Dear 20-Year-Old-Self

This post is part of something my blogging buddies in a group called Generation Fabulous refer to as a “blogroll.” I’m complying with their request because I love them all, but please don’t ask me what I’m doing because I have no idea. (I think we’re all linking to each other’s posts...yeah, that’s the ticket!)

My birthday is in late September, so the summer before I turned 20, I was still technically 19, but I don’t believe that I was much different at 19 than I was at 20, so when I talk to my 19-year-old self, I’m talking to my 20-year-old self too. Got it?

That summer I was part of a large group of teens (remember, I was still a “teen”) who traveled to Israel to work on a kibbutz and do some touring around the country. I had a “boyfriend” who shouldn’t have been my boyfriend because he was also someone else’s boyfriend, and I was fed up with him and everything else that was going on in my young, but very complicated life. And being the very dramatic young woman I was back then, I approached my parents and screamed that I just wanted to “get away!” When I proposed the idea of heading thousands of miles away with a youth group, my mom and dad balked at first, but I had the smarts to find a Jewish group (because every Jewish youth group is upstanding and righteous, and abstains from alcohol, drugs and sex--uh-huh). When the group I chose was “properly” vetted, they agreed and off I went.

I won’t go into detail about the summer, but it was quite eventful, from a 19-year-old ‘s point of view. It was a glorious eight-week vacation that consisted of working in the kibbutz fields and kitchens, touring on buses, sunbathing around the pool (remember, this was a Jewish youth group), and dancing in the bomb shelter-cum-kibbutz disco where the sweaty young soldiers and locals would try their best to grind the “sophisticated” young American, Canadian, and French girls. You might say the summer was a lesson in interpersonal relationships, so to speak.

Dear almost-20-year-old-self, 

There is a line from a book/movie that comes out many years from now, but it applies to you: “You is kind, you is smart, you is important.” I know you know that sometimes, but you forget those great attributes when it matters and that will drive you into a rut. Your lack of self-confidence will hold you back from many wonderful opportunities. I think the girl you are at 20 could probably teach the girl,and then woman, you become a thing or two about bravery and boldness. You went on this trip knowing no one, and yet the idea of spending eight weeks with strangers in a strange land seemed exciting to you. 

But that momentum doesn’t last, and you wind up having no direction once you get home. You fall back into the same patterns that you had been so anxious to get away from. I wish you would have asked more questions and sought out more mentors--people who would have given you direction. Find a career you will get great satisfaction from, and if you don't, then look again, and perhaps something in the "cooking field" (hint, hint) might be something you should consider.

You knew that you were capable of doing anything, but yet finding a boyfriend who would define your worth seemed more important too often (and boy, you did find some doozies). I wish you could have asserted yourself in so many of those relationships. But don’t worry, eventually you do find “the one.” It just takes you a while, and you come very close to not recognizing the signs.

And looking back through an over 30-year-lens I see you have difficulty recognizing signs...a lot. I know you were schooled on obsessing about what you didn’t have, as opposed to what you had, and I wish it wouldn’t have taken you so long to see the other side of that coin. But, know that it does flip...eventually.

I’m not telling you to be satisfied. I’m telling you to accept the good and change the not-so-good. Don’t settle, and (I know I’m sounding like your mom here) don’t be lazy. 

And oh, the places you’ll go. Embrace them and think of them as adventures, not trips to Hell. Because your attitude will affect your children--yes, children. They will be amazing, and when you are unhappy, they will be unhappy. 

And there’s one more thing: cut your parents some slack. Yes, they are the cause of many, many stressful days and nights in your future, but if you learn how to handle them and try to understand them a little better, you won’t suffer from agita all the time. They will eventually be gone, and you’ll make your peace with them, but sooner would be better than later for your physical and mental health.

Look to your future with wide-eyed, stomach-tumbling anticipation, not with dread. It will be a wild ride--enjoy it.

And one more thing...lose the Dorothy Hamill haircut. It’s not becoming, and it will be out of style very soon. And watch those steps at the Park Street T station...they’re a killer.

Scary Story

It was a dark and stormy night....

