Pandemic Haircut

My first thought on removing the plastic bag and rinsing out the extra dye was “troll doll.” Not the giant eyes and round belly. But the hair. Definitely the hair – bright mermaid blue. After some challenging weeks (David’s bike accident, friends suspecting Covid – which, fortunately, turned out to be a false alarm), here was something to celebrate.

Friday afternoon, Birch cut my hair on our deck – the first clippers to touch my head since February. Yesterday, I let her dye it. Because … Why not? My children have been dying their hair for years. I’ve long wondered what it would be like to color mine.

But I don’t do that sort of thing, so I set the idea aside. Until this weekend.

These days, everything feels uncertain, ad-hoc. What difference does it make what color my hair is? And what difference does it make if that dye job is the perfectly imperfect work of my sixteen-year-old? It’s joyful. It’s fun. It’s hair, for heaven’s sake.

Last night, we celebrated David’s 53rd birthday. Birch made a chocolate peanut butter icebox cake (highly recommend; here’s the recipe). Miriam and Sammy visited from Ann Arbor, where they are each living in coops with 15 young adults. It was our first family gathering since they left home again in July.

They arrived wearing masks.

We sat on the deck, six feet apart.

They didn’t stay overnight.

I loved being with them. All week I felt excited and sad – anxious to see them, sad that we couldn’t hug, relieved that during this isolating time they are living in community.

Birch had 12 days of community at Camp Lookout too, the best part of her summer hands down. This was her fourth season at the tiny camp in Northern Michigan, the capstone session before being old enough to work there next year.

When Governor Whitmer moved our state into Phase 4, the directors figured out a way to offer tiny camp experiences for kids from the same region of the state. Camp was back, albeit with masks and distance and pre-arrival Covid tests.

And now they’re even offering a semester school option, which my kid is anxious to join – seven weeks of online school with your home district, while engaged in a camp-like community up north.

So, things are looking up in unexpected ways.

And I have turquoise hair, which I love.

My children are finding their way during this odd time. Birch is settling into communities that embrace and celebrate her trans identity – folks who don’t question her name, her pronouns or her politics.

Sammy’s friends are returning to Ann Arbor after scattering when school shut down in March. They are walking and talking together-but-apart, sitting on the porch, sharing meals as best they can.

Miriam is working at a farm a couple days each week, figuring out what the fall of senior year looks like, navigating uncertainty like a pro.

No, it’s not what I expected. But it’s what we’ve got, and I’ll take it.

How Much Rice is Enough?

The basement fridge is nearly empty. A bag of carrots, some lemons, an extra quart of vanilla yogurt.

We still have giant bags of pasta and rice in the pantry, ten cans of black beans, a huge tub of hummus that we probably won’t finish.

I am lucky. While sheltering in place, I stocked up. I had money and space – an extra refrigerator and freezer, an entire basement kitchen. My college kids had returned to their childhood bedrooms; five of us were eating three meals a day at home.

A few weeks into the lockdown, I misread the order information from a local bulk supply outlet and accidentally purchased 45 dozen fresh eggs. I spent the next three days donating them to emergency pantries and my friends who were preparing for Passover, a holiday that requires dozens of eggs. But not 45 dozen.

I bought a giant box of frozen tilapia filets. My husband found new ways to cook them on his dinner prep nights. We ate a lot of fish.

We made sourdough.

Miriam – a food preserver even when we’re not living through a pandemic – pickled magnolia flowers, bottled cherry blossom vinegar, made capers from dandelions.

Sammy cooked tempeh and cauliflower curries, roasted sweet potatoes. He even fried hot chicken one night, on a quest for a dish resembling a blistering late-night snack he and David ate in Nashville.

Birch experimented with pie dough and mushrooms. She learned to sharpen knives on a whetstone, made chocolate cake, vegetable stock and risotto with pesto.

We thought a lot about food.

The big kids returned to Ann Arbor last Monday. With only three of us in the house and better stocked stores, I am learning to shop like a normal person again. I still avoid supermarkets if possible. I prefer curbside pick-ups and deliveries.  I know this is only a pause in the pandemic. I will probably stock up again when the second wave hits.

