Pumpkin Kugel

New favorite food item: Farmer's Market Organic Canned Pumpkin. Organic! BPA-free lining! Convenient! Calorie-friendly (the whole can is about 180 calories)! Sodium? Fuhgeddaboutit! Price is right (often on sale for $1.89)!

When making a vegetable soup, I pour a can in for creaminess and flavor.

Second new food item: Spectrum Organic All Vegetable Shortening. Margarine is a no-no, and the usual go-to is coconut oil, a flavor that I loathe with every fiber of my being. A little dab, and my entire orange cake that I spent quite a lot of effort into smelled and tasted completely of coconut. Gah. 

 

This shortening is so neutral in flavor it literally tastes like nothing. Made from palm oil, it has a ridiculously high smoke point (many use it for frying), and stores best at room temp.  

How to bring these two together? 

I'm always on the search to expand my kugel horizons beyond the beloved but carb-dense potato. Zucchini and a cauliflower-potato hybrid have entered the traditional menu, but they were eager for a new sibling. 

I had attempted a butternut squash kugel, but it's so much freakin' work. The squash has to be roasted first (an hour) then scraped out and made pretty to add the rest of the ingredients, followed by another hour or so in the oven.

When I first bought these cans of pumpkin, I was limited enough to think that my only option was pie. I browsed many a recipe with healthful crusts, then happily tripped over this Pumpkin Kugel. Who says a crust is even necessary? I like to have more than one recipe to play with, and subsequently found these: Thanksgiving Butternut Squash Kugel and Pumpkin Kugel (scroll down, last one). I know, the former is technically for squash, but really, pumpkin and butternut puree are pretty much interchangeable.  

The dimensions in the last one threw me for a loop—twice as much pumpkin, but the rest of the ingredients are the same quantity as the other two, even though there's a bigger pan. Thus emboldened, I chucked together: 

2 1/2 cups of pumpkin (about 1.5 cans)

2 eggs

1/2 cups of whole wheat flour 

4 tablespoons of shortening (oil is still an option)

1/4 cup honey

1/4 cup maple syrup (could use sugar instead for sweetener)

a dash of cinnamon (don't like it that much)

a dash of salt

I poured the tasty results into an oval baking dish, and it took about 50 minutes at 350. It froze and thawed beautifully.

It was so easy and quick to make!

The next time I make this I plan to use oat bran instead of the flour. I've used it before in kugels, and they always came out gorgeous.   

It was after all this that I discovered that the same brand makes canned butternut squash. Ah. Another option.      

TGIF

People love hashgocha pratis stories. I'm no different. Those moments when almost-missed connections collide—ooooh, shivers! 

However grand those tales are, the best ones are romantic in nature, right? Yeah, sure, an ill woman ends up sharing the same row on a plane with the top doctor in her specific ailment who also ends up being her cousin's long-lost son is cool, but it's when a kind boy and a sweet girl miraculously meet that gets us sigh-y. Am I right, ladies? 

But I learned—the hard way—and I still have to be reminded—the hard way—not to be so swayed. Because when I work myself up into a frenzy of "it's bashert!," the resulting disillusion is crushing. 

Rosemary Counter was also taken in ("A Craigslist 'Missed Connection' Lure"). It's frighteningly simple how the mind, tired of disappointing the heart, finally allows fantasy to cloud logic. 

One can have that "it's bashert!" story. But retroactively so, I've learned, is the best way.   

Freshmen Vs. Seniors

I did not have the best of experiences in elementary and high school. It's not that I delusionally believe that attending a different institution would have a better result. The more I grow, the more I know: People are people all over. 

Neighborhoods can possess different hashkafos, and most get along better with those who share their same outlook. But personalities, how humans emotionally operate? That's pretty much the same, no matter where one goes. 

Back to high school. Yeah, it sucked. I was ecstatic when I graduated. I didn't even realize then it was because I would be free of my classmates, not my "insisting that the sitting and learning lifestyle as the only way to be a proper frum Jew" morahs. 

 

It was a number of years before I met up again with a large force of these gals. Some had changed, for the better; these were usually fellow introverted or cripplingly shy individuals who also found their voice and way. With rare exception, the "popular" girls, and the "popular" girls posse, were unchanged. 

