an open cupboard

Today’s my day. Here’s a clip of Israeli musician Berry Sakharof and Infected Mushroom singing Berry’s song “Yomuledet” (birthday). English translation below.

(The frackin’ embedded YouTube thingy doesn’t seem to work with my template. Here’s a link to the video clip instead.)

Birthday

Today’s your birthday
Look here’s a secret, old and new
Slice the bread
Touch something a little perfect

It’s the middle of the night
I thought we might sleep
But something’s catching
Catching deep in my throat

True you know
You’re so amazing
Before you run away
Come without fear
Take me just like this

Today’s your birthday
I thought almost all the details through
Got you a room
Blue sky with stars

True you know
You’re so amazing
Before you run away
Come without fear
Take me just like this

I’m not really a competitive person. No, really, I’m not. I hate competitive sports. Kids would always pick me last for softball because I tended to daydream. I’d sit on the warm grass in the outfield and daydream, often wishing I had a book to read. I yawn at the thought of watching grown men wear extensive padding and skin-tight uniforms as they fight over a pigskin ball. And, um, well… the drama and excitement of the world cup is completely lost on me (sorry Euro-readers, nothing personal). I’d much rather compete against myself, which is why I’m more of a karate/yoga/tai chi person than a football/soccer(er, football)/racquetball person.

So this morning I’m schvitzing away on the treadmill at the gym. I hate the gym. The treadmill makes me feel like a giant hamster. But it’s right downstairs, and the machines there tell me things like how many calories I’ve burned off, which the lake, pretty as it is, does not. I’m up to level six, thirty minutes a pop. I’ve been gradually working ny way up from level two or so. I figure I’ll slowly work my way up to the highest level—with the biggest gradients and fastest speeds—and then extend my work out to a cool 45 minutes. But that’s a way off… at level six, I feel like my spleen is about to burst.

To keep my mind off the tedium of it all, I’ve got my MP3 player on, surfing the radio stations. Oh yeah! Vintage Janet, now I’m cooking! I pick up the pace and start miming “What have you done for me lately?” Just as I hit the “oooooh oooh ooooh yeah,” in walks this 18 year old on his summer vacation. He’s a skinny little tyke. Aw… he’s probably tiring himself out getting in shape for the ladies. How cute.

He gets on the treadmill next to mine and, without so much as stretching a hamstring, begins to run. And I mean really run. His sneakers are pounding the rubber faster than my lungs can remember to breathe. Holy running shoes, Batman. If this little pisher ran any faster his shoes would be smoking.

Suddenly my thighs feel heavier, my butt feels like jelly, and I could swear I’m developing auntie arms. You know, like when your aging aunt lifts up her great big arms to hug you and thirty inches of flab dangle from what used to be her triceps. Or biceps. Or something. I pretend that the 15 minutes remaining on my treadmill timer are my cooldown period. Yeah, that’s it. That’s why I’m moving slower than a tortoise in comparison. Maybe I’ve actually been running for 45 minutes already. At lightning speed. I’m just slowing it down a bit now, yeah. To the tune of Janet.

Jeez. I’ll bet this kid’s never even heard of Janet Jackson. He probably thinks Rhythm Nation is a Native American tribe that reaaaaaaaally likes to party, dude.

Aw Christ. I’m old.

I do my real cool down, slow as molasses.

My birthday is next week. I’ll be thirty three (a less scary number when it’s spelled out, n’est-ce pas?). I’m in—gulp—”my thirties.” When did my twenties recede into the distance like the dusty horizon in a road trip movie? How did I get here, running a mental race with a boy nearly half my age?

Thirty three.

33.

Sigh.

At least the college kids in the elevator still hit on me. “Hey gorgeous,” says my young coffee-complexioned neighbor. Me? Is he talking to me? Shucks. I grin like an idiot and laugh nervously. I’m nearly old enough to be his mother. Doesn’t he know? Maybe he likes older women. Still, how cute. This little pisher made my day.

33. As they say in Yiddish: “wear it in good health.” Yeah, I think I will.

There’s nothing so annoying as missing your train. Usually this means waiting for the next one, which in many US cities is no small feat. The schedule is erratic, the trains infrequent. You could wait twenty minutes for the next train. Twenty minutes too late for a meeting? Too bad.

