since Baby S. isn’t up to eating meat yet, I decided to delay Thanksgiving dinner until the girls are older but start some new traditions already today. First, that DH and I go out to a movie after Thanksgiving dinner. Even if my feet were aching from all the cooking and the house would be a mess from all the guests and food, I plan on leaving the mess, getting a babysitter, tucking the kids into bed, and going to see a nice movie with my husband. Next year, I’ll make a much better choice of movies though. Seeing Breaking Dawn with a theater full of screaming teenagers wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

Also, I decided I really wanted Baby J. to experience the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any online outlets live streaming the parade. So, I went to YouTube and decided to show her last year’s parade. When DH got home, we gathered around the computer, and watched some guy’s video from 75th and Central Park West. It was a grainy home video but it was so effective, it made me feel like I was right there. Anyway, we watched the marching bands go by, and then Snoopy was the first balloon to make an appearance. As I excitedly told the kids about the balloons, DH realized that Baby J. was crying! She was so scared of the balloon, that she was silently crying and miserable. I quickly turned off the video, gave her a hug, and put on a TV show for her. While she was watching her show, with drying tears on her cheeks, she told me: “Mommy, I no want Thanksgiving. No more Thanksgiving, ok?”

Sigh. OK. She perked up when I ordered in pizza and ice cream though. And, while she only took three licks of her chocolate ice cream cone, I think she wasn’t so sad about Thanksgiving anymore. Another new tradition is born: pizza and ice cream cones for lunch on Thanksgiving day. But not too much, I wouldn’t want them to spoil their appetite for what’s to come.

And, while they are much too young for a touch football game in the courtyard of the Matnas next door, I’m looking forward to P”G getting a nice game together. Even if it’s just two on two, it will be a family tradition I hope they will all come to enjoy. I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to teach my non-American/non-sports loving husband the rules of the game.

At the end of the day, I just hope the girls don’t grow up to be teenagers who roll their eyes and gripe to their friends about having to deal with their American Mother on Thanksgiving, when they’d rather be anywhere else but having turkey dinner with us.

Here’s hoping they’ll just invite them all over for dinner instead.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

 

 

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Mo Money, Mo Problems

Posted on November 15, 2011 by holylandhipstermom

Money. When you don’t have it, you desperately want it. And when you do have, well, sometimes you just squander it away.

I was very conscious about money at an early age. The summer I got kicked out of sleep away camp, I spent my days being dragged around town by my Grandmother. Wherever she went, I went. At Supermarkets, I would watch her count out every single penny from her little change purse. She knew before getting to the check out counter, exactly how much each item cost and whether or not she could afford it. Sometimes, she would pick up an item and then put it back on the shelf, doing the mental calculation that she couldn’t afford it. During these trips, I never got any treats. There was no extra money for me.

After those shopping trips, I vowed that I would never be in that position. That I would never count pennies, deny myself (or a future child) a treat from the store, or put something back on the shelf because I didn’t have the budget.

When it came time for me to be financially independent, I learned the hard way just how difficult money management could be. My first job paid me $21,000 a year before taxes. It was 1998 and I was going from earning no money to earning 21 grand, and I felt like I was rolling in dough. I moved out of my parents house and into a tiny third bedroom at the Westmont on the Upper West Side, and spent $750 a month for my closet. When I moved out, I also gained access to my bank account and my Bat Mitzvah money. It was more money then I had ever seen and I started spending, with abandon.

Six months after I started my job, I had depleted my savings by half. My Mom finally stepped in and told me that I couldn’t continue to afford the lifestyle I was living. That the apartment was too expensive and I wasn’t earning enough. She warned if I kept it up, I would deplete my savings completely.

I was loving my life, spending on anything my heart desired. I went out, wore nice clothing, bought great shoes, bulked up my CD collection, traveled, you name it. But, I heeded her warning and decided to break my lease and move down to the Lower East Side, and in with my 88 year old Grandfather.

Now, you would think that since I was living rent free in Manhattan, I would have saved some money. But no, in the 2 1/2 years that I lived with my Zaydie, I didn’t save one single penny. I now had more money to spend, and spend I did.

