Good Cooking

One of the reasons why eating out is not tempting for me is because my mother is a rockin' cook. I usually spend my evenings moaning over my dinner, licking the plate, and cutting into someone else's portion. 

When going to neighbors on Friday night, I was amazed how often their meals that they present so proudly fail by comparison to Ma's food. They look expectantly into my eyes, waiting for the complimentary gushing (which I adequately fake), but I think only a couple of times was I tempted into seconds under another roof. 

Many would happily chalk her skill up to some Marie Barone stereotype - a grandma product of Europe who has "the love" to truly cook classic recipes, unlike her cooking-inept daughter-in-law who is always trying something new (reference the Marie's Meatballs episode of Everybody Loves Raymond). 

Whenever someone says to my mother, "You enjoy cooking," she is incredibly insulted. She doesn't love to do it. But she wants her family to eat well, to not be tempted by take-out junk, so she makes the effort.

The reason why Ma is a good cook is because she's always willing to learn something new. If she's channel surfing and Jacques Pepin is on, then she drops the remote and picks up a pen and pad. At Costco she'll always check out a new cookbook. If she tastes something fabulous at a simcha, she'll ask the caterer how he did it. 

There are so many people out there who refuse to try anything new in their lives. They seem to think that if they experiment successfully, somehow previous choices are belittled. What was done until now is suddenly "no good." So they will insist that whatever they do is perfect, and never leave their comfort zone. 

If their neighborhood is no longer the ideal place to be, they'll refuse to move. If a friend has proved to be a bad one, they will still remain loyal to them. If they dress a certain way or wear a specific wig style, they'll keep on wearing it over the decades.

They will persist that their life is wonderful as is. 

I don't see how doing something new invalidates past choices. A neighborhood could once have been the best for a growing family, but no longer when the kids are out of the house. A friend is only as good as their influence and loyalty, and if that is given up one should find better friends. As for fashion, times change and more flattering styles are sold, plus at a certain age one can no longer wear a flowing raven-black wig.

I hope that the will to try is hereditary.

Walking While Working

Despite my being a fan of walking, I am not sure I can bring myself to spend my day like so. 

Historical Dating

The shidduch system is a long-known ally to my people. 

My siblings all wed through it. Via friends and relatives, none were through "professional" shadchanim. 

My parents were wed through it. A relative, as well.

My grandparents were wed through it. For one set, twice (second marriage after the war). Also, friends and relatives.

Simply put, my people know no other way to marry. 

Yet something has definitely changed. 

There are a few shadchanim who play it "old school"; no references, no photos, not even a meeting. These masters take matchmaking to an art form. They exaggerate, they push, they sell every individual, just to achieve the desired goal: a date. Not a marriage, a date.

A friend of my mother's was saying - and my mother was quite surprised and horrified to hear it - that the current method of "shadchanim" is to send to a marriageable male eight different girls' stats. 

That's not how the system works. A shadchan is supposed to call up a guy, gushing, "Have I got a girl for you!" (without the girl's knowledge, so she won't be hurt by a rejection) and proceed to sell her, and only her (not her cousin and classmate as well while she's at it). Then she calls up the girl and proceeds to do the same thing. 

Asking a guy to select a girl like a card from a fanned deck? "Pick a card, any card." Um, no, then you are not a shadchan. 

Not Your Mother's Kesubah

I was very flattered to receive a request from This Is Not A Ketubah to critique their artwork. 

An amateur (really amateur) painter myself, I like to think I have an eye for such subjects. Compared to more old-school kesubahs, their work is certainly daring and intriguing.  

They have a large range of standard designs, from simple and clean to bright and festive. There is inspiration from artists such as Picasso, Warhol, and Pollack, from nature, as well as personal interest themes, like coffee (for the Starbucks lover), music, or patriotism. 

If there is a style preferred not available as a standard design, they also have custom Ketubot. 

I have to say my favorites are: 

Gaudi-Ish Ketubah;

Gaudi-Ish Ketubah II;

Op Art Ketubah II;

Klimt Ketubah II

Skyline Ketubah

As you may have guessed, my tastes do not run along the lines of minimalism. Check out all their designs to find one that speaks to you.

I think the world is ready for a new type of kesubah. 

So who here would get themselves a revolutionary marriage contract? (I would, but I currently have no reason to commission one . . .)

Fry Till Crispy

As a child, spending the summer days unwillingly playing machanayim and willingly swimming, I would tan easily and spectacularly. 

I have a few great aunts whose faces are referred to, lovingly, as the "road maps." They spent their youths worshiping the tan-giving sun. As I got older, and more paranoid, my summer tan has ceased to exist.  I swim when the sun is lower in the sky, zealously apply sunscreen, and spend most of my day indoors. There is the faintest of hypothetical tan lines when I remove my rings.

At the beach I watch in fascination as quite a few females splay themselves on the sand, flipping over periodically for even browning. One was so dark she could no longer check the box "white, Caucasian" on forms.

In every other culture worldwide, pale skin is the equivalent of beauty. They studiously tote umbrellas shielding their visage. Some use poisonous bleaches to strip the skin of pigment. Many suffer from low self-esteem. 

Monet's Woman With a Parasol

Why do we Americans adore bottles of self-tanner, UV beds, and sizzling sunshine? 

This article in the Sunday Styles chronicles Jancee Dunn's pursuit of tanned skin, only to give up.

 She finishes off:

Now I must wear brighter colors to wake up my complexion, like the red Ms. Hathaway favors, and I never leave the house without some form of vitalizing lip stain.

From a fashion point of view, being tanned does not equal colorized. If anything, black on the pale-skinned is absolutely ravishing (as the photo of Anne Hathaway in the article proves). The tanned also need bright colored makeup, as their features become lost in the false toasted hue. 

