Maman vs. Anyu

I had been given Bringing Up Bébé: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting by Pamela Druckerman when Ben was born, and only managed to read it recently. 

I should have read it earlier—I could have possibly taught him how to sleep through the night without crying it out. But besides for that, I found the rest of the book to be awfully familiar. 

Like, well, my own upbringing, although Ma was no Frenchwoman. Han easily explained why: Ma was European. Druckerman often differentiates between "English-speaking" and the French, but Britain is the land of scary nannies. I don't think the UKers let their kids run amok either. 

I laughed when I read of the technique known as "les gros yeux" or "the big eyes." Ma was a master at that. Druckerman mentions the Dr. Spock of France (Françoise Dolto) and that others, such as the Hungarian Magda Gerber, echo her beliefs. I doubt Ma was channeling the teachings of a parenting specialist, even if she was Hungarian. Babi must have been the same, except I only associate her as a chuckling grandmother who would whip out the kokosh cake whenever we came by. 

Apparently the French expect mothers to be back to their pre-baby weight at three months post-partum. Hell no. 

Excellent. I'll stick with Ma's methods.   

All Roads Lead to Paprikash

I've been meaning to post the paprikash recipe for years. I was especially galvanized following Sam Sifton's spotlight (which was quite a while back, cough cough). 

Growing up, I ate paprikash weekly. It's a beloved household staple that had never been replaced. Once, Ma decided to be enterprising and try something different: chicken cacciatore. She carefully followed all the steps of the recipe, then said dryly, "I just made paprikash." 

See? Irreplaceable. 

Paprikash is simple, and can be altered in any way the chef desires. It can be made with or without green or red peppers. It can be made with other colored bell peppers, like a lecso. If there are some sad, overripe tomatoes on the counter, chuck 'em in. One can add other side dish vegetables towards the end of cooking to simmer divinely in the sauce—turnip, squash, parsnip, potatoes, zucchini, broccoli, etc. Once my sister, on a lark, added red wine, and her kids loved it. 

Over the years, the basic recipe was slightly altered as Ma learned new tips from her tv chefs. She found that when the onions are sliced into half-moons, as opposed to diced, they caramelize most pleasingly. The paprika was upped in quantity, and it should be infused in the hot oil. 

Ma had the talent for making her paprikash seared without actually searing (also known as "almost burnt," just the way I like it). I don't know how she did it, so sometimes I sear the chicken first, then add it back after sauteing the onion.  

While most Hungarian mamas would leave the skin on (although Zsuzsa does not), Ma always removed it (she was into healthy cooking, after all). In my opinion, it allows the paprika flavors to really penetrate. 

The amount of paprika varies by recipe. Zsuzsa uses 2 to 3 tablespoons, others are very stingy. Use as much as you like. 

The picture below shows nokedli as well. But I'll save those babies for another post.

Basic Paprikash

8-10 pieces chicken legs or thighs

1 large onion, thinly sliced into half moons

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 generous tablespoon paprika

a few shakes smoked paprika (optional) 

1 green pepper, thinly sliced (optional)

1. Remove skin from the chicken. 

2. If you like, you can sear the chicken first (but it isn't necessary). Dab the meat dry, sprinkle some salt and paprika, and sear for a few minutes in a hot, oiled pan. 

3. If having seared first, remove the chicken. Next, add the onions and sauté. 

4. When the onions are looking oh so fine, scooch them over to the side of the pan. Add a little more oil and when hot, add the paprika(s) and garlic. Allow the spices to infuse in the oil for a minute, ensuring they do not burn. 

5. Mix the onions and spices back together, and spread the onions evenly along the bottom of the pot. Add back the chicken, and the pepper(s) if using. I like to sprinkle the chicken now with a little salt and some more paprika.

6. Cover and lower the flame to a simmer. The chicken will cook for 90 minutes. If needed, add water only a half cup at a time. But the last few times I made it so much liquid came out of the chicken it wasn't necessary to add anything. 