I hope my college kids can stay at school.

I hope my youngest has something resembling a senior year.

The only thing I know for sure, is that I won’t run out of rice.

Preparing for Shabbat

The rice casserole was delicious, thanks to loads of garlic and fresh shiitake mushrooms from my new favorite mushroom farmer. Tomorrow, dairy kugel and fish for Shabbat dinner (still trying to use up the cottage cheese), plus an Earl Gray tea cake with chocolate and orange. The fish is my husband’s responsibility; he recently became a tilapia expert, after I bought 20 pounds in March from the same place that supplied the giant tub of cottage cheese.

I don’t have egg noodles for the kugel, so I’ll substitute bow tie pasta. Or cream for the cake’s frosting; we’ll make do with a slightly less fluffy topping.

Shabbat dinner requires dessert: peanut butter, chocolate or blueberry cake, brownies, apple turnovers, rhubarb crisp. The Earl Gray recipe is new.

We have been lighting Shabbat candles with my parents via Facetime. It’s a sweet way to end the week, though we can’t always get the angle of the iPad right. Sometimes they’re looking down at us, while other times all they can see is the overhead light. Still, we’re together in a manner of speaking, marking the beginning of Shabbat as we always have, with candles, challah and wine.

But I can’t help but wonder, how long till we can host them in our home, in person?

How long till they are seated side by side in front of the baker’s rack, the spot in our dining room where it is most difficult to get up from the table, which means they have to stay put and let the rest of us serve the soup and clear the dishes?

How long till I can hug my mother?

How long till I can sit next to my dad? Really next to him – not six feet away on the front porch?

I don’t know. So in the meantime, I bake. I sauté onions and mushrooms. I search for ways to use up cottage cheese.

It keeps me busy. And sometimes I don’t even cry.

Cottage Cheese

Spinach and Brown Rice Casserole sounds like something my mother would have made for our family circa 1981, during our vegetarian dinner phase.

Frozen spinach, chopped mushrooms, cottage cheese, brown rice. Even the word casserole evokes the white laminate dining table and vinyl print wallpaper of our 70’s era kitchen.

I was searching for recipes featuring cottage cheese, because several weeks ago, when I first started Covid bulk buying, I grabbed a four-pound tub, not realizing I already had two smaller, normal size containers in the fridge. The expiration date approaches, and while I know that the cottage cheese won’t suddenly turn green at midnight, I also know that as soon as I open it, the clock begins ticking.

Recall: Cottage cheese recalled by Kraft Heinz on risk of plastic bits

I can’t imagine throwing it out. And so my hunt for cottage cheese rich recipes.

Spinach casseroles and sweet noodle kugels came up frequently. Creamy dips. Cottage cheese pancakes. Cottage cheese with cantaloupe. Also references to Richard Nixon, who ate it with pineapple or ketchup.

If I make both the casserole and the kugel, I can use up five cups and put half of each casserole in the freezer for future meals.

That alone is enough to convince me.

To round out tonight’s dinner, I have lots of choices: a bag of fresh shiitake mushrooms, a head of cauliflower, black beans, my oldest child’s pickling experiments. Have you tried dandelion capers? Pickled magnolia blossoms? Turmeric garlic?

Or sourdough something. We have starter in a jar on the counter, and last week I successfully baked a loaf of bread using yeast water, which took a week and a half to establish: figs, water, sugar and salt, much shaking and resting, and a good bit of sheer faith. Would it work? No idea, until the dough actually bubbled and rose, and the loaf emerged from the oven looking like … well, bread.

Sunday I baked rhubarb custard bars, which are kind of like lemon squares, but pink. My book club will be meeting on Zoom this Thursday, and when I tasted one, I thought perfect book group snack, while simultaneously realizing I could not share them with these friends, some of whom I’ve been meeting with on the second Thursday of the month for 30 years. I briefly considered drive-by drop-offs, but our crew is so widely dispersed – Ypsilanti, Oakland Township, Rochester, Saginaw, Bay City, Bloomfield Hills – it would have taken all day to visit everyone.

