A Vegetarian Above The Law

In Julia's 100 word challenge this week's prompt is a hamburger to be viewed from the perspective of vegetarians. Sorry Julia but I chose my own picture of the hamburger before the mincer (Google Images, respectforfood.com). Someone once asked me if I was vegetarian because I loved animals. 'No,' I replied, 'I'm vegetarian because I hate animals.' The truth is that I'm not vegetartian at all but my kitchen at home is totally meat free. And I don't hate animals as long as I can view them without touching. Read my 100 word vegetarians's perspective and then click on the link to read the others.


The Rabbis decide the rules. They keep a tight rein to justify their jobs. They need to make money for their minions. So they charge annually  for kosher certification, require  businesses to hire inspectors, publish lists permitting only  foods  from  paid-up companies. It's not divinity, it's politics.

I found a way, perfect in its simplicity, to opt out of that whole area of extortion and manipulation. My kitchen is vegetarian and thus above the law. Besides, when we enjoy a  festival meal with  family and  friends, there must be a better way to celebrate than to eat God's dead animals.

Accidental Crispy Kugel

I wanted to link up to Recipeshed at Reluctant Housedad this week as the prompt is rice, pulses and pasta. Perfect for my vegetarian kitchen and I have wanted to experiment with Majadra (rice, lentils and fried onions) or maybe a veggie Kedgeree. However, what with the bad back and all, I never got round to it. I'm up to writing but can't get my head round the cooking and taking the photo. Then I suddenly remembered that I have a pasta dish in the oven. It's a total accident on all fronts - serendipity if you like.

Yesterday I made my usual pasta with frozen green beans thrown in to the water for a little healthy extra at no extra effort. But I was lazy and instead of cooking the pasta al dente and then adding a sauce, I threw in some sauce ingredients with the cooking pasta and let it absorb. Nice idea but you can't make a rissotto effect out of pasta and I ended up with mushy pasta which neither of us were thrilled about. Lots of it.

A word about Kugel. It's Yiddish for cake or bake. We use it to mean any base ingredients (noodles, potatoes, vegetables) seasoned, mixed with eggs and flour and baked in the oven. So I took my mushy pasta with beans, spiced it up with salt and plenty of pepper, mixed in three eggs and a couple of spoonfuls of flour, and put it in a hot oven for about an hour. when the top was all dark and crispy, I turned it over in the dish and chopped it up a bit. It was then returned to the oven for more crisping. Finally I sprinkled it with grated cheese and popped it back in the oven just to make sure it was absolutely dead.

I took the picture and voila - we have been picking at it all afternoon. Not what you'd put in your recipe book but just as good as nachos and cheese. And far better than wasting a whole pot of pasta.

The Autumn Leaves

Over at Julia's Place I decided to join the 100 Word Challenge - except that this week Julia has shortened it to 50 words (not including the title words). It's a short post to ease me back into blogging after a couple of weeks' break (more about that tomorrow). Short but meaningful I like to think. I would have liked to provide my own photos but these are from Google Images. The top one taken in Kent by Mandy Barrow and the bottom one is my old Primary School in Stanmore. Coincidently it is also the view from my bedroom window - almost, as we lived directly opposite the lightning tree in the centre of the field. Read my 50 words on: The Autumn Leaves, and then click on the link to go read the other entries.

The autumn leaves, early evenings, bonfires in the gardens. Walking home from school in the days when I wore short skirts and woolly tights in sensible school shoes. I think my legs were longer then. The air was fresh and the leaves were crisp. My dreams were ambitious and my hopes were high.

An Angel In Pink

The Gallery theme this week is colour and Tara suggested we choose one from the great outdoors. In England they are enjoying an Indian Summer - hot days against an autumnal backdrop. Here in Israel the weather is, at last, getting cooler. We have already turned the clocks back so it gets dark earlier. And we are in the middle of the New Year (Rosh Hashana) and Atonement (Kippur) holidays. The ten days between the two are called the Days of Awe. Days of reflection and resolutions. Days of repentence and forgiveness. Days that we hope will end with us being inscribed in the book of life for another year. I took this photo from my balcony. It's yellow, orange, pink and blue. You may not be able to see it, but there seems to be an angel watching over us.

Go over to Sticky Fingers to see  more Gallery posts and a riot of colour.

Clutter: A Straight Exchange

Before having DD I was almost clutter free. I had moved apartments a few years earlier and thrown out five bin-bags full of clutter before the move. When I unpacked here, things that had a place in the old apartment suddenly seemed superfluous and literally 'out of place'. I filled two more bin-bags to throw out as I was unpacking.