Most of us are what we are from birth. The education system shoves various types into one confined area—a crucible, if you will—which can bring the worst qualities to the surface. We all exhibit a motley of behaviors, depending on the circumstances; when we have backup, when we don't, when we are assured of public acceptance, when we don't. 

 

Then we graduate, achieve adulthood, marry. The steady gang of five to ten have their own lives; the royal clique disbands. A lone person needs people. She'll be nice, polite, considerate, if circumstances warrant. 

But what if, one day, she'll be back in that same situation? Cafeteria. Cronies. Control. Cattiness ensues. 

Jonny Negron

Jane Weiner wrote about her poor Nana's experiences in a home, sorry, uh, "independent living facility" ("Mean Girls in the Retirement Home"). We're back to high school, ladies. 

The notion that a threat to seniors is their peers is somewhat new, and usually played for laughs. It goes against a truism handed down from mothers to daughters for generations: This, too, shall pass. Mean girls are not girls, or mean, forever. High school doesn’t last forever, everyone grows up. But Nanna’s experience suggests otherwise. It says that the cruel, like the poor, are always with us, that mean girls stay mean — they just start wearing support hose and dentures.

Surprisingly, I'm not completely disheartened by this news. It is upsetting to discover that despite the multitude of opportunities we are given to become better, we can trip and go flying in a moment. That by a certain age, the senior population may choose not to have morphed into elevated beings. 

But it also means I wasn't overreacting to my unpleasant time in school. It wasn't that these girls were young and didn't know better, and would one day "grow up" and be nice. We are what we are by high school. "Growing up" has nothing to do with it. 

It is, however, about bechira. We can choose when we're younger. We can choose when we're older.  

Introverts, Attack!

I have always desired to be unique. Sometimes, I would even to go as far as to manufacture a preference, simply to be different. But the more I read and the more I interact and the more I get to really know myself, I'm finding more connections to my fellow human. I actually like it. 

I've been reading Susan Cain's Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking, and I am mesmerized. To clarify, there is a difference between being shy and being an introvert. While many would consider me "outgoing," "loud," even, I am most certainly an introvert. 

Not only am I, at least half the world is. You could be one, too, but never realized it. 

I have reached a fascinating segment which discusses the Western culture's extroversion ideal, as opposed to the East's appreciation for the introvert. As I read on, I gasped at this passage: 

What looks to Westerners like Asian deference . . . is actually a deeply felt concern for the sensibilities of others. As the psychologist Harris Bond observes, "It is only those from an explicit tradition who would label [the Asian] mode of discourse 'self-effacement.' Within this indirect tradition it might be labeled 'relationship-honouring.'" And relationship honouring leads to social dynamics that can seem remarkable from a Western perspective. 

It's because of relationship honouring, for example, that social anxiety disorder in Japan, known as taijin kyofusho, takes the form not of excessive worry about embarrassing oneself, as it does in the United States, but of embarrassing others.

Now I know where us Jews have gone wrong! 

Upon analysis, Judaism, too, favors the introvert; Moshe was one, after all, begging to not be a leader. Note most of our forebears and authoritarians were shepherds. I don't see an extrovert hanging out with only sheep for company, do you?

But over the millennia in the Diaspora, we have been exposed to different societies, and their version of what "ideal" is. 

While we are commanded to be silent in the face of parental criticism, we chafe at the idea of filial piety. While we are admonished never to shame another, we insist we are being "honest." What happened to "emor m'at v'asei harbei"? We prefer the swagger of wordy PR as opposed to quiet diligence. 

If one leafs through a pile of shidduch profiles, chances are by "seeking," "outgoing" will be listed. Sometimes even twice.

But a third to a HALF of humanity are introverts. We don't necessarily enjoy the company of extroverts, heck, we may not even enjoy socializing at all. Yet while we were taught that muted discipline is the Torah way, there is a contradictory lesson; we have also been bred to believe that the obnoxious guy who makes a spectacle of himself is a "character," instead of an "idiot." So we think we have to be that idiot, too. 

