"Jewish" Food?

Is there such a thing as "Jewish food"? 

I belong to a number of Jewish food groups. Some are more cultural, shall we say, than religious. During the pre-Chanukah season, the page was obviously going berserk for latke recipes. 

One person asked if she could make latkes in the oven. "The point is that they're fried!" she was sternly admonished. Since this was the more cultural page, I was amused. Is this what people think is important about the holiday—frying? The message of anti-assimilation is more vital, me thinks—and relevant.

Potatoes, to begin with, were not around in the times of the Chashmonaim. Chanukah food used to be cheese fritters, but Eastern European Jews only had shmaltz, not oil, to fry with. They therefore couldn't use cheese, so they relied on the sturdy potato that is readily available from winter storage. 

So what we have here is a holiday dish with tenuous ties to the original holiday. Now that we know about smoke point, frying in extra virgin olive oil is not recommended. So, does frying in sunflower oil or butter or shmaltz make something a Chanukah food? Shouldn't we be making more of an effort to consume olive oil, which doesn't necessarily mean frying? (I heartily recommend these cookies instead. Or, even better, good ol' salad vinaigrette.)  

My upbringing revolved around paprikash. The only thing that's Jewish about it is that typical Hungarian paprikash is usually served with sour cream, and the Jewish version is not.  

Jews are a bendy people—that's how we've survived. We learned, as we were shunted from place to place, how to pick up bits and pieces from the current culture around us and make it our own. Like braided challah—it has taken over our lives so much that women think bread HAS to be braided for Shabbos, when, no. That's an echo of a European fad in the 1500s, ladies. If women knew bread for Shabbos doesn't require braiding, maybe they would make it more often. 

I happen to like chremslach better than latkes—and both are fried potato patties. Yet the former is "for" Pesach, and the latter is "for" Chanukah. There's no rhyme or reason to it. It's just that in Eastern Europe, people ate potatoes all the time, and had to make do. 

So no, I'm not going to start deep frying on Chanukah just because "you have to fry" on Chanukah. We don't "have" to, especially if frying makes you nervous (it makes me nervous!) and/or not really worth the work for you.

And lately, my timid tastebuds have been experimenting with more "exotic" options, like tahina and silan (I'm so daring, she said sarcastically). 

It's all Jewish food. There's no right or wrong way of doing it, except if it's treif.

Alone But Not Alone

This Pesach will be a lonely holiday for many of us. It will be a long one as well, three days for us chutz l'aretz folk. 

For those who will have to be alone—as in alone alone—for Pesach, there is the concern that what sort of Seder could they possibly conduct? Ask the Mah Nishtana to oneself? Answer the questions oneself? 

Especially if one has happy memories of previous Sedarim surrounded by multitudes. Or at least one other person to share the experience with. 

A lot of our mitzvos have to be practiced in solitude nowadays. This isolation is a major adjustment for our communal programming. We are so used to Jewish practice along with our tribe that for some, it's akin to an identity crisis.

But I wonder: Have we forgotten the point? Sure, it's fun to do things with others—davening,  rituals, celebrations, meals, etc.—but the point of these practices isn't always the company.  It's service. Avodah. Which, in the end, is between Hashem and the individual.  

There is an article by Rabbi Pini Dunner that is circulating, telling over a story of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, as witnessed by Rabbi YY Jacobson. 

My Zeidy had been chummy with the Rebbe, and while not chassidish, he was quite the fan; this story confirms why. The Rebbe was an Eved Hashem. He could have a solitary Seder—by choice—because he saw it as a mitzvah, as opposed to a family dinner. 

Browsing through the Mishpacha Magazine website, I came across a story called "Night Light" by Michal Marcus, printed in 2016. The story is about a teenage girl who is feeling lost. Her parents have recently divorced; her mother is no longer frum, her father is tired and preoccupied,  her sister is newly married and wants to escape into her new life, her brother is away in yeshiva. There's only so many times she can knock on her friend's door. 