As you can tell, we’ve been cooking a lot. My youngest requested tart cherry juice, a key ingredient in a future baking project. Last night she made chocolate pudding from scratch. My middle child is a master of tempeh, which shows up frequently in his weekly dinners.

I am not sad to be cooking or eating well. I am just tired of the focus on ingredients – using them, finding them, evaluating if we have enough onions and milk; splurging on spice mixes and gummi bears.

Tonight, spinach and brown rice casserole. Maybe I’ll save some for my parents – a little nostalgia trip for all of us – and drop it off on Saturday, when I bring them their produce box from Detroit’s Eastern Market. We’ve been ordering on Mondays for Saturday pick-up – another change to our grocery habits. I’ve become attached to the tortellini and spinach and tortilla chips.

More goodies coming. More dinners. More snacks.

We’ll be cooking all week. And occasionally we’ll forget that we couldn’t go out if we wanted to, that we won’t be running to the store for that missing ingredient, that we’ll be eating at home together, again, all five of us in our familiar spots, seated around the dining room table that was a gift from my parents when we moved in 20 years ago – the table with the big scratch at the head and the inlaid wood diamonds and the spot the puppy gnawed at the base.

Today. And tomorrow. And the day after that.

Crepes with Van Gogh: Corona Quarantine Phase 2

Last night, sheltering in place got the best of me. I was scrolling through texts and landed on a thread from late last year about who was bringing what to a potluck of some sort. Reading it made me cry.

I miss all of you, I texted my friends. I need a virtual gathering. I’ve had my share of open ended “How are you doing” sessions with various people, which are great, but I’d like to DO something if anyone has any ideas. Unfortunately I don’t.

Easy Crepe Recipe - How To Make Basic Crepes—Delish.com

Twenty messages later, we had a plan: Zoom meetup Saturday night. We’ll visit the Musee d’Orsay in Paris, where Vicki will screenshare/guide us through the Van Gogh exhibit. BYO crepes and wine.

A month into this experience, we’ve moved into a new phase of coronavirus reality.

This is it, we seem to be saying.

What’s next? How do we manage longer-term?

Yesterday a case of toilet paper landed on our front porch from the local janitorial supply service. It’s the grayish, thin kind you find in gas stations and dive restaurants, where the restroom looks like it belongs in your house, not a commercial establishment. The type of restroom with a pink lotion soap dispenser, where – way in the distant past – you might have wiped your hands on a damp cloth looped on a metal-framed holder and then dried them for real on your pants.

Why did we order so much? Because we were just so damned tired of thinking about toilet paper. I needed it off my mental list. And while each roll of what looks like about 20 sheets of two-ply toilet tissue will not last long, I feel such relief knowing those puny, paper-wrapped rolls are stacked on a basement shelf.

I also feel fortunate to have a basement shelf. And an extra carton of milk in the fridge. And three dozen eggs, and a giant bag of spinach. All of which reminds me that I have to figure out when and where I am going to shop next week. Three dozen eggs will not last long around here. The spinach will be gone by Friday.

As my friends and I were firming up our Saturday night plans, I started searching for games to play online. I found versions of Scrabble and Rummikub, but when I downloaded the apps and tried setting one up on my phone, I stopped mid-registration. I don’t want to link my account to Facebook. I don’t want to create a screen name. I just want to do something familiar with my friends.

I want to sit in a room full of people and talk around the dining room table. Then I want to get up and perch on the edge of the sofa next to someone I haven’t seen for a while and catch up while the Superbowl halftime show plays in the background and everyone else finishes dessert.

For now, I’ll have to settle for a virtual museum tour and a solo glass of wine. Yes, with friends. But still sort of alone.

None of this is easy, though there are occasional bright spots. I’ve been ordering a produce box from Detroit’s Eastern Market each Monday for Saturday pickup. This time I added ramps, tortilla chips, salsa and a loaf of whole wheat bread to my cart. Last week we had the most gorgeous blue oyster mushrooms I’ve ever seen, which Birch turned into pasta sauce Monday night.

