What is Mess?

Having a roommate (spouse) has taught me that many things are in the eye of the beholder. 

In a flip of the typical script, Han is neater than I am. I never saw myself as a slob—that's what Luke is, not me—but Han's ways made me see myself in a new light. 

Not that I'm a slob. I'm careful with crumbs and immediately dispose of wrappers. I don't like dishes piling up in the sink. My produce is packed in the fridge with military precision. 

But Han likes to make his bed every morning. Ma didn't ask us to make our beds, and it had a sound logic to it; I'll be climbing back into it tonight anyway. He likes a sparkling bathroom mirror, as I do, except my toothbrushing tends to get violent. He adores a clean countertop, and I often arrive home planning on cooking only to behold a pristine kitchen (courtesy of Han) and I'll apologize that in order to eat, its prettiness won't be lasting long. 

"The apartment is a mess," he'll say from time to time. 

I'll glance around, befuddled. "A mess?" I'll echo. I don't see a mess. OK, maybe one or two pairs of my sneakers are out. Newspapers cover the table. But doesn't everyone like a newspaper to browse through while nibbling breakfast?

I'm not complaining. If Han feels a need to clean, he will do it. Yet sometimes I feel guilty that I don't share the same sensitivity level that he does. I actually don't mind cleaning. It's just that he usually beats me to it.

On the one hand, we have "Letter of Recommendation: Mess" by Helen Holmes; on the other, "Making Marriage Magically Tidy" by Helen Ellis.   

Holmes, a mess-lover, focuses her target on social media as the oppressor, making us deny the messy side of our domiciles as we post about our "perfect lives." If cleanliness is strictly in the name of Instagram followers, booooooo. 

Ellis, a major slob, tried to reform for her husband's sake, relapsed, then made a successful comeback. She understood that her mess distracted her husband, and by mindfully keeping things neat and clean, he would see only her. 

Maybe I'll wipe down the stove tonight. 

The Healthy Homemaker?

Those that know me also know I am not crazy about the word "exercise." It sounds so official. It seems synonymous with "gym membership." It sounds disagreeably sweaty. 

In recent years, it had come to equal "skinny," but that is not true. It is, however, one with "health." In the Blue Zones, the advanced aged spend hours moving, but in the process of everyday chores. 

I have discovered—to my shock—that I am a cheerful domestic. I like pottering about the house, setting it to rights, doing loads of laundry (although my ironing needs improvement), windexing, chopping vegetables, etc. That's movement, right? Maybe not involving a spinning class, but I'll take it.  

 

Aaron Carroll reported last year (I've been sitting on this for a year!?) that while exercise does not help with body weight, it is the cure for everything else ("Closest Thing to a Wonder Drug"). 

I have not been alone in thinking that physical activity to improve health should be hard. When I hear friends talk about exercising, they discuss running marathons, participating in CrossFit classes or sacrificing themselves on the altar of SoulCycle. That misses the point, unfortunately. All of these are much more than you need to do to get the benefits I’ve described.

The recommendations for exercise are 150 minutes per week of moderate intensity physical activity for adults, or about 30 minutes each weekday.

Moderate intensity is probably much less than you think. Walking briskly, at 3 to 4 miles per hour or so, qualifies. So does bicycling slower than 10 miles an hour. Anything that gets your heart rate somewhere between 110 and 140 beats per minute is enough. Even vacuuming, mowing the lawn or walking your dog might qualify.

Vacuuming counts! Yes! 

Ode to Persian Rugs

The Hungarians have a . . . well, how shall I put it? We are known for liking pretty, opulent things. Aesthetic complex? Although I don't see why it is such a terrible crime to have a chandelier in a bathroom. It's my bathroom, after all. How does that impinge on anyone else? 

Creating a beautiful home, daubed in bright paint and bird-themed throw pillows, is a lovely hobby. One's surroundings are a balm to the soul, an uplifter of the spirits. Every time I walk into the living room (from which kinfauna are banned), I sigh in delight. For reals.

Mario Buatta is Ma's favorite decorator.

There is a school of Jewish thought that frowns upon such attachment to physicality. Yet are we not also told that this world is for enjoyment? I heard in a shiur that simchas yom tov for men is in the food; for women, it is in clothing and bling. Good thing too, since I'm not partial to red meat. 

Currently, "minimalism" is in; sleek, functional, modern houses full of sharp corners and cold floors, not a cuddly spot to be found. There's that tidying-up book from Korea that went platinum. People are eager to toss out the unnecessary. 

Yet I am not the only one to find such an outlook unappealing ("The Oppressive Gospel of Minimalism" by Kyle Chayka). 

Part pop philosophy and part aesthetic, minimalism presents a cure-all for a certain sense of capitalist overindulgence. Maybe we have a hangover from pre-recession excess — McMansions, S.U.V.s, neon cocktails, fusion cuisine — and minimalism is the salutary tonic. Or perhaps it’s a method of coping with recession-induced austerity, a collective spiritual and cultural cleanse because we’ve been forced to consume less anyway. But as an outgrowth of a peculiarly American (that is to say, paradoxical and self-defeating) brand of Puritanical asceticism, this new minimalist lifestyle always seems to end in enabling new modes of consumption, a veritable excess of less. It’s not really minimal at all.

Have you noticed that minimalism allows only comes in white and gray? Why can't being minimalist be cerulean blue? Does minimalism mean that it can't be attractive at all?