Some people equate their clutter with feeling surrounded by their memories. Clutter as a cosy cushion of familiarity. A safety-blanket. An extension of themselves even. For me the exact opposite is true. I feel distincly uncomfortable as the clutter starts to build up and threatens to overtake the sleek calmness of an uncluttered home. Clutter weighs me down. I used to cheer myself up by throwing things out or giving them away. There are many 'second homes' in Jerusalem and sometimes after visiting such an apartment, I am envious of the clean lines and feeling of space in even a smallish apartment. I have to remind myself that this is a holiday home - they don't actually live there with all their stuff.

Don't get me wrong, I am no modern minimalist. I love old furniture, comfy sofas, rugs, photographs in frames on the sideboard and a selection of ornaments. But I also love space and uncluttered surfaces and floors. Partly it is practical as an Aladin's cave cum Gypsy caravan effect is murder to keep dusted and clean. But it is also pshychological. I can't work until I've tidied up. I hate it that I have a pile of papers that gets shunted from surface to surface because it has no assigned home. It had a home once but that home is now filled with toys and puzzles. And therein lies the problem.

A friend once told me how you bring home a little tiny bundle of baby and a whole household's worth of equipment comes with it. Well over the past year and a half we  have got rid of a lot of the equipment. The cot, the changer, the swinging chair, the activity playmat, the highchair, the baby bath, the baby carrier, the stacks of nappies... all of these are now obsolete and have been passed on to their next homes (except the nappies which stay in the shop). The toys, on the other hand, are everywhere.

I can actually tidy away the toys quite satisfactorally, but they don't stay tidied away. DD likes to play with them, and not unreasonably as they are her toys. I could describe it but it's easier if you just look at the picture (yes you have seen this shot before). After I cleared this particular mess up I went to do something in another room for five minutes. While I was gone DD had all the cushions from the sofa scattered around the floor. "What a mess!" I exclaimed. She looked at me as if I were a moron and explained, "No mess, building a house." So you see, it's a losing battle.

When I lived an uncluttered life, pre-motherhood, I had a very full social life. I entertained regularly, went out with friends, had subscriptions to an art-house cinema and a concert orchestra. I went for walks, ate in cafes, went away for the weekend, went on  holidays. My life has shrunk over the past three years. I stay in after dark, I never entertain, the subscriptions have gone, holidays are not holidays, I eat supper at 5.30pm sitting on a footstool at the coffee-table. It's as if a curious osmosis has drawn clutter into my home to compenate for my lack of ... well... a life.

I hate clutter and I don't enjoy this chaos, however necessary. As I write this I can hear the clinking of glasses next door - my neighbour is hosting a dinner party. I don't wish I were there with them. I accept that my adult life is on hold for a bit while I concentrate on DDs needs. I enjoy going to the park and choosing a lolly on the way home, I like cheesey mashed potatoes for supper, and I love stories in bed at 7pm. I just wish we could do it all with less mess. 

This post was written for the Friday Carnival at Notes from Home. Click on through for more posts about the cluttered or uncluttered home.

An Extra Chromosome...Or Two.

So why Does Nadge wear number 47?

It's no secret that I am a Manchester United supporter. My father was a United supporter of course, and my grandfathers, and Unc. It was Unc who played United v City with us in the garden, who tutored us in the folklore, who related to us the tragedy of the Munich air disaster, and who regaled us with stories of Duncan Edwards, Georgie Best, and The King (the original king of Old Trafford), Dennis Law. I remember the excitement of watching the teleprinter chatter out the results as they came in, waiting with baited breath as first the time appeared, and then the teams, and then the score, all magically rushing across the screen as the funny bobble thingy bobbled up and down in fits and starts. In turn, I have fulfilled my fatherly duty and passed this unconditional love and support and devotion to my children from the moment I knew that a fetus had been created. Some babies are serenaded with Mozart in the womb – mine were treated to "Glory Glory Man United" as they swam happily in their amniotic fluid, digesting pure red sound waves. 

Just before the millenium, Mrs Nadge became pregnant again and her tummy was treated to my full repertoire of United songs. Thankfully, we had not had any trouble with any of the previous pregnancies and there was no reason to suggest that number 5 would be any different. As Mrs Nadge had reached the grand old age of 35 she was advised to do an amniocentesis in the fourth month, a routine if slightly risky test whereby a sample of the amniotic fluid is drawn off to be tested for any fetal abnormalities, one of the most common being Down's Syndrome. Three weeks later the phone call came from the hospital, telling us that there were "memtza'im" – a Hebrew word meaning "findings" or "results" and when could we come in. They wouldn't say anything else on the phone. Just "findings". A word saying everything yet nothing at the same time. I remember Mrs Nadge being shell-shocked. She slid down the wall of our narrow hall, and ended up on the floor leaning against the wall for support. We didn't know what to say. All sorts of horrible thoughts come to you, all the worst-case scenarios.  

