Kosher.

A Spoonful of Sugar

2009-01-20T15:24:00.006+02:00

I have some seriously picky eaters at home, even though I know that each of you is saying ‘Lady, you haven’t met picky until you meet my Tommy’. You are probably right. I don’t have the monopoly on picky, yet all the same, I need to live with my own set of challenges. My eldest won’t eat anything that has sauce or cooked vegetables on it. My second won’t eat anything without sauce on it, and cooked vegetables are a must at every meal. My third will eat anything as long as it is white and its only ingredients are milk or cheese, no vegetables or sauce (unless it’s cheese sauce) allowed. And my baby, at this point, will eat anything as long as he can feed himself, the table, the floor and the walls in the process…it’s all so frustrating.

It is hardly surprising that as I walked through the supermarket yesterday, there was all the amazing Israeli winter produce on display. I developed a serious frown. The colors were amazing, the different opportunities for fast homemade vegetable dishes were numerous and the fruit looked like jewels beckoning to be touched. Yet, all I could think of was: Number One won’t eat this and Number Three won’t eat that. And then my eyes honed in on the strawberries. G-d, I love strawberries, and so does ‘the papa’ as do Numbers One and Two. Three won’t eat them as they are not white, and Four may be sensitive to them. But hell, four out of six ain’t bad.

In the hopes of convincing the people to eat more fruit, I have tried plain strawberries, I have served strawberries with cream, Eaton mess, strawberries with balsamic vinegar… and finally, yesterday, I hit on strawberries-sprinkled-ever-so-lightly-with-homemade-vanilla-sugar, and I got them! Score one to mommy…and I’m just 1,072 points away from my challenger. Until Number Three said well if they were in a cupcake, perhaps she would try them, because, as she pointed out, pink is really just red with loads of white added in.

Logically I know that adding sugar butter, flour and egg to the strawberries isn’t the solution to Number Three’s aversion to anything that isn’t white. Desperate times, and all that…

So, yesterday, we had a strawberry cup cake baking party. The kids loved the pink cake, and they loved making strawberry icing and – score two – I actually had them waiting in anticipation for the icing to harden. Once they had tasted them, I had them asking for seconds, and could they take them to school the next day (score three and four). The crowd in the background was cheering for the underdog: ‘Well Done Mommy!’

It just goes to show a spoon full of sugar helps the fruit go down. Mary Poppins and my kids have nothing on me!

Tavlin

2009-01-08T07:53:00.012+02:00

Route 38 is considered Israel’s premier Wine Route with over 35 wineries veining off of this one 30-kilometre central road, with a number of different cities, towns, moshavim and kibbutzim all with access to the road. Last Thursday, though, I wasn’t on the look out for wine or towns. I was searching for spice.

If you are a student of history you will know that wars have been waged, countries destroyed, territories discovered and lives lost, all in the pursuit of spice. On Thursday, I wanted to reign supreme. Not over the world (though, for most of my childhood, I dreamt of world domination); today it was the dull chicken recipes that needed to be conquered.

“Tavlin”, the Hebrew word for spice, just off Route 38, is a mecca of colors and smells. If you are not careful, your senses may overload. My suggestion is to grab a basket and take it slow. The store is packed with over 640 different varieties of spices, spice blends, condiments, dried herbs and tea infusions. Amongst the products fighting for your attention you will find dried beans, dried fruit, nuts, homemade halva, home made jams, a huge selection of medicinal herbs and so much more. Don’t be put off by the sheer quantity; the store is wonderfully organized, and the shop management is helpful.

Tavlin’s owner, Erez Kuril, took me on a tour of his beloved spice haven. Tavlin, on the edge of the Eshtaol Forest, was built on land designated for agriculture and tourism. When investors approached Erez, he knew he wanted the spot, in all its breathtaking splendor, with pine trees and forested mountains set in a sky of the clearest of blues. Beauty aside, he had no idea what to do with it, until one day the word spice came to his head.

I think that uttering the word “spice” on Route 38 is fortuitous. Roads leading up to the Mateh Yehuda region from the Negev desert are part of the ancient Spice Route that made its way north west from India and China. The Nabataean people who lived in the south of Israel and Jordan were a trading people. Ruins of their towns can be seen in such places as Avdat and Hulza. The traders would send the spice either west to the port of Gaza, or north through Mateh Yehuda on to the ports of Jaffa and Tyre. A spice store on an ancient Spice Route seems appropriate. Like in ancient times, the spices are bringing people together. Though Erez is enamored with spice – in particular turmeric (“kurkum” in Hebrew) – it’s the people that get him really excited.

Tavlin has become a tourist hot spot. It’s a must-see-and-shop spot for Israeli culinary tours. On weekdays, busses will pull up to Tavlin’s barn-style store. Half is the shop while the other half is a dairy restaurant. Tourists step in and gasp. As soon as they have stopped “ohhing and ahhing” over the sheer quantity, quality and selection of spices, they are ushered upstairs to the lecture gallery, where they are told about the benefits of different spices and herbal infusions for twenty minutes, while ladies fold and unfold wish-lists of spices to buy. A few months ago, I watched as a lady nearly catapulted herself from the steps into the shop after one of these talks. She ran straight for the large stainless steel bowl filled with za’atar (hyssop). I had to know what her hurry was. She explained that all forty of the ladies had za’atar on their list. Tavlin’s za’atar is reputed to be the best in the country, and they each wanted a kilo. I stepped back and watched the ladies fight it out (who said the life of a housewife was boring?). One of the shop assistants later explained that their spice is always super fresh and with the za’atar ladies on hand, that may have been an understatement.

The roads of our country, though paved and well signposted, have witnessed many comings and going. Route 38 has laid testimony to the epic struggle between David and Goliath, as well as the ancient city of Beit Shemesh and, for nearly five centuries, it was one of the avenues of the Spice Route. Today it plays host to vineyards and growing communities and a wonderful spice store. I wonder what the road has planned for the future. All I can hope for are happy travels and happier discoveries.

The store is situated off of Route 38. If coming from Highway 1, the store is on your left. Turn left at the exit for Eshtaol. Once on the road, make a quick left after about 50 meters onto a dirt road and drive until you reach Tavlin. If coming from Beit Shemesh, make a right just after the Sonol station, and the first left onto the dirt road. Tavlin, the store, is open weekdays from breakfast time until the end of dinner; times are connected with the restaurant next door. The shop is certified kosher, by the Rabbinate of the Galil, where most of its spices come from. The restaurant is dairy but is not certified kosher.