So it’s not like everything is bad. It’s just not how I want it to be. I want my college-age children to live with their friends in their grubby campus houses. I want them to have summer jobs. I want camp for my youngest.

Vicki shared a crepe-making video to get us in the mood for Saturday night. I’m contemplating where I want to sit for this pretend outing. Should I pick the spot where I usually set up Zoom, or try somewhere new? Maybe the weather will cooperate and I can sit outside.

Should I wear a hat? Wrap myself in a colorful shawl?

Perhaps we’ll post pictures. Probably not. I look forward to our gathering. I just hope I’m not too sad to enjoy myself.

How Are You Doing?

I am drawing blobby shapes on my sketch pad, filling them in with colored pencils while listening to Haydn piano sonatas.

I am advising my youngest baker on what to do with the over-cooked marshmallow concoction that was supposed to become a buttercream icing base. (Start again. Can we substitute dark corn syrup for light? Not sure, but what the heck?)

I am deciding whether butter is an emergency supply and needs to be purchased right this minute from a nearby gas station. (No.)

I receive texts with photos of baking projects from my cousin in Chicago. Last week, challah; this week, bagels. They are gorgeous. He says they’re a bit doughy. He’ll try again.

My children are making dinner, one night each: red lentil & sweet potato curry, pad thai, tempeh-cauliflower stew, lemon-ricotta pasta. I am relieved not to be cooking so much.

I run through grocery lists and meal plans in my head multiple times a day. I fill virtual grocery carts, only to find that the food can’t be delivered till … till never. Try again later. Or tomorrow. Or the day after that.

I realize I don’t have parsley or horseradish for next week’s seder. A friend says she’ll share if I can’t buy my own before then.

I connect with a Covid-infected friend daily. She is in New York. I am in Detroit. I feel like we are only a week behind them. I am scared.

A friend leaves five heads of garlic on my front porch. I will buy flour for her with my next grocery delivery.

I help my children move furniture. They are swapping dressers, clearing out closets, moving books to the basement or to the giveaway pile in my room, which is growing, and which I cannot deliver to the charity thrift shop until who knows when.

I don’t know what to do with the overdue library books. Where should I put them so I’ll remember to return them when it’s time?

I do online yoga on my bedroom floor. I use two mats because hardwood is not that forgiving.

We sing Happy Birthday to my mother on Zoom, all of us in silly hats, huddled around the laptop camera.

Today we will deliver her chocolate birthday cake covered in buttercream. Once she’s seen it whole, we’ll cut the cake in half and take a portion back home. Maybe we’ll set up the computer on the dining room table and eat it together.

Jew-ish Studies and the Search for the Perfect Chocolate Chip

My friend Rachel just moved to town, which makes me very happy. Before we can hang out and enjoy living in the same city, however, she has some important business to take care of. I am a prime resource for questions like these:

  • How does our town handle recycling? (Throw everything in the big green bin.)
  • Do I know a good cleaning person who can show up the day of closing and scrub the empty house before the movers show up the next day? (Yes. Three texts and one hour later we’re all set.)
  • Do I have a set of allen wrenches? (Yes, but I can’t find it.)

And my favorite: Where can I buy pareve chocolate chips?

For those who don’t understand kashrut, this may seem like an odd question, but it is extremely important to those of us who keep kosher and want to serve non-dairy chocolate chip desserts after our (usually meat) Shabbat dinners. In the interest of peanut butter chocolate chip cake, I cannot afford to run out of pareve chips.

Of course I knew where to them nearby. I even sent her a photo of my favorite brand, available at Whole Foods, Holiday Market and One Stop Kosher (which has an entire shelf dedicated to such things.) You used to be able to buy pareve chips at Trader Joe’s, but that brand is now considered dairy – an immeasurable loss to people like me for whom TJ’s is grocery stop #1.

The College Essay Connection

Reminiscing about TJ’s chocolate chips reminded me of one of my son Sammy’s college essays.