As mentioned in the passage above, introverts are anxious about social interactions for fear they may hurt someone else. How many times I come home from a wedding or a dinner or shul, playing over and over the conversations that took place, and often finding—to my horror and remorse—a comment I uttered that could have possibly been taken the wrong way. It's harrowing.  

Take a look within. Google "introvert," and browse the criteria. You may find yourself and your inner Jew. No need to be ashamed. No need for denial. No need to apologize if it's not your idea of a fun evening to hang out with fifty people. You're not weird. There are 3.5 billion out there who would rather be in bed with a book. 

Battle of the Bulge: Sugar is Whack Crack

How I love it. 

As a recovering sugarholic, it gives me no joy to relate this article: "Sugar Season. It's Everywhere, and Addictive." I can no longer even touch a can of soda. It exudes the same sinister image as the horror of Chucky. 

 

I can tell that sugar is addictive simply how I went through an albeit mild form of withdrawal when I decided to quit consumption during the week (I allow myself a demure reunion on Shabbos). But going without it for six days is no longer a white-knuckling torture, I am happy to report. 

The obesity problem is not caused by a single factor, this I know. I'm pretty much living on produce, yogurt, fish, and the occasional bowl of oat bran, as all processed foods are eeeeeevil. This breakdown ("What 2,000 Calories Look Like") will strip all joy from eating out, too. A french fry is a french fry, kosher or otherwise. (Golly, I miss them.)

Often when I am trolling the outer perimeter in the supermarket, I am shocked how many a shopping cart passes me that is loaded with bottles and bottles of soda. That's not responsible at all, not from a dental, medical, or fiscal perspective. Soda is just a complete waste, providing not a single nutritional or mineral benefit. 

Drink WATER! If too boring, LEMON WATER! You'll be riiiiich!  

Hourglass Veil Mineral Primer

Primers have been worshipped for some time in the makeup world, but I was leery about applying too many products to my potentially hysterical skin. I've used them on and off over the years, but never found the experience enlightening. 

At one point I gave in and purchased a highly rated product that claimed to work miracles, but I saw no benefits from its use. I returned it, and believed myself content. 

But I suffer from an insatiable curiosity when it comes to cosmetics, so during a coupon promotion I bought another that is highly rated, Hourglass Veil Mineral Primer.

 

Well, the difference is quite clear. The product itself is light and almost powdery, and I feel it bonding with my skin without buildup or heaviness. After I give it a few minutes to set, I bounce on foundation with a dampened makeup sponge. 

Shabbos morning there is distinctly more foundation on my face then when I applied it without primer or with different primer. 

Ma used to be a loyal user of the Smashbox primer, but she's converted to the Hourglass as well. Her skin is drier than mine, but she is equally happy with its performance. She was never content with the lid primer I bought for her, and she uses the Hourglass on her lids as well to hold onto eyeshadow. The performance is comparable, perhaps even better than the "official" lid primer.

TGIF

Jaime Passaro makes a touching point in "When Low Tech Is the Best Tech": We can edit to perfection our photographs, reflecting a false history of constant happiness; but old family snapshots that capture us when we were crabby or blah contain a wealth of history and stories. 

Keep the messy pics, too. 

Can You Hear Me Now? Good!

Old men and I get along great. It sounds sleazy, but I don't mean it that way. Whenever I talk to them, they nod. They hear. They respond accordingly. 

Younger men could be more problematic (e.g. "How do you know that?") The scoffing and snarking as I relate established information can be aggravating.  Especially when the fellow stipulated that he's seeking an "outgoing" gal on his profile. So I should only be "outgoing" about the weather?

Some would like to place this at religion's door, but it's not specific to the realm of the pious. Sheryl Sandberg and Adam Grant tackled this very topic in "Speaking While Female." 

The two authors address this issue strictly in terms of the business world. But really, if men can't handle women talking at the office, that means they can't handle it on a date, either.

Considering how older men have no problem chatting with me, even finding my intelligence delightful, I concluded that the matter doesn't have to do with culture. It has to do with insecurity. 

Younger people are more plagued by ego histrionics than more mature (as in elderly) individuals are. Or, at least, insecurity manifests differently when one reaches a certain age. At 55+, gentlemen seem to be fine with hearing something interesting from a female in her 20s. But a youthful male considers it an attack on his mental acuity or manhood or something. Dude, it's called a "conversation." If you want to me to giggle and gasp, "Like, really?" you should add that to your "seeking" criteria. 