7. Depending how long your side dish needs to cook, add whatever you like as well, as mentioned above. God, everything tastes amazing in paprikash sauce.   

8. Oh, and it freezes very well. 

"Beauty Can Be a Pleasure"

The point of this post comes from a review of the Netflix series, Anne of Green Gables (to my shame, I have not read the books). The below paragraphs jumped out at me: 

Anne longs to be beautiful. Not only does she wish for her hair to turn a more dignified auburn, she also tells her best friend, Diana Barry, “I’d rather be pretty than clever.” Praying at Marilla’s behest, she asks God to let her stay at Green Gables and to “please let me be good-looking when I grow up.” She loves pretty things, because she has had none, and swoons over cherry blossoms, an amethyst brooch and the possibility of one day having a stylish dress with puffed sleeves, which sensible Marilla refuses to make for her.

If “Anne of Green Gables” were written today, it is easy to imagine that over the course of the book, Anne would come to learn that none of these externalities matter: not the color of her hair, not the sleeves of her dress. Instead, in the novel, her hair mellows to the coveted auburn, and Matthew, in a moment of tremendous fatherly kindness, gives her a dress with puffed sleeves. Rather than dispense the message that it’s only what’s on the inside that counts, “Anne of Green Gables” conveys something more nuanced, that beauty can be a pleasure, that costumes can provide succor, that the right dress can improve your life — all things that adults know to be true, sometimes, but that we try to simplify for our children.

“Green Gables” is rife with complications like these; it’s an artifact from a different time that, instead of being outdated, speaks to ours in an uncanned, unpredictable voice. Anne has survived for so long because she is more sophisticated than she initially seems.

This is what Hungarians understand. God gave us a beautiful world to enjoy, didn't He? In A Beautiful Mind, Alicia says, "God must be a painter. Why else would be have so many colors?"

People are different. Some do not need nor recognize beauty; they find fulfillment elsewhere. But appreciation of aesthetics does carry its own spiritual weight for many. "Basar v'dag" is for man to elevate yuntif; women are to be provided with new garments and jewelry. Is there not majesty to a sparkling Shabbos table? To a decorated sukkah? To a gleaming menorah?

Via cecilafutch.com

Do they not provide succor?   

My Sister, in Pride

It was way before she diagnose me as a fellow introvert when I delightfully concluded we had something in common: Pride in our background. 

She is not Hungarian, like I am. She is Georgian. Not exactly similar to my region of Hungary. But that didn't matter. As she brought out platter after bowl of Georgian dishes, as she told anecdotes from her immediate family, as she reverted to her native tongue to clarify a point, I was drawn to her in kinship. 

Khinkali , Georgian dumplings

"But you weren't born in Hungary," is a snarky comment I often receive. So what? I was raised by those who were, who bear their backgrounds with pride, who abide by its values, who revert to their mother tongues to evoke perspectives that cannot be described in English. And use a lot of paprika in the kitchen. 

Nokedli paprikas

I have met others, Hungarians and non-Hungarians alike, who wish to flee from their heritages. I have a happy connection to mine, true, and cannot speak for those who do not. But "If you don't know where you come from, you don't know where you're going." The past and its mark cannot be denied. We are all products not only of our DNA, but our ancestors' experiences.

Charkhlis Pkhali, Georgian beet salad

After all, we were Jews first. We have stuck to that identity fiercely in the Diaspora. Why not give recognition to the stops along the way?  

Yes, I Do Live

Golly, how I have missed you. 

I know it is not fair of me, but I shan't enlighten my audience just yet about the current state of things. It has been a hectic time in my life—"the best of times, the worst of times"—and I shall remain shtum for a while longer. 

Yet oh, the sweet joy of typing! I cannot abandon it. So I shall move on to other topics. 

Today's discussion: Cultural identity. 

Via pucker mob

Mark Oppenheimer brings up a  point I didn't notice before: There is a delicate difference between "Jew" and "Jewish"—the former is used hesitantly, the latter preferred ("Reclaiming 'Jew'"). 