Perfect opening for a Halloween tale, but this was no tale--this horror story was very real. And unfortunately many of the characters are my friends and members of my family. I had originally planned on posting another article for today, but the events of the past week have left me feeling so unsettled, so not right with the world.

When the Wicked Witch, better known as Hurricane Sandy, bore down on the East Coast, she left a trail of destruction in her path that was insurmountable. Places my family and I had vacationed--Atlantic City, the Jersey Shore--decimated. My beloved home town of New York City--powerless, windblown, and flooded beyond belief. Towns in the outer boroughs, like Breezy Point in Queens, left broken and ablaze.

What’s to become of those places? Will they ever recover? Time will tell, but it will take lots and lots of time..and money, and blood, sweat, and no doubt, tears.

In years past, when many other disasters struck the East Coast, other hurricanes, 9/11, severe snowstorms, my husband, boys, and I were living in California. We were far away from our families and the distance, while not diminishing the intensity of any of the tragedies, did make it difficult for us to physically pitch in and help. We were here in spirit to lend our support across the miles. But at times, that support seemed hollow to us--we wanted to be here, but that was not possible. 

And now we are here, and even though the distance between Boston and New Jersey is a lot less than California and New Jersey, it still feels as though we are too far away to help. Six feet of water poured into my brother-in-law’s house, destroying two floors, and pretty much the rest of the house as well. My niece’s weekend home was also flooded, with the water reaching as high as the bottoms of her little girls clothes that were hanging in the closet. Boats were untethered and lost, the rest of the family lost power, and had roofing problems. Major damage to property, psyches, and spirits.

As strong and wise as we all think we are, at times like this, it becomes painfully obvious who rules the roost in this world--Mother Nature--and every once in a while when she feels we are perhaps getting too cocky, she unleashes her strength to underscore her power. Who are we to question? We can only pick up the pieces, as many as we can recover, and go on. A little bit whipped...a lot whipped, a little bit put back in our place. Things like elections and sniping, and negativity seem very trivial at times like this. 

So perhaps this weekend we’ll take the dog, and pack up the car with food and water, and tools and strong shoulders, and drive down there to help with whatever we can. We can do that now--we’re here. And next month, the Thanksgiving celebration we’d been planning on having will still go on (location still to be determined). We’ll all be together, because this time we’re here.

Oh, and the subject of the piece that I was originally going to post today: my fear of the water...guess I’ll save that for another time.

To A One Of A Kind Couple, On Their Anniversary

When I set out to write a piece about my parents in commemoration of their wedding anniversary, I approached it thinking that it would invariably be dark and sentimental. After all, they were Holocaust survivors, and they both experienced things that no human being should ever have to see or remember. Let’s face it, they carried a lot of baggage with them when they got off the boat in Boston in 1948...and I’m not referring to the valises they were lugging. 

They were married on Columbus Day (although in Germany, they didn’t know it was Columbus Day), October 12, 1947. Theirs were stories of miracles--it was a miracle that they survived, but I felt that the true miracle was that they stayed married to one another for over 50 years. They fought like cats and dogs all throughout my childhood, and on into my adulthood, but I don’t think either one of them would have been happy with anyone else.

They were from different countries, different walks of life, and sometimes I thought, different planets. My mom was short, fair, and platinum blond. Dad was tall, dark, and muscular. Not exactly two peas in a pod--but my mom would always blame their getting together on the war...”It did strange things to people.” 

There are many stories from my childhood that are not happy: screams of terrors past in the middle of the night, tears, rants, harsh words. But, when I went out to dinner with my sister and brother-in-law last week, and the topic turned to Mom and Dad...all the stories we recounted made us laugh! So, I wonder, is it OK to talk about Holocaust survivors and not mention the sad stuff? Because in my parents’ cases, in between the horror and the sad old-age “stuff” was lots of good stuff. There was us--my sister and myself--and our lives. Some semblance of normalcy had to be established because of us, and try as mightily to fight it as they did, my parents had to give in.