Shabbos now involves takeout and awkward silences with her father. Without the home-cooked meals, the warmth of family, the joyous flair, she struggles to hold on to Shabbos. 

The one person who is attuned to her predicament is her teacher, and after a disastrous Shabbos by her mother, she finds herself at her Morah's apartment.  

Her teacher lives alone, no family nearby. She explains to her student that she tried to get Shabbos right—while she didn't have the husband and kids yet, she could go to other homes and get it right there. But it still wasn't hitting the mark. 

She made Shabbos for herself. She felt odd busily preparing for one, eating for one, singing alone.

“And it hit me: Shabbos wasn’t about the challah and wine. It wasn’t about the husband and kids. It wasn’t even about zemiros. Shabbos was about Hashem. It was about His creation, all of it — including me. It was about all the beautiful things I enjoyed, and all the difficult ones I couldn’t understand. It was about finding the Source.”

She falls silent. The candle sputters. The room is draped in peace. “Once I realized that, it was fine having a meal alone. Do I wish my Shabbos was different? Of course. But the core I have. No one can take that away. Shabbos — all of life really — is just about the two of us: Hashem and me.”

This was the message the girl needed to hear. That even though there was no longer a happy, complete family, she still had Hashem, and Shabbos is their day together. 

Hashem redeemed all of us from Mitzrayim on Pesach. Pesach is not about the cute four-year-old lisping the Four Questions. It's an opportunity this year to dig deeper, to discover new insights, to reaffirm our connection Above, when we are cut off from those besides us.

Shabbos Lashes

Three day yuntif. For a makeup lover like myself, cue the 😱 emoji. I love yuntif! But keeping on mascara for three days is quite daunting.

In my younger, pre-baby days, keeping makeup on for so long was a challenge I was amenable to tackle. But I now cherish sleep to the point that I just want to bury my face into a pillow and pass out after a 2 am feeding.

I still, however, want to go out in public with my dignity intact.

A few years back I heard of magnetized false lashes. The lashes attach with magnets, so they can be applied and removed and reapplied on Shabbos. As I  am armed with Shabbos makeup, mascara is the only chink in my armor.

So this past Shabbos I gave it a trial run. I purchased a set by Lash’d Up on Amazon called "I Woke Up This Way," and after a few tries, managed to somewhat successfully apply them. They aren’t too dramatic - my mascara is usually more over the top - and with Shabbos eyeliner I was able to make it look more blended with the lash line. 

Because they are magnetized, you can’t use metal tweezers to get them on. I think I will look for plastic ones to assist.

So after a bleary night with baby, I was able to take my eyes from bare to smoky on Shabbos, with lashes!

The Messiah cometh!

TGI Chanuka

• The fascinating history of latkes (they weren't always potato, people!) from Poppy and Prune; and
  
• "The Hypocrisy of Hanukkah." It is quite ironic.

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." 

Make 'Em Laugh

"Just laugh," my mother insisted, when I would come home with some tale of classmate unkindness. "Whatever they say, just laugh." 

She didn't explain why laughing worked, so I was never really able to force myself to "ha ha" during verbal torment.

Moises Velasquez-Manoff explains why laughter is the best medicine. It's called "humorous subversion"; a German town struggled for years to dissuade neo-Nazis from their annual parade, until they started a tactic of mockery. Instead of legitimizing fascists by reacting with violence, they laugh at them, removing any mamashus they could have achieved. 

Humor is a particularly powerful tool — to avoid escalation, to highlight the absurdity of absurd positions and to deflate the puffery that, to the weak-minded at any rate, might resemble heroic purpose. . . 

By undercutting the gravitas white supremacists are trying to accrue, humorous counterprotests may blunt the events’ usefulness for recruitment. Brawling with bandanna-clad antifas may seem romantic to some disaffected young men, but being mocked by clowns? Probably not so much.

The first Nazi, Haman, lost whatever honor he had managed to accrue when he was forced into playing groom for Mordechai's horse. Then there's the meforash regarding being showered in excrement. 

