Salads, 2.0

I didn't used to be a salad person. I still don't think of myself as a salad person, but it is only a matter of time. 

Owen and his posse came for Shabbos a couple of weeks ago, and Ma's method is to mostly churn out the tried-and-true favorites, with a couple of new experiments thrown in. 

For a salad, I remembered Rena's Maple Vinaigrette, as yet untried. She and I concur that fat is not terrible, only a lot of fat is terrible, while a reasonable amount keeps the body satiated. I halved this recipe for a small salad composed of lettuce, cucumbers, orange bell pepper, and grape tomatoes (one of the reasons for my salad dislike is that the components are usually oversized and difficult to chew; I chopped up everything into bite-sized pieces). 

Now, for the flourish: Owen, he who scoffs and sneers at my "healthy" attempts, loved it. He kept saying, "This salad is great!" He even rhapsodized, "Who made this salad?" and didn't take back the compliments after I claimed ownership. 

For that Shabbos, the one store-bought item was a small container of coleslaw, brimming with divine mayo. The following week, for Friday night guests, I decided to search for a home-made recipe instead. 

I was taken with Jayme's Coleslaw Recipe, and halved it as well for the bag of coleslaw mix ($1.50 as opposed to $5 for the ready-made). I was initially concerned that there was insufficient dressing as I tossed it with a pair of tongs, but after it marinated overnight the results were satisfyingly mayonnaisey. 

Via feedyoursoul2.com

A note on the mayo: Now that low-fat is out the door, I purchased a bottle of safflower mayo (safflower oil is a good fat). Although it is full-fat, one only needs a little for a lot of creaminess. While there was only a 1/4 cup of mayo in the salad, it was enough. 

Cucumber salad is a Hungarian must with meals to cut the heaviness of meat, and I've found myself, for the first time, hankering for it. I cleaned out Ma's supply, and felt a burning need to concoct some more.

Via pookieandpierre.blogspot.com

I didn't abide by a recipe, merely following my heart: thinly sliced cucumber, thinly sliced onion, minced garlic clove, dill, equal parts sugar and (apple cider) vinegar boiled together, and cover the remainder with water.

A note on the thinly sliced: My Zeidy lived only for sugar, but he took personal pride on his cucumber salad; with knife in hand, ethereal wisps of cucumber emerged. So, remember to shoot for "ethereal wisps." They should fold up in your mouth like a cheap suit. Since this wasn't for company, only for me, I used a vegetable peeler. The results aren't as aesthetically pleasing, but possess the necessary transparency. 

* Disclaimer: I did not take pictures of my attempts, so the above photos are merely rip-offs from the 'net.     

Thinking Caps

I love calm. I crave calm. I weep for calm. It also doesn't take much to unhinge my calm. I'm easily excitable. "Oh no, they stopped carrying that whole bran matzah I liked? Whatever am I to do?" 

Since my nerves are more on the hysterical side, I make a point to soothe whatever areas of my life I can control to maintain equilibrium. I go to bed at the same time so I can wake up at the same time, which provides me sufficient time to prepare for the day, so I don't run out the door half-dressed, unpainted, and prayer-free. I am usually first at any occasion or appointment, preferring to be bored and prompt than frantic and late. When I babysit my method is to cast a spell of calm over the critters, since they are just so reasonable when they are mellow. "Bedtime? Cool."

I need time to acheive calm, brainspace to establish calm, I need to think to aspire to calm. One of my concerns about the smartphone is that it robs us of any unoccupied time when we could be doing the necessary thinking to streamline our lives, whether in scheduling, relationships, or to simply breathe for a minute. 

But navigating the clutter in our own heads is not necessarily pleasant. There may be monsters lurking in our subconscious that we would rather not have to vanquish. So we dive into "busyness," and never surface.

 

As Kate Murphy writes in "No Time to Think":

In 11 experiments involving more than 700 people, the majority of participants reported that they found it unpleasant to be alone in a room with their thoughts for just 6 to 15 minutes.

In 11 experiments involving more than 700 people, the majority of participants reported that they found it unpleasant to be alone in a room with their thoughts for just 6 to 15 minutes.

Moreover, in one experiment, 64 percent of men and 15 percent of women began self-administering electric shocks when left alone to think. These same people, by the way, had previously said they would pay money to avoid receiving the painful jolt.

It didn’t matter if the subjects engaged in the contemplative exercise at home or in the laboratory, or if they were given suggestions of what to think about, like a coming vacation; they just didn’t like being in their own heads.