She liked to primp--he didn’t. He liked to dance--she didn’t. But he always wore the clothes she bought for him, and he always dragged her out to the dance floor. It is rather amazing that after the horrors they had been through, they could still dress up and go out on the town...and have fun. There’s a particular pink pouffy dress that I remember my mom wore to lots of Bar Mitzvahs. It was not light pink, no...Mom liked to make a statement when she entered a room...it was hot pink...definitely hot pink. Strapless, and did I say “pouffy?” With her platinum blond hair done up, and her pink dress, she looked like a beautiful Barbie doll. Dad was not exactly Ken, more like Dean Martin. I have an actual photo of them taken one such night, but it’s somewhere with thousands of other photos of mine that are in a storage facility. No matter, I have that picture indelibly fixed in my mind. I don’t need a photo to prove it was true. 

And speaking of truth, Mom liked to stretch it...a lot. She never looked at it as though it were telling a lie--just decorating the truth. She was a huge decorator. We never asked her why her own life seemed so less than perfect that she had to “decorate” it, but it was understood that she did. She wasn’t as cunning and creative as was the character in Catch Me If You Can, but it is a shame she never picked up poker. Her bluffing skills were unmatchable. “You know,” she chastised a nurse in the hospital once, “I was a surgical nurse, and if I had ever treated a patient like your handling me, I would have been fired!”  A surgical nurse, a medical student, a singer. She was quite accomplished. In fact, we like to joke that my son’s musical ability comes from his grandma...since at one time she was a “musical prodigy.” 

Her stories were a big bone of contention between she and my dad. He understood she wasn’t happy with her lot in life, and he knew he was a big reason why. So, they argued about it...more times than I like to remember. And the more stories she would make up, the smaller she would make him feel. But my dad was no shrinking violet, and very often my sister and I were caught in between these two battering (figuratively) rams. 

It’s probably very hard to believe, but in spite of the Holocaust stories and the battles about money and ambition and their stature on life’s totem pole, there was lots of laughter in my house. My mom had a very dry wit--she was the queen of sarcasm. And my dad liked to play tricks on her. They had a large group of friends--all of them also survivors--with names like Yussel, and Moully, and Velvel, and Bruncha, and Manya. We could never tell whether those were their first or last names--that’s just what we called them. They would all get together and eat (always) and chatter away. They often spoke in Yiddish, which we girls understood, so there were very few secrets bantered about. But every once in a while some Polish would be spoken, and then we’d be in the dark, as would my mom, since she was Hungarian. And then there would be more drinking, and the voices would get lower.

Neither of my parents was very political. But there was one thing that got them going, and it was often most evident around the dinner table.  The scene around that table was the epitome of Americana: it was my mom and dad, my sister and I...and the TV--always on. We could be talking about anything--even something really important--until my dad would get a glimpse of something on the screen and then shout, “SHHH! Israel!!” And then it was all over. Israel trumped any dinner talk, no matter how earth shattering it might have been.

In addition to Israel, their world also revolved around us. It was obvious that we were their world, their entire world. Our existence proved to them that the world would go on...could go on. And if we ever did anything, as most children sometimes do, to disappoint them, they were crushed. And they let us know. Guilt trips were taken frequently in our home.

As my parents aged, their idiosyncrasies become more pronounced. My mom’s fancy dresses gave way to more flamboyant, quirkier wardrobe additions (there was the gold lame’ bib she would pull out at restaurants, but that’s another story), and my dad became more sullen. He no longer added to his dictionary of crazy, made-up words like, “chupaydina” (bizarre) or  “matzapanna” (imaginary food). Their lives revolved more around themselves and their illnesses than around us. And their grandchildren were now looked upon as a whole new set of miracles.

One of the last best memories I have of my parents took place just after my husband and I moved to Los Angeles. My father had not yet begun to show the effects of Alzheimer’s and my mom was still healthy and spry. This was their first time on the West Coast and they loved it. They looked up old friends they hadn’t seen in decades and sat around tables eating babka and strudel, drinking schnapps and slivovitz, and reminiscing about the old days--both good and bad. 