The train arteries themselves are haphazard, as though designed to inconvenience. The streetcar that connects one train system with another is notoriously inefficient. A ten minute ride can take twenty, depending on whether a driver took a day off and forgot to tell the boss or a branch has fallen on the tracks somewhere in the system. Once you disembark from the southbound train system, good luck finding a bus, shuttle, or taxi to bring you to your final destination. Buses run even less frequently than trains, and often in no relation to where you need to go.

What sort of red-blooded, do-it-yourself American rides a train anyway? Americans have historically cherished their right to do as they please with minimal government interference. Formerly the pride of the United States, trains are now viewed as an abdication of that right. Driving a car, you are the captain of your own destiny. Riding a train, you’re at the mercy of arbitrary schedules and the egalitarian nature of public transportation. The guy sitting next to you might conduct noisy business meetings on his cellphone or emit the musty sharp odor of someone who hasn’t bathed in a very long time. But driving a car could mean getting rear-ended, or worse, and more likely, stuck in the molasses flow of traffic that drains the life force drip… by… i n t e r m i n a b l e … drip.

Fifteen minutes to the next train. I scan the magazine stand, a shrine to celebrity. The Economist peeks out from the bottom rack. Scratch that, a shrine to money in all its forms. I queue up instead at the little take-out coffee shop: coffee, scones, sandwiches, bagels all ready to go in time for the train. I get a croissant and line up for the train.

I board early and take a seat near the window. It’s a grey day for June. The sky is dour and frumpy, scowling like a Victorian school teacher. I bite into my croissant, its paper wrapping crinkles. The croissant is buttery with an airy texture, but the dough is a little too dense. It’s not quite as flaky as it ought to be, and it isn’t at all warm. I wonder if some Parisienne across the world eats hastily purchased croissants on the train. Do they sell croissants at the gare? Do people still take the time to sit down for their croissant and café au lait? Looking out the window at the dreary skies, I think of warm, buttery croissant and café au lait as the mid-summer sun rises from its dewy slumber.

A slice of cake for you, dear reader, in honor of an open cupboard’s second birthday.

Two years ago today I posted an ironic ode to the high cost of organic food in the form of a silly riff on a famous poem by Robert Frost. Nothing much has changed since then. The price of rice has spawned riots and my relatives tease me for spending seven dollars on an occasional bottle of organic milk (but it’s from grassfed cows who listen to classical music and read poems by Robert Frost!). I’m still fascinated by the San Francisco local, organic food scene with its bounty of decently produced high quality food—the freshest, most beautiful, delicious vegetables and fruit it has been my pleasure to consume.

I owe the farmers’ markets my gratitude for opening up my taste buds to the earthy sweetness of heirloom tomatoes. Having eaten store-bought hothouse tomatoes back when I lived in Israel, I never much liked the fruit, except the exceptionally fresh ones I used to buy at the shuk (open market) . Similarly, bell peppers were a sort of tasteless filler in stir fries until I tried the peppers grown by Happy Quail Farms. I’ve also discovered foods that have quickly become my favorites: pimientos de padrón, stinging nettles, chocolate mint, mountain spinach. Thank the gods for all the dedicated farmers who produce such excellent food that is so much fun to eat.

I only wish that more people could enjoy the beautiful bounty of the farmers’ markets. Most of the consumers I see at the various farmers’ markets near my home tend to be middle class and upper middle class Americans. On occasion, I’ll see a poor student buy a few dollars’ worth of vegetables.

True, programs such as the Chez Panisse Foundation’s Edible Schoolyard and the People’s Grocery do a lot to bring people closer to good, sustainably raised food. But there are still so many others who simply cannot afford to eat well. In an area where average families drive two SUVs and live in half-million dollar homes, this boggles the mind.

In the coming months the gulf between those who eat well and those who cannot will swell, affecting many middle income as well as lower income people. The question is, what are we going to do about it? As “we” is usually an elected official (insert quip about political ineptitude here), let us instead ask ourselves “what am I going to do about it?” If every one of us asked ourselves that question, maybe we could get closer to an answer. Wouldn’t that be great? And what will our collective cupboard look like in another two years?

Thank you for your curiosity, and your stick-to-itiveness for coming back here even when I was slow to post. Thank you for putting up with my sometimes bumbling photos and the occasional silly lark. Thank you for spurring me on (even if you didn’t know you did). An extra special thank you to my friend Sylvia, for urging me to write about food in the first place (and to Jerry, for having such an insatiable appetite for dining out). And to my husband A for reading and eating and, when prompted, providing honest constructive criticism.