After 9/11, I decided it was time to give the Upper West Side another chance. This time, I was making $65,000 a year at another PR firm, and the housing market in Manhattan was in the toilet. I scored an adorable studio apartment on 74th and Columbus, in a part time doorman building, at $1400 a month.

I lived there for 4 years, spending a total of $67,200 on rent. That doesn’t include yearly Christmas tips to the three doormen, porter and our super. Or my other monthly expenses like cable TV with a DVR and HBO and Showtime. My electric bill, internet bill, cell phone bill, phone bill, supermarket shopping, etc.

Living alone was amazing. I furnished my adorable apartment with Pottery Barn furniture, Crate and Barrel dishware and West Elm rugs and knick-nacks. I wore Stuart Weitzman shoes, shopped at Saks Fifth Avenue, and got monthly waxes and facials at the Aveda salon and spa. I worked out at NYSC, had a weekly personal trainer, and went to weekly Weight Watchers meetings. Every single Saturday night, I either went out to bars, clubs, dinners or the movies. I spent my Sunday afternoons shopping at the Flea Markets around town, ordering in Chinese food, and paying my bills. I was generous with family and friends on birthdays and charitable as much as I could. I never looked at a price on a Supermarket item when I put it on my credit card, and never counted out a single penny at check-out. I was making enough to cover my comfortable lifestyle, without saving a penny.

And now, it’s 2011, and I’m married with two children, and we are barely making our bills. We live in my parents apartment but we’re about to start paying a mortgage. The only way we were able to buy an apartment is because DH already owned one when I married him. We sold that apartment, bought this new one, and are praying we will be able to make our mortgage payments.

I haven’t had a wax or facial in months, and sometimes I put items back on the shelf at the Supermarket. I tell Baby J. before we leave the house that she is only allowed one treat wherever we are going, and then I pray that it’s a treat that can also double as her dinner. When I order packages of turkey breast, I stretch it for at least 3 sandwiches, or 4 dinners. In the past, I would have easily polished off that package in one meal. When the Doctor told me that I’m borderline anemic, and all I have to do is eat red meat twice I week, I was too ashamed to tell her that we can’t afford red meat. I should have just asked for iron pills. Instead, I just feel tired and lousy most of the day. The next blood test should have me as a full blown anemic, and then I’ll just take the pills.

I thank G-d that we are on a Kupah here in Jerusalem, because there is no way I could afford health care in America. As an independent contractor, my health care bill was $350 a month. With a spouse and two children, that monthly bill would be triple the amount.

I haven’t had a vacation in 5 years, we can’t afford for me not to be working. When Baby J was born, I wrote a press release from my hospital bed. I then pitched it two days later, the first night we were home from the hospital. When Baby S. was born, I took a week off and then was back at my desk, writing and editing blog posts and working on social media strategies. I have a Masters degree in creative writing, a manuscript I’d love to get published, and a book idea that I wish I could actually write. But, being a writer is merely a dream, one that I don’t think will ever be realized. My manuscript will languish on the shelves of Bar Ilan University where maybe, some other Creative Writing student will read it. That’s probably the closest I’ll get to publishing my work.

I’d rather skip a meal than not pay for my weekly cleaning lady. I don’t have the time to clean the apartment and it needs to be maintained since it’s my parents place. When we move into our new place, we probably will not have a cleaning lady.

Baby J. doesn’t stay a full day at gan because we can’t afford to pay for after care. And I’m already sweating trying to figure out how we will  be able to have two children in gan next year.We don’t have a second car because we can’t afford the vehicle, gas, and extra insurance. There’s a reason I walk everywhere, and it’s really not because I love the walk. Sometimes, our lives would be so much easier if I just had another car.

The worst are the unexpected expenses. Like the unexpected oral surgery DH needed this past month to fix a tooth. That was 6,000 shekel. Or paying my Israeli accountant almost 6,000 shekel to do my books this year (this doesn’t include my estimate quarterly taxes that I pay in the States). And the private OT consultation and subsequent appointments to help Baby J. with some of her tactile issues (thank you Mom for paying for this!) Or the fact that Baby S. is probably allergic to wheat and now I have to eat gluten free. Have you seen the price of gluten free products yet? It’s obscene!