It could be because human beings, when left alone, tend to dwell on what’s wrong in their lives. We have evolved to become problem solvers and meaning makers. What preys on our minds, when we aren’t updating our Facebook page or in spinning class, are the things we haven’t figured out — difficult relationships, personal and professional failures, money trouble, health concerns and so on. And until there is resolution, or at least some kind of understanding or acceptance, these thoughts reverberate in our heads. Hello rumination. Hello insomnia.

Yes, I am a ruminator. And yes, there are times when I do dwell on the unpleasantly unresolved; heck, I can't stand it when I have to return a mascara to Sephora, never mind being single (may that be the worst to obsesses over). But if I didn't give myself time to think, I would not have any plan for the day, how to be more efficient, how to take care of the factors within my control, what would be the best thing to say to so-and-so.

But you can’t solve or let go of problems if you don’t allow yourself time to think about them. It’s an imperative ignored by our culture, which values doing more than thinking and believes answers are in the palm of your hand rather than in your own head.

Thinking, the article continues, detracts the power of negativity; if such feelings were ingnored, all sorts of mental as well as physical ailments take form. Thinking increases empathy. Thinking is the fount of creativity. 

Hard as they sometimes are, negative feelings are a part of everyone’s life, arguably more so if you are crazy busy. But it’s those same deep and troubling feelings, and how you deal with them, that make you the person you are. While busyness may stanch welling sadness, it may also limit your ability to be overcome with joy. 

Tick. Tock.

Disclaimer: As a female, I can only comment about my own date experiences, and for lack of imagination, cannot fabricate difficulties males may have on dates. I am simply stating an issue I have encountered, and am issuing a public service announcement. 

Don't look at your watch. 

Don't look at your watch. 

Good girl, don't look at your watch. 

Ah! He's going to the bathroom! OK, what time is it? 

WHAT?

Why am I still here? 

I'm not familiar with the current date-time min- and maximum, but if my father is frantically calling my cell (which was shut off, but the poor man tried) to make sure I'm still alive, it's not good.

I don't know about other girls, but I make a point to fake it till I reach the safety of my own doorstep. So I smile buoyantly, vocalizing all the subtle initimations—blatant statements, rather—about the earliness of my workday, but the bachelor is unmoved. 

If the waiter keeps sidling by the table and noisily clearing his throat, take a hint.

I eventually crawled through the door, carsick, exhausted, and knowing that I will accrue about four precious hours of sleep, a mere fraction of my regular requirement. 

"Where did he drive you to?" Ma demanded, bleary-eyed. "Hungary?" 

Since girls aren't usually in the driver's seat—literally—on dates, we are often at the mercy of the date in terms of transportation. I, at least, don't want to be undiplomatic by insinuating that the company is unpleasant by explicitly requesting a return journey, like, now, please?

But that, of course, leaves me at a disadvantage, since the fellow can assume from his perspective that the evening is going swimmingly. Whereas it is requiring more and more detractions from my dwindling energy supply just to remain upright, never mind bubbly.

My dear chaps: Keep things to a reasonable time frame. If she likes you, she'll jump at the chance to go out with you again, and there will be countless future hours to revel in each other's glow. If she doesn't like you that way, she won't mentally curse you out. Win-win.

What's ideal? Well, if there is no hefty traveling to the romantic setting, two hours, at most, of each other's company, should do. If the guy insists on shlepping to more distant locale, three hours (this is including the travel time), tops. 

Gals, please weigh in!      

I'm In Love . . . With Your Sister

After bumping into a shadchan by a vort, my contact info was zealously scribbled down. A few days later there was an e-mail in my inbox, containing an unknown girl's profile information. 

I emailed the lady back that she apparently mis-sent the information, since I am female. 

Her response was the girl's photo. 

I had found this incident to be mildly amusing, knowing that the woman had simply confused my e-mail address with an eligible of the opposite sex. 

At a wedding, a couple about my parents' age crooked a finger. They knew of a possible boy, and insisted they would send me his information. 

The woman was apparently not to proficient in the tech sphere, and she forwarded me the original communication from the fellow's mother, which contained both her single daughter's profile as well as her single son's. 

His information was very basic, and whatever was there did not really awaken my imagination. 

His sister, however—my! Her photo displayed a perfectly dressed, refined woman. Her academic and professional prowess was staggeringly impressive. As for her description of herself, I nearly wept. She's perfect! 

If only she was a dude. (Her brother proved to not be a male version of her, sadly.) 

I'm So Retro, I'm Hip

Against my will (really) my trusty Razr was updated to an iPhone. I was initially fearful that I would become a texting maniac, but it hasn't yet become appealing. I can still claim Luddite status.