Pan-cooked Chicken with Persian Lemons and Burgul Wheat

Persian lemon is also known as dehydrated lemon. They are black, Ping-Pong ball sized and weigh about the same. Though one of the most unappealing foods to look at, once cooked, they impart a sweet citrus flavor with none of the acidity of fresh lemons, but a lot of vibrancy. To crush the Persian Lemon, place the lemon on a cutting board, and bang down with the heel of your hand. Your lemon has probably shattered. Use all the pieces in the recipe.

1 ½ cups (300 grams) burgul wheat
3 cups boiling water

3 medium red onions, finely diced
4 sticks celery, chopped
2 cups fresh Spinach, chopped
3 Persian lemons, crushed
1½ teaspoon turmeric
Salt and pepper

One chicken cut into eight, skin on.
A lot olive oil

Place dry burgul in bowl and cover with boiling water. Cover bowl and set aside.

Preparing the vegetables:
Pace the onions, celery, and spinach each in a separate bowl.

Wash and dry the chicken. Rub pepper, salt and turmeric into the chicken. In the pot with a lid, pour in a generous amount of olive oil. Sear the chicken, starting skin-side down, about five minutes on each side, until the skin is golden. Remove to a plate. If using a soup pot, do this in batches. Do not overcrowd as it will cause the whole pot to steam up and the chicken won’t brown.

Add the onions to the hot oil. Fry for about five minutes until very soft. Scrape whatever bits of chicken stick to the bottom of the pan into the onions. Now add the celery and cook for a further five minutes. Add the burgul and any leftover water. Add the spinach and Persian lemon, season well with pepper and salt, and stir.

Return the chicken pieces to the pot. Add one and a half cups of water, lower the heat to medium and cook for twenty minutes. Remove the breast meat, cover the pot and cook the rest of the chicken for a further five minutes, until all the juices run clear.

Cauliflower

2009-01-07T06:26:00.005+02:00

Well wonders never cease. Sure, Israel is at war and school has been cancelled in the south, and the entire country is glued to the TV or radio, and yet life goes on.

Yesterday, on a quick trip to the supermarket, I came across these beautiful, colourful cauliflower. Who knew that in Israel, in an out-of-the-way little city, you could get such things. I picked them up in the hopes that they would be regulars at the market but, trusting my well-honed Israeli shopper instinct, I knew that this may very well be a "one-off". Into the cart they went, and as soon as I got them home, I photographed them, steamed them, and then fried the life out of them.

My mother's fried cauliflower salad is my all-time favourite salad, but it hardly ever gets made. For one thing, there is the frying to contend with. Once fried, seldom is their enough left over to make salad. Allow me to explain.

Fried cauliflower salad has a number of cooking phases. The cauliflower first needs to be cooked or steamed. Then it needs to be dipped: first in flour seasoned with salt and pepper, and then in egg. Finally, it is shallow-fried on three or four sides depending on the shape of the floret.

Now comes the salad part. Once all the cauliflower is fried, my mom then lets it drain on paper towels. People walk in and out of the kitchen all day, taking the occasional floret as they pass by. My husband sneaks one, and then a second, just as unabashedly, and just munches away until someone physically needs to unlock his jaw from the plate. This is where the salad part comes in. If, after say five hours, there is any cauliflower left, my mom will put the squeezed juice of a lemon, some chopped parsley a little salt over the leftover fried cauliflower, and place in the fridge until ready to serve. The combo is amazing, and my disappointment today in having no cauliflower left over was palatable, and yet not as bad as if they had all been white cauliflower.

The different coloured cauliflower had a variety of tastes, and the steaming plus frying got rid of the bitter edge, letting you taste what was going on. The green tasted a lot like white cauliflower, yet even after its treatment in my kitchen retained some bitterness. The yellow was sweet, with a hint of carrot, and the purple, had a taste of artichoke. All in all, great eating.

I think Israel may be OK if, in a small town, in a small country, that is basically at war, we can talk and eat coloured cauliflower.

Bagel Revolution

2008-12-28T01:02:00.014+02:00

I’m sitting quietly in my kitchen this morning, smiling at the recent memory of a sink full of dirty dishes, and the floor strewed with toys, content in the fact that my Chanukah party has come and gone. Was it a riveting success? Only the guests can tell you that; but I know that even though I was coming down with the flu, I had a blast.

It was noisy. Over thirty kids spanning the very small age gap of 14 to three months will make any gathering loud. Everyone felt very at home. That’s what happens when the room is filled with blood relatives. And yet that had its benefits too. At some point, about two hours into the evening, I sat down and could not get up again, contenting myself by schmoozing with whomever I found sitting next to me; at which point, one of my cousins took over the tea and coffee making operations (I figured that it was OK for a hostess to delegate that responsibility). The two things I didn’t delegate, the things I needed to control were the bagels and latkes. Oh, and the strawberry cream cake (winter is strawberry season in Israel). Oh yeah, and the menorah shaped sugar cookies. Oh, and the tomato soup and barley soup, oh, and the setting of the buffet… OK, I’ll admit it, I’m a control freak, though I did let my cousins bring salads.

I like tasting as I go, so unless I’m standing next to you in the kitchen while you cook, and you let me control how you season your food, I’d rather eat your food in your house and my food in mine. To the point that if you were to bring anything over, I would spend the rest of the night – regardless if the dish was Michelin-starred or not – telling everyone within hollering distance that “so-and-so dish” was not mine. Gosh, I’m coming off as a crazy person. Well, who wouldn’t be?! I just hosted forty five of my closest family members and made four dozen home made bagels from scratch. Crazy lady, I know, and frankly I’m looking for a cuckoos’ nest to fly over.

Back to them bagels. You may be asking yourself: who in their right mind makes their own bagels? As I have already proven, I’m decidedly not in my right mind but the bagel making decision was founded solidly in reality. Let me walk you through the logic.

To buy a dozen bagels in Israel cost 50 shekels for a dozen (about US$13 depending on the day). Though it is more expensive to buy a dozen bagels in the States, we live in Israel and every shekel counts and unless you have been living under a very comfortable rock, you must know that world economy has gone - for want of a better term - kaput! So, if were talking about buying four dozen bagels, well that’s 200 shekels, while buying a bag of bread flour costs about 7 shekels (I rounded my expenses up to 8 shekels, considering I would need to add some yeast, sugar and salt to create the basic recipe).

What I haven’t told you though is about how most Israeli bagels taste. They don’t in any way resemble the bagels of my childhood. They lack that glossy, slightly tough outer shell. The crust is usually thin and at times, God forbid,… crusty; and don’t get me started on the “middles”. The dough is so light, there is no chew left in them. Don’t they realize that the bagel was created to keep my foremothers warm in the shtetl during cold winter mornings? For the lox, on the other hand, you will need to thank your local Scandinavian. The chew was exercise for warming the mouth for a long day of kibitzing. The Israeli bagel, I have my suspicion, is in fact a roll with a hole. Horror of horrors! It just occurred to me, I don’t think they boil their bagels before they bake them.