And then, there are the little things that you need to find the budget for. Like date night and a babysitter at least twice a month. DH works all day, comes home at 6, and then I go to work at 7 p.m. If we didn’t go out at least twice a month, our relationship would severely suffer and it’s already suffering because of my work hours. Baby J’s birthday is coming up and she is having a party at gan. She asked for a Dora birthday cake and I am going to have Abi of My Cakery Bakery make it for her. It’s more expensive than me just making a plain, Dunkin Hines sheet cake, but she deserves to be happy on her birthday.

Chanukah this year is going to be really lean in our house. I already bought Baby J. presents at Target this summer. Everyone laughed at me for buying Chanukah gifts in August, but we had more funds then and I just wouldn’t be able to buy her anything otherwise. Poor Baby S., she won’t be getting anything this Chanukah from us. We just don’t have the budget. DH asked for a book, and so he’s getting the book.

And, because I’m not humbled enough by our money issues, this morning I asked my Mom for cash to help pay our bills as my birthday present. I really wanted an iPad, but I can’t be self indulgent when I have a 6,000 shekel accountant bill that needs to get paid.

I never thought I would be in this position. In my twenties, I always assumed I would get married, quit working, raise the kids, take care of the home, and write my books while my husband supported us in a comfortable fashion. I think there is a very small percentage of people who could fulfill that type of dream, most everyone I know needs to have two incomes to keep themselves afloat if not comfortable.

At the end of the day, I just don’t want Baby J and Baby S to grow up wanting anything. I want to be able to give them whatever they ask for, with in reason. I want them to not worry about money, or whether or not Mommy and Daddy can pay the bills. I don’t want them to bear witness to our stressed conversations about going into minus with the bank or not being able to pay a credit card bill in full.

And, most importantly, I don’t ever want them to have the image of Mommy not being able to buy them a treat at the Supermarket. Or worse, counting out the shekels, realizing I don’t have enough, and making them put the item back.

 

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Flu Shots

Posted on October 26, 2011 by holylandhipstermom

Long time, no update. I decided to try to be consistent and, rather that write these long, drawn out blog posts, I will just write what I can no matte the length. Today, DH leaves work early so we can do our weekly errands. Because Fridays are so short and usually are spent on Shabbat errands, we need Wednesday to take care of the things we just can’t get done on Fridays.

Today, we decided to do the responsible thing, and get everyone flu shots. Our Dr. suggested we get it done at the beginning of the season, especially since last season I was completely out of it because of the pregnancy and didn’t manage to get Baby J. and I flu shots until the season (and my pregnancy) was practically over. Not my finest hour as a Mother.

So, I made sure Baby S. was well fed and cleaned, that I had cookies and as many pacifiers as my diaper bag could hold for Baby J., and tried to psyched the kids up for a shot before we left the house. The girls were happy to be in the car, something they are rarely in now that Baby J.’s gan is conveniently next door to our apartment. Unfortunately, Baby J. fell asleep almost immediately and I knew it was going to be really difficult to keep her happy.

We got to the Wolfson Medical Center and I opted to grab Baby S. out of her car seat and leave the toddler rousing to DH. He picked Baby J. up gently and we headed indoors. I was shocked at how busy they were at 4:30 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon! The poor nurse looked like she was going to lose her mind, there was an actual line of people waiting to speak with her.

A woman with a baby stood in front of me online and started talking to me, claiming that I looked familiar. I smiled and said, could be, but didn’t get into it with her. I didn’t think she looked familiar so I figured she must have somehow Facebook stalked me or just seen me out on the streets of Jerusalem. When our turn came to speak with the nurse at the window, I told her we were there for 4 flu shots.

She was NOT amused.

She took all four of our insurance cards and looked up in the computer to make sure we were on the list to receive flu shots. We were. She then asked who our Dr. was, to make sure that we in fact were patients at the Medical Center.

Verified.