Today’s minimalism, by contrast, is visually oppressive; it comes with an inherent pressure to conform to its precepts. Whiteness, in a literal sense, is good. Mess, heterogeneity, is bad — the opposite impulse of artistic minimalism. It is anxiety-inducing in a manner indistinguishable from other forms of consumerism, not revolutionary at all. Do I own the right things? Have I jettisoned enough of the wrong ones?

That's why I'm lame at cleaning out drawers or closets; there could possibly be a use for this item in the near future. It always seems that as soon as I donate something I come up for a use for it next week. 

For me, clutter can be delicious. Providing it passes the Hungarian "pretty" test.  

Girls and Their Toys

"Ta, I'll go out and shovel." 

"No, no, I'll come too." 

"But it's not necessary. Stay inside and keep warm." 

I went to change into snow-shoveling gear. While I was clambering into my warmest sweater, Ta appeared, all booted up. 

"Ta!" 

"I thought you were feeling under the weather."

"We have been in this house together all day, and I never said that." 

"Maybe that was last week?" he said vaguely, drifting towards the door. 

"Ta. Please. Can I use the toy first?" 

He did not answer. 

"TA!" 

The toy in question was the brand new, fresh out of the box, assembled that morning (by me) Snow Joe Cordless Electric Shovel. A standard snow blower for us is not feasible in terms of available storage, and no cord could cover the ground needed to shovel. So when I came across this baby . . . 

I never ended up using the toy. Ta snatched it from my hands and cheerfully went to work, while I struggled with the standard shovel. Although, this was why I bought it: Every time shoveling was necessary I feared for his back, and that was only the beginning of my fears. 

Ergo, watching Ta merrily plow through the drifts with ease, grandly declining our neighbor's offer of snow-blowing our walkway, made the gadget even more beloved to me. 

 

Assembly, however, had not gone smoothly. The handle arrives unfastened and folded over, with the thick power cord running through. I was supposed to fit two bars together and fasten it with a screw. But the cord was bunched up inside, and no matter how I leaned or forced or yanked or swung, the two pieces wouldn't slide together. 

I pulled up the product reviews, because I remembered plenty complaining about difficult assembly. One wrote he unscrewed the handle from the rest of the unit, which allowed him to tug the cord down. 

The thought had occurred to me, but once confirming that another did it without damaging the unit I scurried off for a Phillips screwdriver. The handle came off, I tugged down the cord, and the pieces slid smoothly into one another. No problems screwing the handle back to the unit either. 

After charging the battery (supposed to take, at most, two hours), my toy was ready to go. It will only go on if two buttons are pressed initially, and a finger must hold down the trigger for it to continue purring. Less chance of doing something idiotic, like getting a hand stuck down there.     

Slow-Cooked Breakfast

I'm an early bird, the daughter of early birds. Ta creeps out of the house between 5:30 and 5:45 for Shacharis; Ma and I are up and about soon after.

We are very excited for breakfast. 

For many years Ma cooked up oat bran for Ta and herself, divvying it between two bowls. She would place the pot lid atop Ta's, but it would often be cool by the time he returned home from shul. 

I don't recall what triggered the idea, but when I came across the Double Oval Crock-Pot, which is meant for "entertaining," it occurred somehow that this could be used for his-and-hers breakfasts. (It was under $30 when I bought it; in the interim, it nearly doubled in price. Hmm.) 

It took some experimentation, but the current method is: 

In each crock goes: ¹⁄₄ cup oat bran + 2 tablespoons teff + 1 tablespoon chia seeds + sprinkling of goji berries + sprinkling of goat milk powder + approximately 6 oz. water. 

The slow cooker is connected to a timer, which is set to go on at 3 a.m. It is clicked on to "low." 

This new method pleases them both. If Ta has to leave earlier or later, his breakfast is always ready and hot. Ma is greeted by a cheerful bowl, ready-made, each morning. The portions are consistent, instead of guessing. There are many sighs of contentment. (Ma adds a slug of maple syrup to hers.)

For myself, I'm not a stickler for breakfast protocol; sometimes fruit, sometimes veg. Yet there is something pleasant about a warm, nourishing, slow-simmered breakfast. The above crocks are 1 qt. each; I couldn't find an individual slow cooker smaller than 1.5 qts., but there are many options available. (I'm not particularly loyal to my model.)

 

I chuck in various raw ingredients, like grains (quinoa, oat bran, oat groats, millet), chia seeds, vegetables, and seasoning, and set the outlet timer for however long I think is needed (this one by GE is more accurate than the red/green pin versions, and easier to set).

For those with a brood, you can get any sized slow cooker and prepare the night before a vat of oatmeal or oat bran for the whole family, saving precious minutes in the rushed mornings.  

The Decorators of the Soul

To get myself in the proper yuntiff state of mind, I've been hearkening to various shiurim; one, by Rabbi Stauber, was addressing the difficulties some have with the concept of "hiddur mitzvah."

I was puzzled. Why should anyone feel pompous by practicing hiddur mitzvah? Then I realized: I'm Hungarian. Our whole lives are hiddur.

As my social studies teacher in 6th grade (a frum woman of Polish heritage) taught my class, an example of a stereotype is, for instance, that Hungarians have chandeliers in their bathrooms.