One night, we discovered a Hungarian restaurant in Hollywood, and as a surprise, we took them there for dinner. I don’t remember the entree, but I do remember the rigo jancsi, a luscious, chocolate cream cake...and the band with live music. It was Hungarian music. And that night, when my dad asked my mom to dance there were no protestations. It was Dirty Dancing, old-country style.The two of them whirled around the dance floor--they were happy and smiling, and for once, that happiness had nothing to do with children or grandchildren--it was just them. All the years, and all the burdens seemed to slough off, and they literally floated.

So, on October 12, while everyone else is thinking of Columbus Day, I will be thinking of that one of a kind couple who gave me life, and sending them a silent anniversary wish. I just know they’re together out there, somewhere. And if you should hear thunder or lightning on that day, just ignore it...it’s probably them...celebrating.

Poppy Seed Cookies and a Remembrance of Things Past

As far as the revolving door of friendship goes, the older you get, the more spins it takes. People come and go in your life all the time.  Some go out for a spin and later, sometimes years later, come back for another go ‘round, and there are others who go through and never look back.

I heard some bad news the other day that was very unsettling. Someone I knew who had been one of those who went around my revolving door and headed out permanently was recently diagnosed with cancer. It hit me really hard because, even though we’d not seen each other in quite a few years, there was a time in our lives when we would see each other daily. Our children were the same ages and went to the same preschool. This woman and I were even pregnant at the same time with our youngest children. She was about a month farther along than I was, and when her time came to “jump off the diving board,” as I liked to put it, I remember I laughed and said, “it’s not fair..I’m ready to take the plunge but I'm still on the steps!"

One day not long after we’d both had our babies, I took her daughter home to have a lunch play date with my son. After I got the two older children settled in at the park with the box lunches I made for them, I carried my infant son back to the car with me to get his stroller. This was in the days before “clickers” were provided with every car you purchased, and when I went to open the hatch to get my purse, I realized my keys were locked in the car right next to it...and the stroller. So there I was: two toddlers, one of whom I didn’t even know that well, one infant, no purse, no stroller, no phone.(Remember, cell phones weren’t around 20 years ago...at least not for me.)

 Not wanting to alarm the children, I quietly begged for phone money from some guy who too was eating his lunch in the park. (I daresay it was someone else’s before he got to it.) He was outwardly dubious about my story, but he managed to scrounge up enough change for a toll call to my husband. Then I and my brood of three headed across a major thoroughfare--while I prayed we wouldn’t get run over--to a local coffee shop to make my call. As if I weren't feeling demoralized enough knowing that I was standing there with about 35 cents to my name, my son asked if he could have a gumball from the machine that was next to the phone. I guess my answer, “No, we don’t have enough money!”  was a tad too loud, because it prompted everyone sitting on their stools at the lunch bar to swivel around and take a look at the woeful wretch who couldn’t afford a gumball for her kid. It was definitely not one of my better days.

After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, my husband finally showed up, and we all finally went home. I was more than embarrassed to explain the situation to this little girl’s mom, but she took it in stride, and I never got the feeling that she held the incident against me. I’ve never forgotten that debacle, or how gracious she was about it.

 One other thing I’ve never forgotten about her were some cookies she made for a bake sale.  I honestly don’t remember what I brought to the sale, but I remember her very delicious, very simple, half-dollar-sized cookies. Shortbread cookies--golden brown along the edges, with just enough ginger and cinnamon to differentiate them from plain old shortbread cookies. They contain poppy seeds, and although I am not usually a poppy seed fan, they add a bit of welcome texture. These are icebox cookies--rolled into logs, chilled, and then sliced. The nice thing about them is that you can keep the logs in the freezer until you need them, let them thaw a bit, slice as many cookies as you want, and then return the log to the freezer for the next time.

When I asked for the recipe, it took a while to get it. (Uh, maybe she did hold that incident against me!) I still have the paper on which the recipe was written. The handwriting is very small, neat, and businesslike...just like this woman. I have held off from recopying it through the years, and merely fold it up and tuck it back into my wooden recipe file whenever I use it.  A recipe written in the originator's own hand gives it a vintage kind of feel. And I like that. And now it's even more meaningful. Originally called Poppy Seed and Nut Slices,  I’ve renamed them simply "M's Cookies."