A few days later we kept our appointment with the genetics department at the hospital. Mrs Nadge has a background in the sciences, with a degree in physics. I, on the other hand, managed to navigate the English grammar school and university system, ending up with a BSc, whilst never having passed a science exam in my life. Up until the moment I walked into the doctor’s office I’d barely even heard of chromosomes, and I certainly didn’t know what they were or how many make up a human body. Well, every cell in our bodies has 23 pairs of chromosomes, 1 pair of sex chromosomes and the other 22 pairs containing the rest of our genetic hereditary information. That makes 46 chromosomes in total. When there is a problem with our genetic make-up, this is typically manifested by abnormalities in our chromosomes – too many, too few, deletions, insertions, inversions and translocations. 

So, whilst trying to assimilate all this general information with which we were being bombarded, we had also to take in the fact that our baby boy had a structural abnormality in one of the chromosomes. There was a marker, an extra bit, chromosome number 47. “So what does it mean?” we immediately asked. They couldn’t say. “How risky is it?” They couldn’t say. “What should we do?” They couldn’t say. WikiGenetics puts it most succinctly – “With marker chromosomes there is a risk for fetal abnormality, which ranges from a very low risk to a risk of 100%.” Well, that narrows it down, doesn’t it? I seem to remember them saying that there was maybe a 2% chance that everything was fine. So, more tests then. They said it would take about two weeks or so for some complicated and expensive tests to be completed, tests that would have to be sent off to Jerusalem. Meanwhile, they would do a blood test on each of us to see if they could discover anything that way. 

It’s common in times of stress and misfortune to make vows to ourselves. You know what I mean. If only such and such will (or won’t) happen then I’ll never swear again, or I’ll give a million pounds to charity or some other such nonsense. In this instance, I promised myself that if all being well, everything turns out for the best, I’ll put the number 47 on my next Manchester United shirt. Something viable and simple, something meaningful to me that will always act as a reminder of trying times. 

Millenium Nadge still waiting for his 47

I’m pleased to report that I love chromosome number 47. Shortly afterwards, the blood test showed that yours truly also has an extra chromosome – and it’s not affected me has it!? They recommended us to do blood tests for the rest of our kids too, a boy and 3 girls. It turned out that number 1 child – the boy – also has 47 chromosomes, and he also proudly wears the number on the back of his Manchester United shirt. 

Number 6, the baby of the family, duly came along. We were less worried this time when the call came from the hospital saying that there were “memtza’im”. Except in this case I made a promise to put the number 48 on the back of my next United shirt. Yup, two markers showed up this time, really unusual. Everyone expected it to be a boy in light of the three males in our family. Our baby is now 8 and she still loves it when I put on her shirt.

Dipping Apple In Honey

One week from today we celebrate the Jewish New Year (Rosh Hashana). As usual, along with seasonal greetings for a good and sweet year (Shana Tova Umetuka), we pass round some amusing or entertaining animation or youtube clip that has taken our (collective) fancy. One of this year's offerings has particularly captured the imagination and has had over half a million hits so far. So of course, as I hum the tune whilst walking along the road, cleaning the kitchen, etc... I can't just enjoy it as a bit of amusing frippery, I have to analyse exactly why I love this video so much - and it's not just the lively music, though that does have a lot to do with it.

Rosh Hashana, like all religious occasions, is laden with symbolism. Not only is it the New Year but also a New Start, a New Leaf, almost a New Beginning. We are supposed to use this time  to reflect on our deeds of the past year and repent for any misdoings. We have to ask forgiveness from those we may have offended or hurt, even accidently or unknowingly. We blow, or at least listen to the shofar (a ram's horn) as a reminder to us and to God that he can and does listen to our prayers (i.e. he listened to Abraham's pleas and didn't require him to slaughter his son Isaac - instead giving him a ram to sacrifice.) Actually I just made that explanation up but the shofar certainly sounds impressive and makes you sit up and behave. We wear white to symbolise our working towards a pure soul and we pray that, at the end of the holiday period - in about three weeks time, God will inscribe us in the book of life (i.e. no death this year please). There are also pomegranates and fish - both symbols of fertility (why not?). And of course we all reunite with family and friends for big celebratory meals - obviously.

Dipping the apple in the honey? For a sweet life! I mean, if you're going to survive the year, you want to enjoy it - right?

So The Fountainheads from Ein Prat (click here for background information) recorded this Rosh Hashana message which includes all of the above symbolism - and something else. For me it's another step out of the shtetl. Although we tend to idealise shtetl life and like to think that all our great-great-grandfathers were Tevye the milkman from Fiddler On The Roof, there is a danger in trying to live a modern life simultaneously with an ancient religion. It can pull you back and make you wary of progress. It can alienate people who are looking for relevence in today's society and with today's sensitivities. Dip Your Apple In The Honey is a young, modern, refreshing interpretation of the significance of Rosh Hashana. It makes you want to be a part of it. To share this future with these people. Enjoy!