Many of our holidays revolve around our salvation from harm, yet only Purim is about hedonistic laughter and bliss. Children are encouraged to laugh at the initially terrifying villain who died a buffoon—perhaps because we should not give mamashus to flesh and blood enemies, only to God.  

"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?   

TGI Thanksgiving

• "Collecting Strays at the Thanksgiving Table" by Ann Patchett;

• "Suck It In, It's Party Season" by Joyce Wadler 

 

Ugh, That Word

Americans are obsessed with happiness. It's in the Constitution, for crying out loud. Yet it is this very frantic pursuit that is making us anxious, according to Ruth Whippman. British by birth, she never gave happiness a thought until she moved to the U.S., and it became a never-ending conversation.

There are two anecdotes of Americans clashing with the French over happiness—the book reviewer, Hannah Rosin, being called a "stupid American" for smiling, and another from Pamela Druckerman, an American living in France. When her daughter's teacher asked her to give a presentation on being American, she concluded her talk by teaching the children "If You're Happy and You Know It." The teacher, puzzled, asked "What does it mean, 'appy?" 

Is happiness like kavod, that the more one runs after it, the more elusive it is? How does one achieve kavod? By sitting quietly, a letting it approach one gingerly, on little cat feet. 

Judith Newman analyzes a pile of books on the subject. She's happy, she says, because she is "The Queen of Low Expectations." Now that she mentions it, that has been working for me, too. 

 

The various titles she slogged through recommend different methods for happiness achievements: linking happy pastime with to-dos; witnessing moral good; gazing into a doggie's eyes; love yourself and everyone; live within your means; stop comparing yourself to others and just don't give a hoot. 

Via simplifiedbuilding

As Jews, we just emerged from Sukkos, when we are commanded to be happy. A lover of yuntif, I'm glad to report I perhaps not the divine simcha that our greats are able to achieve, but certainly happiness of sorts. To be commanded to emote is interesting. But isn't it a joy to celebrate Him? 

Be Flexible, Not Fixed

This week is all about going back from the wrong path and starting again. I'm surprised how many (frum!) Jews aren't willing to acknowledge how they have the power to alter much—not by trying to save the world, but by tackling their own minds and actions. 

Studies are showing that "DNA is not destiny"—in terms of heart disease, for instance, a good lifestyle makes up for bad genes, while a bad lifestyle negates good genes. And one didn't have to be an angel, either; "It looks as if the biggest protective effect by far came from going from a terrible lifestyle to one that was at least moderately good."

Dr. Jane Brody profiled Brooklyn borough president Eric Adams, who completely reversed his lifestyle and successfully handled his diabetes diagnosis in the span of three months. 

Rather than proselytize, Mr. Adams prefers to teach by example, introducing people to healthy foods and providing helpful information. “I don’t want to become an annoying vegan,” he said. “My hope is that by having people focus on adding healthy things to their plates, rather than unhealthy things, they’ll eventually only have room for the healthy ones.”

Sur mei'ra, v'asei tov.   

Via cookingclassy

Very often, we create limiting beliefs and we stubbornly cling to them. Like Aya Cash: "The First Time I Ate a Vegetable (I Was 22)." 

For years, I had been telling everyone that I didn’t eat vegetables. I believed I hated them. I even took pride in the fact that I could fill my body with junk and not gain weight. I secretly, ridiculously, bizarrely thought my anti-vegetable stance made me intriguing. Unique. Idiosyncratic.

But sometimes we tell stories about ourselves that aren’t true. Sometimes stories we think are fixed are actually flexible. . .

I realized that I had determined a defining characteristic based on who I was at 6. I had not tried again for 16 years.

What else had I decided about myself that might not be true anymore? What had I decided about other people? That piece of lettuce was my first recognition that my identity was not set, but malleable.

I used to think belly button piercings were cool. I used to date men who didn’t like me. I used to smoke. I had never wanted to get married; I thought it wasn’t “who I was.” But a few years ago, I found myself feeling otherwise. This didn’t mean I was a different person. But the narrative I had about myself had changed.

