Powder to Correct and to Conceal

This was a usual scene following a date with Han: 

I breezily floated through the door, thinking, "At least my makeup was on point." Trotting blithely to the mirror to brush my teeth, the record needle scratched. 

My eye pencil had . . . migrated. Downward. Oh frack. I looked like this all night? The humiliation!

Well, maybe not this bad.

For years, my eyeliner did what it was told. I didn't understand what had changed. Was it my color corrector that I had fallen in love with? Was it making the territory under my eyes to greasy?

I tried applying lid primer. I tried setting the color corrector with the concealer powder. Nothing doing. 

"That it!" I wailed, as my pencil smudged yet again. "I'm done with eyeliner!"

The next morning I picked it up again. I love it so. And we used to get along so well. What changed? 

I don't know. But then I bought a color corrector powder. I then top it when with my trusty concealer powder. Then I apply the pencil on top.     

Success! 

Rewind: What is the purpose of color corrector? I have TERRIFYING dark circles. Like, zombie quality. Concealer alone simply mutes it to an unappealing shade of gray. Color corrector in peachy shades neutralizes the purple, then the concealer on top looks more like my skin tone. 

I still prefer the finish of the cream correctors and concealers, but we can't have it all.

Fear the Face

I don't usually read interviews with drag queens, but sometimes one is desperate during breakfast and the magazine was lying there: 

Q:There’s something interesting about your drag, which highlights how femininity is very unthreatening up to a certain point, but then it becomes terrifying if there’s too much of it.

A: It’s sort of like when you go to Sephora. When I worked in makeup, I learned that if you were a girl, and you were at work, and you looked great, customers almost expect you to be mean. They’re scared of you. 

I find it funny how people think my fascination with makeup means I'm overtly feminine and girly. I'm not. I spent my youth wishing I had the hand-eye coordination, reflexes, and basic interest in sports to be a tomboy. 

I fought makeup (and Ma's wheedling) until I entered my 20s. It was then I slowly accumulated and gradually slathered on, in gradual layers, what I have previously referred to as "war paint." 

People may mistakenly think that makeup is about ensnaring men. Oh no no. Many men (many many men) found my Face disconcerting. 

Terrifying, even. 

That's the way I like it. Muahahahaha. 

Some mornings I think, "I'm just running out for five minutes, no need to apply any Face." You would not believe how I am disrespected. On the road. While driving.

When I have a bold lip? I'm surrounded by meek cars.

I read an article a few years ago by a bitter woman complaining that once she and her friend entered their 50s, they don't get respect no more. Waiters ignore them (when they are loudly drunk). Oh, the travails of ageism and sexism. 

I asked Ma if she ever felt like that. "Never," she asserted, wielding her eyeshadow brush. She was in her 60s then. 

I like being feared. I don't get any flack on the subway or the city streets. Salespeople are deferential to my "leave me alone" demeanor. Checkout girls don't bruise my fruit. Little children are fascinated, from a devout distance. (I suppose it does help that I pair my goop with the "touch-me-and-you-die" Face.)

Then, if I so choose, I can allow my sunny disposition to shine through my mask, and put the other at ease. I find it's better to start with respect then ease into camaraderie, as opposed to being underestimated then grappling for lost footing. Few people will retroactively respect you. It has to be established from the beginning. 

It all begins with mascara. Two coats, minimum. 

Shidduch Flicks

1. Remember when I was gushing about TooYoungToTeach's book recommendation, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society? So Netflix has a movie adaptation of it. 

My initial reaction was EEEEEEEE!, and I may have talked myself into staying home sick (I kid, I was actually sick as a dog) in order to watch it. 

You will enjoy it if you haven't read the book first. Books tend to ruin movie adaptations (any exceptions, please let me know). 

There was so much more delicious backstory and character development in the book that I was left wanting after the credits rolled. Yet I must honestly mark it as a "Shidduch Flick," right? 

2. I have wanted to see Rama Burshtein's second film, The Wedding Plan, for a long time now. It helped that there was a glowing NY Times review. Now available on Amazon Prime!