Darn tootin'. We matter-of-factly beautify the mundane. How much more so the sacred? 

I was once listening to an Esther Wein shiur, and she brings an Arizal: Hashem created the whole world, and within every culture and nation there is an aspect that Jews can learn to better serve Hashem. 

As the granddaughter of Rabbi Schwab, she mentioned the German meticulousness, which can be applied in how mitzvos are kept—in careful detail. 

Well, Hungarians decorate. 

Setting the table for Shabbos, for instance. My father's cousin came for a visit, and he and Ma had a passionate discussion on the art of tablecloths. (His wife, while a fellow Magyar, was not concerned with such matters.) He eagerly soaked up Ma's prowess of ideal weight and measurements. 

While I do share a house with the best cook I have ever come across (I have had much exposure to other chefs, and she has yet to be outclassed), the success of a Shabbos meal, is, oddly, less in the food, more in the presentation.

As Ma decrees, three factors: 

1)   Beautiful dishes.

2)  Beautiful flowers. 

 

3)  Gracious hostess. 

Couldn't resist.

There's a reason why I'm currently sitting on a trousseaux of Lenox, snatched up piece by discounted piece in Homegoods. Dishes are a long-term investment, and if one buys a reliable brand that doesn't chip they will be around—looking pretty—for years to come. (Cutting back on a few food items from takeout or the deli section will cover the cost quite quickly.)

As for flowers, they don't have to be expensive to be lovely. Carnations, for instance, aren't pricey and can last as long as two weeks. But then, it is also imperative to own a lovely glass vase to put them into.

 

Ta's esrog this year? The fairest of them all.    

Can't Fix Sunsets

When it comes to childraising, look no further than Oprah-find Dr. Shefaly Tsabary.

She is all about boundaries and consequences, but with acceptance and celebration of a child's unique nature. On one program, a rather sweet mother was complaining that one child is very happy-go-lucky, while the other is serious. She wants the former to knuckle down and the latter to lighten up. It would be ideal if she could fuse the two of them together, she says wistfully. 

Dr. Tsabary provides a mashal: When gazing upon a magnificent sunset, do we say, "Well, why isn't it like last night's sunset? It's missing pink. It needs more pink over there. And a dash of orange." 

Ah, no. We just gaze upon a magnificent sunset. That's all we do. "We don't mess with nature because we know we can't." It's outside of our control and purview. So to with children's inherent natures. For instance, extrovert parents are flummoxed by and attempt to change their introvert offspring, or vice versa.

Often parents drag their own personal baggage into their children's lives. I heard this line once, but can't get it right, that if a parent gives their child everything they didn't have, they won't be giving their children what they did have.  

Judy Batalion ("Should I Make My Daughter Clean Her Room?") grew up with a hoarder mother. Once she could live independently, she made her environment as extremely minimalist as possible. Her husband grew up the same way, and is happy with their stark home. 

Her children, however, are not growing up with hoarding parents. They are being raised by the other extreme. 

Batalion gathered opinions from friends and professionals as the best way to go, and received a jumble bag of responses and advice. One of them was:

Tamar Gordon, a psychologist specializing in anxiety disorders, thought people could be too hung up on cleaning. “What’s important for children is structure,” she said, “not necessarily the same thing as a clean room.” She explained that some kids are naturally neat, freaking out over a spot of paint on their hand, while others barely notice their visual environment. The parents’ job is to assess their child, and teach the opposite: Sticklers needed to learn flexibility, messy kids, regimen.

R2 was a neat freak from birth. I kid you not. Before he could even support his bobble head on his scrawny neck, he could be fascinated by a dust speck—yes, a dust speck—for 15 solid minutes. His idea of entertainment is sweeping the floor. When left in my care, I try to get him to be a little mellower about cleanliness.

As to the other messier ones (R2 is a rare exception), they need clear instructions. "Pack away five things," I tell them, and instead of procrastinating and claiming they will do it later when we both know they won't, they gleefully pounce on the mess, usually picking up more than the required five.   

I haven't even yet read her books, but Dr. Tsabary made me realize the importance of consciousness when interacting with rugrats. Also to embrace and enjoy them as they are. 

It's really not a contradiction. 

Making Zelda clean her room might satisfy my organizational needs, but it probably wouldn’t make her a superior person. O.K., I admit that when Zelda dumped a box of musical instruments onto her glitter-strewn floor that evening, I panicked. But as she danced around, banging her drum, I let it go and joined in, saving my energies for the battle of bedtime.

Hibernation Rocks

"Are you sick?" Thing 1 asked me the other day. 

"No. Why do you ask?" 

"Because you're in pajamas." 

"What is the point of Sundays if I am not free to spend it in pajamas?" 

"Oh." 

 

Not only am I an introvert, I'm an early bird. I am—for the most part—content to potter about the house, and I manage to tick off most of my "to-dos" by 8:30 am. 

Molly Young opines ("Is Staying in the New Going Out?") how binge-watching and ordering in are now the usual "plans" for city dwellers. It's the ultimate way of staying safe—modest, guaranteed contentment, the middle path—as opposed to the extremes that "going out" harbor —

The upside is huge: You could have a life-altering adventure, meet your soul mate, find your new best friend. The potential downside is equally monumental. You could run into an ex, lose your wallet, suffer a grope, be rejected. The scope of experience at a party or a bar is, as the hedge funders might put it, high beta. We do it for the possibility of encountering the spectacular. This rarely happens. 