But do us frummies have any qualms identifying as "a Jew," as opposed to "Jewish"? In my own case, I flatly informed someone just the other week that "I'm a religious Jew." It may be more of an issue for the secular ones of our flock. 

Yes, so we are Jews, one big happy family, etc. etc. Under that umbrella, however, due to the myriad years wandering this inhospitable Earth, we have been transplanted into a variety of countries with their own ethnicities and cultures which became absorbed into our bloodstream. 

How can it be that my nephew is a stereotypical Hungarian in infancy? It latched onto the genes, people. 

J. Courtney Sullivan worries in "Kiss Me, I'm Pretty Sure I'm Irish" that despite her firm Irish upbringing, DNA testing may show that she is not so. 

Being Irish is something I have in common with my relatives, even when distance and politics divide us. Last summer, on a beach vacation, five of us simultaneously pulled out tubes of S.P.F. 50. “We’re Irish,” someone said by way of explanation. The same reason is given for why we rarely hug or talk about our feelings.

Sounds like my crew. Except we say, "We're Hungarian." 

Am I 100% Hungarian? Of course not. That's the joy of it, though; as a Jew, I know I'm not 100% anything, except (hopefully, ancestry could have become muddled over millennia of scurrying) Jewish.

Whatever the results, I’ll still know by heart all those childhood jigs and reels that are responsible for my good posture and complete inability to dance like a normal person. I’ll still sunburn easily. I’ll still come from a large, Irish Catholic family, even if we’re a little less Irish than we thought.

So I shall swoon at the sight of aesthetic beauty, take pride in interior decorating and personal fashion, moan over nukedli paprikash, and whatever else that comes along with being Hungarian. And if I'm not? No worries. The Jews will still keep me.  

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.  

The Dinner Party

Ah, entertaining! We don't do it often enough. When we do, we tend to go a wee bit overboard, so the idea of doing it regularly is a tad overwhelming. Invariably, I forget to bring in the cucumber salad. This time I remembered the salad, but forgot the cookies. My beautiful, beautiful cookies. 

The efforts came out (mostly) so pretty I had to take pictures. 

Ma's pan-cooked salmon, which is how she makes it every week for Shabbos. It was served with a dip composed of mayo, dried dill, and a few cloves of roasted garlic, as well as the almost forgotten cucumber salad and my niece's favorite, tomato salad. 

This one you know already, the Spanish eggplant dip. It was brought out together with the fish, then lingered on the table all night long.

Chicken soup, of course. It's a basic tenet of the faith.

The veal chops were a success, despite being accidentally over-simmered. (The trick is that fish should err on the side of undercooked, while meat can braise away.) It was made by hobbling together a few googled recipes for "pan-cooked veal chops with mushrooms"—by us, meat doesn't get put into the oven unless absolutely necessary. 

For our heimishe guests, out came the old country: kaposztás tészta (cabbage and noodles). However, my local store did not have—gasp—the large square egg lukshen that is tészta (Manischewitz definitely makes 'em), so bow ties were used instead. (Mind, if it wasn't for company, I would have reached for the whole-wheat pasta.)

The other main was my new, improved love, stuffed pepper (töltött paprika). It's so photogenic, I don't know which shot came out pepper—I mean better. Aren't they gorgeous? Or is it just me?

This ended up being more for me than for the guests, but I didn't mind. It was a pleasure to eat it.

Other sides that I neglected to photograph were pan-roasted vegetables (carrots, parsnip, and Brussels sprouts), cauliflower kugel (which stays so stubbornly bland I ended up chucking in nutritional yeast and a head of roasted garlic for flavor, and it totally worked), oven-roasted beets that no one ate (although they were so amazingly sweet! Without any sweetener added!), sautéed sugar snap peas with shallots and sun-dried tomato. 

Dessert was the forgotten cookies, macadamia nuts (the KING of the nuts!), brownie topped with cashew cream (also hammered together from a multitude of recipes). 