I was ensnared by the opening scene, when the 32-year-old Michal meets with a—well, I'm not sure. Ayin hara lady? Kabbalist? Mystic?

The woman asks her bluntly, while performing a kinda gross ritual that I hope is not remotely based in Judaism: What do you want? 

Michal answers standard responses: I want to get married. I don't want to be alone. Love. To please God. To each, the kabbalist scoffs and says, "Stop lying." 

Eventually pushed, Michal bursts out: "I want to be normal. I want to be respected. I want people to respect me because I have a spouse. I'm sick of feeling humiliated."

She becomes so overwrought in this freeing honesty she can't stop: "I want to invite people over for Shabbat. I'm sick of being invited. I want to make Shabbat with a man. I don't want to be alone anymore. I want someone to sing to me. I'm sick of being handicapped. I want stability. I want to live. I want to give and I want to receive. I want to love and be loved back."

This scene spoke to me as, for many of us, it's true. It's not only about being lonely or love or fulfilling a mitzvah. It's also about belonging, not standing out in a "nebachdik" way. Our world doesn't permit singleness past a ridiculously young age—and singles are just so flipping tired of being viewed as abnormal freaks. 

Perhaps that is why Michal becomes slightly unhinged when her engagement is called off. She has had enough; she's going forward with her wedding anyway, firm in her belief that if she books the hall, sends out the invites, and dons the gown, her chassan will show up, too. 

Han's nerves were shot. "This is a real nail-biter," he said worriedly, more than once. Michal is told that this is not how Judaism operates, but she still stubbornly plows forward. She is fierce yet vulnerable, and she doesn't apologize for who she is. I alternated between wanting to hug her and throttle her.

She doesn't just want a proposal. She wants, as she says, "the real deal." Not a marriage for the sake of marriage. She wants the whole loving package, by the 8th night of Chanukah.   

Will she get it?   

Brownie: A Saga

I grew up with something we adoringly referred to as "Shabbos Cake." Shabbos cake was a brownie, baked in a huuuuuuge pan, cut into two rows, sliced in half, then swathed with heartless layers of non-dairy whip, and deliciously stored in the freezer. 

It was heaven. As can be seen by the name, reserved only for Shabbos. My siblings and I yearned for Shabbos morning with all of our beings. 

Then, we learned that non-dairy whip is naaaaaasty. Like, epically bad for you. It's pure trans fat, the kind that the body doesn't know how to metabolize so it sticks around, clogging arteries and padding thighs. So that went out the window. But the brownie recipe remained as I attempted to find other alternatives (like cashew cream). 

We were going to be hosting guests for a meal a number of years ago, and Ma didn't want to make her usual brownie in the huuuuuuge pan. She asked me to find a recipe for a smaller cake. 

On my first search, I found the below (the original link no longer exists): 

Whole Wheat Brownies (Vered DeLeeuw)
 

•    4 large eggs, lightly beaten
•    1½ cups sugar
•    ½ cup oil
•    1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract
•    ½ cup white whole wheat flour
•    1 cup high-quality unsweetened cocoa powder

•    ½ teaspoon kosher salt

1.    Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Spray an 8-inch square pan with nonstick spray.
2.    Lightly whisk together the eggs and the sugar, just until incorporated. Whisk in the oil and vanilla, again whisking just to incorporate - you don't want too much air in the batter or it will be cake-like and not dense and chewy as a brownie should be.
3.    In another bowl, use a fine-mesh strainer to sift together the flour, cocoa and salt. Gradually add to the egg mixture, whisking to combine. Batter will be thick.
4.    Pour the batter into the prepared pan, using a wide spatula to get it all out of the bowl.
5.    Bake 30 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in center comes out not wet and not completely dry, but with a few moist crumbs, keeping in mind that when it comes to brownies, it's always better to err on the side of a little under-baked (moist and chewy) than a little over-baked (dry).
6.    Cool about 30 minutes, in pan, on a wire rack before cutting and serving - brownies are best at room temperature.

It was a HIT. "That's it, then," Ma decreed. "This is our brownie of choice from now on."  