Though admittedly there is one exception. Holy Bagel, with branches all over Jerusalem, make a fantastic bagel and if you ask them to "shmear" something on the inside, they won’t look at you in puzzlement. But if you can’t get to town and were hoping to save some money, the only way to go is to make your own. Not too crazy, right?

So, about two weeks ago, I started practicing. I figured I make pretty good challah, so what’s wrong with tackling another Jewish bread? I would not let the boiling stage intimidate me. Armed with my trusty KitchenAid at my side, the ten minutes of kneading were done mechanically, the dough raised like a bear out of hibernation, and the boiling went off with out a hitch. My only problem: as hard as I tried, I couldn’t get my bagels to stay in those cute, closed circles. But that would not put me off, because from the start, the bagels tasted amazing. They were doughy, glossy heaven.

I just kept on trying to figure out the rolling. I experimented with batch after batch we were having bagels for breakfast lunch and dinner, until my husband was “bagel-ed out” and sat me down to watch a YouTube clip on how to roll a bagel.

Armed with a good recipe and YouTube, I was ready for Operation Bagel 2008. The bagels stayed in rings and though they looked homemade (I’m guessing I need an industrial strength mixer), they came out great, and not one was left over. How great is that? Even one of my aunts, who doesn’t know exactly how to turn on her oven, wanted the recipe. Bagel revolution, we are on!

Homemade Bagels

Adapted from Nigella Lawson’s “How to be a Domestic Goddess”. Please don’t be frightened by the length of this recipe, I just love giving detailed directions. The control freak in me can’t resist the opportunity to tell someone else what to do.

1 kg strong white bread flour
1 package instant dry yeast (anything between 7 and 11 grams will do the trick)
1 tablespoon salt
2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon oil
500 ml warm water

For boiling:
Large pot of boiling water
2 tablespoons sugar

For Sprinkling:
Sea salt, sesame seeds, poppy seeds, garlic granules…. to your heart’s content.

In the bowl of a stand mixer, fitted with the paddle attachment place the flour, yeast salt and sugar. Mix so that all the ingredients are incorporated.

Measure water in a measuring jug add the oil and pour slowly into the flour mixture.

Now, on the lowest speed, allow the mixture to knead. After about two minutes, look into the bowl. If you see flakes of dry flour at the bottom of the bowl, then add a couple of drops of water and wait about ten seconds to see if they come together with the rest of the dough. If they don’t, then add a few drops more water and wait again. If on the other had the dough is too moist (a good indication of this is if the dough isn’t adhering itself to the dough hook), sprinkle in some more flour again do this slowly, waiting between each addition.

Once you get a good consistency, with all the dough spinning ever so slowly onto the dough hook (I’m sorry to be graphic but this kind of looks like someone pole-dancing very, very slowly), look at your clock and let it pole-dance for the next ten minutes.

Take the dough out of the mixer and knead a couple of times, just to get rid of any air bubbles.

With cooking spray, grease the inside of a large bowl. Place the dough inside and spray the top of the dough (you can do this in the mixer bowl if you like). Place the bowl in a large clean garbage bag, tie a knot and let it rest in a draft-free place for an hour until it almost doubles in size.

Before you start rolling dough, pre heat the oven to 240 Celsius/ 460 Fahrenheit, and put a large pot of water and two tablespoons sugar to boil.

About thirty seconds of aggression coming up…

Punch down the dough, and I mean really punch. Divide into twelve equal parts (the control freaks among us would take out our kitchen scales at this point) and weigh each piece. You should get twelve pieces each weighing about four ounces.

With both palms, roll the individual dough piece into one long rope that will wrap around your hand with some overlap. That said, wrap the rope around your hand with both ends overlapping in your palm and squeeze the pieces together.

With the dough still wrapped around your hand, roll it on the surface again to get one continuous ring.

Place the dough rings on a lightly greased baking tray, cover and let rise until puffy – about twenty minutes.

Now place two or three bagels (depending on the size of your pot) into the boiling water, boiling them for about thirty seconds on either side. Then use a spatula remove the boiled bagels and put them back on the baking tray. While the bagels are still wet, this is the time to sprinkle with seasonings if you like.

(As a side note: when your bagels come out of their boiling bath with a bad case of cellulitis, don’t worry. This seems to sort itself out in the oven (if only it were so easy for me).

Pop your tray of boiled bagels in the oven, and about fifteen minutes later you will have glossy, doughy, yummy bagels. Hurray!

Oh don’t let them sit too long on the tray while cooling. They will sweat and regain their prior bout of cellulite. You really wouldn't want your bagel to suffer from a soggy bottom.

Feeling Hungary...?

2008-12-21T18:20:00.007+02:00

I've started writing for the Metro Section of the Jerusalem Post. This weekend supplement is circulated throughout the Central Region of Israel.

I visited a great Hungarian cafe in Tel Aviv, and you can read about it here.

Foodraising...

2008-12-18T12:09:00.005+02:00

The secret to really good cookies, I mean the really good kind - the kind that has you polishing off a plate single-handedly - is butter.

That’s it.

To the kosher baker, the ones who never use butter, in order to keep their baking utensils parve, I’m sorry to be the barer of bad news, but it is the truth. Only the simplest of ingredients mixed together will give you the best cookies. Use lower grade fat, like margarine or vegetable shortening, and even though your cookies will look like the real thing, they won’t taste it. If your flour is stale, or your flavoring dull, so too, your cookies. When using such a short list of ingredients, it is paramount that you use the cleanest, purest and best. That is the only way the magic really happens.

This may be a stretch, but charity work is the same. If you come into it with anything less than the purest of intentions, the project may look the part but give it a nudge, a prod, and it will fall apart. On the other hand, a charity based on the best of intentions, with clear thinking leaders and attainable objectives has all it takes in order to succeed. All that is needed is a great “baker” at its helm.

Table to Table is just such an organization. Our friend, Joseph Gitler, having been inspired by the American organization Second Harvest (now called Feeding America), knew that the idea was ripe for Israel. So, five years ago, he put his food were his mouth is, and started Israel’s most successful food rescue charity, today rescuing food from catering halls, corporate functions, manufacturers and growers and feeding over 10,000 families a week.

The world economy, in my mind, looks like a dollar sign with a sad face plummeting to the depths of a deep ravine, the type where you can’t see the bottom. And just as the dollar sign, wiping it proverbial brow finds a tiny little ledge on which to perch itself, it looses its footing and keeps tumbling downwards, shock and surprise etched in its now super-extended eyebrows. The downwards spiral and the use of inferior ingredients has never been more apparent than in this week’s news of the scandal surrounding Bernie Madoff. The number of charities affected by the latest of dishonesties is going to test our philanthropic activities in the months to come.