There are opportunity costs associated with chronic staying in, too. A year’s worth of weekends spent at home is a bit like never moving out of your parents’ house: At some point you have to leave the nest. Leaving the nest, even just to get outside, is how we grow, challenge ourselves and discover things that have not been tailored to our relevant interests by an algorithm. 

But I think of it along these lines: With the invention of Netflix and non-interactive means of ordering food, introverts have stumbled upon socially-acceptable heaven. Out of the closet we come—one-third to one-half of the population—forgoing the stress that outings usually exacerbate. It's not that technology has hypnotized the socially outgoing into abandoning their preferences, but rather it has provided the means for the introverts to morph into official homebodies.  

The extroverts, I guarantee you, are not being wooed by online streaming and cereal. They're still leaving the house and doing . . . stuff. Very possibly "living" more than my kind do, but that is a chance we are willing to take. 

So yes, we know what we’re losing when we hibernate. For proof, observe that nesting remains indefensible as an excuse; if someone invites you out, you can’t refuse by telling them that you’ve got “plans to stay in,” because a plan to stay in still counts as no plan at all. We burrow with a slight wince, in a blanket of mild contrition. But, oh, what a cozy blanket. 

No contrition here. 

Introduction to Composting

I bear a certain—well, I'm not sure how to phrase it. Quirk? Condition? Compulsion?

Throwing away food makes me sick. 

If I wanted a cop-out, I would blame it on genetics. I inherited my Babi's love of animals, adoration of cream, hopefully her wit, and her inability to discard edibles.  

While such a predilection could presumably be virtuous, there are heinous downsides. Like swallowing down impossible-to-store leftovers despite fullness lest it be cast in the garbage. It's worse on major occasions, like family dinners or heavily-guested Shabbosim; invariably there is one salad or—heaven save me—a POTATO side dish that will not survive the night.

I am cognitively aware of the illogicality; I aspire to Spock, after all. Yet every time, I flinch as though pinched whenever good food goes into the trash. (Ma sometimes manages to hurriedly chuck it while I'm not looking.) Yet it's certainly no better when I eat when stuffed for the sake of a starch. 

In my searches, I had come across the whimsical concept of composting—collecting kitchen scraps and other waste for the purposes of sparing landfills, and in return gaining garden nourishment. What my house discards in daily banana peels alone could power an alternate-fuel RV.   

I began cheerfully hoarding kitchen scraps, purchasing a merry green compost collection pail for the purpose. It soon became clear that one would quickly overflow on heavy output days, like erev Shabbos; I bought a second for spillover. 

So what can be composted? Well, a lot of things. Not just vegetable peels, apple cores, and watermelon rinds, but egg shells, used paper products like towels and tissues (provided that questionable chemicals haven't been applied), tea bags, coffee grounds, dead flowers, and junk mail, for starters. Some say not to compost meat, dairy, or heavily fatty scraps, lest messy critters like raccoons be attracted, but trace amounts are fine. 

The test was a visit to my sister for Shabbos, an outing that typically ends in my "noble" consumption of residue. This time I toted along my new pail. Child-abandoned challah? I carefully wrapped it in a napkin and put it in. Cooled cholent? In it went. Limp cabbage salad? Heartlessly scraped in. 

I even—I even—I even managed to—oh, how it pained me—to ram in a slice of kokosh cake.

I happily hauled home a brimming pail, my belly spared a diabolical end. 

In our next session, we'll explore what to do with all that schoira.    

Bards Shall Sing of My Bravery

A blood-curdling shriek emanates from the basement. 

"He's got me cornered!" 

I launch away from my breakfast, grabbing a "bee-deader" (Luke's childhood name for a fly-swatter) as I hurl down the steps. There he is, my antennae-waving prey: A fat cricket. 

Ma is the fearless one. She wacks ants with her bare palm. She dismisses the terrified wails of the kinfauna when faced with a spider. Mosquitoes fear her. 

But crickets, you must agree, are a different matter entirely. They're disturbingly intelligent.

 

I creep toward my target. He doesn't move, dreamily rubbing his legs. I hold my breath. He doesn't bat a lash. I slowly, slowly, raise the swatter. He yawns. I lunge. 

He's gone. 

On those jumper legs, he's across the room in a blink of an eye. I've lost him. 

 

Last year Succos-time, with murderous fall upon them, they actually had the nerve to brazenly emerge from the basement, strolling about the den as though invited. It was insupportable. They had to die. 

I researched a number of options, and settled on glue traps. I didn't expect much, really. I baited the center with a little sugar, leaving three in the hot zone—the boiler room—and few more at random points to tempt the survivors. 

Hot diggety damn. The old-timers were the first to go, large and immobile with their heads drowning in sugar. Then, the next generation was caught, small and un-cute, four on one strip.

All that was required of me was to gingerly pick up the cluttered trap with "ew ew ew" forefinger and thumb, then chuck it into the garbage. 

So is the end for the creature that mocks me.  

How to Register

"Is she kidding me? No, no she didn't, I can't believe it! Why the heck would she register for that?" 

I got a little worked up scrolling through an engaged gal's registry. It was a train wreck; the absolute basics were absent, the items that are sufficient in the singular listed in the plural, and the rest were gobblers of valuable storage space. I know this couple will be living in an apartment.