Next, she told us to come around and into the nursing station where she got out four injections. She told us, because Baby S. and Baby J. were so young, that they would need to get injections in two different parts. They couldn’t get the entire shot in one go.

I thought that was really odd but I told her to just go ahead and do it. Baby J.’s gan is a veritable cesspool of germs and bacteria and I want her as prepared as possible for the winter illnesses. Same with Baby S., since Baby J. brings all that crap into the home.

And then I asked her if she thought I was a terrible Mother, because I was willing to give my kids two injections as opposed to one. She just kept asking me, over and over, if I was SURE that I wanted to give them 2 shots. And, I was really sure, that if that meant they would already be slightly covered from infection, that would work in my book.

I tried to psych Baby J. up and told her that after the shot, we were going to get ice cream. Well, she did the cutest little happy dance when she heard that. We all laughed, and then the nurse told us that they kids couldn’t get the shot. They didn’t have injections for children, just adults, and we need to go to our medical providers offices to get the kids innoculated.

Crap.

Now I was on the hook for ice cream, and really for no reason! Gleeful, the nurse really stabbed DH with the needle for his shot. I think she was just so happy that she didn’t have to give the kids shots too. Either way, DH and I walked away with bum shoulders and slightly broken spirits as we were hoping to just get the whole flu shot thing out of the way.

As for Baby J, she got her ice cream (and some cake and some smoked salmon too) and I learned a valuable lesson. Don’t promise a treat until AFTER the kid gets a shot.

 

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Happy New Year

Posted on October 5, 2011 by holylandhipstermom

Thanks to Aish for this great graphic! It’s a New Year and already I’m behind in my resolution to update my blog more frequently. I wish I had time to sit at my computer and not work for a client, or shop for food, or quickly post photos on my Facebook page so my family in the States can virtually participate in Baby J’s and Baby S’s childhood, or send off a quick tweet asking for child advice/recipes/gift ideas. But, unfortunately, whenever I finally have a few minutes to sit down at my computer, I’m really focused on all these other things.

That, and I’ve been working on launching a new blog. That exciting news I hope to share with everyone after Yom Kippur!

Our August was wonderful, and I hope to be able to do a quick trip recap since it was truly a remarkable 3 weeks in the States. We lived through both the earthquake and Hurricane Irene, and made it back to Jerusalem B”H in one piece.

September was spent reinforcing toilet training, getting Baby J. used to a new gan, new and older kids, and new gannanot. DH had to get back into the swing of things at work, and I was left picking up the pieces of my work life as I’d lost a client at the end of August. Fortunately, I was able to throw myself into spending time with Baby S and trying to deal with her health. While in the States, we went to my childhood pediatrician, who suggested that I stay off of both dairy and wheat as Baby S. is probably allergic to at least one of them. Needless to say, I’ve been thrust into this new gluten free lifestyle and I’m trying to educate myself before I starve. I’ll be honest, there are days when I’m very, very hungry.

But Rosh Hashanah finally came and I went into the New Year with a great attitude. And, it was that attitude that made the 3 day holiday one of the most enjoyable holiday I’ve ever had. The girls were on their best behavior, we spent a number of meals with family and friends, DH and I counted our blessings at how fortunate we are in life, and I managed to turn a year older with little fanfare but lots and lots of love.

Yom Kippur is in a couple of days and I already feel the stress bearing down on my shoulders. Will I be forgiven for all of my sins from last year? Will G-d be merciful and grant us all a year full of good health, happiness, financial success and stability? Will G-d grant DH and the girls another year of life and good health? Will G-d listen to my prayers and grant me my wishes?

I sincerely hope so!

May all my Jewish readers be inscribed in the Book of Life, and may you all have a year full of good health, happiness, joy and peace.

Shanah Tova!

 

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Conformity or Nonconformist?

Posted on August 3, 2011 by holylandhipstermom

Eleven months ago, as I walked Baby J. into her new gan for her first day, nerves rippled in my stomach. My baby was growing up, and was ready to move into a full time day care environment, even though I was desperate to keep her at home with me for another year. But, she was a very social child and we recognized her need to interact with children her own age.