This recipe is also very tolerant. To make it gluten-free for family members, I replaced the flour with half oat flour and half ground teff. Dope. I've even fiddled with it for Pesach, but that's another post. 

Then one day recently, I comprehended that this recipe sort of has a staggering amount of sugar for its size, so I experimented with cutting back. If cutting back on the sugar, then the cocoa has to be cut back too, or else it'll come out bitter. So I tried reducing the sugar by a third, and then the cocoa by the same. To make up for the missing bulk, I added an additional quarter cup of flour. 

SO: 

4 large eggs 

1 cup of sugar
1/2 cup oil (you can replace half with unsweetened applesauce) 
1 tablespoon vanilla extract 

3/4 cup white whole wheat flour (or other. I use whole wheat pastry flour, but any flour will do) 
2/3 cup cocoa
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt 

It came out quite lovely too. Grownups seem to dig it. Although kids will probably demand the sweeter version.

I top mine with walnuts, simply because Han likes nuts. Chocolate chips are another option, if so desired. 

This baby is stored in the freezer. That's how we like it. 

To Judge Favorably

One morning, I was off to the cleaners. 

I hadn't had a very restful night. I had a vivid dream about Ma, and after awaking in the wee hours, couldn't fall back asleep. So I was driving rather single-mindedly, dimly focusing on the bumper in front of me and no further. 

My cleaners has a parking spot on their property; if occupied, one has to turn into the metered lot behind it. A large van had its blinker on in front of me; in my fugue state, I thought it was turning into the lot, not the spot. So I slid in to the spot. 

The furiously waving arm cut through my mental fog. Apparently, the van was intending to back into the spot, and I had stole it. He then blocked me in, glaring all the while. I knew I should have been apologetic, but I was taken aback by his anger and I was also very tired, compromising my judgement. 

He stomped into the cleaners after me, banging as he went. I was scared to engage with simmering resentment, smiled cheerfully at the owner, and scurried out. He probably intended to take his time leaving to punish me, except that would delay him too. 

This incident made me think of dan l'kaf zechus. If he knew my explanation—not excuse—would he have been more understanding? "I had a dream about my dead mother last night and I couldn't fall back asleep so I wasn't a very aware driver this morning so I didn't realize you were backing in." 

I doubt he was dan l'kaf zechus me. Yet it made me realize how much more I should cut others some slack. Because we just don't know what goes on in other people's lives. And we hope others don't bear us ill will for a bad night's sleep.

Toasted

You know those ginourmous chocolate-nut platters that people send that never get touched? 

So I had a pile of walnuts sitting in my fridge. They had a minty (blah) flavor after being parked in the platter for too long, but I didn't have the heart to throw them out. I thought to search how to get the stale out. 

Via sixburnersue

Just bake 'em for a few minutes. Which I did. 

The results were . . . OMG amazing.

When I told my sister, she laughed. "Duh! I made a salad once with toasted nuts. Everyone was like, 'WHAT is in the dressing?' and I said, 'It's the nuts,' and they didn't believe me." 

Now I toast the walnuts even when they're fresh, to put in brownies or muffins or to munch on. 

How to Stay Sane While Dating: XVII

For those who have been dating for a while, there will inevitably come the suggestions to try something a wee bit more "alternative." Dating websites and dating events are the top two. 

To be clear, I have no objection to dating websites or dating events. What I do object to is their revered status as magic bullets. 

They aren't. They are merely another potential means to meet your special someone. Or the potential means to meet many, many stalkers. 

I kid. 

Sort of. 

I was once coaxed (make that bullied) into joining SYAS. I was uncomfortable with the whole enterprise to begin with, because the internet is the perfect smokescreen. One can make oneself look perfect (as the Instagramers know) and conveniently gloss over the more human details. 

I was on it for approximately 48 hours. Besides for the fact that I had no idea how to categorize myself (I'm not "Yeshivish Modern" nor am I "Modern Orthodox MACHMIR"), I am relying on a faceless someone who doesn't know me to set me up with another faceless someone she doesn't know either. My first suggestion couldn't even manage to tie together the contradictory details between his photo and his written description, and I realized I don't have the koyach for this. I deactivated my account to save my sanity. 