My sister and brother-in-law were visiting this weekend to help celebrate my birthday. I can’t remember the last time we were together on either of our birthdays, so even though it wasn’t a milestone year (thank goodness!), it was a special occasion. 

I baked the cookies for my sister in my friend’s honor. I don't think I will be calling to ask about her health--too much time has past since we were in contact, and I think a call from me out of the blue would be jarring--and seem intrusive. I tend to shy away from awkward moments, not because I would feel unable to handle them, but because I wouldn't want to impose that kind of uneasiness on anyone else. I'll keep my distance until I feel the time is right...if ever. But I am thinking about her and wishing her well. 

It may sound strange, but people seem closer to me when I am either eating the food they’ve prepared, or eating something I’ve prepared on my own from a recipe they’ve given me. It’s almost as though they’re sitting next to me--watching.  

My sister loved the cookies, and I gave her a few to take with her on the long drive back to New Jersey. I bet they never made it home.

M’s Cookies

1 cup unsalted butter, softened

1 cup sugar

1 egg

1 tsp. vanilla extract

2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1/3 cup poppy seeds

1 tsp. cinnamon

1/2 tsp. ground ginger

1/4 tsp. salt

1 1/2 cups coarsely chopped hazelnuts or almonds

In the bowl of an electric mixer, cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add egg and vanilla extract. 

In a separate bowl, whisk together flour, poppy seeds, , cinnamon, ginger, and salt.

Gradually add dry ingredients to butter mixture. Add nuts on low speed and mix until all are combined.

Shape dough in 2 logs, about 1 1/2 inched in diameter. Wrap in waxed or parchment paper and chill for at least two hours. Once chilled, using a sharp knife, slice into 1/4-inch slices. Place one inch apart on a parchment paper-lined sheet pan.

Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, or until golden brown, in a preheated 350-degree oven.

Every Object Tells A Story

A movie theater ticket, bent and misshapen, a swatch of a baby blanket, soft and weathered from hundreds of washings and years of cuddling, a teacup handle, gilt-edged and hairline-cracked. These may all be useless items to most people, but what they represent to others can fill tomes, and then some. They are silent story tellers, waiting for their tales to be unraveled--and its up to their owners to do the telling.

I once saw a report on the news about a woman who meticulously saved all of her receipts in a box for five years. At the five-year mark, she went through them and felt as though she were looking at a five-year encapsulation of her life. Through these receipts she knew what she ate, when she was dieting (and when she wasn’t). They helped her remember old boyfriends and what she wore on some dates, classes she took, and books she read. When I first heard that, I remember thinking she was a little crazy. After all, there are much simpler and more thorough ways of chronicling one’s life than trying to decipher the flotsam and jetsam on a bunch of crumpled up, faded cash register receipts. And once the information is collated, you then have to read into what it actually symbolizes.

Well, I thought the idea was nutty until I went through an old handbag that I hadn’t used since I relocated from California.... 

Amidst the detritus at the bottom of the bag: some old pieces of gum--with and without the wrappers, sixty cents in spare change, a half-empty tube of sunscreen, a prescription I never filled, and a few now-spent pens, were a slew of receipts. 

Since I moved, anything from my past has become Smithsonian-worthy to me, so rather than chuck the receipts, I decided to put them in piles and go through them. And with each one I glanced at I began to understand just what that “cuckoo” woman meant. I know that people save receipts for business and tax purposes, but they’re looking at the bottom line--the total.  Once they’re done with them, they get tossed or stapled to some expense report. There is not one iota of sentimentality attached to those pieces of paper. To those owners, they signify money, or the loss of it. I was approaching these receipts as bits and pieces of my past life. And when I looked at it that way, those origami-like folded slips of paper took on a whole new level of importance. 

There were various receipts from restaurants in and around Calabasas and Los Angeles, where I used to live. One from the middle of March reminded me of a dinner our group of friends had at a local Italian restaurant celebrating my friend Julie’s birthday. We were a loud group, as usual, and Julie gave out bags of her famous mandel bread as party favors. I remembered having just come from an open house at a nearby clothing store where they were kind enough to feature my candy and help me promote my business. I ate a tuna tower. I gleaned all that from one little receipt!