We selected this gan carefully, and I was confident that she would be happy in this loving and nurturing environment fostered by an amazingly warm and caring staff (I was right). The first day lasted only a couple of hours and parents were asked to stay, so that the children could slowly acclimate to their new environment.

Breakfast was served first, and all the children were encouraged to sit at their pre-assigned places. I looked at all the different little faces, clustered around six tables. They eyed each other warily while training another gaze on their parent, making sure they weren’t suddenly abandoned. Baby J. was on a special table, the one assigned for children with food allergies. She was allergic to all dairy products, and her table only had two other children with lactose problems.

She didn’t seem to mind that there were only three children at her table, when the other tables had 5-6 children. I, on the other hand, started to fret terribly. Here she was, singled out as different, and sitting with the other “different” children at a “special” table. The philosophy behind the decision made sense, it was easier this way for the gan staff to make sure they didn’t accidentally feed her dairy or that she wouldn’t reach across the table to eat from someone else’s plate who might be eating dairy.

But while rationally I applauded this decision, emotionally I didn’t want her to be branded as different from her peers.  I worried that this would impact the way she socialized, that the children wouldn’t want to be her friend because she had a milk allergy, that she would somehow be ostracized from the pack.

I smiled as she waved her pita at me from the table and tried to quell my fears. I didn’t want my insecurity to trickle down to her, I didn’t want her to pick up on any anxiety and think that this wasn’t a great place.

Suddenly, she stood up from the table, pita still in hand, and ran into the other room. Looking around excitedly, she raced over to the play kitchen and started to play. I ran after her and tried to pull the piece of pita out of her hand. I told her that it was breakfast time and not play time, and that she needed to come back to the table where all the other kids were. Not surprisingly, she started to complain and cry. She didn’t want to be at the table anymore, she wanted to play! I tried to reason with her, pointing out how all the other kids were sitting nicely at their spots at the table and eating their breakfast. Gently, I began tugging her back towards to other room, and she howled her protest.

This wasn’t the first time Baby J. decided to be an individual. When I took her to music classes, she ignored all the children sitting in a circle and danced around the room instead. When the instructor asked the children to line up to take instruments, she ignored him completely and ran out of the room. I suddenly imagined all the obedient children at circle time, while mine wandering through the gan, lost in her own thoughts, completely ignoring what everyone else was doing.

Suddenly, the gannent showed up, broke me out of my daydream, and demanded to know what I was doing. Shocked, I explained that I was trying to get my daughter to return to the table where all the other kids were sitting. She told me to leave my child alone, that it was fine for her to play, that the purpose of the day was for her to have a good time and get used to the gan. Everything else, she scolded, would come much later.

I felt chastised, and humbled, and even ashamed. I thought about my reaction and I realized, I was so fixated on Baby J. fitting in, that I completely overlooked her individuality, her self confidence, the fact that she didn’t care that all the other kids were doing one thing and she was doing something else. In that moment, I realized what an amazing child I have, and I hoped that she would forever embrace her sense of self and do what she wanted to do, regardless of what everyone else was doing. (Note, I say this within reason. I don’t want her to be flitting around the room in first grade, ignoring the teacher trying to give a lesson.)

As the year went on, Baby J. learned how to sit with all the other children at circle time. She learned how to line up with the other kids when they handed out musical instruments. She outgrew her milk allergy and moved onto the other tables, finally able to eat all milk products! She discovered how to share, learned to wait her turn, and to participate in the activity of the moment, and not run off to play in another room.  She grew up, she made friends, she blossomed.

And so, when we went to her end of the year party last Friday, I was confident that she would sit in her assigned seat. She didn’t, choosing instead to climb over the seat and sit in my lap. I embraced her happily, patiently. I knew this time that, when she was ready, she would join the other children. I knew how excited she was about her performance, so I let her take her time.

I noticed other parents coaxing their children to their seats, encouraging them to join the other kids in the circle and participate in the performances. One parent even forcibly sat their child in the seat, eliciting screams and cries from the reluctant child. I felt bad for the child, but I empathized with the parent. They just wanted their kid to fit in.