Would I have learned this in other ways? Probably. But that bite opened me up to the possibility that change can happen even when you’re not trying; you just have to stay curious.

A Thankful Year

Rabbi Glatstein said in a Rosh Hashana shiur that we cannot ask for a good year until we have thanked Hashem for the past one. 

 

In that theme of gratitude, I can link a Thanksgiving article, I think: Frank Bruni's "One Holiday, and Countless Ways to Say Thanks." 

Someone, usually my Uncle Jim, says a grace of greater length and intensity than the ones at other holidays. He speaks of God and gratitude, demonstrating that if we look at our lives through the right lens, we see blessings everywhere, and they outnumber obstacles.

Gratitude is a feat of perspective. When I talked with other people recently about their ways and whys of giving thanks, I was most struck by how often their rituals arose from travails, not triumphs. Hardship was handmaiden to an examination of all that remained good, all that they should cling tight to.

I'm speaking from experience here: One can find hakoras hatov even when everything goes to hell in a handbasket. It can be done when one sees the Hand of Hashem in all things. Hashgocha pratis, not hashgocha klalis. The Eibishter is in your life as much as you allow Him in.   

By Work, Not By Word

"And R' Yitzchak said: If someone tells you, 'I labored but did not succeed,' don't believe him. If he tells you, 'I have not labored, yet I have succeeded,' don't believe him. If, however, he tells you, 'I have labored, and I have succeeded,' you may believe him" (Megillah 6B).  

There are a number of people who made it big with the assistance of the internet. Makeup artists (i.e. Michelle Phan), singers (i.e. Bieber), and those of other dubious talents (i.e. Kardashians) have found fame and fortune via those opportunities. But people forget there was work involved (even for the Kardashians), not just hashtagging self-promotion. 

"Good News for Young Strivers" by Adam Grant is a reminder that in the end, results count, not horn-tooting. Achievements lead to successful networking, not vice versa. Beneficial networking doesn't mean chasing after prey; it's about bringing the prey to you. For that, you need to draw them close with something other than a blank "Look at me!" 

In life, it certainly helps to know the right people. But how hard they go to bat for you, how far they stick their necks out for you, depends on what you have to offer. Building a powerful network doesn’t require you to be an expert at networking. It just requires you to be an expert at something.

Yes, there are businesses that take off by "happening to bump into the right person." But if one doesn't have anything for the other to remember them by, fuhgeddabouit. 

 

Cal Newport goes further ("Quit Social Media. Your Career May Depend on It") that the hashtagging is not merely a neutral influence, but a malignant one to a career. He claims that since social media is addictive, and robs one of focus that should be applied to one's work, it actually negatively impacts the performance that must speak for itself. 

If you’re serious about making an impact in the world, power down your smartphone, close your browser tabs, roll up your sleeves and get to work.  

This same premise applies, I believe, to Rosh Hashana and repentance. It's our actions that is our greatest proof of remorse, not merely "so sorry." Biting one's tongue, giving to tzedakah, flashing a smile to a stranger—you can take that to God, no status update needed. 

Altogether Now

On Rosh Chodesh and Chanukah, I cannot help but remember my schoolgirl days when reaching Hallel. The institution's policy was that for Hallel, all the girls would gather in the auditorium, and would sing it altogether. 

I have been told my singing ability is questionable, yet when hundreds of children belt the tunes out, it doesn't matter. Singing together was an uplifting experience. No matter what was contributed, a softer voice, a jarring bellow, a mellifluous harmony, a discordant squawk, the end result was the same: Beautiful unity. 

I feel an additional pleasure, though, greater than flow, when I sing in a choir. It’s a mode of singing that strikes a balance between feeling necessary — each voice must participate to achieve the grand unified sound — and feeling invisible, absorbed into the choir, your voice no longer yours. I can work hard, listen hard and disappear, let the ocean of sound close over me. It is comforting to disappear into all that sound and to know that no one else will hear me, either. The performance feels like a secret.