But, upsettingly, now that I have cast my prehistoric flip aside, it has boomeranged back as hip. Yup, that's right, the very reason why I hung onto it for all these years—practicality, ease, I don't have to flip through ten different screens just to make a friggin' phone call—is why it's currently trendy. 

To whit, "This Old Phone is the Latest Thing," followed by a CBS This Morning segment. Celebrities favor my former accessory (once I didn't even realize it was missing until it rang between the car seats) since it is more secure; they can't get hacked.

There are other perks. 

As a night-life chronicler, I can observe what’s going on every night instead of obsessively tweeting about it or video-recording it for Instagram or YouTube.

And like Mr. Schumer, I enjoy not being a slave to my email everywhere I go. I can live in the moment (and it’s fun to have emails to look forward to when I get home at night). While my dinner dates are staring at their screens, I can concentrate on reading the menu, stuffing my face or gathering stained napkins.

Right after I got the new phone, Ma and I took Thing 1 and Thing 2 for an outing in Manhattan (she had made a casual offer and they had voraciously taken her up on it). Despite the fact that it was the hottest day of the summer and we spent most of the time saying, "No, we're not buying that" the girls had blast walking the smelly, jammed, broiling city streets (for some reason) that months later, they insist it was the best day they ever had. 

It had been shortly beforehand that I became armed with a smartphone, and I was encouraged to whip it out and tap photos. These two gals have older sisters; as soon as they saw me brandish the stupid thing they went into pose mode, as they are often photographed for "aren't they so cuuuuuute" purposes. 

Heads together, hands clasped, frozen grins: Pose 1. Back to back, arms crossed, frozen grins: Pose 2 . . . ranging to Pose 18. They just automatically fell into formation, without coaxing.

But there are more important things than pictures. 

I had thought those shots were backed up to the iCloud when that insane iOS update demanded space to install, but they weren't. Poof, gone, vaporized. Yet, that day won't be forgotten so fast.

I want my old phone back.   

Who Am I?

There are bloggers who claim they don the cloak of anonymity because they insist they would be otherwise unable to openly discuss communal issues without some sort of societal backlash.

Whatever I write about here, I talk about to others in real life; my choice to duck behind a false identity stems, rather, from a healthily paranoid upbringing. 

My house in under so many protections that it lacks only the crocodile-infested moat. Telemarketers are believed to be enemy agents trolling for vital, personal information. That pleasant Israeli that stopped his car to ask for directions was probably an ax murderer, his hatchet dripping brains over the back seat. 

With the clock change, I shudder in fear. I prefer bright sunlight, when I can see through bushes, whereas after dark who knows what sort of stalkers may be lurking? That shuffling noise behind me; just rearranging items in my backpack, or a serial killer wielding a bloody knife? 

One thing is for sure, my Law & Order fetish is certainly not helping. 

I am faceless since, no offense, I think that out there on the big wide internet there may be one recent parolee with computer savvy who can find my name and location in under ten seconds.  

But my skulking behind an alias niggles. 

One Shabbos morning in shul more than twenty years ago, my sister tore a dangling thread from the bottom of her skirt. The next day, an anonymous note was slipped through the mail slot expressing "surprise," since my sister "should have known better."

Shocked at this cowardly move, my parents showed the letter to a psychologist friend. "If someone doesn't sign his name," he responded with a disparaging wave, "it's toilet paper."

So it would seem I am on the horns of a dilemma. How to blog, if anonymity cheapens the written word? I made a conclusion: Anything I write would be anything I would say, with my face and name. I have told others, face to face, that which I type online, verbatim. I don't claim to use blogger.com as a sanctuary to share my deepest, darkest, thoughts; there is plenty that I have abstained from posting.    

I blog because I love to write, and in order to improve my craft I must exercise it constantly. I choose to remain anonymous out of oversuspicious terror. But I don't think that gives me a loophole. 

Our House

When Luke's wedding was scheduled in my teens, Ma got a recommendation for a dressmaker to construct my gown (it ended up absolutely gorgeous; I wore it to family affairs until it fell apart). 

Ma and I drove to Jersey to a two-story house; the door was answered by a smiling, middle-aged Hispanic woman, the lady of the hour. As she and Ma sat and leafed through magazines and fondled scraps of cloth, I observed the going-on of the home. 

Well, people kept appearing and disappearing. I couldn't believe that such a modest building could comfortably contain all the many generations ensconced therein. 

But this is where Americans and the rest of the world differ: Americans want their kids out, while everyone else doesn't understand why they have to leave in the first place. 

Jennifer Conlin is living this overseas model now, as she describes in her column called "Reverse Parenting." In "Guests: Meet My Relatives (They Live Here, Too)" she describes the different cultural mores in the many lands she has spent time in.

