A Bedtime Story

Sometimes, bedtime is the best time.

Tonight, as on most nights, putting my children in their beds didn't even come close to putting them to sleep.  Eventually, I went back into their room to do a final settle down, and was greeted by both girls begging me to, "Read book!  Read book!"

Instead, I told them a bedtime story.


Once upon a time, there were two little girls.  They loved to run and play, and to eat their dinners, and to take a bath.  One day they had played so much and had so much fun, they could hardly keep their eyes open.  So their mommy tucked them in, kissed them on the cheek, and on the nose, and told them how much she loved them.  And the little girls went to sleep.  And the next day, they did it all over again.  The end.






As I told them the story, I tucked them in.  I kissed them on the cheeks and on the nose.  And then I told them I loved them, said goodnight, and left the room.

They haven't made a peep since.

My fabled angels

...best story ever.  :)

How SuperMommy Does Thanksgiving

Last year's Thanksgiving Dinner at Casa SuperMommy: Turkey (my first whole bird!), sweet potatoes, more turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, stuffing, gravy, green bean casserole, risotto, veganized risotto, Three Sisters, and a basket of biscuits and corn bread.  And of course a bottle of wine.

Truth be told, I'm sad that we're not going to be with my side of the family for Thanksgiving.

Don't get me wrong, I love my in-laws.  I truly do.  I enjoy their company, I have a ton of fun, and of course it's always good for the girls to see their grandparents- either side.  It's just that...

Everybody has their own family traditions.  Everyone has "the way that you do things."

My husband's family is, in many ways, very traditional.  They're about as midwestern American as they come.  Friendly, heartland people.  Meat-and-potatoes people.

And my family?

My mom was writing a world cuisine, completely vegetarian cookbook for most of my childhood.  Thanksgiving was her opportunity to showcase everything that she knew about American Food.

And by "American Food," I don't mean burgers and fries and deep fried butter.  The way my family, led by my mother, has always done Thanksgiving is to cook foods that could have been made by American natives.  That the non-Pilgrims would have brought to the feast.  Assuming that those natives were vegetarians.

Nothing on the table isn't indigenous to the USA (well, there are cheeses who's cultures originated abroad).  There's succotash with lima beans and corn, there's sprouts with chestnuts and maple, there's homemade corn bread crumbled into stuffing, wild rice, cranberry sauce and spinach stews, there's roasted sweet potatoes, butternut squash risotto, pecan pies, pumpkin pies, apple pies... and then there's the Three Sisters.

The legend of the Three Sisters is that they are vegetables that care for each other.  Unlike European farmers, Native Americans farmed by planting all of their crops together, very densely, in small plots.  One acre would provide a plethora of vegetables, in a gigantic mass as opposed to nice, tidy rows.  The three sisters are squash, corn, and beans.  You see, the corn stalks provide poles for the beans to climb.  The squash keeps the ground clear, allowing the corn to remain spaced and get enough sun (and the squash crowds out some bean-hating weeds).  The three together even keep from excessively draining the soil of nutrients like nitrogen.

So we have something we just call, "Three Sisters."  Beans, corn, and squash.  The way I cook it, it's a day and a half long affair.  I makes the house smell alternately savory and sweet, and then just plain like Thanksgiving.

For my first Thanksgiving with my in-laws, I'm making the Three Sisters and pumpkin pies.  Out of pumpkins.  Not that canned nonsense.

I honestly don't know what to anticipate for dinner.  If it's anything like Christmas, I expect a turkey, some potatoes, corn bread, and gravy.  And cranberry sauce, I'm sure.  But I'm not expecting a lot of vegetarian fare.  And what vegetarian fare there is, I'm not expecting it to be... well.. anything like my mother's.

The fact that my mother isn't cooking a Thanksgiving dinner at all this year isn't a lot of comfort.  I was kind of hoping she could bring me leftovers.

So here, for your family's enjoyment, are two of my favorite Thanksgiving recipes.  Three Sisters, the way I make it, and Butternut Squash Risotto.


Three Sisters

Day One:
4c dried beans- assorted
2-4 quarts water
1.5 tsp salt
14 black peppercorns, whole
2 cloves garlic
1 large onion- halved
2 carrots
2 stalks celery- leaves attached

Rinse the beans carefully, discarding any stones.  Place in large stock pot with 2 quarts of water while you prepare the vegetables.  Discard any beans that rise quickly to the surface.

Bring pot, with all ingredients, to a boil.  Boil for one hour, adding water as needed to keep beans covered.  Stir occasionally.  At the end of the hour, turn off the burner, cover tightly, and allow to sit 8 hours or overnight.

Day Two AM:
2-3 acorn squash, halved
2 tbs butter
1/2c brown sugar
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp powdered ginger

Yesterday's beans
1 onion- halved
2 cloves garlic
1 carrot
1 stalk celery- leaves attached
1.5 tsp salt
2-4 quarts water

Pour out the water from the pot of beans.  Remove vegetables.  Discard onions, garlic, and celery, but reserve carrots.  Place them in the fridge for later.

Rinse, and return to pot.  Add vegetables.  Bring water to a boil, and simmer for 1 hour.  Remove from heat.

Place the acorn squash on a baking sheet.  Divide butter, sugar, and spices into squash halves.  Bake at 400 degrees F for 30-40 minutes, occasionally brushing butter over the inside of the squash.  Remove and allow to cool.


Day Two PM:
Beans from before
Reserved carrots
Cooked squash
2c frozen corn
3 tomatoes, peeled and chopped
1 heirloom tomato, yellow and red if possible- skinned
1+ tbs coarse salt- I prefer black (from Hawaii, so... technically Native American?)
additional brown sugar and cinnamon to taste

Drain and rinse beans again.  Reserve carrot, throw out other vegetables.  Put in large mixing bowl.  Add corn.  Add peeled, chopped tomatoes.

Remove squash from rinds.  Cut into 1-2" chunks.  Add to bean mixture.  Mix thoroughly, and add any additional sugar and cinnamon.

Place in large baking/casserole dish.

Cut reserved carrots into thin rounds.  Cut tomato into thin slices.  Use sliced carrots and tomatoes to decorate top of Three Sisters, with one tomato slice in the middle, and concentric rings of carrots/tomatoes radiating outwards.  Take coarse salt, and sprinkle liberally on top.

Bake at 350 for 35 minutes, or until tomatoes have formed almost a crust.

Serves 6-8.  And a heck of a lot more on Thanksgiving when plates are overflowing with other goodies.



Butternut Squash Risotto

6-8 c broth
5tbs butter, divided
1 onion, finely chopped
3-4 c butternut squash- balled with melon baller but not yet cooked
2c long grain rice
1c dry white wine
1c grated Parmesan
2 tbs fresh rosemary
salt and white pepper

Heat broth, and keep at a low simmer until required

heat 4 tbs butter in a very big pan.  Cook squash and onions and rosemary for 5 min.  Add rice, and cook for another two minutes.  Add wine, and stir gently until absorbed or evaporated.  Add broth, and simmer gently for 20 minutes, uncovered.

Add remaining ingredients and remove rosemary.  Add salt and white pepper to taste.

Garnish with Parmesan and a sprig of rosemary.

On Recreating Your Own Childhood With Your Kids

Hint: This is a pony.

Like most people who had a good childhood, I always envisioned parenthood as providing the things for my children that I remembered fondly from my early years.