To clarify, I think there is no such thing as a desired skin shade.  As in many aspects, acquiring false color often looks . . . false. 

All skin shades are beautiful, so to knock oneself out for a different color (whether it be pale or dark) seems like an exercise in futility.

BPA Free Water

BPA, a component in many plastic containers, have been found to poisonously leach into the food or water when sitting in heat. Along with the eco-unfriendliness of disposable plastic bottles, I gave Poland Spring the ol' heave ho.

I then went on Amazon, my wonderful, beautiful, lovely Amazon, to find my new water bottle. 

My first purchase was Klean Kanteen. It was one of the first BPA free stainless steel bottles on the market.

I had purchased a sports cap (as the original cap had me pouring water down my neck), only to have to bottom of my bag soaked through. Amazon replaced it, but it still leaked. Kleen Kanteen was then abandoned.

The next try was BioGreen. A cute plastic bottle, small and easy to store in a bag, I was happy with it for a while. Until the unsturdy sports cap twisted out of shape.

Moving on to Botl. Very nice design options, easy to hold, one hand control, holds a good amount of water.

I was content until, by accident, I found one even better. It was while waiting to pay at Daffy's that I spied an Oggi. 

I bought it on whim, thinking it would be a good spare, only to have it become my beloved. The locking cap feature allows one handed use, but it's the mouthpiece that gets me. It's a drinking spout, allowing one to simply pour the water out, instead of having to slurp on a sports cap. As a lipsticked individual, that is a very convenient feature. 

The next time I was at Daffy's I bought another one.

Other bottles have a drinking spout and one-handed opening ability. Such as the Thermos Nissan.

I fill 'em up with Brita filtered water, which I find the best tasting.

Becoming less wasteful, even in a small way, gives one a feeling of accomplishment. It's an easy way to get tree-huggers off your back. 

Aunt Bee . . . Chic?

I don't know why, but a look which I had assumed already gasped its last is now making a troubling resurrection. Specifically, crochet. 

I'm seeing it everywhere, and I don't like it. 

Why, you may ask? What crime could have innocent grandmotherly knitwear committed to garner my dislike?

I'll cut right to it. Rarely does it look good. 

Fashion is supposed to fake what diet and exercise can't achieve. That bulge of belly? Gone beneath a peplum waisted jacket. Those childbearing hips? Muffled beneath layers of poof. 

Crochet does not slenderize the body. A bulky fabric, it visually adds poundage.

The shapeless nature of the fabric makes it incredibly difficult to morph it into a structurally flattering garment. 

Not only does it not love the wearer, it is still, no matter what, associated with the World War II era and rocking chairs. 

Aunt Bee

It can be pulled off in small details, like a hem or sleeve or collar, where structure isn't necessary. 

But rarely does it suit as a full-sized garment.

Dressing for Men: How Many Buttons?

In terms of current men's suit styles, there seems to be only two selections: two- or three-button (double-breasted is not as commonly available as these two).

Three-buttons come up high, so the lapel ends pretty fast. This emphasizes the chest and belly while under-focusing the shoulders, meaning that unless one is in great shape, one can easily look like a stuffed cabbage.

Most of the tie is tucked away; ties, pinstripes, vertical stripes in general tend to have a slimming affect. If the length of the tie can't be seen, bummer for false svelteness.

I'm sorry, it's just not going to work out.

The two-button, however, has a wider and longer lapel, giving the shoulders an appearance of broadness. Broad shoulders mean thinner waist by comparison. More of the tie can be seen, giving a longer line. And since less of the torso is buttoned up, less like a stuffed shirt will one look. 

What Do "You Never Know"?

There are three insidious words being constantly overused, specifically in terms of dating.

"You never know."

This simple statement is the go-to persuasive argument for any sort of inconvenient or frustrating outing.

Singles event? "You never know." Shadchan stalking? "You never know." Online dating? "You never know."

What follows is, where does it end?

Maybe I should sit in different train cars every day. Maybe I should walk aimlessly through various minyanim. Maybe I should sabotage my car and act all helpless by the roadside. After all, "You never know."

There is also an underlying insinuation of  an irreligious mindset which I find disturbing.

The Eibishter established the concept of hishtadlus - one must do one's part. Not "You never know," but the minimum requirement that the Eibishter sees as one's part of the deal. He delivers the rest. There aren't different levels of hishtadlus for everyone; just sometimes Hashem holds off for His own reasons.

I do not have to flagellate my dignity, suffer fools, nor chase perceived saviors. Why should anyone treat me with respect if I don't? 

Maybe I don't know. And I prefer it that way.

New Identity

If I am sitting by the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, I desperately need something to read. Bad habit. The only section of the paper available was Sports from yesterday, so I sighed and skimmed through the cover story. 

Holy MOLY.  

The article was about a former baseball player, Ralph Branca, who is now 85. He was born to a fervently Roman Catholic family. 

And he has now found out that he is JEWISH. 

He had family members that were killed in the Holocaust. He never knew. 

His mother, whose maiden name was Berger, came over from Europe on her own at the turn of the century and married a Catholic. She was more "religious" than her husband, and had 17 children. 

Ralph was never told until now.

“I have to get my money from Mrs. Lichtenfeld,” Branca said.

What? I asked. Branca explained.

He told me that as a boy in Mount Vernon, he had lighted the stove for a Jewish neighbor every Friday night. He had been a Shabbos goy, doing something that was forbidden for Jews to do on the Sabbath.

Here was a memory that elevated experience over genes, that affirmed Branca’s sense of self. He was a Catholic, not a Jew.

“If I was Jewish, I couldn’t have done it,” he said. He added, “I’m not going to sell my soul for a penny.”