In amongst the grocery receipts--that pile was the largest--was one from Henry’s Market. On that day, I purchased, among other things, bell peppers, lettuce, eggplant, chicken breasts, and sun-dried tomato turkey sausage. The date was sometime in May. May was great because everyone was home in May. Probably did some grilling that very night. My family loved Henry’s sausages--they were all homemade. I would usually grill some up while I was grilling chicken and veggies. My boys and my husband would have those sausages with some coarse mustard--it helped them wait a little more patiently for the rest of the meal to be cooked. Through all this the dog would be running around trying to snipe something, anything, that would fall on the floor. Just one receipt brought me back to that place.

Amongst some purchases on a Bloomingdale’s receipt was a purse for which I used a coupon. I remember the purse--it was sage green, and it had lots of pockets. It was perfect for my upcoming trip to Italy. I was leaning towards the yellow purse in the same style and my friend Kathy said, “go with the green,” so I did.  Every few months Kathy and I would meet for lunch and then go shopping. She is one of the few friends I have that will share a dressing room with me. We’ve seen each other naked enough times that it doesn’t really matter. And quite often, she’ll try something on and say, “this would look better on you.” And sometimes it does, and sometimes what I’ve got on will look better on her. But always, no matter where we go, Kathy will say, “Wait, I’ve got a coupon!” And on that day, she did, and the green handbag was my constant companion in Italy. (If you’ve seen any of my photos from that trip, you’ve seen the bag!)

Before my trip to Turkey this past May, I tried to read some books that would give me a feel for the country. One in particular, The Museum of Innocence, by Orhan Pamuk, was a wonderful story about two families, one aristocratic and one lower class, who lived in Istanbul during the 60s. It is a tale of love, betrayal, and obsession, and explores a culture not often dealt with in novels that I have read. On another, even more interesting level, the book also deals with mementos and their preservation. 

Throughout the years, the main character secrets away everyday items that are meaningful to him--buttons, handkerchiefs, hair clips, an earring. Random objects, so insignificant that their disappearance is not even noticed. But to him they represent years and years of memories--shards of his heart and soul. So precious are they to him that he creates a museum devoted to these "treasures," and invites anyone else who would care to donate mementos of their own to do so. The irony in all of this is that life has imitated art--the author has actually created a real museum that mirrors the one in the book. It is located in an Istanbul townhouse, and has been described not so much as a museum, but as a “story den.” I unfortunately, did not get to the museum while we were in Turkey, but I certainly understand it’s significance. 

We are surrounded by stories--every object we see is a part of one, and if taken to the extreme, every object can be elevated to being a museum-quality piece. Even if it’s merely for a museum in your mind.

The saying goes, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” but it should really be, “One man’s trash can also be his history.” I must admit that I have not, as the character in my book who has been overtaken by madness, relegated any of my receipts to a museum, but they and the motley crew of items that were hiding at the bottom of my purse, did give me a glimpse into a forgotten period of my life. I didn’t learn anything earthshaking about myself, but it was nice diversion...and a nice blast from the past.

Candlelight

The flames from the Yahrzeit candles painted an orange sheen on the walls of our kitchen. The rows of small candle-filled glasses were neatly lined up, one after another, in metal pans that my mother kept just for this occasion. I say that it was an occasion, but that’s really not true. The word occasion, for me, conjures up something pleasant, like a birthday party with a double fudge cake and gift bags stuffed with various hues of pastel tissue papers hiding lotions and beaded trinkets beneath them. Or a Fourth of July picnic--hot dogs, potato salad, heirloom tomatoes, and giant chocolate chip cookies passed around in plates the shape of lobsters; cloth napkins that look like the American flag. Yahrzeit candles--otherwise known as memorial candles--are not pleasant. They serve as a reminder of the dead; to honor them. They burn for 24 hours, and by the time they are burned out, the memory of the dead has been burned into your mind. 

It is Jewish custom to light a candle on the anniversary of someone’s death and on certain holidays, but since my parents were Holocaust survivors and could not be sure of the exact dates of the deaths of all in their families who had perished, they did this big time on Yom Kippur.