For the newly-wed, space must be prioritized for the necessities, as opposed to the superfluous. As Katherine DM Clover proves, being a cook has little to do with a multitude of tools. 

No, I am obviously not speaking from my own experiences, but I witnessed enough new kitchens springing into being as I hovered about my siblings' homes. Additionally, I have become more of a cook in recent years, and there's the stuff I always use and the stuff I don't. So let's get cracking. 

To make things easier, I've highlighted needed items green, unnecessary items red, and pareve (meaning okay with and without) items blue. (Sure, easier.)   

Kitchen: 

Many kitchen tool sets are useless, since there's always a lot of unnecessary doohickeys in there. If going to get a tool set, itemize what's in there, and compare to what is actually needed. Having unnecessary multiples is a drag. 

Knife block sets are pointless; in the end, one only needs two really good knives. Three, if one actually uses the bread knife on challah instead of an ornamental one. I have three chef's knives that never see the light of day. 

Imagine getting two or three knife block sets for milchig, fleishig, and possibly pareve: all that wonderful shelf space, gone, and 75% of those items won't get used. By a few good quality (as in German-made) tools, which will take up little drawer space. 

For my use, there is a pareve Santoku knife and serrated utility knife that gets the most action. For milchig there's a serrated utility knife, and I don't think there is a major fleishig knife, since we aren't serious red meat eaters. Know thy needs. 

Invest in individual knives and cutting boards; they will be doing the most work, and will make life much easier if good quality is purchased. The wider the cutting board, the better. 

Pots, oh the bliss, oh the joy. Getting quality ones make a cosmic difference. There are a plethora of options available, but my personal favorites are anything by Calphalon; they seem to wear the best. If drawn to non-stick, the magic words are "hard anodized." Remember that. 

Non-stick cookware can be somewhat controversial, but there is also stainless steel (Calphalon rocks there too) and ceramic.

With pot sets, one can get more bang for the buck, but there are always two frying pans too many. How many frying pans does a person need, really? Just be aware. 

Individual pots, like individual knives, take up less space and are more useful. A soup pot, an everyday pan, small covered saucepan . . . that's about it, for milchig or fleishig.

If eyeing a Le Creuset, get the Dutch oven (well, they call it "French oven"). Then you will get your money's worth. From stove, to oven, to cleaning like a dream, that's where it's the most useful. As baking-, serving-ware, no.

If getting any machine, KITCHEN AID MIXER first, not a coffeemaker or bread machine. Coffee finds a way.   

Don't bother with standard blenders; immersion blenders do the same thing with less cleanup and don't hog valuable countertop real estate. Chef Michael Smith makes smoothies in a Ball jar with an immersion blender. 

Instead of a toaster, get the toaster oven. It defrosts, bakes, broils, and takes up the same amount of area.

Do not bother with rice cookers, pannini presses, ice cream makers, waffle makers . . . for the fledgling kitchen and limited cabinets, one has to focus on toys that will get played with constantly. These contraptions are when one has all the time and space in the world.

Food processor . . . well, if one is making a potato kugel every Shabbos, yes, you need it. But if not, I rarely use mine. I find chopping up the vegetables myself with a knife takes the same amount of time with less cleanup. Also, sometimes the food processor doesn't do a precise enough job; I have to slice the cucumbers by hand for cucumber salad, because the slicing blade on my Cuisinart doesn't do ethereal wisps. 

Pepper mills are not really essential, but you look cool while using them. Although King Jacques Pépin would say the essential oils in the pepper corn get released at the last pivotal moment. 

Measuring cups and spoons, and more than one set.

Ladles are an obvious necessity, silicone or steel.  

Garlic presses are a pain. Half the garlic lodges in there, it gets crushed incompletely, and cleaning them out are nigh impossible. Garlic is a wonderful flavor and a more accommodating being than people realize. You don't always have to mince. Even chucking it in whole, then fishing it out provides a wallop of flavor. 

Tongs are an under-appreciated tool. A must for for grilling, pan-frying meat (such as schnitzel), and tossing salads.

When it comes to can-openers, old school is the only way. I've got a supposedly magnetized models that never, ever worked. Why reinvent the wheel?

Silicone heat-proof spatulas, as I said, will change your life. If you find one that is sufficiently stiff yet still got that whippy texture, get one for milchig, fleishig, and pareve.

Vegetable peeler, of course. Yet why is it the cheap versions of those work best? I got a really expensive one that took a chunk out of my knuckles.

For a zester, I dig the microplane versions. Long, lean, a easy to store. The one that looks like miniature brass knuckles are a killer to use and always seem to brutalize my lemons.   

Ice cream scoops can have a multitude of uses; scooping cookie batter, meatballs, kneidlach, nukedlach. I'm speaking in theory, though, I just end up using hands or standard spoons. 

Whisks won't get that much action, since forks work just as well when it comes to scrambled eggs and salad dressing. If one is hand-whisking egg whites, yeah, but does anyone do that anymore? A silicone-covered one means stirring a bubbling sauce without scratching the pot. Yet not desperately required.

If feeling generous, a meat tenderizer, but you can really use any blunt item for that. Ma uses the handle of her meat shears, even though she has more than one meat tenderizer in the house. 

Meat shears makes cleaning dead animal a dream.

I have never, ever used an oven mitt. Can never find the dang thing, and the stiff construction compromises on the grip. Dish towels are always ready at attention, and do so many other tasks besides.