What I can tell you is what I tell my friends who want to know about baking with butter. I know that as Kashrut-observant Jews, we can not eat the butter cookies after a meat meal but, for the good cookies, isn’t worth waiting a few hours? So, too, with charity. Perhaps we can’t give everyone to the extent we were giving before, but let’s keep on giving even if it isn’t with cash alone. Volunteering of you time and energy is charity within itself. Either way, baking and charity will make you feel better about that poor ever-dwindling dollar sign, spiraling out of control.

Tea, anyone?

2008-12-15T10:36:00.005+02:00

Shabbat afternoon is when we have friends over for tea. In our world, everyone entertains on Shabbat. Friday night dinners and Shabbat lunches are really the only ways to socialize, since going out for drinks on a causal Wednesday would be looked upon with suspicion. But Shabbat meals are all about having other folks over, and taking your time, sans distraction. No phones, no TV, no electronics and no cooking to get in the way. In fact, if you don’t entertain on a particular Shabbat, one finds an array of excuses to cover oneself. Most common is, “We are having a quiet one”. Less so, “Little Molly has the chickenpox”. But none is more acceptable than, “I’m cooked out!” which is understandable, since most of what we serve at these weekly lunches and dinners are akin to what people in the real world would serve for Thanksgiving or Christmas for a modest group of 18. More often than not, I’ll take a week off from the big Shabbat meal and just have people over for tea.

Tea is great. It’s the English answer to feeling uncomfortable. As my mother-in-law says, “It gives one something to do with one’s hands like pouring and stirring”, so acceptable when one has nothing to say. Though I always have something to say, I like knowing that I have the security of a cup, and that sipping is not only acceptable, but required.

Our usual spread at Shabbat tea is, well, tea and scones. Since the prohibition of cooking on Shabbat is, shall we say, prohibitive, I whip up the scones before Shabbat. As soon as they have cooled, I pop them in the freezer and only take them out an hour before tea, at which point I place them on the hot plate. If my timing is good, by the time we come to eat them, they are hot. If I overshoot, they are hot with very crusty bottoms. Regardless, we eat away.

Next to the scones there is always butter, a variety of jams and marmalade, plus whipped cream. I know this should say “clotted cream”, but no such beast exists in Israel, and making it myself is also out of the question, since even full-fat cream in this country doesn’t contain enough fat to get to clotted heaven…(in Hebrew, you would say “Lo Kurrah Kloom” literally, “nothing happened”, which will explain away anything from a multi-vehicle road accident on the Ayalon Freeway to a fight with the supermarket cashier). We sit, sip and eat, piling our scones high with fatty sweet goodies, while our numerous children run around picking biscuits and yogurts off the table.

This week, we entertained our friends Daniel & Rachelle and David & Gina. These couples have that great mix of “Australian-guy-meets-sensible-English-girl” chemistry going on, and no-one needs the whole tea-and-scones concept explained to them. The conversation, the food and Rachelle’s gift of extremely good, extremely dark chocolate all went over a treat, but my personal highlight of the afternoon was David’s great-grandmother’s Chocolate Apricot Cake. There is so much to tell you about this cake, but you’ll just have to be patient until we meet again in the blogosphere.

Scones

For now, I give you “make-now-and-freeze-to-serve-later” scones. Seriously, this is so indulgent and fun at the same time, it makes tea perhaps more enjoyable than a Shabbat lunch.

2 cups flour (250g)
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
2 tsp cream of tartar
5 tbsp cold butter (70g) cut into small pieces
2/3 cup whole milk (150ml)

Pre heat oven to 425F (220C)
In a large bowl combine flour, salt, baking soda, and cream of tartar.
Using your fingers, rub butter into dry ingredients. Once the flour feels like wet sand, add the milk and mix with a spoon until just combined.
Using your hands, knead until dough holds together, and pat the dough down until it is less than an inch thick.
Using a round cookie cutter or a glass, cut out round scones. You will get about six to eight scones, then re-roll the dough to get another two scones.
Place on a lightly greased tray and bake for about 12-15 minutes.

The Big Cheese

2008-12-15T09:47:00.003+02:00

Another article of mine appeared in the In Jerusalem supplement of The Jerusalem Post on Friday, which you can read by clicking here.

Cooking Class

2008-12-10T18:51:00.005+02:00

I don’t know if it has something to do with the economic downturn that more people are home cooking and registering for cooking classes. Or perhaps the fact that for a few hours on Sunday night, my op-ed was on the front page of the Jerusalem Post website. No matter the reason my confidence is up, and with my confidence soaring, I offered to teach two good friends how to make pastry from scratch. Previously I had spent ages contemplating the pros or cons of teaching anyone anything.

Pros:

1. My pastry-making skills are relatively good. During my first pregnancy I had a thing for apple pie. Not only did I make one twice a week for nearly ten months, but I also ate them (my son was well overdue).
2. My kitchen – though nobody’s dream – is user friendly. I can get a nice number of tushes bouncing around, each in its own little station, without anyone invading anyone else’s personal space.
3. I wasn’t charging my friends, so even if my lesson was, as the Israelis say, “on the faces” (say this with Adam Sandler’s pseudo-Israeli accent from – ‘You Don’t Mess With The Zohan’ and it sounds more intimidating), all I really would be wasting would be about an hour and a half of their time, and a whole lot of flour. With my tail between my legs, I could go back to my semi-agoraphobic life.

Cons:

1. My friends, after being bored out of their wits, may never talk to me again. A great loss since both are friendly and funny.
2. My pastry-making skills may be mine alone, and translating them to someone else may be impossible, like the thought of teaching someone to drive. I know how to drive fairly well but, for the life of me, I don’t think I could teach someone else to do so.
3. I may be great at it, and my friends will love it, and encourage me to teach others, and here comes the con – I will need to open myself up to criticism from less friendly people. Agoraphobia is sounding better and better by the minute.

But Joy of Joys; on Monday morning, I woke up, threw my Pro/Con list in the recycling bin and called my friends. By Tuesday, my kitchen was covered in a fine mist of flour.

The lesson went astonishingly well. We learned how to make lemon curd, flaky pastry and rugelach. A strange syllabus, I assure you, but it all made sense.

Both Michelle and Debralee wanted to learn how to make pastry, and their biggest problem was rolling it out. Michelle wanted a suggestion for using fresh-from-the-market strawberries, and thus my syllabus developed.

Pastry for pastry’s sake, rugelach for rolling experience and lemon curd for filling the blind baked pastry and topping it off with fresh berries.