Yes, there's the obvious- love.  Lots and lots of love.  Hugs.  Family game nights.  Family car trips singing goofy songs or playing B for Botticelli.  Reading stories together, going camping, singing around the campfire.  Family dinners.

But there is more than that.  There's the mundane, physical things.  There's toys.

I understand that we live in a completely different world today than we did twenty five years ago.  A quarter of a century ago, when I was my children's age, things were not what they are now.  The internet wasn't piped into everyone's house, reality television basically didn't exist, the idea of a cell phone, or of a tablet computer, or even of a totally ubiquitous home desktop- let alone the multi-laptop family... those were all sci-fi concepts that didn't have much real significance in daily life.

When I was a kid, my dad would tell people they should teach THEIR kids to type, because that would be the most important skill they would need going into adulthood.  He had no idea how right and how wrong he was.  Yes, we pretty much all know how to type, but we use those skills to dumb down our own language into the shortest number of characters possible so we can rant about Glee and whether or not people will be eating live bugs on the new Fear Factor.

And here we are.  Totally connected.  Tweeting and texting about the most insipid and culturally devoid elements of our fascinating times.

And what am I using all of this technology to do?  How am I creating the childhood I want for my children with the vast telecommunications resources at my fingertips every day?

...I'm recreating my own childhood.  Embarrassingly specifically.

Glory of the 80s

I was trying to decide what to get for my kids for Channukah.  I'm making them one of their big things, divided into lots of little bits.  (More on that another time.)  They'll get it over the whole eight days.  But it's not the "big" present.  There always needs to be a "big" present.

And they're toddlers.  "Big" isn't particularly big.

So I got to thinking... what do they like?  Well, I didn't want to get them anything TOO big.  For their birthday they got so many BIG BIG BIG things that our house still isn't close to accommodating them comfortably.  The easel, the kitchen, the mega blocks... it's a mess around here.  No, their big present needed to be something emotionally big.  Something that spoke to their interests quietly, let them sort of grow into them, and then be around for the rest of their childhood.

Tall order, no?

I started with their interests.  What do they like?  They like the toy kitchen.  Well, that's totally stocked.  They like playing with blocks.  I don't need to get them any more of those just now.  They like drawing.  I think we've already covered that for a while.  They like Wall-E.  I am not getting them a trash compactor.

Then I thought to myself... they like brushing hair.  No, they are OBSESSED with brushing hair.  I should get them something with hair they can brush.

I thought it over.  A toy that they *actually* play with, that they can do a variety of activities with, that they can carry around with them, should they desire, and that they can girly up to the nines if they so chose.  Yes, this might be the thing.  But what?

I didn't want to get them another doll.  They have plenty of dolls.  And I was never too into dolls as a kid.  What's more, I don't want to get them into a hobby this young that can take thousands of dollars in accessories.

So what?

And then I remembered my own favorite toy.  The first toy I remember actually receiving as a gift.  It was when I was almost three, most of a year older than the girls will be when they get theirs, but still.  basically the same age.  I remember it being handed to me for the first time.  It was a gift that I was getting for my mother's 30th birthday.

It was a My Little Pony.

Not a plastic My Little Pony.  It was a ten inch high, plush, purple My Little Pony with long purple hair and white flowers on her rump.  Her name was Blossom.

Dancing with my father at my wedding

I loved that pony.  My father used to sing me "Blossom" by James Taylor as a lullabye.  I remember asking for that song so many times, that song by the same name as MY favorite toy in the whole wide world.  I dragged that pony all over the place.  I hummed that song to myself in my father's study, while the dust danced in the beams of sunlight.  I danced with my father to "Blossom" at my wedding.

I talk about Blossom as though she's gone, and as an adult that's proper.  But it's not true.  She's sitting on a shelf overlooking my bed.

Yes, almost twenty five years later.  She's been through some rough times.  Some hair cuts, a few unfortunate mud related incidents.  She can hardly be described as "purple."  But I still love her.  Every once in a while, giving her a hug just makes me feel... happy.

So I thought to myself... here's a toy that I KNOW holds up to decades of abuse.  Here's a toy with long hair that can be brushed, braided, adorned with bows and ribbons.  I could give each of my children a stuffed My Little Pony and a hairbrush, and they'd be pretty much the happiest little girls in the world, right?

I sure was.

So I started doing my research.  They make big stuffed My Little Ponies.  But they have CHANGED.  They look nothing like the My Little Ponies of my childhood.  They look like anime bastardizations that long ago ceased having any genetic similarities to horses.  Their hair is short and unstyleable.  And they cost almost $40- an outrageous price for a stuffed animal you can stick under your arm.

So I did the only thing that one can do when looking for a toy that might no longer exist.  I went to ebay.

The ponies I knew and loved?  They haven't been made in about twenty four years.  But lucky lucky me, My Little Ponies are hot collectibles.  That means that every obscure My Little Pony product from the eighties is being unearthed, cleaned up with expert care, and resold.

Ebay is flush with vintage plush My Little Ponies Softies.

I had so many to chose from.  So many ponies, so many conditions, so many prices.  So many options.

The books cost extra

I settled on getting ponies that I didn't know from my own childhood.  I thought it was just a little too weird to get my girl the exact ponies that Aunt Genocide and I played with (Blossom and Bow Tie).  I instead picked out four ponies- Cherries Jubilee, Posey, Cotton Candy, and Parasol.  I figure that at least one pony is going to be vastly worse than their description, so I should have a backup.  Parasol is from the last generation of ponies- the mouth open pony.  It looks like her legs are a little different.  But I'm confident she'll do in a pinch.  And if all four ponies are perfect?  Well, I can always squirrel the extras away for a rainy day.  Or another little girl.  After all, in my experience little girls love toy horses to love and squeeze and brush and kiss and occasionally give irreparably bad haircuts to.

And even with buying twice as many ponies, AND paying for shipping, I'm still paying about $15 a pony.

So I'm recreating my most beloved childhood memories for my children.  I'm getting them my favorite childhood toy.

Of course, if they don't like the ponies it's just going to break my heart.

Watching History- 9/11 and Ten Years of Hindsight

I remember when I was in fifth grade, learning about the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.  I had known that he had been killed, I had known that he had been president, and I had known that many people had loved him.  I hadn't even come close to understanding what sort of national tragedy it was until that day.  Our teacher, an African American woman some years older than my own parents, was nearly in tears as she told us that all of our parents would know where they were that day.  That she had been a freshman in college, and that she had huddled around a small television with her friends and watched the news.  I understood that what had happened that day was history.

I never expected there to be such a day for me.  And yes, I remember where I was.

That summer had been the best of my life.  For my birthday (which is in April), my parents had given me the coolest present any teenager could possibly want.  They had given me the keys to the minivan, a few hundred dollars in traveler's checks, a loaner easel and set of paints, and permission to take off at the end of the school year and just hit the road.  I had planned out the whole trip- I mostly visited friends and family all across the east coast.  I started out in Michigan, drove through Ohio and Pennsylvania, and went visiting all on my own from Pittsburgh. PA (where I spent the first part of my life) to Smith's Falls (home to a now closed Hershey factory), Ontario, to Washington, D.C. (where my uncle,an AP reporter lives).  I went to the National Holocaust Museum all by myself, an experience I knew as it was happening I would never forget.  I got robbed in Cape Cod, and made my way to family friends in New Hampshire by making my very first art sale.  I stayed at my grandparents' house while they were in Spain, befriending a friend of theirs and spending a week in their guest room, writing a dreadful screenplay.  For over two months I drove around, singing along to Madonna and Lisa Loeb, flirting with cute boys in Providence and sketching crows in the Finger Lakes.