Table and Dinner:  

A beautiful table is streamlined, not cluttered. Chargers serve no valuable purpose, except to cheer up plain dinnerware. Opt for colorful dishes instead. 

We Jews got weekly wine needs, so a sturdy corkscrew. Those little collapsible ones can go rogue on you when there is a table-full of expectant guests. Get one with weight, power, and arms that can be manipulated. Something that looks humorously human, for instance.  

Salt shakers yes, pepper shakers eh. I don't think I've ever seen anyone use the pepper shaker. 

Napkin rings are pretty, yes, but meh. Everyone walks in, says "ooh, aah," and then there is the whole awkward collection of the rings after the napkins are extracted. Folding a napkin beneath the forks makes it less of a hassle, and the results are just as classy. 

One vase will do; I know men try to maintain steady Friday flowers, but cut them a break from time to time. Not too narrow nor too wide in mouth and build; not too tall nor too short.

Not everyone lives for meat (sounds crazy, but true). Steak knives make the list only if one is seriously carnivorous. You know, those people who actually use their grill twice a week, summer or winter.

Cake stands take up too much space for so little purpose, especially if they have a matching lid. It also places the burden on the hostess to churn out stunning presentable desserts. Trust me, just bake a brownie in a pan, cut it into pieces, serve on individual plates with a dollop of cream on top. Your guests will idolize you.

Cake knives are large, cumbersome, magically invisible whenever needed, and brutalize the dessert in the process of slicing. A cake requires the delicate touch of the serrated utility knife anyway.

Invest in the basics: dishes, glasses, flatware. Nothing else is really important. I would recommend that instead of "buy cheaper now, get better later," if possible, it would be more financially savvy to purchase better quality to begin with. 

I totally forgot a number of items, so does the audience have anything to add? 

The Silicone Spatula and Other Doohickies

One for fleishigs, milchigs, and pareve. It will change your life. 

Silicone is heat- and freezer-proof. Spatulas have that whippy, sharp-edged form to thoroughly scrape and stir. Combine the two, and cooking will never be the same. 

Instead of using metal flatware that scrape my beautiful pots, or fumbling with an inefficient wooden spoon, I can flip and mix the boiling and the bubbling. When it is time to serve, I can get every fleck out of the pot. 

Note not all are created the same. Some may be too thick in the center, some not quite sharp enough along the edge, some just too dang heavy. Experiment. Read reviews. 

Ma found this one by Zyliss in Homegoods, and it is has a sacred spot in the milchig sink (with a multitude of backups in the basement, when each officially cries uncle). It was originally meant only for the morning oat bran and scrambled eggs of breakfast. 

Via gq.com

Once those once mundance cooking processes had been converted into religious experiences, she scurried out and bought other brands in different colors to differentiate for pareve. Then when one became accidentally fleishigs, we were all, "Hey, why didn't we do this sooner?"     

There are plenty others to try. Getting every drop of paprikás sauce onto a plate is so much fun.

As for other doohickies: 

For Pesach, we have no food processor. The year-round one gets little use as it is. 

But there are a few recipes that could use a chopping tool, like charoses, so we had a hand-cranked version that could also be used on yontif. When the blades became dangerously dull, I browsed online for a replacement. 

I bought the Chef'n VeggiChop Hand-Powered Food Processor. It's cool, you pull on the string on top like a lawn mower to get it going. It's not very large—about three cups—but it is smartly designed for easy use, everything interlocking neatly and competently. 

I used it for the first time to liquefy an avocado for a Pesach brownie on Sunday (don't ask, haven't yet tasted the results) and it did a great job. It was fun, too. 

Zyliss also has a model, and Brieftons has a four cup version, if one desires something roomier.  

Things

There's now a whole movement in de-cluttering, complete with rules like "When you buy one thing, give another away." In my case, that usually involves a divinely long-enough skirt, and no way am I giving away any of my other divinely long-enough skirts. 

 

It is a sign of distinction to have streamlined, neat, decor. Serious hoarding is not healthy, and attachment to things is not the ideal, but is it so bad to have some junk around?

From an interview with Iris Apfel, the snazziest nonagenarian around: 

. . . people seem to be obsessed with decluttering their homes these days, but you’re known for keeping your house filled with all sorts of treasures. Why? I love clutter. I think being totally minimal shows a lack of history and soul, and I find it sort of pitiful. I think it’s wonderful to have stuff and live with memories and things you enjoy.

Dominique Browning echoes her sentiments in "Let's Celebrate the Art of Clutter":

I would like to submit an entirely different agenda, one that is built on love, cherishing and timelessness. One that acknowledges that in living, we accumulate. We admire. We desire. We love. We collect. We display.

And over the course of a lifetime, we forage, root and rummage around in our stuff, because that is part of what it means to be human. We treasure.

Why on earth would we get rid of our wonderful things?

. . . The stuff we accumulate works the same way our body weight does. Each of us has a set point to which we invariably return. Each of us has been allotted a certain tolerance, if not a need, for stuff; each of us is gaited to carry a certain amount of weight in possessions.

Some of us, rare breeds, tend toward the minimalist; some tip into a disorder of hoarding. Most of us live in the middle range. How marvelous it is to simply accept that, and celebrate it.

Many types of people plod along this Earth. Some cannot handle excess; some cannot handle bareness; some just seek a delicate balance. 