A choral group may possess unity, but that unity depends on the behaviors of its individuals. . . There were some true believers there and some young, lost people who had been imperfectly absorbed into faiths that their former lives demanded of them. Their desires joined mine. Imagine a web of gazes all around the room: the baritones looking at the basses, the second sopranos all looking at, singing to, training their longing on the same lethally hot countertenor. Doubtless some of them were thinking of God.

So writes Sarah Manguso, in Letter of Recommendation: Choir. Whilst Jewish (I think), she joined a church choir in college for the above experience. 

That transcendence stays with me for the rest of the year following Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur. I dare to presume that everyone's favorite piyut is "Ki Anu Amecha." There is an increased surge in the room's energy when it is reached. The words are simple for such eloquent yearning—where we all join together, on various levels and beliefs, as one. 

A Fetik Holiday to All

I can't believe it took me until now to find latkes historically inaccurate. After being unnerved by a Jeopardy! clue that stated that the latke is a knock-off from—get this—a Greek sidedish, I gave it a google, leading to "What's a Latke, Really?" by Yoni Appelbaum.

Yet I had known that potatoes were indigenous to South America, making their European debut after the explorers lugged them back in the mid-1500s. 

As for frying in oil, Eastern European Jewry did not have canola. They had schmaltz, animal fat. If shooting for miraculous similarities, that ain't exactly from an olive. 

"Ma, did you have latkes in Hungary?" 

Snort. "Nope." 

Via Dinner With Rachel

Ah. Chremslach for Pesach, at least. I always liked those better than latkes. Babi did make donuts, though, for Chanuka—fánk.

But both latkes and donuts have limited appeal. Latkes are only good while still warm, and keeping them that way without drying them out is tiresome. Donuts are great fresh. Not longer than that. 

Baruch Hashem for our lives of prosperity; every home is equipped, year-round, with extra-virgin olive oil—shemen zayis zuch. However, it has a low-smoke point, meaning it is not ideal for frying. So instead of using the oil of the neis, we use the oil of . . . dubious origin to celebrate the holiday and consume needless calories. 

I think this year, I shall commemorate Chanuka with salad dressing. How authentic!

 

Rabbi Frand's Yom Kippur

Rabbi Yissocher Frand:
"At Your Service"

אז תקרא וד' יענה תשוע ויאמר הנני

“Then you will call out and Hashem will answer; you will cry out and He will say ‘Here I am’” (Yeshaya 58:9, Haftorah for Shacharit)

While we may many times wonder how we can have our tefillot answered, on the day of Yom Kippur, we are revealed the secret. The Navi Yeshaya tells us in the Haftorah reading, “אז תקרא וד' יענה תשוע ויאמר הנני – Then you will call out and Hashem will answer; you will cry out and He will say ‘Here I am’” (Yeshaya 58:9).

There are fourteen places in Tanach that the expression “Hineni – Here I am” is used. Thirteen out of the fourteen places are contextually the same with the servant responding to the master, “Here I am; at your service.” Avraham responded to Hashem after he was commanded to bind Yitzchak to the Altar, “Here I am;” Moshe Rabbeinu, as well, used this expression when he encountered Hashem at the Burning Bush. The one exception to the word Hineni expressing the Jewish people’s readiness to serve G-d is in this Pasuk from Yeshaya. This time, the Jews call out to their Master, the Ribono Shel Olam, and He is the One to respond “Hineni – Here I am.”

How did we get the Ribono Shel Olam to respond? What is special about this situation that causes the roles to be reversed?

The Gemara (Yevamot 63a) tells us what this Pasuk is referring to:

והמקרב את קרוביו... עליו הכתוב אומר אז תקרא וד' יענה תשוע ויאמר הנני
One who brings his relatives near, upon him the verse says, “Then you will call out and Hashem will answer; you will cry out and He will say ‘Here I am.’”

What do we have to do to have our prayers answered? What is this Pasuk telling us to do to shake the heavens? Finish Shas in one year? Recite Sefer Tehillim every day? Give millions of dollars to tzedakah? No.