I had one week left in my trip.  I was in New Jersey.  I'd already visited my uncle and aunt in Manhattan (they were so cool- they had me push their baby in a stroller into bars so I wouldn't get carded when they bought me margaritas), but I'd taken the train rather than drive in.  I called home and my sister mentioned some party where all my friends would be, and for the first time I was suddenly homesick.  I suddenly wanted to blow off the last week of my trip, and just head home.  As I headed towards the west, I realized I hadn't gotten a look at the New York skyline.  Taking the train, I'd missed the view.  I had a moment of hesitation, and then I decided.  The New York City skyline wasn't going anywhere.  I'd be back.  But if I hurried and drove through the night, I could make it to that party.  I decided not to go to the bay and look, and instead I turned towards Pennsylvania.

That was in the August of 2001.

A few short weeks later, school had started up.  I was taking a biology class that started at 9am on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  As usual, I was running a little late.  As my sister and I headed out the door, Bev- who's birthday it was- popped her head out of the kitchen door.  "It's Grandpa on the phone- he says a plane just flew into Eliot's building!"  (Eliot was my uncle in NYC.)

Knowing that Eliot worked at NYU, and lived in a NYC high rise, I figured one of two things had happened. The first was that a probably drunk celebrity in a private plane had crashed into a random high rise in Manhattan, or that my Grandpa had his information skewed.  Probably both.

When I got to campus, I got on the elevator to my lab.  A girl in the elevator was telling her friend, "TWO planes hit the World Trade Center!"  I looked over my shoulder and said, "My grandfather heard that one, too.  Sounds like a hoax."

But class was cancelled.  And all the televisions on campus had been turned to the news.  I started watching, standing in the hallway outside of my art class, as the third plane hit the Pentagon.  I went into shock.  I knew that my uncle didn't work in the World Trade Center, but he lived just blocks away.  Manhattan is a tiny island.  In fact, he was standing in the park with his son in a stroller, expressing shock and horror with every other New Yorker- stopped in his track.  His wife, on the other hand, was stuck in train under the city.  She would be there for most of the day.

I started running to the cafeteria, where there would be pay phones.  I needed to know that not only Eliot and his family, but also my family in D.C. were okay.  Of course, nobody could reach anybody.  Eventually it became clear that at least Eliot and his baby son were alright, but nobody knew about my aunt.  And my uncle Seth in D.C. had done what any reporter worth his salt would do- he had run out of his office to the Pentagon to begin interviewing people.

Around the time I got all that information, the first tower collapsed.

I began walking.  Just to do something.  I walked back to the art room, and stood in front of the first television I had encountered.  There, a friend of mine found me.  We were both watching, shocked, when the second tower fell.

She and I had a moment of anger- not at whoever had caused this disaster, but because there were people in the crowd behind us who began talking about building Arabic internment camps.  I was ready to kick him in the shins with my steel toe combat boots.  We decided we just needed to leave.

She took me to a friend's apartment.  As we passed the Red Cross, we got stuck in a gigantic traffic jam.  Already the roads were flooded with people trying to donate blood.

We sat in her friend's apartment, chain smoking and watching the news.  There were what seemed like hours of film from a doctor with a video camera- he had gone running with his hand held camera into the dust, looking for injured people to help.  I don't know his name.  He's still the first person I think of when I think about heroes.

We sat there and smoked and smoked, and cried, and just kept saying over and over, "I can't believe it."

Eventually, I went home.  My family, some friends, all sorts of people were gathered around our television.  I don't remember how long we stayed there.  But I do remember the occasional phone calls, letting us know our family out east were all right.

And somehow... the day ended.  That I don't remember.  That part seems to be a blur.   I don't remember how late we sat in front of the television.  I don't remember what we ate for dinner.  I don't remember what words my parents spoke.  I don't remember whether I slept on the couch or went to bed.

But I will never forget that day.  I will never forget the fear, and the confusion, but more than anything the shock.

And there are images that are forever burned into my mind.  People jumping out of windows.  That one shot of the first plane hitting the building.  Over.  And over.  And over.

The man with that video camera,his hand probing through an impenetrable cloud of dust and his voice shouting out, "I'm a doctor- does anybody need help?  Can I help?  Does anybody need help?"

Ten years later, I don't think we're really any safer.  I don't think we've really come to understand what it meant to be attacked that way- because we're still clinging to the same ideas of safety.  The idea that something bad happened, and we won't let THAT happen again.

I think the truth is that someday, we WILL be attacked again.  And again, it will be like something out of a movie.  Something that we never imagined,  Something that we didn't expect.  Not a trick out of the book of terrorist plots.

I'm a writer.  I have ideas, nightmares if you will, of what it might be.  The sort of thing that would make a great movie.  That nobody would believe would ever happen.

But there is one thing that came out of that day that I feel HAS strengthened us.  That has made us better.  And that is the sense of community.  Of wanting to help each other.  Of wanting to work together to make ourselves whole again.

I think about that traffic jam outside of the Red Cross, and I cry.  Because we didn't know who the enemy was, we didn't know the toll.  We didn't know ANYTHING, except that there were people- probably MANY people- who were hurt.  And that we were going to help.

And for any group of people, be they a country or a town or just a random collection of strangers, to head not to the many churches to pray, or to the gas stations to fill their tanks, or to run mad through the streets, but to go to the one place where they knew they could help...

That gives me hope.

That gives me hope every day.  Because I have seen that there is truly a best possibility for all of us.  And while it might have taken a horrific tragedy to show me that, I am grateful to know that it's there.  That despite all political differences or ideological clashing, when it comes down to it... we really just want to help.

We're all calling out, while rushing into an impenetrable cloud, "Can I help?  Does anybody need help?"

So when we do, as I fear we someday probably will, there will be arms in that darkness to hold us, and lead us back into the light.

Guest Blogger: Revital Horowiz

Today's guest blogger is a fascinating woman.  She's very new to the blogosphere, until now she had focused mostly on her novel about Jewish life as Iraqi-Israeli immigrants.  Revital herself has relocated from Israel to the United States, so she writes from a perspective of otherness that I enjoy- I love taking myself out of my own frame of thinking and into somebody else's.  I hope you all enjoy this slice of her life!


------


Next week I am invited to give a lecture about my book in Berkley.  Giving a lecture always makes me very nervous, and I think about people who are performing in front of millions of people.  How do they do that? Do they get nervous like I do? Standing in front of people in any quantity exposes you.  I remember when I used to teach I had a similar feeling every single day.  I loved teaching, and I taught many levels and actually even many subjects, from Hebrew to University students to through geography to high school students, Hebrew to elementary kids and I even spent one year as a fourth grade teacher in Israel.  I love teaching.  I love connecting minds, seeing the curious faces in front of me, and yet public speaking really makes me nervous at the same time.

I always make sure that I am well dressed, no holes anywhere, makeup in place (and I usually do not wear make up…), high heeled but comfortable shoes, and I prepare.  I do my homework, but when the moment comes and I stand in front of people, it takes me a couple of minutes to think and make sure I do not “black out.”  I panic.  I don`t think people really notice it, but I really do panic.  It takes me a minute to have myself focus and start speaking, and when I do start talking it all goes away.  I am no longer afraid.  I just see the faces.  I know those faces are anxious to hear what I have to say, and I know that I have a very important mission: I want to bring silent voices to life.  I want to tell everyone ready to hear about the Jewish women of Iraq.  I want to tell my grandfather`s story, because he really does deserve to be remembered.