I have been making a point to be more mindful when it comes to purchases. Will it have use? Will I adore it? Will I not regret buying it? 

Browning hopes her children will treasure her priceless antique finds; I am more partial to the artifacts that have traveled down my family tree. My Zeidy's menorah, his esrog halter, the painting he bought in Israel. 

Because my niece had an assignment, I discovered a whole back story to one of my favorite items, a Pesachdik enamel tin plate, always called Lúdas Matyi for the image of a boy and a goose painted on it. 

I googled Lúdas Matyi (which means "Mattie the Gooseboy") and discovered that it is actually an epic poem about a lowly gooseboy who gets revenge over an unscrupulous lord who tries to cheat him. When communism came to Hungary, they took to it for obvious reasons. 

Hey, I'm eating my Pesach potatoes on a communist plate! Cool!

Tempting Food

With childhood obesity becoming an increasing concern, researchers have been trying to figure out the best parenting strategies for raising healthy eaters. 

The title of the article, "The Lure of Forbidden Food" by Tara Parker-Pope, amused me. After all, I would think that us Jews would know everything there is to know about forbidden food, no? 

You wouldn't catch many frum-from-births dreaming about BLTs, because in essence, you don't miss what you never had. I have heard more than one baal teshuva or convert wistfully reminisce on the lusciousness of shrimp and lobster. FFBs only blink in response. 

The same way one would never find a stash of the other white meat in a religious Jew's freezer, then find him telling his son, "We keep kosher," so to when it comes to "bad" foods: Don't have them in the house, then tell a kid "You can't eat that." 

Restriction, with temptation within reach, is too much for certain children (such as I was/is). My nephew executed suicidal gymnastic feats in order to grasp the bin of purple Laffy-Taffys perched atop the kitchen cabinets; he wasn't exactly appeased by my alternative, sliced apples.

Sure, there will always be that child who totes a bag of straight sugar and fat to school who can expose an unwitting wee veggie-consumer that there is a life beyond cucumbers, but parents have the greatest influence at this point. That's the fun when they are young and impressionable; they actually believe everything their caregivers tell them. Take advantage! 

As for the adults, the same premise applies. Don't buy that which cannot be resisted. It helps not stepping into the supermarket hungry. And sticking to the outer perimeter.   

Needs of Many vs. Needs of Few

Quite some time ago, a community's renowned "mikvah lady" was being honored for her many years of service. When she approached the dais to receive her accolade, her daughter muttered bitterly, "It should be me getting that award."

The honoree, of course, was a mother, and had a household to run. While her chessed efforts left many grateful and admiring, her eldest daughter was left holding the bag, raising children that were not her responsibility.

My sister-in-law once observed, when she considered whether she should make dinner for another household when the mother just had a baby: "So my kids should have pizza while another family gets a home-cooked meal? Does that really make sense?" 

These were the situations I thought of when I read "A Feminist's Daughter Finds Love in the Kitchen" by Jane Benton, a story which I found heart-breaking. 

Benton's mother originally was a fixture in the kitchen, a typical housewife, until she was bitten by the feminist bug. She abandoned all caregiving considerations as she threw herself into her new identity, a feminist force to be reckoned with, and thrived. 

While her children starved, were left alone in an empty house. They didn't know how to cook, and could not feed themselves. Whenever Benton sought her mother's company, she was waved off.

But back then, on many afternoons, I would return to my bedroom, sit on my pink shag rug and cry. It seemed I mattered to no one anymore. My heart shrank into a knob of hurt and yearning.

Twenty-three years later, I accepted a medal of honor for my mother from the Veteran Feminists of America. She was in Bosnia, where she had been leading mask-making workshops with war-scarred women and children. Could I really share with this audience of feminist dignitaries the ambivalence I felt about my mother’s activism?

Despite a childhood of neglect, Benton was generous enough to recognize what her mother did for others. But while societies were saved, the ones who were her immediate responsibility were abandoned. 

I am a feminist, too, and I know there were and are innumerable good reasons for outrage and action. Yet children do not stop needing what they need, even when their parents are fighting for justice. And if you do not attend to them or find a loving substitute, they will suffer and may hold it against you. Even if you have never felt stronger and more truly yourself. Even if you love them. 

Because of my history, I know how much the mundane care of children matters. That is why I stop work when the school day ends and greet my daughter with a hug. I may be tired, stressed out or grumpy; I may bemoan the confinement, the repetition, the career limits. But I do it anyway. I pull away from paid pursuits and open myself to the opportunity to delight in my daughter.   

So she is where she had always wished her mother to be: In the kitchen. 

When I hand her a snack and look into her face, seeking the stories of her day, I intend for her to feel how much she matters. She matters more to me right then than anything I could be doing without her. And we will not have these afternoons forever. 

When we have children, our lives cease to be our own. We are now responsible for others, a bittersweet duty. I currently experience this on a smaller level, when kinfauna tumble in the door; I diligently and tediously slice grapes into halves for the three-year-old, and he gazes into my face with puppy-dog devotion. 

As always, it is the little things that truly count. While Spock proclaimed, "Logic clearly dictates that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few," that is not the go-to of Jewish law. All of our blood is equally valued, and no one is more precious than another.     

Clear that Clog

There is much frustration when a clogged sink will refuse to be accommodating.  