Bring your relatives close. Just be nice to your sister-in-law.

Why is this the secret formula?

The Maharal clues us into the underlying reason: “The Ribono Shel Olam’s relationship with Klal Yisrael is that of a relative.” We are Hashem’s family. And when we act kindly to our family, Hashem says, “I will deal with you measure for measure. If you treat your family nicely, I will treat you nicely.”

Our own family oftentimes presents the greatest of challenges. This is especially true of siblings. Yet, consider for a moment which people we are most closely related to. With whom do we share the most similar and identical DNA? It is not our children or our parents, but our siblings. If you have ever thought of it, the longest-lasting relationship is that of siblings. Our siblings can live with us for sixty, seventy or even eighty years. It is the longest relationship, yet sometimes the most difficult.

Treating our family as they deserve to be treated is the key to having Hashem, our dearest Father in Heaven, say to us, “When you call out, I am at Your service.”

As we enter the holiest day of Yom Kippur and look to make amends and ask forgiveness from our family and friends, we ought to take a moment and ponder how we treat them. Do we show them our appreciation, give them our undivided attention, treat them respectfully and considerately, and love them unconditionally? That is the question we must ask ourselves. If we wish to have our tefillot answered, this is where we need to begin.

"The Eve of Rosh Hashanah" by Yehuda Amichai

The eve of Rosh Hashanah. At the house that’s being built,
a man makes a vow: not to do anything wrong in it,
only to love.

Sins that were green last spring

dried out over the summer. Now they're whispering.

So I washed my body and I clipped my fingernails,

the last good deed a man can do for himself

while he's still alive. 

What is man? In the daytime he untangles into words

what night turns into a heavy coil.  

What do we do to one another—

a son to his father, a father to his son?

And between them and death there's nothing

but a wall of words

like a battery of agitated lawyers. 

And whoever uses people as handles or as rungs of a ladder

will soon find himself hugging a stick of wood

and holding a severed hand and wiping his tears 

with a potsherd. 

Discovered via this article by Rosie Schaap. 

"Shabbos Makeup"

As my readership knows, I kinda have The Shabbos Face down pat (although it is always open to improvements). But Yuntif, ah, Yuntif. Two days to keep paint on, especially if finagling with grabby kinfauna? A difficulty indeed. 

This past Pesach, I decided to invest in rabbi-approved Shabbos cosmetics. Since my purchases took place over the internet, I did buy colors that I didn't end up using. So, I wanted to share which items were a winner for me. 

To begin, how the cosmetics are applied is also under rabbinic scrutiny; I had to familiarize myself with the accepted protocol.  

From Shaindee Cosmetics: 

• Blush in Soft Mauve/Glowing Mauve Matte 19H

• Eye Shadow in Dark Gray 49B

• While officially an Eye Shadow, I used Matte Lilac 48H/48B for eyebrow filler and as contouring powder

• Lip Gloss (Shudder. While I do not approve of gloss in general, my lips can get so dry and cracked beneath long-wearing lipstick that I voted for lip skin health and comfortable eating over lip hue. My policy is that as long as eye makeup is strong, everything else is commentary) 

• Hungarian Water (Of course I would get the HUNGARIAN water as opposed to rose) 

From Shabbos Brushups (at the time of my purchase, the website wasn't functioning in terms of checkout; email allison@shabbosbrushups.com to order): 

• Foundation in Matte Lite (the description sounded closest to my skin-tone and -type) 

• Concealer in Light  

• Eyeliner in Blackout (looks very glittery in the holder, but goes on black black black with only a hint of sparkle)

The foundation is not a perfect match, but close enough. The concealer cannot completely eliminate my MONSTER dark circles, but they have defeated even the bravest of concealers, so I did have a touch of zombie face. But that's what distracting over-laden eyelashes are for.  

My mascara was heftily applied before the holiday, and I worked around it. I feel a burning need to wash my face after a day's action, so this way I can function throughout Shavuos this year—three day yuntif, ladies! 