You see, my grandfather had only one dream in his life: he wanted to be the one, after so many generations, to immigrate to the Holy Land.  For many generations Jews prayed to go back to the Holy Land, to revive the Jewish life there as it used to be in the Bible.  My grandfather just could not believe how lucky he was, of all generations he was the one able to go back to the dream land.  To take his family with him and start a new life.

It breaks my heart, and I always have tears in my eyes thinking of my grandfather, who kissed the land after he got off the plane.  My grandfather who was an accountant, able to support a family of nine people, and came to a place where he no longer had his identity as the head of the family.  He worked in every job he could, including building roads.  His wife no longer respected him, and neither did his kids.  He was even exiled by his wife to a little corridor away from their bedroom, and even living in a little house took long time.  They lived in a tent for almost three years.

My grandfather never regretted immigrating to Israel. For him, any price paid was worth it.  I only can lecture next week, tell his story and pay him the great honor he deserves.

...

I am an Israeli-American woman who is never sure where she should be living, in the US or in Israel. It seems that my feelings are always divided, influenced by politics, the time of the year (I vote for winters over there, while definitely for summers in the Northwest), Holidays, and the distance...  It is hard to live thousands of miles away from your parents, siblings, and nephews.  When I am here I feel so Israeli, and when I am there I sometimes feel I do not belong anymore. 

Did I mention I am the mother of four boys?  I am, and my boys tell everyone how I tried for a girl four times.  The truth is I did want four girls, but the reason would sound unusual for someone who was not born in the Holy Land where everyone is obligated to serve in the Army and I was always a worrier, and was afraid to send my boys to fight.  I guess this is pretty selfish, but not every feeling we have is under our control, but as I already told you, I ended up having four adorable boys ages 18, 15, 12 and 7. 

Life is packed, and life is complicated.  Next week my oldest son is graduating from High School.  He is eighteen and off to College in the fall.  My son has learning disabilities, and since he was in first grade he has had to work extra hard to be able to make it.  Next week he is graduating, and he was accepted to one of the finest schools in the Northwest.  I know I need to carry with me tons of tissues, since I am going to sob there, and I really do not care if I am going to embarrass myself or him.  After all, I do deserve at least one good cry of pride and delight.  After the graduation he will say goodbye to us, and go work all summer at a Summer Camp.

I do not know how other mothers feel about their kids leaving home.  I know that this is going to be really tough.  I love having all these boys’ energy around me; lots of good laughters, active games, and yes lots of farts too, but this is all a part of having all boys surrounding you. In just a few weeks my oldest son will leave home.  When he was born he weighed less than 5 pounds, and now he is a fine young man.  I will have less laundry to do, and more driving to do since he helps driving his brothers (a good kid, did I mention that?), oh my god it is unbearable even to think about it.  How do you all do it?  Am I the only one ready to go back to college just to be with him?  I am telling you, I would if I could…

Revital Horowiz' novel is available through Amazon and Barnes & Noble

A Different Stage in Life

I am very excited to tell you that one of my absolute favorite bloggers is Becoming SuperMommy today.  Or rather, SuperDaddy.  Kyle of The Kopp Twins manages to make me laugh and get me all teary eyed on a regular basis.  And of course his twin girls are adorable and brilliant and I never tire of watching them grow vicariously through their father.  Plus, he occasionally posts things like this. Here's to parenthood seen from the Daddy side!

------------------------------

A Different Stage in Life

My whole life all I ever wanted was an Oscar. Literally, since the age of 7 my entire purpose was that goal. Save for a couple years in high school where I thought I needed to be a jock to avoid getting beat up, I was drama geek extraordinaire. I recall traveling Europe around the age of 19 with some friends. I kept a journal of the daily adventures (3 guys, 5 weeks. … plenty of those). Every entry had some little part to do with my future career. I couldn’t watch a movie preview with out fantasizing about my turn up there on that screen. I remember a government class in college where all I highlighted in my textbook during one lecture were the words “just act”. When I graduated high school they gave me this porcelain statuette of a woman someone had found at a Good Will store. They said it was to keep my mantle warm until Oscar came along. So you can see I had one thing on the brain and one thing only. When Gina entered my world she was behind me 100%. She never doubted me. Therefore I never doubted myself either. But then something happened. Something I’ve never understood fully. Gina was 3 months pregnant with our first daughter. Unfortunately the baby did not survive the pregnancy; but that’s a sad tale for another time. We were out on a harbor cruise in San Diego celebrating our anniversary and a thought occurred to me: I hadn’t thought about my career in a while. In fact, I hadn’t thought about my career in 3 months exactly. I hadn’t auditioned. I hadn’t submitted resumes. And I pinpointed it to one moment. It was an audition for a short film. One of hundreds I’d been to. I walked in the lobby and for the first time I saw the packed room for what it was. It was a warehouse of clones. It was 25, 30, 40 of us and we were just the same. We were all tall and lean and “All-American”. We each had a resume a mile long. We all had classical training and could do an array of accents the world over. We were all perfect for this role. We were all exactly the same. And we were all clueless to it. Except for me. I wasn’t like them. Not any more. Because that day I wasn’t thinking about my first Academy Awards acceptance speech. I wasn’t thinking about my big break or how I could tweak my signature to make it easier when giving autographs. I was thinking about my beautiful wife and the beautiful baby she had inside her and all I wanted at that moment was to be home with them. My mom used to tell me when you wake up in the morning, the first thing that jumps in to your head, that’s what you are. It used to be “actor”. Every morning. But it changed. I haven’t thought “actor” in a long, long time now. Now as my eyes open in the early morning light (which I’m lucky if there is any because I get up way too early for a sane person) the only thing I think is “Dad”. And that makes me smile more than “actor” ever did. On that harbor cruise that night I told Gina that I was done. I’d lost my passion and without passion I never stood a chance in that career. Anyways, I needed something that provided more consistently, something that was more on a 9 to 5 pace. I couldn’t spend any more Thursday nights in a Hollywood lobby wishing I was at home with my family. I needed to be there more than anywhere else. So we settled on law and two months later I was nose deep in case briefs. 3 years later I’m still nose deep in them, but I do it because I know it’ll take care of them. I’ll never win an Academy Award, and the slight cynicism left in me makes sure I never bother to watch the ceremony. But on October 20^th, 2009 I received the greatest award ever conceived: my daughters. That night I held two bald little statues that screamed and cried, that grasped on to my outstretch fingers and begged me to love them. I’ve never seen a statuette do that before. And I did. I loved them more than I ever thought I could ever love anything. And come December I’ll be receiving my third "award". So that puts me right on par with Mr. Hanks and Mr. Nicholson as far as I see it. I won’t get the opportunity to stand at a podium and give a speech. … but that’s probably for the best. If it’s anything like the last time, I’ll be left speechless anyway.

"There is something else you must do..."

Miss Rumphius by Barbara Cooney

A while back, I shared what I thought were the most important books for my children to read as they grow up.  I have recently realized that I made one glaring, unforgivable omission.

Perhaps the book I read as a child, over and over again, that had the most profound effect on how I have developed as an individual was Miss Rumphius, by Barbara Cooney.

Miss Rumphius shared all of my passions in life.  Art, literature, and adventure were the driving forces in her story.  She embodied for me all of the virtues of adulthood that I coveted.  She was a world traveler, she helped people, and most importantly- she was entirely happy with who she was.