I always thought one candle would have been enough of a memorial, but my dad was adamant that there be many. I cannot say that there is any hard and fast rule that every dead person gets his or her own memory candle, but my mom obliged Dad’s wishes. So we had many. And there they were, year after year. Serving as a reminder of the huge hit our family took during that horrible time in history. They stood there, in their rows and their flames flickered as if to say, “we are still here, we still matter.”

I don’t know why I never questioned some of the things my parents did. Never asked them how they felt or told them how I felt. It’s almost as if the reasons behind everything they did, good or bad, were because of what they had been through. It was understood, a given. We shied away from bringing attention to “it” for fear that we would hear more than we cared to hear in any explanations.

Most of the year they held it together. They were able to celebrate when the celebrating was appropriate (sometimes), but this holiday...this holiday was different. This was a somber holiday, thus my mother took the opportunity to revel in it’s solemnity. Today it was expected of her to beat her chest.  It was a day of atonement--a period of repentance, and she took that as being her right to mourn. We were not permitted to turn the lights on...nor the TV, radio, or any other electrical appliance. My dad would do his praying at temple, but my mom stayed home and stood with her prayer book...by herself. Those nights, in the almost dark apartment (we kept a light on all night), I would watch her praying and wonder what she was repenting for. What sins had she committed during the year? Hadn’t she suffered enough? Those nighttime hours seemed interminable.

The daylight hours were almost bearable: weather permitting, my sister and I would get out of the house and take long walks, passing through neighborhoods we ordinarily would not get to see on foot. We would walk for hours, knowing that each passing minute would bring us closer to the day’s end...and food! When we were younger, or when it rained, much of the holiday was spent playing board games and reading.  Not such a bad thing, really. And ironically, a lot of the reading was of the various food magazines scattered around the house. We would look at the pictures and dream about what we would eat once our fast was over. (There’s nothing like being a glutton for punishment!) 

Devoting a day to reflection is almost welcomed, now that I am an adult. My family and I observe the holiday very differently than I did as a young girl. We still do a lot of reading (not in the dark) and praying, but there is the understanding that this holiday is all about introspection and making our peace with God. It’s almost like a spiritual cleansing. For me, the mourning and chest beating are symbolic. I don’t think my parents could ever have intellectualized it in that way. They’re minds were too clouded with the antiquated teaching of the religion they grew up with, and as always, with their experiences. 

My room was down the hall from the kitchen, and as I lay in my bed, I could see the orange cast of the candlelight. Even as my eyes were closed, I could imagine the flickering flames shining through my eyelids. If I closed the door, the faint orange glow would slide in through the thin strip of space between the door and the carpet. Just couldn’t get away from it. The strange thing was, this light didn’t haunt me--but it did sometimes upset me. It reminded me of who my parents were, and I just wanted them to be like everyone else. 

There’s a small aluminum pie tin on my counter on Yom Kippur. It holds two Yahrzeit candles whose flames flicker and dance for twenty-four hours.  They are for my parents, and they remind me, “We are still here...we matter.”

Cooking Matters...A Great Program!

I grew up in a home where food was always in abundance. My parents were both Holocaust survivors who often spoke about the time in their lives when food was at a premium--when a crust of bread, or a spoonful of soup was more valuable than gold. When people would, and sometimes did, do unthinkable things, just to get something to eat. So, to my parents, a well-stocked pantry and fridge meant success and comfort...and most of all, it was symbolic of their survival. They’re greatest joy was to feed people, and it was incumbent upon anyone who walked into our kitchen to have something--a snack, a fruit, and often the ultimate, a meal. My mother could not fathom how, in such a great land as America, people were starving. She knew firsthand what it felt like to be hungry and never wanted others to experience that feeling. And she passed that desire on to me.

Children who are poorly nourished suffer up to 160 days of illness each year.

I first became acquainted with Share Our Strength, a national nonprofit bent on ending childhood hunger in America, when I was a pastry chef. The organization works closely with the culinary industry, and relies heavily on its generosity and expertise. Through fundraisers such as Great American Bake Sale, and Dine Out For No Kid Hungry, it raises money to fund their programs and feed hungry Americans. Their goal is quite simple, but unfortunately in these sad financial times, it can often seem quite herculean: “to connect children with the nutritious food they need to lead healthy, active lives." 1 out of 5 children in this country go to bed hungry...it is unthinkable!