My bathroom sink hasn't been very cooperative. I had purchased "healthy" drain cleaners, which only seemed to compound the problem. If driven to desperation, I will use bleach, but remain in terror of it corroding clean through the pipes.

After a little searching, I came across the drain snake.

I purchased one for $4 at my local hardware store (available for less at a larger chain), and, brandishing my weapon, launched to battle.  

It wasn't pretty. I saw things I never wanted to know existed down my drain. But afterward, no lingering liquid remained in my sink, simply scurrying down to the mysterious yonder with a satisfying "glurp."

I chucked the now grimy drain snake, which was cheaper than the many used up bottles that had claimed to be drain cleaner. In a matter of minutes, my sink was hospitable again, without fumes or chemicals.  

Months later, it is still behaving itself. 

Twister Stepper!

Yes, I hate, loathe, despise working out. The word "gym" makes me shiver in terror. The idea of churning up a sweat is abhorrent to me.

But I am a walker. Ah, walking. Placidly plodding away, no pulled this, no strained that. During the three-day yontifs, I tossed my giddy nephew into the carriage and circled my neighborhood for two hours. We were both happy, never mind his parents. 

Studies have shown that it is primarily what and how much you eat, and to a lesser extent how much one exercises. To clarify: No, marching about for 180 minutes did not magically melt away my belly. But I did feel as though it helped mitigate some of the effects. 

According to an article by Gretchen Reynolds, in regards to the heavy eating associated with the holidays, exercise is able to blunt some of the physiological damage of the seasonal binge. Meaning, there are times when we overeat. When we do, exercise can help "recovery." 

As a walker, it would seem I am an ideal candidate for the treadmill, which my parents purchased when I was in high school. I used it religiously then (not that it particularly had an effect on my weight until I examined my diet) but it was a bit awkward. For one thing, it's pretty boring to be on a treadmill, unless one is watching something, but the treadmill faced the wall and the television was on the side, plus the treadmill made a racket so I couldn't hear the dialogue . . . You get my drift. 

After ten years of disuse, a local Chabad organization cheerfully carted it off. But when weather was bad and I wasn't able to clock in my usual walking, I browsed Amazon for other options. 

The Sunny Health & Fitness Twister Stepper was my salvation. It's not powered by electricity, so there is no loud motor. It's small and light, so it can be tucked away anywhere, not taking up any space. It has adjustable tension, so I can keep it in the range that's comfortable to me. 

Going on it initially, it can be a little stiff, but then it warms up in no time. After a few months, one of the steps began to squeak, but after pinpointing which screw it came from, a little shpritz of WD-40 shut it up. 

It has a dinky little pedometer of sorts on the bottom, but I don't think it's particularly accurate when it comes to calories burned. After all, depending on weight, people burn calories differently. The heavier a person is, the more they burn. I don't take it too seriously. 

It comes with two exercise bands that can be clipped to the machine, and while I find them too short for my use, I give them a tug every once in a while for upper body stuff. 

For those out there who can't (or won't) commit to a tri-weekly trek to the gym (like me), this is a cheaper, more convenient option.     

"Negotiating Peace at Home"

I like Bruce Feiler. He usually has funny and informative articles. This one, "Lessons in Domestic Diplomacy," should be read in its entirety. 

A Clean Room Does Not Mean a Clean Life

The neshama is not happy in a mess, the family guru always said. I do admit, while my room is perennially in need of straightening, tucking away but a few items casts a magical glow of satisfaction. 

But I do not belong to minimalist camp, of homes filled with echoing emptiness. A house should have some clutter; a sefer left on a table, a potted plant (that has managed to outlive my murderous tendency to over-water), decorative yet useless pillows—a home is where living is. 

According to Will Wiles, hysteria over domestic perfection is based on the erroneous belief that all problems can be solved with a squeaky clean home. There are diligent hausfraus who weep at the sight of a speck on their sparkling surfaces, and I wonder if perhaps their constant scrubbing is connected to their sense of worth. 

Wiles claims that there are ad campaigns targeting renovation and redecoration as the means to a happy existence. That is merely what all advertisements attempt to do to sell their clients' stock, but I wonder how many issues are glazed over while solutions are sought in all the wrong avenues.

Sort of like those dramas when a son breaks terrible news to his mother, who simply smiles sunnily and insists she is going to make some dinner, everything looks better after dinner. He trails her as she marches into the kitchen, loudly overriding his objections as she rummages in the fridge for the miracle cure.

Alternatively, consider the Roald Dahl short story "Lamb to Slaughter"; a chipper, pregnant housewife fusses over her husband when he arrives home from work. He tells her some news that shocks her (the audience infers he says he is leaving her for another) and she blankly goes to the fridge to defrost a leg of lamb for supper. When he says he doesn't want supper (obviously), she hits him over the head with the frozen leg, killing him. Then she calmly cooks it to perfection, which she later serves to the investigating police officers, who chat as they munch that the murderer will be caught when they get the murder weapon. Hee hee. 

Now, that is a way to use sparkling domesticity to one's advantage: Use dinner not to shield problems, but to eliminate them.   

Denial may be a standard psychological defense, but nothing gets better until it has been acknowledged and dealt with. I can insist until the cows come home that I don't look like a cow, but that doesn't make it true. Whereas making a choice to eat like a cow (greenery and bran), funnily enough, has very svelte results.