She was the only adult woman in my stories that never seemed somehow lessened by being single, there was never any hint that she might be lonely.  And that seemed very important to me.  Here was a girl growing into a woman, and then an old woman, without romance.

As an adult, I wonder what her private romantic life must have been like, but as a child I began to build my fantasies of my own adulthood on her model.  I always knew that I wanted to have children, but to be honest I envisioned myself living, like Miss Rumphius, in a cottage by the water, probably raising a horde of adopted children with a few like minded friends.  I saw myself as being too independent, too self governed, to tie myself into a traditional marriage.

Of course, then M came along.  He occasionally tells me that he feels guilty for somehow changing me, making more boring.  I don't think he did at all.  He just turned out to be another thing that I, in my independent and self governed soul, decided that I wanted.

So as a child I would whisper to her book, "Someday, Miss Rumphius, I too will live the life I want to lead without regrets.  I too will see distant lands, and hide away in libraries, and cultivate my love of nature, adventure, and art.  I will have adventures and, I will collect stories to share about faraway and strange people.  And I will someday go to live by the water." (I've always preferred lakes and rivers to the ocean, Miss Rumphius's choice.)

And I could hear her voice in my ear.  "That's all well and good, little girl, but there is something else you must do.  You must do something to make the world a more beautiful place."

This is, of course, the moral of Miss Rumphius.  That living for yourself is vital to living a happy life, but that it is a life without meaning if you do not use it to somehow improve the world that you will leave behind.  It is a story that on every page expresses a cognizance that we only get to live on this earth for a short time.  And the thing that we do to make the world more beautiful is the most important part of the lives that we lead.

Miss Rumphius' grandfather, who taught her the things that she would grow up to teach me, was an artist who painted landscapes based on his own adventures, contributing to the world of subjective beauty.  Miss Rumphius made her corner of the world more beautiful in a literal way.  The lesson hidden in this was that there are many kinds of beauty.  There are types of beauty that you can't even see.

So when I was in art school, I found myself dissatisfied with the beauty I was creating.  It wasn't that I didn't like my art, which I thought was improving rapidly, it was that I didn't see it having the kind of impact I had hoped.  My paintings were insignificant in the world of creative expression.  I might make pretty pictures, but I was losing a sense that I was contributing something of real value to the world.  Of real beauty.

When I applied for AmeriCorps, I wrote them an essay about Miss Rumphius.  About how I wanted to make the world a more beautiful place by helping people be more beautiful to each other.  That I was applying for a program based partially around providing recycling services didn't hurt either.

I'd been on a bit of a writing hiatus since getting accepted to art school.  But while I was a VISTA, I wrote CONSTANTLY.  I wrote about all the horrific things that I saw, doing a job that was essentially mopping the deck on the Titanic.  The entire Chicago Housing Authority was being restructured, all of the people I was trying to help were being evicted from their homes, and the mood was helpless and miserable.  And then it was winter, and nobody in the CHA bureaucracy seemed bothered in the slightest that there were families living in high rise buildings in the blizzards of January with no glass in their windows.  That the plastic playgrounds in front of those buildings were warped from fire, and were riddled with bullet holes.

I wrote about all of that.  I woke up before dawn and wrote on the train ride all the way across the city.  I got off work at dusk and wrote all the way back to my tiny studio apartment.  And then I would go to anywhere that had an open mic, and I would read my poems.  Slam style poems, about children who don't know how to speak but know how to be silent, about hiding inside the truck when the guns came out, about how desperate the look in somebody's eyes when they have seven children and their only income is from collecting other people's trash to sell for scrap.  Or to recycle for grocery vouchers, as the case might have been.

I was having my own kind of adventures.  The sort of adventures that inform.

And then I fell in love, and got married, and had children.  And I am still writing, although not about scenes of human tragedy.

And I had somehow, in these last few years, forgotten all about Miss Rumphius.  About her last lesson.

I have lived my life with almost no regrets.
I have seen some distant lands, but I have many years ahead of me to visit more.
I have made my home a library, and I have cultivated my love of nature, adventure, and art.
I have had some adventures, and collected many stories.
And someday I will live in a little house on the water.

But I don't know if I've done something to make the world a more beautiful place.  And I know I must.  And I do not know what that thing might be.

The Origin of the Firebird

From the Firebird Stories...

Once upon a time, there was a girl who lived in a small village, in a small thatch roofed cottage, with her family.  She lived with her mother and her father, her grandmother and grandfather, and her seven little brothers and sisters.  Her father was ill and could not work.  Her mother was too busy taking care of the seven little brothers and sisters to work.  Her grandmother and grandfather were too old to work.  But the family did not want for money, because the girl was a great talent.

This girl wove the finest tapestries ever seen in all of the land.  Czars, Princes, emissaries from foreign Kingdoms, and all of the wealthiest men in all of the neighboring lands sought her out, to buy her tapestries.

She was also very beautiful.  Many times, the Princes and Czars would come to buy her tapestries, and fall deeply in love with her before they departed.  They would beg and plead for her to come with them, to live in their castles and never need for anything so long as she lived.  Her answer was always the same,

"I could never leave my family.  If my work pleases you, pay me what is fair, but leave me be in peace.  I only wish to live with my mother, my father, my grandmother and grandfather, and my little brothers and sisters."

The tales of the magnificent tapestries she wove traveled far and wide, as did the stories of her humble nature, her kindness, and her magnificent beauty.

Eventually, these tales found their way to the door of the Wicked Sorcerer's castle.

As all wicked spells must be woven as a piece of cloth, the Wicked Sorcerer was a great lover of art of tapestry making, and believed himself the greatest artisan ever to sit astride a loom.

"No mere peasant girl could be greater than I!" he exclaimed.  And he set out to find the girl.

First, he disguised himself as the emissary of a faraway Emperor.  Riding upon a white elephant and leading a caravan of phantom courtesans, he approached the small thatch roofed cottage.

"Where is the girl who makes the tapestries?" he demanded of her little brothers and sisters.  The girl emerged, her eyes cast down, and her feet bare.  With a curtsy, she ushered the would-be emissary inside.  Within the cottage the Wicked Sorcerer saw an amazing array of tapestries.  Some tapestries depicted glorious scenes in every detail, some were complex layers of patterns, one on top of the other, into a single fabric of incredible beauty.

The Wicked Sorcerer was shocked.  Here indeed was a rare talent.  He gave her three coins of solid gold, grabbed a tapestry that seemed to be woven of sunlight, and then he and his phantom entourage disappeared.

When he had returned to his palace, he studied the tapestry.  It brought him no joy, for he could see that his own art was inferior to that of this simple peasant girl.  For days he sat in his enormous and empty throne room, glowering at the brilliant tapestry and dwelling on his sense of failure.  He finally decided that if he could not create a tapestry so brilliant on his own, he must possess the one who had such a gift.

Again he set out for the thatch roofed cottage in the woods, and again he disguised himself.  This time he became a handsome youth, the fairest young man ever to set foot upon the earth.  Tall and broad shouldered, he dressed himself as a prince, and upon a phantom stallion and with a train of mirages behind him, he returned to the girl.

Again, she greeted him meekly, and again she bowed him into her humble home.  The Wicked Sorcerer looked once more upon her tapestries, and turned to her.  He lifted her chin to look directly into her eyes, and saw that she was indeed extremely beautiful.  This darkened his heart still more, but he did not flinch from his purpose.