And then, after a couple of songs, Baby J. climbed over her chair, spread her wings, and flew around the room like a butterfly.

It was one of the happiest moments of my life.

Is you child an individual? Do you accept his/her quirks or do you try to get them to conform? Let me know in the comment section below!

 

 

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A taste of summer at the Inbal Hotel

Posted on July 14, 2011 by holylandhipstermom

Tuna carpaccio with balsamic vinegar, olive oil, sea salt and parmesan shavings

When I saw the tweet from the Inbal Hotel inviting Israel based foodie bloggers to come to a special tasting of the new summer menu at their five star Sofia restaurant, and to sample the fare of Executive Chef Moti Buchbut, I barely paused before quickly getting in touch.  What an amazing opportunity, and certainly not one I wanted to pass up!

Arriving at the lobby of the Inbal hotel brought back such memories. As a seminary girl, I was constantly at the hotel, meeting with guests, friends and family members in the lobby, to pick up packages or shmooze. I was also fortunate to spend a Succot meal with a close family friend and, let me tell you, eating a meal in the Inbal’s Succah is an incredible experience. Then, a couple of years later, I found myself sitting with my blind dates in the lobby, sipping a cold drink and counting the minutes until the date ended.

The lobby remains the same, but now was the perfect time to make some new memories.

I arrived five minutes late and the rest of the diners had already polished off the first course, a gorgeous tuna carpaccio dish!  At the round table sat a number of Inbal’s executives, and fellow foodie bloggers Sarah Melamed of Food Bridge, Yael Ruder and Ariella Fixler Alon. Ashamed that I missed the first course, I quickly slid into my seat, fumbled with my camera and purse, picked up the folder the hotel staff kindly put together, and nearly missed the gorgeous view!  After composing myself, I laid my napkin in my lap and gazed out the window at the beautiful scenery. You can’t deny that the view from the Sofia restaurant is one of a kind, and taking in the beautiful greenery and the architecture of the City, reminded me why I love living in Jerusalem so much.

Fortunately, I didn’t have too much time to look out the window as a server quickly placed the tuna carpaccio in front of me. I’m not a big fan of carpaccio, but this dish actually changed my opinion of carpaccio. The acid in the dish was wonderful, as I delighted in the tangy taste of vinegar and kalamata olives (my absolutely favorites!). And the parmesan shavings were just heavenly! You can tell it was a good parmesan, and the addition just elevated the dish.

Onion soup with parmesan melted bruschetta

All caught up, I was ready to tuck into the next course, which was onion soup with parmesan melted bruschetta. I was happy to see parmesan once again; us cheese lovers really do love our parmesan! The use of red wine instead of white infused the soup with a wonderful bold flavor. I was a little surprised to see the soup on a summer menu, expecting perhaps something using more seasonal vegetables and served cold, but it was delicious nonetheless. If they decide to keep it on their Fall/Winter menu, I could certainly see myself enjoying a steaming bowl of soup to ward off the Jerusalem chill.

Green Salad, an aesthetically pleasing Moti Buchbut creation

When the server placed this green salad in front of me, I started doubting I would make it through all 10 courses! If this plate was tasting menu size, I can’t even begin to image how it would look served as a main course! The dish had a dizzying array of ingredients:  the lettuce heart, chopped tomato and kalamata olives, a healthy portion of bulgarit cheese, parsley, mint, basil, dill, chives, olive oil, sea salt, lemon juice, pine nuts and passionfruit! Phew, that’s a mouthful! Yet, when I tucked into the salad, my taste buds literally exploded into a happy dance. The addition of passionfruit to the dressing was culinary genius. I made a mental note to add passionfruit to all of my vinaigrettes; it was innovative and perfect.

I mentioned that this plate certainly wasn’t a good first date dish, as many single women would find it intimidating to eat while trying to impress a potential paramour. And, as we debated the etiquette of pasta eating on a first date, the spaghetti pomodoro arrived.