OK, why didn't I join one of those non-shadchan websites? Because it made me feel gross to sift through profiles and judge people ("Ew, he's nasty," "Gah, what a loser," "Is he kidding me?" "Oy, what a nebach"). I might as well go to hell now. And how would I gracefully fend off unwanted advances? Xanax, please.

Singles events. Oh dear dear dear. I went to two that I wished I hadn't gone to, and one that was tolerable but pointless. Everyone blended together to the point that I couldn't differentiate between the men or the women. And the organizers couldn't stop being annoyingly condescending.

Then the Shabbos meals. PSA: Do not serve hard liquor at the table. The women guests do not appreciate being interrogated by drunks. 

People encourage, "Step out of your comfort zone." But there is a reason why I have parameters for a comfort zone: To keep my stress levels from triggering acid reflux.   

There are some people who don't mind these alternative means. That's great. I mean, really. They can join in these activities and even enjoy themselves. But I didn't. I was tormented. And nowhere is it written that I must terrorize myself in order to get married. 

So you don't have to step out of your comfort zone. If you are meant to meet him, you'll meet him. Hashem works out the how, no one else. 

TGIF

• "A Glimpse Inside the Hidden World of Hasidic Women": They mean Lubavitch women, in this case. I'm not exactly sure how "hidden" Lubavitch women are, considering their social-media savvy and various online businesses, but that's the NY Times for you. I was taken aback to read in the original article that Lubavitch women shave their hair, but as can be seen on the bottom of the online version, there is a sheepish correction that they do not. That's a pretty big error, no?

Sweet Sukkos Sanity

Han had a rebbe in Beis Medrash that married "late." 

He was once told, "You know, you can spend time looking for the ideal esrog, but when Sukkos gets closer, you just buy what's available." (You get the klutzy mashal, right?)

He retorted, "Yet no matter how close Sukkos gets, I'm not going to buy a lemon." 

Fave Recipes IV

• Nut Crusted Salmon with Creamy Chrain Sauce by Naomi Nachman

I may have mentioned that Han is not into fish. Except when my sister made this and he was quite intrigued. Ta, however, doesn't like heavy sauces on his fish. What to do when feeding both . . . 

I solved this by buying a slab of salmon and painting one half in olive oil mixed with garlic and onion powders, paprika, and black pepper. The other half was topped with the above recipe, halved (I cut back on the sugar since Han isn't into sweet anyway). 

My nut distribution left much to be desired.

I sliced the the slab into pieces before topping to make serving easier, and I baked it for only 15 to 17 minutes in a standard 350 oven. Fish continues to cook even when away from the heat source, and it wasn't raw at all.  

Both men were happy. 

•  Jacqués Pepin's Chicken Jardiniere

I made this by altering the recipe a little. No bacon, obviously. I used eight skinless chicken thighs, and seared them on one side for a few minutes. Another recipe mentioned bay leaves, so I chucked in two. I wasn't starting to mess with fresh thyme; I sprinkled in dried.  

I omitted the potatoes, because they are my kryptonite, and the mushrooms, because I overlooked them. 

In my (paprikash) experience, chicken legs need at least 90 minutes of simmering, so that's what I did. However, I put in the carrots, (frozen) pearl onions, and (frozen) peas too early. They were a little mushy by the end. 

 

Yet the dish was absolutely delish.  

• Busy in Brooklyn's Apple Blueberry Crisp 

I'm not really keen on cooked fruit, but I have enough family members who are. Some crisp recipes are decadently sinful (my in-laws make one that is impossible to resist) but this one is pretty okay. My sister-in-law gleefully said she was eating it for breakfast on yuntif morning with milchig whipped cream. I coaxed Han into having his with a dollop of pareve Trader Joe's vanilla ice cream (it's dope, isn't it?) and he was bowled over.

The recipe was meant to be made in one pie plate, but I subdivided it into smaller portions for easier disbursement and storage. Maybe next time I would make them even smaller.