"Your tapestries are fine indeed, but not near so lovely as you.  Come away with me, and I shall make you my queen.  You need never worry for anything so long as you live, if you will only be my bride."

"Thank you, sire, but I have no want of riches or estate.  I only wish to provide for my family, here, in our home.  If my work pleases you, pay me what is fair, but leave me be in peace."

The Wicked Sorcerer was angered, but again hid his feelings.  He opened his purse and poured three hundred gold coins on the floor.

"Now your family will want for nothing so long as they live.  Only come with me, be my bride, and live in my castle with me."

"Thank you, sire, but I must say no.  I have no desire to ever leave my family, or my home.  If my work pleases you, pay me what is fair, but leave me be in peace."

The Wicked Sorcerer was incensed, but again hid his feelings.  He produced a magic mirror.

"If you look upon this mirror, it will show you your home and your family.  While you may be far away, you would know they are provided for.  Only come to my castle with me, and be my bride."

"Thank you, sire, but I must again say nay.  I love my family, I love our home.  I do not wish to insult you, but I have no desire to leave.  If my work pleases you, pay me what is fair, but leave me be in peace.  I only wish to live with my mother, my father, my grandmother and grandfather, and my little brothers and sisters.  I have no wish to become your bride, no matter how fine your face or how generous your offer."

The Wicked Sorcerer became enraged.  With an angry scream, he became once more the Wicked Sorcerer.  With a wave of his arm, he made the gold coins scattered across the floor burst into flames.  As the mother and father and grandmother and grandfather and seven little brothers and sisters began to cry and run, the magnificent tapestries began to burn.  The Wicked Sorcerer then changed himself into a giant black eagle.

The Wicked Sorcerer grabbed the girl with on talon, and she too was changed into a bird- only with feathers that seemed to be woven of sunlight.  As her tapestries erupted into flames, so too did she, although her fire burned nothing it touched.  With this Firebird in his talons, the Wicked Sorcerer in the form of the giant black eagle took off back to his palace.

The girl was terrified.  She began to pluck her feathers, dropping them behind her one at a time to form a lighted path that would lead her family back to her.  But the Wicked Sorcerer's castle was too far.  When they finally arrived, the Firebird had no feathers left.

The Wicked Sorcerer laughed to see her so humiliated and naked and shamed.  He locked her into a cage in his garden, and left her there to regrow her feathers.

By the time all of her feathers had returned, the Firebird had forgotten that she had ever been a girl.  Or that somewhere, her family was following a trail of light that would lead them to nowhere.

The girl was gone.  Only the lone Firebird, beautiful but dangerous and magical, remained.  Waiting to finally be freed from her cage.

Death, and Other Funny Stories

I've recently become a big fan of The Hossman Chronicles.  Yes, it seems that just as I have a harder time getting along with women in real life, I prefer the company of male parenting-bloggers online as well.  At any rate, Daddy Hoss recently wrote about his children's first real encounter with death.  I laughed out loud through the whole thing, when I wasn't pausing to reflect on the enormity of the issues raised by his poor children discovering that he might, in fact, be a bunny murdering monster.

Let's face it, coming to terms with death is incredibly traumatic... when it happens.  But then you become an adult.  You come to understand that death is inevitable, you make some sort of peace with it.  And then those same events- the ones that were so incredibly painful, they're suddenly hilarious.

If you've never read Hyperbole and a Half, I recommend her description of her own traumatic experience- How a Fish Almost Destroyed My Childhood.  You'll laugh until you cry.

I haven't had to explain death to my kids.  They're not even two years old, it would be silly.  But it will happen.  I somehow doubt it will be our cat who gives them their first brush with death.  After all, he's probably got a good ten years left in him.  Grandma, Grandpa, Poppa and Grandmommy are all in excellent health, and the girls' five surviving great-grandparents are doing pretty well too, for the most part.  Chances are we'll be walking to the park and find some roadkill, or a bird will fly into our window.  Chances are, death will be a sinister force that takes even sweet, random animals.

So I got to thinking about when I first learned about death.  And yes, it was horrible.  And remembering one story always leads to another, so... here we are.  Without further ado, I give you three stories of Learning About Death. 


Act 1: SuperMommy the Super Villain
My family had guinea pigs in the basement.  Guinea pigs are great pets for little kids.  Sure, they're rodents with big sharp teeth, but their mouths don't really open wide enough to bite anyone.  They're just little furballs with teeny tiny legs and big eyes, with round little ears on top.

Guinea pigs are very, very cute.

So one day, we have a whole lot of baby guinea pigs.  My sister, Aunt Something Funny (who is probably all of four years old), decides that she and her sidekick- that would be me- are going to play Pet Store.

We go down to the basement, and she buys a bunch of baby guinea pigs from me, the store clerk.  This is a full service pet store, though.  I don't just hand over the baby guinea pigs- I package them up for her.  In a nice pretty cookie tin.  They're all lined up reeeeeeeeeeal nice, and I put on that lid.  I think it had a log cabin in a snowy field.

And, as this is a full service pet store, I deliver the guinea pigs to her house.  Her house was, of course, our shared bedroom.  Which was in the attic.

Picture, if you will, the charming scene of two curly headed moppets, laughing as they march gleefully from the basement up the stairs to the kitchen... around the living room... up the stairs to the big hallway... and up the stairs again to the attic.  Where upon their arrival, the existence of other toys and games completely distracts them from whatever it was they were doing a moment ago.

My parents, of course, discovered the tin full of dead baby guinea pigs, and confronted their adorable little girls.  Aunt Something Funny was old enough to understand that something horrible, awful, unspeakably bad had happened.  Poor me... I knew I was to blame.  I had killed all of those little baby guinea pigs.  But I was also three, I didn't quite know how to cope with my own crushing guilt.  So how did I do it?  For a while, anytime anyone was around, I would announce to them that, "We put the baby guinea pigs in the tin and they all died!  Now they're all dead!" and Aunt Something Funny would burst into tears.  I think I finally forgave myself for being a murderess about six years ago.  I'm sure Aunt Something Funny is still harboring her own hangups.


Act 2: Grandma and the Raccoon
One winter, my MIL saw a raccoon having seizures in her backyard.  So, like a good citizen, she called animal control.  After they told her they were on their way post haste, she called the next door neighbor to warn her that there was a sick raccoon, and that there was going to be a commotion in between their two yards.

Having no idea what the commotion might be, this neighbor thought it might be a treat for her very young children, and lined them up- looking over the back of their couch out the window, to see what happened when animal control came for the sick raccoon.

Two animal control officers arrived, and observed the poor animal.  For a moment they seemed to pause, and then one officer acted.  In one swift motion he pulled a gun out of his coat, and he shot the raccoon at point blank.

...twice.

There was no telling those poor, screaming children the next house over that the raccoon was just sleeping, or that he would be fine.  No, a bad man had POINTED A GUN at that raccoon and shot it.  Two times.

No coming back from that.


Act 3: Bones
My family once had a dog named Chewy.  He was a bad dog, as far as it came to pooping on the floor and chewing up treasured possessions, but was otherwise the sweetest animal you ever knew.  He was a Pomeranian, and as friendly and mild tempered as any Pomeranian ever born.

It wasn't just my mom and sisters and I who loved that dog, despite how naughty he was, it was every little kid in our lives.  My Back-Up Mom (long story) had a five year old daughter, and she ADORED Chewy.  She would carry him around, feed him little snacks, he was the best friend a little girl could want.  Even if she was allergic to dogs.