Spaghetti pomodoro with fresh basil and grated parmesan cheese

Every Italian restaurant needs a good pasta dish, and the spaghetti pomodoro was unremarkable but delicious. I liked the little touches; the plate was warm and we each got individual bowls of extra grated parmesan. I would have loved to see a different grated cheese though, a Gruyere would have been fabulous! But, you just can’t compare the taste of freshly made pasta to what you cook from a bag. And sometimes, you really hunger for good pasta.

Had I known three fish dishes were to follow, I never would have polished off my tasting menu portion of spaghetti pomodoro!  And, what these dishes did for me, was solidify that there is a new place in town to eat amazing fish. I love going out to eat fish, and whenever we go to a dairy restaurant, I skip the pasta, quiches and unique salads, and order the salmon. I was absolutely thrilled to be introduced to perfectly cooked filets of barramundi, trout and denise.

Baramundi fish, which is also known as Asian Sea Bass

This dish was a true culinary masterpiece. I wanted to get up and applaud Chef Buchbut and then lick my plate clean. The plate was a stunning work of art, elements put together in such a way that I felt almost intimidated to take a bite. Barramundi, also known as Asian Sea Bass, was cooked perfectly. It rested on top of a mushroom risoto cooked in white wine. Surrounding the fish was cream of leek, a vinaigrette of green olive oil with madagascar black pepper and cubes of maple syrup drenched sweet potato. Topping the fish were mandolin thin slices of potato that were cooked to perfection, a salad of radish sprouts and one perfectly cooked snow pea.

Fillet of Trout

The fillet of trout was served with perfectly crisped skin, on cubes of potatoes cooked sofrito style with wild mushrooms. On top of the trout were cut celery, cubes of tomato and onion, capers, and olive oil and lemon juice.  In addition to the delightfully fresh acid of the lemon juice, was a flavorful red wine sauce. I was thrilled to see capers in a dish, and really loved the fact that Chef Buchbut infused Latin flavors in the sofrito style potatoes.

Denise with ratatouille on garlic soaked brioche

When this plate came out and I spied the yellow coulis, I immediately thought of fresh mangoes. They are finally in season and I was impressed with the seasonality of ingredients. And when Chef Buchbut told us it was actually yellow pepper, I was still amazed. The color was so vivid, it brought life to the plate. I was slightly disappointed at the mild flavor, hoping for more spice ala Bobby Flay. Once again, the skin on the denise was so crisp, I could have pulled the meat off and eaten the skin like a chip. But the fish was the true star of the dish. I thought the ratatouille of tomato and root vegetables were tasty, but the garlic soaked brioche was misplaced. I would have much preferred the brioche served in a separate bread basket along side the fish.

With time ticking down, and gan pickup for Baby J. just minutes away, I knew there was no way I could stay for two more courses. Fortunately, dessert was served in seconds!

"Ravioli" filled with chocolate ganache, coconut ice cream and strips of plum and apricot

Chef Buchbut explained that you can’t have an Italian restaurant without ravioli, and instead of a doughy pastry, I happily bit into a crunchy almost tempura-style battered dough. The chocolate ganache was slightly bitter, not overly sweet, and still steaming, which was a delightful touch to the dish. I thought the coconut ice cream was okay, but would have loved a mango or cherry sorbet instead. For some reason, I don’t associate coconut as a summer flavor, and would have preferred a cool sorbet of mango, cherry or watermelon. The plate was another work of art though, where the beautiful ribbons of fresh plum and apricots, and dots of caramel apple sauce, were truly pleasing to the eye.

After a few bites, I blotted my  mouth, apologized for having to eat and run, thanked my hosts and gave kudos to the Chef of the hour, and raced out the door.

All in all, it was a wonderful culinary experience. Chef Buchbut really brought some innovation to his creations and introduced flavor pairings that will have this diner coming back for more!

To learn more about the Inbal Hotel, visit their website. And, to make reservations at Sofia, click here!

 

Posted in HipsterMom Product Reviews | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

Summer Smoothies

Posted on July 11, 2011 by holylandhipstermom

My Philips blender

Sometimes I think my kitchen is the Bermuda Triangle, ingredients and equipment I buy for one recipe or another, somehow disappear. Or rather, I forget the reason why I bought said ingredient or equipment, and they end up wasting away in dark cabinets until next Pesach when I toss everything out or put everything away.