50% of Cooking Matters teens are eating more vegetables.

                                     

1. Through SOS, I became affiliated with a program called Cooking Matters. I taught nutrition classes to students in Los Angeles for many years through a grant program, and Cooking Matters sounded very similar. It too is a nutrition education program, but it’s so much more, as it connects chefs and dietitians with entire families who are at risk of hunger. You see, the problem is not that there is a lack of food: "There is plenty of nutritious food in America and there are effective programs in place to help feed hungry children. But too many families are not connected to these programs." The professionals teach cooking skills, food safety, food budgeting, and resource management, with the intent of empowering these people with the confidence to go home and make healthy, affordable meals for their families. One of the guiding principles of the program is that food is to be enjoyed, and even those who are living with very low incomes deserve to enjoy their food as well. Encouraging these families to prepare meals at home also encourages them to eat more healthfully and together as a family. The ritual of the family meal has been proven to be a social activity that has a direct impact on the well-being of children.
2. Childhood obesity has more than tripled in the last 30 years.

Cooking Matters For Kids is another portion of the program. It doesn't deal so much with the cost and budgeting aspects of food...it is more nutrition-based, and for six weeks this past summer, it was my program of choice. I, and my fabulous team: the program coordinator, Kate, dietitian, Cara, and assistant, Michele, taught a group of 13 students, from 3rd grade through 5th. The classes were themed (Healthy Snacks, Healthy Breakfast Options, Whole Grain Goodness, etc.), and divided into sessions--nutrition, cooking, and eating, and by the time these kids were through, they had a really strong sense of what was and was not healthy eating. We discussed knife skills and life skills. They learned cooking basics: cutting, chopping, measuring, as well as how to read labels, work together in groups, and even a little food science. The lessons were jam-packed with information. They definitely went home with both their heads and tummies full. It was a great time!

Cooking Matters has grown to serve more than 17,000 families each year.

At the end of the six-week period, the students graduated and were given diplomas, recipe books, and chef’s toques. Aside from having a positive impact on the kids, this was such a rewarding program for me. It was really encouraging to see them getting excited about cooking and figuring out which foods were healthier than others. Childhood hunger, childhood obesity, and healthful eating are true passions of mine, and I believe the only way to better the eating habits of the people of this country is to start with its children. Youngsters and teens who are mindful of nutrition become healthy adults, who then have healthy children. And so the cycle continues. If you'd like to help or volunteer for one of these programs, go to:www.nokidhungry.org 

 Children and adolescents who are obese are likely to be obese as adults.

Here’s an example of one of the dishes the students prepared. Turkey Tacos, loaded with lots of veggies, was definitely one of their favorites. We used low-fat cheese and whole-grain tortillas, which made it a really healthy meal.

• 1/4 cup shredded zucchini
• 1/4 cup shredded carrots
• 1/4 cup diced bell peppers
• 1/4 cup diced onions
• 1 pound lean ground turkey
• 1-15 1/2 ounce can pinto beans
• 1 cup no salt added tomato juice

Seasonings:

• 2 tablespoons chili powder
• 1 teaspoon dried oregano
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper

Toppings:

• 8 ounces low fat cheddar cheese
• 1/4 head of romaine lettuce
• 2 large tomatoes
• 8 whole wheat tortillas

Directions: Drain and rinse pinto beans well, using colander.

Coat a large saute pan with non-stick cooking spray, over medium heat saute zucchini, carrots, bell pepper and onion until tender. Add turkey meat to vegetable mixture, cook until browned.

Add pinto beans, tomato juice, tomato paste and all seasonings into saute pan. Stir well.

Grate cheddar cheese, set aside. Rinse lettuce and shred; set aside. Rinse tomatoes and dice; set aside. 

Reduce heat to medium and cooking until thickened, about 20 minutes.Assemble tacos with tortilla, ground turkey mixture, cheddar cheese, and lettuce, and top with diced tomatoes.