Even on my bad dates I have been able to learn something new. I don't confuse bad behavior with stupidity. I've gathered book recommendations, an intriguing perspective on vocabulary, a meforash I haven't heard before. Plugging up one's ears limits one from all sorts of knowledge.

Are any chaps out there who blurt out, "How do you know that?" Memo: Insulting. If you can't handle a girl knowing something, at least don't be so obvious about it. It doesn't reflect well on you. But I have hope that in a few decades, you'll be an absolute delight to chat with. 

Good Times, Good Times

"Thank you for thinking of me, but it's not shayach." 

"But he said he had a good time!" the shadchan responds in shock.

Of course he did. I was adorable. I was pleasant. I was charming. Even though I was exhausted, because he had been holding me hostage in the dead of night. I thought if I was nice to my kidnapper I would see my parents again. 

Why is "he had a good time" considered an argument for me to subject myself to another evening of torture?

" . . . so then, would you believe it, he gets lost, and then blames me!" I conclude relating to my relative the nightmarish date. We both laugh. 

"Then the shadchan tells me he wants to go out again—" Her eyes widen in surprise. 

"But that means he must have had a good time!" 

My mouth hangs open as I try to grasp her logic. I've just told her about one of the worst outings I've ever had, but she's focusing on the wrong person here. 

I manage to regain my voice, mumbling defensively, "Yeah, but my next day was shot, I got home so late and . . ." 

"But he had a good time," she emphasizes again. 

Hello? Earth to Back-Stabber? What about ME? 

So if a guy doesn't have a good time when he goes out with me, and I do, that means I behaved heinously and must be cray-cray; but if he had a good time, and I didn't—well, that's it. All that matters is if he had a good time. 

I'm no feminist, but hoo-ee, sexism is still alive and kicking. From other women, yet.     

Healthy in All Ways

What is the ideal state of being? Is it strict focus on the expansion of the mind? But what about the maintenance of our physical bodies—quality of life certainly does rely heavily on the quality of our health. 

The Golden Path

Pico Iyer writes about this balance in "Healthy Body, Unhealthy Mind." Once a happy consumer of Big Macs, he gradually learned to eat better, and to exercise more. However, he remained the same person mentally: Busy, busy, busy. Too busy to think. 

But I recalled something a 17th-century mathematician and philosopher had whispered to me . . . We run and run in search of contentment, Pascal wrote in his “Pensées,” and so ensure we’ll never be settled or content. We mindlessly race away from the one place where happiness is to be found.

I was, in short, what I’d call an externalist — a person who’ll exercise great care over what he puts into his body and never think about what he puts into his mind. Who will dwell at length on everything he can see, in order to distract himself from the fact that it’s everything he can’t see on which his well-being depends. Who will fill his head with so much junk that he can’t remember that wolfing down Buffalo wings is not the problem, but a symptom.

Are physical trainers any more enlightened? I find them quite frightening sometimes. The sculptured form of the human body is the divine extreme. 

That requires constant motion to burn off any errant ounces of fat. While they eat like a caveman, they could also be doomed to thinking like one.

An externalist makes a point — even a habit — of cherishing means over ends, effects over causes and everything that fills him up over everything that truly sustains him. He interprets health in terms of his body weight, wealth in terms of his bank account and success in terms of his business card. He’ll go to the health club, and never think of the mental health club, like someone who imagines the only arteries to be unclogged are the ones that course with blood.

Iyer discovered the serenity and joy to be found in quiet contemplation, in exposing himself to intellectual prose as opposed to People magazine.

When one makes a choice to become healthier in weight, it should also be a choice to become healthier in mind. The negativity of jealousy and anger can be just as poisonous to the body as cholesterol. Getting to know oneself can be delightful, and also leads to the understanding of where and how one requires self-improvement. 

Iyer concludes: 

But I know that one day my doctor is going to come into the room with a very dark look on his face and news that no treadmill or repudiation of onion rings is going to make better. And then the only thing I’ll have to turn to will be all I’ve done when going nowhere — and everything I might have stored in some less visible account.