L’chaim! To another two years!

- shelly -

last night in my dream
i was a child again
in self-made pigtails
and ill-fitting clothes
awkward and ashamed.

you smiled at me
I like your braids!
you said
you look nice in green!

and i was happy

When riding public transportation in the US, you often find yourself staring at huge advertisements. Almost anywhere you look, the walls of the train you ride in, the walls of the station platform, the floor and escalator, even the underground tunnels are covered with flickering ads. Cellular phone service, condos in fancy neighborhoods starting in the low 600s, exhortations from the Catholic church urging you to rethink abortion, almost anything can be hocked on the walls of the BART.

This morning, my eye is drawn to a simple fast food ad. I can’t stop looking at this advert. It annoys me in particular, and I’m not sure why. The bottom of the ad features a stylized San Francisco skyline in dark blue—replete with the Golden Gate Bridge and a trolley car. The background is a soft yellow that gradually brightens to a sunny gold towards the top of the ad. There, floating like an ethereal vision, is the product: a biscuit breakfast patty sandwich, a bun stuffed with what appears to be ham and American cheese, and three small cinnamon rolls, partially splattered in sugar icing that looks like glue. Golden rays of sunlight emanate from the foods like a Byzantine icon. The large caption below reads:

Now you can eat and pay rent.
The Fast Food Franchise breakfast menu starting at $1 each.
Fast Food Franchise Logo

I get it. Rent is so high in San Francisco, you barely have enough cash left over to buy food. How ironic, how wry, how… horrible. This is no joke—it’s true. There are people in this city who do not have enough money to both pay the rent and eat much more than cheap fast food. There are people in the city of peace and love who must choose between a place to live and a bite to eat—witness the many citizens living on the sidewalk and in the parks and alleyways of this city.

And then it hits me. I realize why this ad annoys me so much. Those who can eat and pay their rent are privileged. We can afford to buy local, organic, fresh fruits and vegetables and brick-oven baked bread and grass-fed meat and pastured eggs. We perceive it as our right to eat healthful food that nourishes and heals. Those who can’t afford the luxury of pesticide-free, GMO-free, nutrient-dense food must eat food that will eventually kill them, or risk homelessness. This fast food ad is, perhaps unwittingly, playing on the notion that cheap, harmful food is the only choice for the poor while healthful, nutritious food is for those who can afford it. Assuming that advertising reflects the beliefs of its audience, this is a sad state of affairs.

If there were any truth in advertising, here’s what this ad would look like:

Now you can eat government subsidized, artificial, toxic, artery-clogging food, and pay your exorbitant rent on a mildewed hovel in a slightly scary neighborhood.

Breakfast menu starting at $1, ending in sky-high health care bills.

We’re moving (yay!). Our tiny little junior 1 bedroom apartment is currently decorated in moving box brown. Everywhere you look there are stacks of cardboard boxes, most of which contain kitchen items. But the tedium of packing our possessions is alleviated by the pleasure of throwing out things we no longer need, and imagining how our new space will look once everything is in place. Never underestimate the value of cabinet space, especially when you’ve got nine boxes labeled “KITCHEN.”

As I’ve been packing up our dry goods and kitchenware, I’ve come up with a few ideas about how to make packing up your kitchen that much easier:

• Spice racks with bars on the front—to keep the spices from falling out—can probably be packed “as is.” Take the fully stocked spice rack off the wall and place it standing up in a box. If you place other items around it tightly, it probably won’t move much and nothing will fall out or break.
• If possible, keep one frying pan unpacked so you can fry an egg or cook some sausages. If you’re driving to your new location, you can take the pan with you to use in the new kitchen before everything’s unpacked. Takeout is certainly an option, but it’s always nice to be able to reheat leftovers or fry an egg in the morning. Sometimes eating out of a box can get a little old.
• Speaking of leftovers, if you have any stoneware dishes or plates, these are perfect for reheating food under the broiler and then serving. There’s always the microwave, but eh… somehow to me, microwaved food never tastes quite right.
• To minimize the need for restaurant takeout, cook a little extra food for dinner and reserve the leftovers for tomorrow’s breakfast or lunch. You can even do this a week in advance, assuming you have sufficient freezer space. When the move is a few days away and you’ve packed up all your kitchenware, you can defrost the frozen meals under the broiler or in the microwave.
• A small tin baking pan—the kind that comes with an oven or toaster oven—can be used as a makeshift pan cover. This comes in handy if you want to quickly defrost some food (without using the microwave), or cook dinner just a little bit faster.
• If you have any old plastic food storage containers, the tops can be used as makeshift plates. I discovered this when I prepared an afternoon snack of tangelo slices and nuts, forgetting that our two remaining dishes were dirty. The little round Tupperware top I found made a decent small plate when used upside down.
• Milk bottles with caps can be used to store all manner of items. I used them in the kitchen to store grains and beans, and in the bathroom to store ear swabs and cotton balls. I think they look kind of cute, in a retro, Donna Reed kind of way. You can wrap them in newspaper and pack them, or put a bunch of them in a box, placing yogurt container tops between them so they don’t knock against each other.
• If you buy your yogurt in ceramic crocks, keep the crocks and use them as glasses. This way you can pack your proper glasses and use the crocks instead without worrying if they’ll break. (To be honest, I use them as drinking glasses even when we aren’t packing. They work well for both hot and cold liquids and again, I think they’re cute.)

For tips on organizing your new kitchen, check out the video wisdom of the fabulous Brini Maxwell.

Why I love the farmers market…

It really does, when it’s done right. There’s nothing quite like a fresh, crisp, whole grain, handmade matzah with a schmear of whipped butter and a sprinkling of sea salt. Yemenite matzah tastes a lot like naan and not much like Ashkenazi matzah at all. And there ain’t nothin’ like a good bowl of matzah ball soup (light and fluffy please, not heavy and leaden). Here’s to flourless chocolate cake and pavlova!

Happy passover y’all!

!חג אביב שמח

As a child, I craved macaroni and cheese from the box. So do most kids, I guess. But I had an unusual palate. Whenever we had Hershey’s miniatures for a special occasion at school, I’d trade any of the milk chocolate flavors just to get all the “Special Dark” bars. I loved the frozen spinach my mother would steam for dinner, flaky, plain croissants, and crusty European bread, a scarcity in the San Francisco peninsula back then. But the first time I tried that bright orange stuff from the box, I was hooked.

In our health-conscious household, there was precious little junk food. My first opportunity to eat the verboten dish arose at my friend’s house, naturally. I was mesmerized by the oozing, creamy sauce that so thoroughly enveloped the pasta elbows as to drench them. I savored the feel of the pasta between my teeth as I chewed it, and the tangy saltiness of the sauce. I enjoyed the accumulating warmth in my belly as I swallowed each bite.

Even more than a hot bowl of mac and cheese, I loved the cold leftovers with their slightly more al dente pasta and the clumps of sauce, the salty tang emboldened by a rest in the fridge. I knew this was gross, probably worse than my younger brother’s revolting habit of dousing ketchup all over our father’s perfectly cooked spaghetti. But I didn’t care. It tasted that good to me.

At home, I made my own version of cold mac and cheese with leftover pasta and cottage cheese. The tiny squeak of the curds between my teeth was almost as satisfying as the weird orange sauce. The combination of salty, creamy curds and dense pasta was delicious in its own right.

Pasta and cottage cheese—or its sophisticated sister, ricotta—is still one of my favorite comfort foods. It’s the kind of dish you make in a cereal bowl for one.

Climb into your favorite upholstered chair and take a bite. Close your eyes and taste it, familiar as a hug. Smile and remember.

pasta with cottage cheese and spinach for one

This a slightly dressier version of the simple dish, including greens and herbs for a nostalgic one-dish dinner for one.

pasta, cooked, any kind
butter, olive oil
2 handfuls fresh spinach, chopped
half a handful parsley leaves, chopped
1 green garlic leaf (only one piece of the long green part), chopped
good cottage cheese (preferably not nonfat)
salt and pepper

• In the pot you used to cook the pasta, melt some butter with olive oil.
• Cook the spinach until nearly wilted, then add the parsley and garlic greens. Stir.
• Add the pasta, then some of the cottage cheese and stir to combine. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
• Remove from flame and pour into a bowl. Add more cottage cheese and mix to combine.
• Settle into a comfy spot and eat.

Serves 1