Our eight-story apartment building in Cairo was occupied by one large extended Egyptian family ... save for us, the “odd” American nuclear family living on the fifth floor. We watched our neighbors run up and down the stairs babysitting the youngest, delivering meals to the eldest and giving birthday and wedding parties for one another in the shared back garden.

In Paris and Belgium, where we lived when our children were babies, I wondered at first why all the young mothers had older nannies. I soon learned they were the grandmothers, who either lived nearby or with them, lending a hand while their daughters were at work, which would have worked well for me as I dashed between deadlines to day care.

What’s worse, we were often mistaken for family deserters. An Italian friend once asked me what had led my husband and me to live an ocean apart from our closest relatives. “It must have been a horrible argument,” she said, sympathetically stroking the head of one of my children as if she were an orphan.

America may be (currently) the king of the heap, but there are a lot of us who are lonely. I wonder if it because a close relationship with the people we share blood with and so care about most is considered embarrassing, a sign of unhealthy dependance. We are driven to pursue extra-familial connections, but they are hard to attain.

Conlin still feels compelled to blushingly explain to visitors that she lives with her folks. Actually, it's her parents' house. 

So when we finally returned “home” to the United States, it did not seem strange, as much as comforting, to initially bunk up with my parents. But then we realized the built-in benefits. There was always someone around to make dinner, collect a child, watch the dog and lend a buck, be it for the mortgage or medications. Together we can live much better, financially and emotionally, than we could apart — and that includes my older single brother who is like another parent to our children, particularly when we travel for work. Most important, despite our fast-paced life, we are able look after my parents as they slow down. In many ways, we get more space by living together. By sharing the work of each age group, we are all less burdened — the old saying, “Many hands make light work” is true — even if some of them have arthritis. . .

Sounds all good. I know many people find their families abrasive and impossible, but I getting along well with relatives isn't supposed to be effortless. What good relationship is? 

“There would be a homicide in my home if I lived with my parents,” most new friends say after I have explained our situation. Believe me, there have been moments, I tell them, but so far no deaths.

Better than a deadbeat roommate.     

Not Juicing, Exactly

After I watched "Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead," I was all gung-ho to get a juicer. Or is it a masticator? The movie made the whole juicing enterprise to look so appealing, and even tasty. 

Joe Cross

But juicing separates produce from the beneficial, fibrous bulk. I wondered, Why can't I just eat the fruits and vegetables whole?  I don't want to drink plantlife, I want to munch on them.

Following the over-eating and the scale-shock of a variety of yontifs, I decided to put my theory to the test. 

The premise of the documentary is that Joe was suicidally obese, and under medical oversight, he was recommended to sip the benefits of fruits and veggies (only, consuming nothing else) so his body stayed nourished while it burned off the excess weight. 

Okay, so I had excess weight (albeit a somewhat reasonable five pounds). So I stuck with fruits and veggies, then, but without beating them to a pulp. 

Breakfast: Fruit. As much fruit as I like. (This I got from LT.) But taking food combining into consideration, I cease by 10:30 so there is no more fruit in my belly by the time I have—

Lunch: A vegetable soup, free of any starches. 

Snack: If I feel peckish, some raw cucumbers, peppers, tomatoes, and the like. If the flavor isn't sufficient, dust with some garlic powder and my favorite, dill. 

Dinner: Some more veggies. There are all sorts of pleasant recipes out there, like ratatouille. 

It should be clarified that since over-indulgence tends to be paired with over-saltiness, some of that weight could be water in nature. Be very, very careful when using salt while cooking; you'd be very, very surprised at the havoc just a little extra salt can wreak. 

"What about protein!?" you may ask. After consuming all sorts of fish, eggs, and meat, the body will be fine a few days without it. Also, vegetables have more protein than people realize. Peas, spinach, broccoli are just a few that have good amounts of protein.

Joe Cross went two months without animal-based protein, and he was fine. After all, mankind wasn't allowed to eat meat until after the Mabul, right? They survived until then.

Results: Without starving myself at all, I was able to re-acheive the goal weight. 

Do you know what this means?!? That means that no one need ever starve in order to get to a reasonable dress size. I haven't gone hungry in months now, but I am better friends with the scale than I ever was. 

Recommendation: The Bais Yaakov Cookbook's Roasted Garlic Zucchini Soup. It was made on those yontif days, and I must say it helped prevent true tragedies.   

Via tastebook.com

I Whistle a Happy Tune

It began with the diary of Anna Leonowens, who was governess of Siam's royal children for six years. Her experiences were fictionalized by Margaret Landon in a 1944 novel called Anna and the King of Siam, and The King and I is based on that.