The class was fun, and informative, and my friends can now roll pastry with the best of them.

Perhaps next week I can teach an unsuspecting friend how to drive.

Strawberry Heaven

2008-12-09T03:17:00.007+02:00

I wish I could zip up my new boots, tie a scarf around my neck, get cosy with a loved one and a cup of steaming hot cocoa, and daydream while watching logs burn slowly in a fire place. But just the thought of it makes me sweat.

I can feel the slow, uncomfortable trickle of sweat down the centre of my back. I live in Israel, and winters here are unpredictable. We wait from October through most of December with baited breath for the winter to start. Those who pray in the morning, pray for rain, in the hopes of hydrating our parched land, but so far no luck. We are now firmly into December and the forecast for today is a balmy 69 F. Last week, one of our friends went to the beach.

Though I moan, there are two things you should know about Israeli winters. The first is that when it does eventually rain, it pours. Everyone’s house springs a leak, and no amount of protective clothing will keep you dry. And second, because it is so mild, while the rest of the Northern Hemisphere is busy pulling apples and potatoes out of their hampers, from early December until well past March Israeli fruit stands are laden with citrus fruit and strawberries.

Every citrus fruit you can imagine is just waiting to be squeezed, sipped, slurped and eaten. Unfortunately, the citrus pales in comparison to the amazing strawberries. The red jewels call out to you from every supermarket shelf. On a Friday, you don’t even need to go to the markets to get them, you can pick your own. On the coastal side of Israel in the Sharon region, children and adults alike are welcome to pick fruit from the fields, and if you know that you want the experience of picking without having to devise a way to use up your personal 20 pounds of berries, volunteer to pick fruit for Table to Table (more on them next week).

As incongruous as it may sound, strawberries around here are a winter fruit. But like strawberries the world over, they need the same care and attention. This means only buying or picking bright red plump fruit, with the green doily (stem) attached. The smaller the berry, the more flavorful. I find that as the Israeli season progresses, they tend to morph into “gigant-o-berries” that sometimes suffer from a watery character. Only wash them immediately before serving, and cut off the green parts after washing. To reduce water absorption, store in a single layer on a paper-towel-lined tray in the fridge.

One of the great benefits of having strawberries in the winter is the boost of vitamin C just as your nose starts running. Furthermore, making strawberry jam in December (even if its 69 F out) is nowhere near as sweaty as making strawberry jam in June, when all you really want to do is play outdoors.

The easiest and quickest way to serve strawberries and yet look like a gourmet, is to macerate them (to soften something by soaking it in liquid, or become soft by soaking in liquid). My Italian friend Itzik uses red wine, other friends just use a sprinkling of sugar. You can try rose water, sherry, lemon juice or orange flower water.

Strawberries have a spongy texture, at first soaking up the new flavors, and then creating a unique strawberry juice, flavored with your chosen addition. The liquid and the berries themselves are amazing served over ice cream, sponge cakes, shortcake, pound cake, cream… the varieties are endless. To me, though, nothing is better than the combination of strawberries with vanilla and balsamic vinegar.

Start with 450 grams (1lb) of strawberries. Rinse, trim and then cut in half or quarters, depending on size. Sprinkle between a teaspoon and a tablespoon of sugar over them (this really depends on the sweetness of your berries). Add one tablespoon of really good balsamic vinegar, and one teaspoon vanilla paste if you want to splurge, or vanilla extract to be more frugal (I tend to use half a teaspoon of each). Gently toss the strawberries in the liquid to coat, let the fruit sit on the counter for half an hour to an hour before serving, giving it the laziest of tosses every fifteen minutes or so.

For a truly indulgent treat, make an Eton Mess using these berries. I like using home made vanilla meringue and unsweetened whipped cream.

Spice & Spirit

2008-12-05T09:25:00.014+02:00

by Ilana Epstein

(printed in The Jerusalem Post, "In Jerusalem" section, p.26, Friday 5 December 2008)

I collect cookbooks the way other people collect coins, shot glasses, or miniature tea spoons. The cookbook collection started a few weeks before our wedding and today, I know it intimately. I know in which book to find which recipe, which book has the best pictures, and even which one lays flat when opened, making it easier to read while cooking.

I can also tell you which book is my favorite, which was my first purchase, and which I use most often. My ‘Spice and Sprit; the Complete Kosher Jewish Cookbook’ by the ladies of the Lubavitch community, probably known better by its semi-official title, ‘The Purple Book’, holds pride of place in my collection. Not only was it my first cookbook, but it is also esteemed because its older, yellow version was my mother’s first cookbook. The yellow cookbook kept my mother’s already kosher kitchen “heimische” no matter where in the world we were living.

The book has accompanied me on a veritable cooking odyssey, from spicy cheese lasagne to summer fruit soup. At other times, it has led me through the details of rolling knish dough and kneading challah. I have traveled to China with lemon chicken and South America with empanadas. I once inquired of my mother if the Lubavitch women had collected their recipes from all the different Chabad houses around the globe. My mom said she wouldn’t have been surprised, though she couldn’t for the life of her imagine which national cuisine had spawned ‘beer-batter-covered deep fried meatballs’. The Purple cookbook is a highly recommended addition to any cook’s reference library, from novice to Michelin-starred chef.

My early childhood was spent in Caracas. The Chabad House in Caracas was like a second home to me. It was a fun-filled place to go on a Sunday morning. My mother would teach arts and crafts in the back room, my brothers would run in and out of rooms teasing each other and anyone else who came past them. While the younger kids were busy making cardboard marionettes or yarn pompoms, the older ones played educational games or learned torah with the Chabad emissaries. On one memorable rainy Sunday, a young Chabad emissary taught us South American kids how to play his new American game, ‘Twister’. I can still remember us as young kids, hopelessly tangled, with the young Chabadnik laughing along with us.

The summers in Caracas were spent traveling back and forth on the school bus to Chabad Camp. At camp, my brothers were three-star generals and I was a cadet. These were our ranks in the Tzivos Hashem or “G-d’s Army” (please don’t think for a second that there were any militant over- or undertones to any of this). Our ranks were determined by how many good deeds we had done. On one memorable outing, my brothers made up a song concerning me, and to this day - thirty years later - anyone on the bus that day can remember the Ilana song; word for word. Let me just say that Ilana and banana rhyme perfectly in any language. I believe that for creating that song alone, they should have been stripped of their stars.

A few years later my parents took the show on the road again; this time to Hong Kong, where the Chabad emissaries made every Jew who came to town – whether transient or permanent – feel welcome. In this outpost, so far from the communities in which most of us grew up, the welcome was a wonderful surprise. Lubavitch in the Far East (“LIFE”) made Judaism as accessible to the traveler or resident as chopsticks in a Chinese restaurant. Yet again, the tremendous energy that the Chabad emissaries bring to their jobs has never failed to impress me.