Over the summer, my Back-Up Mom and her  daughter were staying at Guppy Lake.  It might have been the 4th of July.   But, sadly, Pomeranians are prone to sudden and fatal seizures.  And poor Chewy picked that day to have a sudden and very fatal seizure.

There are many of our pets buried up at Guppy Lake, so this was no new routine for us.  But for that poor little girl...  Once it was clear that Chewy was dead, she had a whole host of questions.  The sort of existential questions anyone would ask after their first encounter with death.  What happens when you die?  Does everyone die?  Will I die?

The two answers that gave her the most comfort and satisfaction were that Chewy's soul was in Heaven, and after Chewy's body went into the ground it would turn into bones.

After the doggie funeral, we had a fairly somber meal.  And after the somber meal, as with any funeral, we began to laugh, to joke, to mourn healthfully.

And then we noticed the little girl was missing.  A quick search turned her up, experiencing a no-doubt life altering moment of sudden reality.  She had gone to dig up the dog.  As all the adults (or near-adults) rushed her away, there was a scream, "Is Chewy bones yet?  IS HE BONES YET???"

Oh, Today We'll Merry Merry Be!

Hamantaschen!

Chag Samayach!  (For you non-Hebrew speakers, that means Happy Holiday!)

Today is Purim- without a doubt the biggest party holiday on the Jewish calendar.  As a kid, I LOVED Purim!  It was a cross between Halloween and Channukah/Christmas- you got to dress us in costumes and eat all the cookies you could!  And oh, the cookies!  Purim boasts, in my opinion, the best holiday-specific cookies of absolutely any holiday.  I know, Christmas cookies are hard to beat.  But Hamantaschen?  Pretty much the best thing ever.

"Esther and Haman Before Ahasuerus" - Jan Victors

Like pretty much all Jewish holidays, we're celebrating the same thing.  Not being completely annihilated.  Channukah?  We didn't get killed by the Greeks.  Passover?  Didn't get killed by the Egyptians.  Yom Ha'Shoah?  Didn't get wiped out by the Nazis.  Yom Kippur?  Didn't get killed personally by God.

A lot of folks have tried to wipe the Jewish people off the face of the earth.  It makes us a bit twitchy as a people.

At any rate, here is a very abridged version of the story of Purim, otherwise known as the Book of Esther:

Once upon a time King Ahaushverous, the King of Persia (known in the Greek as Xerxes) had a very beautiful wife named Vashti.  She was so beautiful that one day he asked her to dance for his friends.  She absolutely refused, and he sentenced her to death.  He then declared that he would chose the most beautiful girl in the land to be his new wife.  Esther was a very beautiful girl, and her cousin Mordecai (who had raised her from a child) told her that she could be the new queen, but that she must keep her Judaism a secret.  King Ahaushverous chose her to be his bride, and her cousin Mordecai found favor in the King's eye by uncovering and foiling an assassination plot.  King Ahaushverous's Grand Vizier, Haman, was a proud and egotistical man, and disliked Mordecai.  When Mordecai refused to bow before him (because Jews bow only to God) he was so incensed that he went to the King,  "There are a great many people in your land who defy your rule and would see you overthrown!" he said, "And you must exterminate them all!"  The King agreed to Haman's plan, and the date was set to round up and kill all of the Jews in Persia- a great many people.  When Mordecai heard of this he told Esther that she must go to the King and beg him to spare her people.  Esther fasted for three days, and then went before King Ahaushverous.  She fed him a giant feast, and then told him that there was a plot to kill her.  The King wanted to know who would do such a thing, and she told him that it was Haman- that she was Jewish and that he had condemned her and all her people to death.  King Ahaushverous was so moved and angry that he ordered Haman to be hung on the gallows he had built for Mordecai, and with his help the Jews fought off those who would have killed them all.

Dough!

And then the Jews lived in remarkable peace and prosperity in Persia for a very long time.  Ancient Persia was actually a pretty awesome place to be a Jew after all of that.

So to celebrate there is MUCH drinking and eating of Hamantaschen- cookies in the shape of Haman's triangular hat- whilst wearing costumes and making enough noise to erase the sound of Haman's name from the memory of men.

It gets very loud.

There is also the tradition of the Mishloach Manot.  Michloach Manot are packages of cookies and other assorted treats that you send to friends, family, or charities for Purim.  You know how for Christmas people send around boxes of cookies?  That's a Purim activity in Jewish circles- all the Hamantaschen you can eat!  This year I'm passing out Mishloach Manot to my neighbors, a few Jewish friends I think could use a taste of home and some childhood nostalgia, and a friend in the military.  She will probably be very excited.

There are three standard flavors of Hamantaschen.  Poppyseed, apricot, and strawberry.  Now, I know what you meshugganah goyim* are thinking.  "Poppyseed?  I don't know about that.  Apricot?  Okay, I guess.  Strawberry!  Yes, I'll have some strawberry cookies!"  Meshugganah goyim!  Resist that impluse!  You have the order of Hamantaschen superiority COMPLETELY BACKWARDS!  Strawberry and apricot are there to give you the occasional flavor break- no matter how good something is, variety still helps.

I remember my husband's first Hamantaschen.  He went for the strawberry because it was the most familiar.  And he said it was okay.  And after I pinned him down and forced him to eat the poppy Hamantaschen... he was hooked.  I think he's probably had about eight in the last 12 hours.

My daughters- toddlers, mind you, won't even eat the apricot or strawberry Hamantaschen.  It's poppy all the way as far as they're concerned.

Trust M, the former meshugganah goy.  Trust the babies.  Trust the Jewish people.  Eat the damn poppy cookie.

This year I followed my amazing sister's advice and also made a few Nutella Hamantaschen.  And they are amazing.  I always consider making prune Hamantaschen, they're also traditional, but I never liked them as a kid.  But you can always experiment!  Why not, right?  You can never have too many cookies!

Lightly flour your surface

Aunt Genocide's AMAZING Hamantaschen

• 1/2c + 3tbs butter- softened
• 1/2c sugar
• 1 large egg
• 3tbs sweet Jewish wine
• 1tsp vanilla
• 1/4tsp salt
• 2 3/4c flour
• Filling: 1 can poppy seed pastry filling, 1 jar each GOOD strawberry & apricot preserves

Beat butter until smooth, and then gradually add sugar- beating until light and fluffy.

Beat in egg and vanilla, then wine and salt.
Add flour slowly until a you have a very soft dough, then wrap in plastic and chill at least 3 hours.

Let stand at room temperature until workable but not soft, preheat oven to 375.

Cut 3" rounds

Roll on lightly floured surface to 1/8" thick, and cut into 3" rounds

Put 1tsp (or more, if you're feeling brave) filling into the middle of the circles, then pinch together into triangles.  REALLY blend the edges together!  Otherwise your Hamantaschen will just fall apart!

Place 1" apart on ungreased baking sheets, and bake for 13 minutes- or until just starting to get golden at the corners.

Form your cookies!

Remove to wire racks to cool immediately.

Serious awesomeness ensues.

And last but not least, to share a little bit more of the cultural flavor of the day, here are the lyrics to "Wicked Wicked Man," my personal favorite Purim song!  (It's sung almost to the tune of "Old MacDonald," if that helps.)