Sammy didn’t get in to the University of Chicago, for whom he composed this hilarious piece. He’s headed to the University of Michigan (big cheers from the home team!) But it would be a shame to relegate this essay to the Google Drive archives. With his permission, I share it with you.

First, the prompt: Due to a series of clerical errors, there is exactly one typo (an extra letter, a removed letter, or an altered letter) in the name of every department at the University of Chicago. Oops! Describe your new intended major. Why are you interested in it and what courses or areas of focus within it might you want to explore? Potential options include Commuter Science, Bromance Languages and Literatures, Pundamentals: Issues and Texts, Ant History…

Jew-ish Studies, by Sammy Saperstein

xmas chineseAfter nine years of day school, I figured that I was done learning about Judaism. I’ve learned Hebrew, I’ve studied Torah, and I’ve memorized virtually the entire morning service. I took a break from Judaic studies by going to a public high school, and figured I would do the same in college by not entirely ignoring my religion, but not making it a focus of my studies. That was until I heard about UChicago’s “Jew-ish Studies” major, a major that focuses on things sort of Jewish but not directly tied to the religion. Core classes include “Jews on Christmas” (JIST 20081), investigating the annual migration of Jews to local (non-kosher!) Chinese restaurants on December 25th, and “Sleepaway Camp,” a study of the decade-long mating ritual that is Jewish summer camp, in which campers are subtly led into a hook-up culture from a young age, culminating in their time as counselors, at which point the culture continues, ideally leading to a long-term relationship, children, and the continuation of the Jewish people. While I feel I’ve had enough of traditional Jewish Studies, Jew-ish Studies is perfect.

One subdiscipline that fascinates me is study of “The Jewish Goodbye.” This interdisciplinary subject takes a deep dive into the complex sociological relationships between Jewish friends and family that lead to infamously long goodbyes. It’s a rapidly developing field, with cutting edge ideas employing Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity to explain how, during a Goodbye, 30 minutes can feel like 10 seconds to a parent reliving with their friend the shock they felt when they first discovered that Trader Joe’s chocolate chips were no longer non-dairy and could therefore no longer be used for meat-based Shabbat desserts, while simultaneously feeling like two hours to a kid who just wants to go home and change out of their business-casual synagogue clothes and into the pair of bar mitzvah party giveaway sweatpants they received the week before.

Within the study of Goodbyes comes study of The Shift. This phenomenon, which is defined as the moment (or set of moments) at which a goodbye goes from feeling long to feeling short, has been observed both in a lab setting and in the field across denominations, demographics, and generations. Theolog-ishians are currently attempting to establish the age/time at which The Shift occurs. There are some fundamental questions people have about The Shift, such as: When does it occur? How does it occur? Do all Jews experience it the same way? Why does it exist in the first place? Over the past few years, a number of different camps have sprung up , each with its own theories. These camps largely focus on the first question (When does The Shift occur?), as the others are deeper questions that require more of a solid theoretical basis than we have right now. There are the Evolutionists, who believe that The Shift takes place over one’s entire lifetime and that Goodbyes gradually feel shorter and shorter. Mathematical Jew-ish Studies oftens favors the Evolutionists, modelling the age vs time observed as a logistic decay curve with the bulk of the decay occurring around the ages of 30-50. Discretists, of which I am a member, believe that instead of a gradual change The Shift occurs at a certain moment in one’s life. If this is the case, it remains unclear whether that moment is unique to each individual or if it’s triggered by a particular event.

It’s also important to note that Discretists view The Shift as a product of one’s environment, instead of a natural/inherent process like the Evolutionists. This means that a completely isolated Jew would not experience the Shift, but this is almost impossible to prove. Any experiment involving isolating someone for an entire lifetime would never pass an ethics board, and such a Jew would have no one to say Goodbye to rendering the experiment useless.