I decided it’s time to change that about my personality. It’s part of my new “feed my family healthy food” kick, and now is the perfect time since Baby J. is getting over two days of high fever and strep. She refused to eat for almost three days and I found myself trying to coax her into eating by offering cookies. Fortunately for me, she refused even the chocolate chip cookies, and so now I’m trying a whole new tactic. I’m going to make healthy, nutritious and delicious foods that she’ll want to eat, instead of asking me for ice cream for dinner.

First, I decided to take some inventory of the jars, cans, powders and liquids that are languishing in my pantry or refrigerator because I have no idea why I  bought them. I’m pretty sure the ginger beer in my fridge is from a Jamie Geller recipe, but can’t remember which one. The can of refried beans and jar of marinated red peppers is from a Brigitte recipe, probably a quesadillas, but I’m not sure how come I never made it. I have agave nectar in my pantry and that’s when I was all about Bethenny Frankel and she’s all about agave nectar, but I’m not sure which one of her recipes I wanted to try. And I’m at a complete loss when it comes to the two large cans of pineapple chunks, the jar of marinated sour cherries, wasabi powder, and the plethora of cranberry sauce cans I’ve managed to accumulate since last Thanksgiving.

And I’m no better when it comes to kitchen equipment. I have gorgeous pillivuyt ramekins that are collecting dust under the sink. I used them once to make a recipe from Top Chef’s Steven Aspirino for flourless five-spice chocolate cake that my DH told me tasted like Havdalah (from the cloves in the five spice). So, away they went. There’s a gorgeous rolling pin that I wanted to use to make my own pie crust, but I’ve never actually done it, stored in the back of my pantry. I’m hoping Arielle will help me make pie crust and put my rolling pin to good use (hey, and maybe the ramekins too!)

And then, there’s the blender. This morning, when the idea came to mind to make DH and Baby J. healthy summer smoothies, some hazy memory of a blender came flooding back to me. I was pretty sure I had bought a blender, years ago, to puree soups and I probably used it to make one specific soup, and then washed it and put it away in the back of a cupboard, where I promptly forgot about it.

This morning, after taking Baby J.’s temperature (which was normal and had been for 24 hours), I shipped her and DH out of the house and went hunting in my kitchen. Fortunately, my kitchen is tiny, so it didn’t take long to find the blender. I reassembled, plugged it in, and watch with satisfaction as the blade whirrled around.

You see, last Thursday, I went a little summer fruit happy and placed a giant order at my green grocers. I now have a home bursting with delicious summer fruits: cherries, black seedless grapes, apricots, peaches, nectarines, mangoes and lemons! I asked my Grandmother for her fruit soup recipe and, in true Grandma fashion, she told me to throw everything in a pot, add water, add sugar, and cook until soft. Not my kind of recipe. When I told DH I was going to make fruit soup, he asked me if my teeth were bothering me. I got the hint that he felt fruit soup was for old people (I personally think, with a sprig of mint, it could be a delicious first course for Shabbat lunch) and so I moved on.

And that’s when the idea of summer smoothies just hit me! We have a huge gallon of milk that expires on the 14th, a newly opened box of soy milk, and tons of delicious fruit! So, I immediately put two ripe bananas into the freezer since my ice tray hasn’t been filled since before Pesach and the tray to catch the ice is full of Dr. Praeger’s broccoli pancakes. Next, I determined that last week’s watermelon is no longer good, and I made a mental note to toss it once DH gets home from work.

Today’s summer smoothie is going to be frozen bananas, milk (for Baby J.) and mangoes with maybe a little agave nectar for added sweetness! I’m going to experiment, maybe also pick up some dates since I know DH likes dates, and some flax seed (since that’s very healthy for you) and work on a variety of summer smoothies. I’m sure there will be some hits, and some misses. Check back at the end of the week for the winning smoothie flavors!

Do you make smoothies for your family? What flavor combinations are your favorites? Let me know in the comment section below!

 

Posted in Kosher Cooking | Tagged , , | 2 Comments