Yeah, we totally made too much. No worries, we lived on it for the next week and change. 

TGIF

Yup, it's that good.

Thanks, Prof, for sending it.

Stuffed Pepper

I'm a sauce lover. Anything that involves a sauce, I'm there. I often ignore the ikkur (i.e. meatballs). Just sauce me. 

Stuffed cabbage is the stereotypical dish of my people, but Ma has always preferred preparing its close sibling, stuffed pepper. Not much difference between the two, except that stuffing pepper is an easier task than pre-wilting cabbage leaves and carefully folding the contents therein. 

My household has now entered an age of new and improved eating, which usually means that old-timey favorites may require . . . reinvention.

How does the classic stuffed pepper go? (1) canned tomato sauce = copious sodium. (2) white rice = unnecessary carbs/little nutritional value (3) red meat = obvious reasons, as well as the fact that I'm not crazy about beef. I like birds. (4) green peppers = aesthetically lacking. 

Research commenced. Recipes were summoned. Grated vegetables appeared in many, replacing the rice. Others used red, orange, and yellow peppers, turkey and chicken instead of cow. 

Although, none that I could find used tomato sauce. Philistines. I don't need you. I would note, however, that at least one pepper should be green, since that adds an extra dimension to tomato.

The results of the first attempt were quite tasty, minor tweaks required. The joy of stovetop cooking is that rarely are exact recipes needed, more of a general guideline. 

Various recipes used various quantities of various vegetables; I used some of each, to palatable delight. So one doesn't need to use specifically what I used below; mixing, matching, and omitting is fine. 

Stuffed Pepper—Vague Guideline (please alter/improvise) 

4-5 bell peppers, one green (try to select peppers that will stand in a pot)

1 lb ground meat (I like chicken) 

2 carrots, grated*

2 zucchinis, grated*

1 onion, grated (or shallots, or scallions, or leeks)*   

2 stalks celery, grated*

2-3 fresh mushrooms, grated* 

4 cloves garlic, grated/minced

hefty gratings of black pepper 

squirt of mustard
squirt of sriracha

1 spoonful tomato paste (from the below jar)  

     Sauce:

(one can also sauté an onion for the base)

1 15 oz. jar diced/crushed tomatoes

1 6 oz. jar tomato paste

1 tablespoon honey/sugar

1 tablespoon to ¼ cup vinegar/wine  

generous sprinkle of Italian seasoning (oregano and/or basil will do) 

shake of red pepper flakes 

1. Buzz vegetables of choice through the grating blade in the food processor. Heat oil in bottom of pot, pouring in these vegetables to sweat down a little, along with the spoonful of paste. Initially cover, then remove lid as the heat builds. The intent is not to caramelize, but to shoo out some liquid. Stir from time to time. When they are at the desired limp state, remove from heat. 

2. While the above is shvitzing, prepare the peppers. Carefully cut off the tops, trying to keep them whole, if possible (if not, no biggie). Remove seeds with knife, fingers, serrated spoon. For steadier standing, slightly slice the bottom bumps to make them more level.

3. Being careful not to overwork the meat, mix in, along with the seasonings, about half the vegetables.

4. Stuff the peppers, and place them aside. 

5. Heat a little more oil (if sautéing an onion, this is your moment) and add all sauce ingredients and remaining buzzed veggies. Tomato sauce can burn easily, so keep an eye on the flame once it reaches a vigorous simmering point. 

6. Once tomato sauce is good and hot, carefully add the peppers. (I miscalculated the roominess of my pot, and had to move some peppers and sauce into another.)

7. Cook for about an hour, checking to make sure nothing "sticks."

8. I was very, very happy.

*Vegetable quantities is based on preference. No hard rules here. Leave them out; add more of others. Your call. (A recipe I recently discovered for stuffed cabbage uses cauliflower to replace the rice. That's also an option.)    

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.    

The Sweetest Revenge

I'm a sucker for a BBC adaptation. I will shamefully confess that I have read few of the grand novels that grace the screen, and if I had, I certainly prefer the film versions over the printed page. 