The loss of any life is to be mourned, yet G-d is kind to us. He lets us feel only the closest of deaths with heartbreak, with complete sadness. But a death within the Chabad community, a community that for years has seen their charter as offering Judaism in every corner of the globe, affects us all. Orthodox or secular, traveler or resident, the Chabad representatives who venture out into the world are not missionaries. They are emissaries.

View from Taj Mahal Palace, Mumbai, India (5"x 7")

(by kind permission of Nira Spitz)

A missionary is a persuader. His job is to convince you that his way is correct, and that what you have been doing until now is incorrect. An emissary is an ambassador, his job is to represent his boss; be it a country, an organization or a religion. With diplomacy, he offers another point of view. Chabad’s job is to teach that Judaism is not only possible wherever you may find yourself, it is desirable.

I can’t comment on global terrorism, or the age old question of why good people suffer. I don’t know how the Lubavitch community will deal with the tremendous loss their family, their community has suffered in the last week. For my part I’ll bake. It’s the only way I know how to deal with any crisis. Whether stressed or sad, I have one surefire coping mechanism. The more I “potchker” with my food, the more time I spend on a particular recipe, the closer I feel to G-d as if by creating puff pastry from scratch, I can hold on, even for a millisecond, to some ever-fleeting godliness. This week, you can be sure that I will be using my Chabad cookbook for inspiration. Perhaps the baking will help me find the strength to cross the chasm of despair into faith. When we lose something, we each find a way to make it better in our own minds.

This coming week, find a way to commune with G-d. Light Shabbat candles, do good deeds, put on tefillin. That is what the people in Chabad recommend. For my part, I will bake.

Mmmmmmmgood!!!!

2008-12-03T09:23:00.010+02:00

Eating kosher is a study in living vicariously. You stand on the side lines while your fellow humans travel wherever they want, never having to think about how difficult it may be to source kosher food in say…Barcelona. At other times, especially outside of Israel, it means hitting three different shops for a simple dinner.

Years ago, I attended the BBC Good Food Show in London’s Earl’s Court. As I walked up and down the aisles, packed with the most delectable fancy food I could ever imagine, it never even occurred to me to ask for samples, I knew my limitations – if only such self sacrifice extended to my dieting. The pink champagne truffles were meant for someone else, and the mini fish pies had other destinations. None of them would be coming home with me.

I was so busy feeling sorry for myself, that I walked straight through the Kosher wine stand, without noticing the outstretched arms beckoning me to taste their wares in tiny plastic cups. In retrospect that was a good thing. Sampling wine, on an empty stomach, and then attempting to make it back home on the Tube, would have proven an adventure worth writing about.

But throughout my childhood, it was the Campbell’s soup ads more than anything else that had me wishing I might wake up one morning to find that I was adopted and my birth parents didn’t keep a kosher kitchen.

I wanted the soup that “eats like a meal”. I wanted to say my soup was “mmmmmmgood!” Mind you, for as long as I can remember, even when we were living in the Tropics, every dinner of my childhood was accompanied by soup. It didn’t matter that it would never be that super-American, smooth beautiful tomato soup that you could dip your crackers into (no crackers ever appeared on my childhood table, it was always pumpernickel or rye bread).

(For a great homemade cracker recipe, go here.)

Knowing my limitations, I still enjoy life. No, I’ll never know the pleasures of walking and tasting through a food show (unless the whole “adopted” thing comes up trumps), so I satisfy myself with The Kosher Food Show. All kidding aside, Kosherfest is food heaven, kosher or not.

When Campbell’s vegetarian vegetable soup went kosher, I was there. It didn’t really matter that kosher canned soup has been around for years, I wanted the Campbell’s. As I opened the can, I realized how pathetic a canned soup could be. This was dinner for ONE; that ONE eats alone on a TV tray while mindlessly dribbling alphabet noodles down ONE’S solitary, slightly quivering chin.

Give me my Mom’s pot of soup any day of the week. It always came with brothers, parents, a table and proper chairs. Yet regardless of my revelation, I still wanted Campbell’s tomato soup. It just looked so clean, so “shall-we-say” American, and then I got what I was after. On the Cooks Illustrated website a month ago, there was a video for tomato soup – and my only thought was “Could this be it? Could this be the soup I spent my childhood dreaming about?” Well, as far I could judge from looks alone, having never tasted it, I’m guessing that my ‘Campbell’s Kosher, not-out-of-a-can Tomato Soup probably surpassed the real thing.

Score one for kosher!

Campbell’s Kosher "Not-Out-Of-A-Can" Tomato Soup
(Adapted from Cooks Illustrated recipe)

3 tablespoons olive oil
1 large onion, finely chopped (about one cup)
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 bay leaf
2 x 28-ounce cans (800g) whole peeled tomatoes in juice
1 tablespoon brown sugar
4 slices good bread, crust removed, torn into small pieces
2 cups parev chicken broth, hot
2 tablespoons brandy
Salt to taste
Loads of freshly ground pepper

In a large soup pot, heat oil, add the onions and sauté over medium heat until the onions are very soft and starting to colour.
Cooks Note: Do not, under any circumstances, skip this step. A lot of sweetness comes from the sautéed onions, and if you jump the gun and add the tomatoes too soon, the acid in the tomatoes will stop the onions from cooking, and then you get pieces of crunchy semi-raw (or is it semi-cooked) onions in your soup.
On that note, once the onions are fully soft, add the garlic, and stir for about thirty seconds until you can smell the garlicky goodness.
Add the bay leaf, and the tomatoes plus their juices. Using a potato masher, break up the tomatoes.
Now stir in the brown sugar and bread.
Allow soup to simmer until the bread starts to break down, about five minutes.
To get smooth soup, remove the bay leaf and blend the soup in batches.
Return blended soup to pot and start adding the chicken broth and stirring until you get the consistency you are after. The two full cups of broth will give you a thinner version.
Once you reach desired consistency, add the brandy, adjust the seasoning to taste (did I mention that loads of pepper is so good right here) and bring soup to a boil.
Simmer for two minutes.

Now you are ready to star in your very own Campbell’s ad.

Ruffling my feathers...

2008-12-02T11:51:00.011+02:00

As I write this, I am sipping tea from my favorite domestic diva mug, listening to some seriously mellow music, relishing that clean house smell. This is not to say that I’m a diva, a music aficionado, or fastidiously clean. It’s just that I have an appreciation for some of the simple pleasures in life.