As my senior project, I hope to run an experiment to test my hypothesis, which predicts that The Shift occurs immediately when one becomes a parent. While this is a highly controversial theory, as it fails to offer any indication into what happens to Jews who never become parents (or why The Shift isn’t observed in non-Jews who do become parents, for that matter), finding evidence that it’s true would be a remarkable step forward for the field. There are good reasons to believe this is the case. For example, one’s role in one’s Jewish community changes drastically when one becomes a parent, so it would make sense that one’s perception of the Goodbye would change as well. Additionally, The Shift has, up to this point, only been studied in child/adult pairs, so there’s little reason to believe that childless adults feel any sort of time distortion during a Goodbye. And while Evolutionists will use the problem of the childless adults to argue that The Shift affects Jews according to age rather than by any social markers, I view it as further evidence of the importance of becoming a parent to one’s Jewish identity, especially in the case of Goodbyes.

Some say that the “Jew-ish Studies” major is a waste of time with no practical applications, but this couldn’t be further from the truth. While it’s unlikely that students will end up as clergy members or Talmudic scholars like their traditional “Jewish Studies” counterparts at other schools, many find jobs as religious preschool teachers, deli entrepreneurs, or religious heads at sleepaway camps. All of these are prestigious and clearly show that Jew-ish Studies is not only a fascinating area of study, but potentially lucrative as well.

While to the uninitiated it may seem like I already have a strong understanding of the subject, that is far from the truth. I’ve been fascinated by Jew-ish Studies ever since I found out about it, so I’ve spent a good deal of time over the past year reading books and watching videos made for laypeople on the subject. This is why I’m so excited to continue this study in college. I have enough knowledge to understand the basics, but still yearn to dive deeper and learn from experts in the field. For the next four years, I’ll be focusing on Jew-ish Studies as much as I can.

Tell Me Something Good

Once or twice a month, my friends Kim and Shari and I send each other quick, unedited essays. We intended to do this every week, but we’re not that consistent. Calling them essays is rather ambitious; they’re more like snippets or observations. We share a Dropbox folder labeled “Tell Me Something Good,” and fill it with these brief missives – a page or less, first drafts, first thoughts, reflections on something that made us smile or feel grateful or breathe a sigh of relief. Continue reading

Mixed Berry Pie

Yesterday I attended the most beautiful funeral. My cousin Minda died Saturday, and the rest of this week has been a blur.

Did I mention that we’re celebrating her niece’s bat mitzvah this weekend, and that there will be 70 people at my house Saturday night in her honor? The occasion was moved to a synagogue here in Detroit from Southern California a few months ago because Marcia, the bat mitzvah’s mom, knew her sister would likely be too ill to travel, and might even die. Continue reading

Chef Josh

Yesterday Josh asked for a mini fridge of his own so he can age meats in the basement. This is what you get when you give your sixth grader Kenji Lopez-Alt’s The Food Lab for Chanukah.

IMG_6640

So far my boy has made mac and cheese (gluey), a French omelet (delicious, but requires some work on technique) and buttermilk pancakes (heavenly.) He flips through the giant book over breakfast, recites tidbits while I make dinner, and has explained in great detail the best way to boil an egg. He is also intent on scoring some copper pots as soon as he can afford them (bar mitzvah money, perhaps?)

I love to cook, and thanks to Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything, have learned to make most of my favorites without a recipe. I remember reading from my mom’s vast cookbook collection over bowls of cereal and grilled cheese sandwiches at the kitchen table all through middle school and high school – The Enchanted Broccoli Forest, Maida Heater’s Chocolate Desserts, and Still Fiddling in the Kitchen, a fundraiser for the National Council of Jewish Women. I once spent months copying every recipe from her collection of recipe cards and mimeograph sheets onto pastel 3 x 5’s, then filing them by category. It made a great, labor-intensive birthday gift.

FullSizeRenderMy mom handed me a paper bag of mini jello molds yesterday – a little something for Josh to play around with. She found them in the basement with some old suitcases and other useless things. We are going to fill them with water and make fancy ice shapes for a punch bowl tomorrow night.

Right now, Josh is in the kitchen with my sister making banana pancakes. The house smells like butter.