So, pajama-clad, I snuggle down and smile to myself as I watch maidens being wooed and gentlemen doing something dashing. Like rescue heroines. Yes, it would be better if the gals could rescue themselves, but that wasn't likely in 19th century classics.* (Margaret in North & South was a fabulous exception, saving the day all the time. Best of all the movies, totally.)

In Sense and Sensibility, the loudly heartbroken Marianne Dashwood has to be carted home from London to her mother (never mind that Elinor is suffering the same disappointment, but someone has to take care of everything, right?) and the only means to do so without troublesome expense is to share a ride with the Palmers, whose estate lies temptingly close to Willoughby's. 

Claiming a need for a refreshing walk, with proclamations that it shan't rain, the silly goose Marianne heads for Combe Magna—just to gaze at it—and gets utterly soaked in a deluge. When she is missed, Colonel Brandon (fabulously cast in the 2008 version) goes looking for her and rescues the idiot. 

Since her constitution was weakened due to her exhaustive weeping, Marianne is gripped by a violent fever and almost dies. 

I tended to focus on the whole dreamy heroics of the Colonel, so I didn't give Marianne's near-deadly actions much notice. But seriously, girl. Do you want to give the scumbag (who seduces and abandons 15-year-old farmgirls) who threw you over the satisfaction of knowing that you literally can't live without him? 

Jane Eyre does the same thing! Even though she's so capable, so witty, so resilient. She overcame hardships that would have Marianne whimpering in a corner. Yet, when she discovers that Rochester has a crazy wife in the attic, what does she do? 

She leaves Thornfield in the middle of the night, no plan in place—her only short-sighted intent being to get as far away as possible. Women with little money and no friends do not have the luxury of forgetting their worldly goods in a coach. She ends up wandering the moors until, starved, chilled, and probably near death (a favorite of Gothic authors?), she collapses on St. John's doorstep.

 

Look, I know. Getting jilted (Marianne) or being robbed of a happily ever after (Jane) sucks. Rejection makes the rejectee think that she is without value. All one wants to do is curl up in bed, give up on face cream, and let the figure go.

But is that the way to get back at the man who pretended to be single (Rochester)? Hell no!

When Jennifer Garner graced the red carpet following her breakup with Ben, the term the media went with was "revenge." She has never looked so fabulous. Trim, glowing, and devastating: Eat your heart out. 

You have worth. Even if he decided he didn't want to cherish you.  

Have a Marianne-level good cry. Then splash the face with de-puffing cold water, and get to work. Retinol. Cosmetics. A slammin' outfit.

Elinor rocks.     

 

*Disclaimer: While I enjoy such situations on the screen or the page, I harbor no fantasies of being rescued myself. If anything, I would be mortified. "No, I'm okay, really, please don't call Hatzolah, I'm sure this broken bone will heal in no time, kindly go on your way, thanks very much." 

Hungarian Menu Benefits

My palate is certainly biased to the Hungarian flavors on which I was raised. I try to politely sample other fare, but have rarely found anything else that can ever possibly compete. 

Kapostas testa, Via zsuzsa is in the kitchen

Behold the Magyar kitchen's greater powers: That of contriving marriages.

He returned a couple of weeks later, raising the stakes by preparing his Hungarian mother’s recipe for chicken paprikash (he brought sweet paprika with him), along with Hungarian nokedli dumplings. “Everything went well,’’ he said. “Once you start eating together and cooking together, it’s a little more intimate.” 

Spying that detail in the wedding announcements made us squeal in glee. 

At every family gathering, Ma would truly love to present something new. But she has accepted that everyone expects, nay, demands, the nokedlach. It truly unleashes the primal competitiveness in us all. 

Via internationalcuisine.com

My nieces just don't get it, though. They're so cute. They say, "I'll have some later," as though there will be any some left to have.

One of these days I shall be magnanimous enough to share the recipe. One of these days.