I’m also not naïve. I know how hard we work as a family to afford ourselves these simple pleasures. Nor am I obtuse enough to think that these pleasures are guaranteed. A lovely mug, a great CD, and a clean house are indications of the fact that things in our life resemble some sort of equilibrium.

In Israel, strangers and friends alike seem to know everything about you. Something about the way one stands, holds their head, their very demeanor, gives away where they come from, what their political and religious standing is and even who they will vote will for in the next election. All before you’ve even had a chance to open your mouth.

It should come as no surprise, then, that I found myself in the middle of a surreal scene in the supermarket, where many assumptions were made about who I am, and how much was in my non-existent trust fund. I was standing in line on a busy Thursday morning. The woman in front of me, and the two ladies behind me, hailed from different parts of the world to me. The ladies behind me were having a discussion about the price of chicken, how you needed to spend NIS 100 in order to qualify for the “chicken discount”. They had no intention of spending NIS 100, but wouldn’t it be convenient if they could find some unsuspecting soul (sucker?) who was spending NIS 100 and yet was not buying chickens, of whom they could request said discount. Invariably, the ladies glanced into my cart, filled with yogurts, fruits and vegetables, which must have appeared like a flaming sign saying “Use Me!”

On most occasions, I’m happy and willing to help a friend or stranger – I’ll find a stranger to vouch for me. However, on this day my antenna was up. Something about the two ladies put me on my guard. The over-processed hair and super-decorated nails were not the deciding factor. It was the dishonesty of the tone. Inevitably, I was asked by the ladies if I would cooperate. I nodded my consent, concerned that if they heard my accent, something unexpected may occur.

And it did.

While I was busy with the ladies behind me, I wasn’t aware of the scene unfolding in front of me. The lady ahead of me walked straight up to me, my personal space utterly violated, and said “You’ll pay my bill, right?”. This was not so much a question as a statement of fact. Understandably, I was surprised. I said, “No, I’m sorry, not today…” my accent out on display. One would think that the flat out refusal would have been enough, but no. I was told that since I was a lady who would be giving charity this holiday season, I should cut out the middle man and go straight to the source. I can’t even begin to fathom the number of assumptions in that sentence. No witty reply came to me, though the music from the Twilight Zone did feature. Again, I said, “No I’m sorry.” The reply came back: “Because of you, my child will not have nappies tonight, and I see that yours will.” I casually told her that by returning the six-pack of Cola, the two boxes of chocolate and the seven bags of Doritos, all things my children would not be having that evening, she would have enough money to buy the nappies. Now the weeping started, the ladies behind me got involved, and asked what the big deal was. A lady of my accented birthplace could pay the bill for the entire supermarket. Honestly; does my accent automatically and biologically link me to Warren Buffet? If so, can some one send me his details?

I refused to move either from my spot, or my premise that I wouldn’t pay for the other lady’s groceries. Now the chicken ladies’ bill came out to NIS 130. She kindly offered that I could pay thirty and she would pay the remaining hundred. This was the last straw. I paid my bill, left the supermarket, went to load the car, and realized that my cool storming off was for naught, as I had forgotten my keys by the cashier. Had it been anything else; glasses, water bottle, a kidney, I would have left it, but how could I explain to my husband that I had donated the car to the greater good? Back to the scene I went, tail between my legs, looking for my keys, when all three ladies asked me for a ride home.

Every time we look up, we think that as people, as individuals, we have exceeded our capacity to meet challenges; that we can not handle all the stumbling blocks and burdens that are placed before us. I know that we are blessed because, as we look up, we realize that our capacity is limitless, that our hope will cover all burdens with its comforting blanket and thus we will move forward. As we enter a winter of financial uncertainty, let us cling to our capacity to hope, and our empathy for those around as.

Corn Chowder:
Two of my favorite budget friendly tips are soup, and cooking with seasonal products. Not only is the recipe below extraordinarily yummy, it is also budget friendly and fast.

1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
3 large onions finely diced
2 teaspoons coarse salt
1/2 teaspoon coarse ground pepper
A healthy dash of turmeric
3 cups parev chicken stock
3 cups water
4 medium diced potatoes, unpeeled
5 cups corn kernels (strip about six cobs or use frozen)
Cheddar cheeses grated, to serve

In a large stock pot, heat oil and butter over medium heat until butter is melted.
Add the onions, salt, pepper and turmeric and cook until very soft, stirring often.
While the onions cook, prepare the rest of the vegetables.
When the onions are soft but not colored, about 10 minutes, add the stock and water. Now add the potatoes, bring the whole mess to a boil, allow to simmer uncovered for fifteen minutes or until the potatoes are cooked through.
Add the corn kernels to the soup; bring soup back to the boil and serve topped with grated cheddar. Yumm!

Happy Fortieth!

2007-09-06T06:24:00.000+03:00

I can’t believe it’s only been a week, but that was it. Seven days ago, I threw my parents a ‘happy fortieth wedding anniversary’ bar-b-q. The problem wasn’t the party. It’s the backlash, a full seven days later, and it’s as if I’m recovering from a major car accident.

True; a fortieth wedding anniversary isn’t a surprise. I should have seen it coming, at least since anniversary number thirty nine. They have made it this long, the chances were they would carry on together for another year. Regardless, my parents were going to stay home. Only on Wednesday night did they inform me they would be flying into town for the weekend, and that is when the realization hit - at eleven o’clock on a Wednesday - that Sunday night my parents would be needing a party, with forty of their closest friends and family to celebrate every year of their happiness. Being one of five children, this should have gone without a hitch. With many hands to help, we could have gotten it done. No such luck. All my siblings were busy and I was the fall back. In my house, all went into military mode. The children were given specific instructions (“don’t talk to mommy unless a limb is falling off - and it better be a major one”) and the count down started.

The kids were still on their summer break, so with forty hours to go, I took the “gantza mishpacha” (Yiddish for “large crowd of closely related individuals”) with me to Ikea to get supplies, candles and glass votives, paper light fixtures, napkins, serving dishes and blue wicker baskets. Then we went to the nursery and picked up thirty potted pansies, and then high-tailed it to the city to buy ten meters of red and white checked fabric. That concluded Thursday, two full tanks of gas, and all my energy.

On Friday, I went shopping: coal, extra bar-b-q, hotdogs, ground beef, steak, chicken, fixings for half a dozen salads and desserts. And then the search was on for the staff, if only I had one in place. I needed a cleaning lady to pick up after I had destroyed my kitchen, a babysitter to look after the kids, someone to man the bar-b-qs and someone on a keyboard to play music. As it turns out, everyone was available and, wit the exception of the music guy, everyone was also great. From now on, my line for shoes will henceforth be used for entertainers as well: don’t buy cheap, you will always be blistered and disappointed.