MATZAH!!!

To my family, Pesach matzah is a beloved delicacy. My siblings and I fought over and continue to fight over it. Even the tzigekiminer who initially watched on, baffled at our violence, quickly converted to our ways. They starting battling over them as well, even those with machine-matzah minhagim. 

Come to the Dark Side; we have matzah.

Any leftovers are lovingly hoarded (in a hiding place that shall remain unrevealed lest Luke discovers it) throughout the rest of the year. Usually around Chanukah-time the last piece is treasured and savored to the triumphal send-off of imaginary trumpets. 

Hant matzah is so. Damn. Good. 

Here's the thingy: We ain't the only ones to think so. The front cover's of this week's Sunday Review was plastered with this article (and that illustration) by chef and restaurateur Dan Barber, cooing about the tastiness of hant matzah. 

 

Apparently, all the complex laws in keeping the wheat for shmurah results in a yummier matzah. 

Can't wait for my rezeveh Shatzer matzahs! Oh, the suspense! 

Bitachon vs. Hishtadlus

The speaker at a shiur was telling of his frustration when his daughter was single. He had said to his wife, while proverbially ripping his hair out, "We have to do something!" She calmly answered, "No, we don't. We do what we always have done, and have bitachon."

Needless to say, this daughter is long married. 

He continued, referencing the Gra on bitachon and hishtadlus: 

One has bitachon for oneself, and does hishtadlus for others. Meaning, one cannot say to someone, "You have to do your hishtadlus." No. One can tell someone else to have bitachon, but do hishtadlus for the other. Not only should one make a token effort for another, but make oneself absolutely meshiga. For another, one should say, "We have to do something!" 

But for oneself, one should remain calm, and have bitachon.

It is not hishtadlus for me to call up complete strangers and grant them omniscient power, or to make unnecessary (and expensive) trips or hotel stays in the name of "You never know." And if I'm painfully, squirmingly uncomfortable, is that what hishtadlus involves? 

I have to have bitachon for myself, and help others for my hishtadlus. 

I tried once to set up a couple. Kinda blew up in my face, imploded, more like, when it turns out the girl was looking for someone that was not him. I was gun-shy, I must admit, for a few years. But after a hunch became reality, I became more determined. If I have an actual, viable idea, I should follow up. I've made a few more attempts, but no results, yet. But that's not the point. I feel accomplished that I tried, that I did my hishtadlus. 

Listening to a number of shiurim prior to Purim, I enjoyed this one by Rabbi Daniel Glatstein, in which he states, quoting the Nesivos, that hishtadlus is not everything. 

Mordechai sitting at the gate of the palace.

I am not yet brave enough to snappily retort to the one who lectures, "You have to do your hishtadlus!" that "Hishtadlus means that you set me up, lady." But I am at peace, knowing that my own actions are not the beginning and end. 

Potatoes + Brooks = Bliss

We can't have a Jewish holiday without a recipe, right? This past week in Dining, Joan Nathan shared her recipe for Mashed Potato Latkes with Dill and Shallots.

A little backstory: Mashed potato latkes, a.k.a. Chremslach, were always a Pesach specialty in my house, dipped in sugar (not anymore, cough cough). I was never really crazy about latkes, especially with the tedious amount of prep; for chremslach, the potatoes are painlessly boiled, rather than grated, squeezed, and prayed over that they don't turn brown. 

Via howsweetitis.com

Latkes always seem to fry unevenly, burned on one side and and raw on the other. 

But why must I be a slave to tradition? I can have chremslach whenever, right? Nathan's potatoes are baked, which means there is no excess water to be drained, and the batter is prepared calmly in advance. I'm also a sucker for dill and shallots.

However, Nathan breads her latkes. That's really not necessary. Potatoes can stand on their own two feet.  

Now, I am hopelessly behind on my David Brooks' links. Savor them slowly. 

• "Love and Merit"

• "Building Spiritual Capital"

• "The Small, Happy Life"