I watched that movie countless times as a child, but it is only now I find, with the maturity of adulthood, that the role of the king (executed by Yul Brenner) was extremely insulting. Playing upon racist perceptions, the King of Siam was made to appear an overgrown child, clueless of basic diplomacy, who strives to be "scientific," whatever that means (he was also less than handsome in real life). And no, Mongkut did not die of a broken heart from his inability to bridge the old world and the new; he died from malaria. 

vs. 

In actuality, Mongkut is known as "The Father of Science and Technology" in what was formerly Siam, for he brought about many modernizations. He was very educated; he was even an adept astronomer, successfully predicting a solar eclipse. 

The tale of Tuptim is up for some debate; some claim she was burnt, others that she lived to be a content granny in the harem. But she didn't view herself as a slave in Uncle Tom's Cabin. While the film compares the state of slavery in Siam with that in the States, the systems were vastly different; slavery was usually undertaken voluntarily out of economic necessity, and masters were forbidden from mistreating them. Even some scholars note that British servants were not treated as well as Siamese slaves. 

The original Anna was actually born in India, and was one-quarter Indian. She zealously hid that fact and claimed her dark complexion was due to Welsh origins. She was also kind of scary.  

Now I have seriously digressed, but my point is that the songs in the film are enchanting, a Rogers and Hammerstein guarantee. The costume design and set is lavish and pleasing to the eye—it always passed the Babi test.

There isn't much available on Youtube . . .

"Getting to Know You":  

 

Although I did find "Shall We Dance" in Hebrew from the 1999 animated version; that's Ofra Haza: 

Shop Like a Pilgrim

My family doesn't observe Thanksgiving. Considering how Ma makes her chicken soup with turkey legs, we get sufficient gobble-gobble year round. Plus that gratitude thing is in our daily Amidah, so we are happy to have an excuse not to cook exponentially, yet again. 

But, like any red-blooded Hungarian, I have my eye on the holiday sales. No Black Friday for me—I would like to live to see another day—yet I keep a careful eye on possible reductions. 

 

My shopping style has evolved over the years. The whole pastime did not interest me until my late teens, and it took time to calculate what is a valid buy. 

Initially, I made the fatal error that cheap = purchase it. If insanely reduced = MUST purchase it! But what simply resulted was a backlog of unwearable attire that was too soon ushered into the charity thriftstore. 

Every item under consideration now undergoes strict mathematical computations. What purpose does this item serve? Will it be worn enough? Is the fabric and construction of sufficient quality to the price? For how much it costs, is the potential use valid? Does it require alteration? Much or little? Do I have to rehaul my wardrobe to match other items to it?

Like I have said, shopping is a sport, involving speed, stamina, and savvy.

Now, a suggestion from David DeSteno on "How to Defeat the Impulse Buy": Gratitude. 

Aw, shucks. 

Humankind has a tendency to indulge in immediate gratification, and that's how "they" get you. So what to do? Invoke Thanksgiving. 

Of course we can. We all have a proclivity for immediate gratification, but we are also all capable of self-control. The real question is: How do we ensure that we exercise that control?

A natural suggestion is to rely on willpower. But when it comes to holiday shopping, that is likely to fail. Research has shown that willpower tends to be limited. Each successful exercise of it actually increases the likelihood of subsequent failure if temptations come in quick succession (as they do, for instance, in shopping malls).

So rather than trying to override your decision-making impulses, a better strategy might be to try to change them. And recent research suggests that an effective way to do that is by cultivating the emotion of gratitude.

This reminds me of the basic message in "Sur mei'ra v'asei tov," turn from bad and do good. Simply refraining from the bad won't do, one must actively do good. That's how habits can be broken; not by simply sweating out unfulfilled impulses, but by replacing those unhealthy actions with beneficial responses.

Online is usually the place where I mess up, shopping-wise. I surf  a shoe section even though I don't need anything and there is only one pair left of these really gorgeous moccasins and they are on sale too and couldn't I use moccasins? 

I ended up returning those stupid moccasins. Of course I didn't need those moccasins. 

The emotion of gratitude, viewed from a cost-benefit perspective, stresses the long-term value of short-term sacrifice (e.g., If I’m grateful to you for a favor, I’ll work hard to repay it and thereby ensure you’ll help me again in the future). Consequently, my colleagues and I suspected that gratitude might also enhance patience and self-control . . .

What these findings show is that certain emotions can temporarily enhance self-control by decreasing desires for immediate gratification. While feeling happy doesn’t do much to increase patience, feeling grateful does.

Yes, I will make a point to be mindfully thankful as I scroll through Yoox.