Sunday came, and my red, white and blue theme came together, and even the moon cooperated by being full and mincing my Ikea, line of round paper light fixtures in the yard. The bar-b-q and the cute guy manning it were a life saver. Besides marinating, I didn’t have to prepare a main dish. I was concerned about keeping the drinks cold, and not poisoning my guests with e-coli, so fridge space was at a premium. My solution, I filled my neighbour’s huge wheelbarrow with ice and pushed all the drinks in. The beer was frigid by the time the guests arrived.

I placed the salads, relishes, condiments and buns on a buffet table and people helped themselves. As the meat came off the grill, my husband offered it around.
As far as the salads were concerned, if anyone asked what they could do I told them to bring a salad. Sure there were three types of coleslaw, and two potato salads, but it became a cook-a-thon with my great aunts fighting the ‘did you have my coleslaw’ war.

For dessert, I cut up a huge watermelon. It was hiding at the bottom of the wheel barrow getting cold all night. I made my parents a mini wedding cake. It was “to die for”. I used the double chocolate layer cake recipe from www.epicurious.com, and separated the batter between, a nine-inch, six-inch and three-inch spring forms. I decorated the frosted cake with red grapes, and then placed forty candles on it. Sure we almost needed a fire extinguisher to put out the flames, but the look on my parent’s faces was worth it.

A few tips for a last minute party:

If you can’t prepare ahead, choose a menu that has the least fuss involved, like a bar-b-q, “make your own pizza”, or a taco bar.
If guests offer to help, take them up on it.
Use recipes you are familiar with. A party is not the time to start experimenting.
When decorating for a party think more, not less. This is supposed to be over the top, use a lot of one colour. Don’t use one or two candles per table, use ten or twelve. To create continuity, make sure everything matches.
Have enough chairs. This is not musical chairs, no one should be left standing in the middle.
Have an activity planned, just in case things get dull: music, a game, speeches, or public opening of gifts, but be just as prepared not to do anything if the conversation is flowing.
Children and adults alike love receiving welcoming or parting gifts. We gave out colourful fans and instructions on how to flirt while using a fan at the beginning of the night, so the August heat was tolerable in more ways than one.

Digestives

2007-07-01T23:52:00.000+03:00

Digestives are an old time English custom, almost as time honoured as tea. A whole-wheat biscuit (don’t call this a cookie or any Brits within hearing range will shake their heads sympathetically in your direction, and feel sorry for your American - and therefore limited - knowledge of the world) from a time long before whole wheat was trendy, these biscuits have an appealing Moorish nuttiness, combined with a crumbly/melt in your mouth texture and are absolutely divine.

A few great uses for digestives; eat them as they are, or embrace the English custom and accompany them with a cup of tea. Use digestives to replace graham crackers in any recipe where graham crackers are called for. They are so much more flavourful, but beware; they are also richer, and will taste different.

Try smores made with digestives. Start by melting bittersweet or milk chocolate in the microwave for thirty seconds, stir and microwave again until smooth. Allow the chocolate to cool a little and thicken. Spread chocolate on the underside and allow it to set. You can do this several days before your planed smores indulgence. Set out for your campfire, open range, stove top, or candle with chocolate coated digestives, wooden skewers and a bag of marshmallows. Skewer the marshmallows on wooden skewers, and toast them. Once toasted, place in between two chocolate coated biscuits.

Better yet, if you want to avoid this whole palaver (English for nuisance) buy the chocolate coated biscuits to begin with. Either way, you’re in for a treat: English culinary expertise meets American tradition, at a camp fire… what could be better?

I found that you can order McVitties' digestives, and so many other English treats from http://www.shop.britishgoodsonline.com/.

manic monday

2007-03-26T19:34:00.004+02:00

I'm a huge Bangles fan, but I had no idea in 1986 what truly constituted a Manic Monday! Not until recently trying to make it through a day, where arranging car pool and doing laundry feel as difficult as climbing Everest, only to know that I have a full week of mommyhood ahead of me, and knowing that there is no relief in sight.

This being the week before Passover, the kids are off school and I need to figure out how to entertain my children, clean my house, amuse my visiting family and prepare for a rather complicated holiday, while taking care of life's ordinary challenges...

Monday evening, 6:03 I have just escaped to my favorite fantasy: Caribbean beach, soft wind, comfy recliner, tall drink, small paper umbrella, the absolute necessity of short term memory loss and being alone, because you can throw that entire fantasy down the toilet if you have to contend with children or guilt at leaving them in the care of a responsible adult other than me.

Back to reality...6:05, one screaming baby, three picky eaters, and one husband in need of pampering.

One bottle, ready-made schnitzels in the oven, pasta and peas for my rowdy angels. And for the husband, the rice crispies treat meal - meaning super-fast preparation yet looks and tastes like hard work!

Manic Monday Menu

Turmeric B-B-Q chicken skewers
Quinoa with onions and pine nuts
Roasted red peppers

For the chicken:

use skinned and boned chicken breast. Cut into one inch cubes, "shmeere" liberally with olive oil, then season with salt, pepper, turmeric, cumin, paprika and garlic powder.
Allow to marinate in fridge for at least half an hour or up to six hours.
Soak wooden skewers in water until thoroughly soaked (about fifteen minutes).
Spear four or five chicken pieces onto each skewer.
Grill on bar-b-q, about ten minutes each side (depending on heat of the flames and thickness of chicken pieces, adjust the time).

For Quinoa:

Place quinoa in fine mesh wire sieve and rinse quiona in cold running water for about two minutes until water runs clear.

For every measure of quinoa, you will need double the measure of water (one cup quinoa to two cups water).
Place quinoa and water in a saucepan, bring to a boil and then lower heat.
Cook uncovered until quinoa is tender and edges are translucent, about eight to ten minutes, then drain.
While the quiona cooks, saute finely-sliced onions (one large onion for every cup of raw quinoa) in good olive oil until onions start to brown.
In another dry pan, toast the pine nuts until lightly browned (for every cup of raw quinoa use one quarter cup pine nuts).
Combine drained quinoa, sauteed onions and toasted pine nuts. Season with salt and pepper and sprinkle liberally with chopped fresh parsley.

For roasted peppers:

Wash peppers and slice in half vertically (through the green stem).
Brush the skins with olive oil, place skin side down on bar-b-q and cook until the skin is blistered and black.
Place peppers in a bowl and cover tightly with plastic wrap.
Allow to cool. Once cooled, open plastic wrap and peel the skin off of the peppers.
Season with salt and pepper and a splash of balsamic vinegar.

Mother's notes:
I always make extra skewers. My kids love these and when they come downstairs looking for their second dinner, I'm prepared.