Wicked Wicked Man

Oh, once there was a wicked, wicked man
And Hamen was his name sir,
He would have murdered all the Jews,
Though they were not to blame sir 

CHORUS:
Oh today, we'll merry, merry be
Oh today, we'll merry, merry be
Oh today, we'll merry, merry be
And nosh some hamentashen

And Esther was the lovely queen
Of King Ahasuerus,
When Hamen said he'd kill us all,
Oh my how he did scare us

CHORUS

But Mordecai her cousin bold,
Said what a dreadfull chutzpah,
If guns were but invented now
This Hamen I would shoot sir

CHORUS

When Esther speaking to the King
Of Hamens plot made mention,
"Ha, ha" said he, " Oh no he won't.
I'll spoil his bad intention."

CHORUS

The guest of honor he shall be
This clever Mr. Smarty.
And high above us he shall swing,
At a little hanging party.

CHORUS

Of all his cruel and unkind ways,
This little joke did cure him,
And don't forget we owe him thanks,
for this jolly feast of Purim.

CHORUS 

*Meshugannah goyim is Yiddish for "Crazy non-Jews"

Ivan and the Firebird

From the Firebird Stories...

Once upon a time, there was a Czar who had a wonderful garden. In the garden there was a magical tree that grew apples made of solid gold. This tree was the most prized of all of the Czars possessions, and he guarded it jealously. He liked to walk through his garden every morning, and each day he looked upon the tree with joy and pride.

A.Glazunov "Firebird"
Box. 1929   Palekh

One morning the Czar took his morning walk, only to find that some golden apples from the tree had been stolen. He asked the guards what had happened, and they told him that they had fallen asleep and did not know. The Czar sent them to the gallows and posted more guards to watch the tree.  Still, the next morning more apples had disappeared. Again the guards said that they had fallen asleep, and again the Czar sent them to the gallows. For ten days this went on, with the Czar condemning to death any guard who failed him. Finally he confronted his three sons with the charge. He told his sons that whichever of them caught the thief would be named heir to his throne.

The eldest son tried first. He sat at the base of the tree with his sword in his hand and waited for the thief. Shortly after midnight, he heard curious music that seemed to be coming from the air itself.  It was so sweet and beautiful that he fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke, yet more of the apples had been stolen.

The middle son tried next. He went across the path and watched the tree from a distance, but shortly after midnight he began to hear a strange and beautiful music, and listening to it he fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke, even more of the apples had been stolen. Now there were only a few left.

Finally the last son, Ivan, went to guard the Czar's magical tree. He climbed into its branches, and waited. A little after midnight, he heard strange and beautiful music in the air. As his eyes became heavy, he washed his face with dew to revive himself, and covered his ears with his hands to block the enchanting sound out. A moment later the garden was lit up as though the sun had risen. A bright, golden glow was coming over the horizon, moving closer to the Czar's garden. After a few minutes, the Firebird appeared. Its feathers aflame, it illuminated the trees and flowers as it landed in the Czar's favorite tree, and began to eat the last of the golden apples.

Ivan lunged for the Firebird. He did not catch it, but he plucked one of its fearsomely bright tail feathers. He went running into the palace, shouting for all to come and see. The feather alone lighted the castle as he made his way through.

When the Czar learned what had happened, he was outraged that his youngest son had not caught the thief. He told his sons that until the Firebird was brought to him, he had no heir. The Czar sent his sons out in quest of the Firebird.

The three sons walked away from their father's palace in the direction from which Ivan had seen the Firebird fly, until they came to a vast forest. Once in its shadows, they decided that Ivan had shamed them. As the older brothers, it should have been they who discovered the Firebird. They therefore decided to leave their brother to be eaten by wolves. They took his weapons and left him only one day's ration of food and water. They abandoned Ivan and went on in search of the Firebird.

Before long, a wolf came through the trees to the clearing in which Ivan sat, alone and defenseless. Ivan looked at the wolf and said, " I suppose you have come to eat me."  "I am afraid I cannot eat anyone," replied the wolf.  "I am old, and all of my teeth have fallen out. I have not eaten in days, and came to this clearing to lay down and die."

"Firebird" - Ted Kierscey Animation

"Wolf, I have some bread in my satchel. I too am going to be dead soon, so if you would like you can eat my bread."

As the wolf ate the bread, Ivan told him about the Firebird, and his quest. The wolf laughed.

"I know where the Firebird is. Because you have helped me, I will take you there and tell you how to capture it."

As they walked, the wolf explained that the Firebird was a captive of the Emperor of a nearby land. She was kept in a magical cage in the Emperor's garden, and if anyone but the Emperor touched this cage the guards would come running at once.  However, each night the Firebird escaped to fly about the countryside. By scaling the garden wall and waiting for the Firebird to return, Ivan could capture her and return in glory to his Czar. But he must remember not to touch the cage.

At long last, Ivan and the wolf reached the Emperor's garden wall.  Ivan crept into the gardens and waited for the Firebird's return. When she arrived, the garden was lit up as though by the sun. Ivan grabbed her, and began to run back to the garden wall. Only it was so hard to carry her against all of her struggling, and he was blinded by the bright flames of her feathers. Forgetting what the wolf had said, Ivan went back to retrieve the cage and carry her more easily. The moment that he touched it, guards came running from every direction. Ivan was brought before the Emperor in chains, charged with the theft of royal property.

When the Emperor asked why he should show mercy on such a criminal, Ivan explained that he was the son of the Czar, who had charged him with a quest.  The Emperor replied, "If you had come to me and told me of your purpose, an arrangement could have been made. But now you have stolen, and by the law I must kill you.  However, if you would be wiling to quest for me, I would spare your life and give you the Firebird as your reward.  My daughter is the captive of a wicked sorcerer in a nearby kingdom. If you rescue her for me, you may have the Firebird and leave here in safety."

Ivan agreed at once, and went off in search of the Emperor's daughter. On his way he met up with his friend the wolf, who knew all the secrets of this land.  The wolf told him that the Emperor's daughter was under two enchantments. The first was that her heart had been replaced with one of wood, so that she could not love. The second was that a curse had been placed on her face, and anyone that gazed upon her would fall instantly and irrevocably in love with her. The wolf said that Ivan must rescue the Emperor's daughter, but never look upon her face.

"The Firebird" by Edmund Dulac

Finally they reached the evil sorcerer's castle.  Ivan caught the girl as she walked through the lawns, but he forgot the wolf's words and looked upon her face. Instantly, Ivan was in love. As she had no heart, the girl could not love him in return.  Ivan's unrequited love was horrible.  He knew that he must return her heart to her, so that he might be loved as well as love, and have some hope for happiness in his life.  "Where does the evil sorcerer keep your real heart?" asked Ivan. "Under the floor in his bedroom," she replied.

Ivan came up with a plan. That night, he dropped the feather he had stolen from the Firebird into the evil sorcerer's garden. As he expected, the evil sorcerer came running down, looking for the Firebird. Ivan ran to the sorcerer's room, stole the girl's heart, and fled with her into the night. 

As soon as she had her heart again, she fell as much in love with Ivan as he was with her. When they returned to the Emperor, they asked that they be allowed to marry. The delighted Emperor gave them his permission, and sent them back with the Firebird to claim Ivan's throne.

Ivan became a great Czar, and he and his bride lived happily ever after.

My Firebird

Some of a very large tattoo

I have a very, very large tattoo on my back.  It took about forty hours to finish, during which I went into shock once, spent two hours being tattooed by two artists at once, and created a bit of a scene on a doorstep repeating that i was a pretty pretty princess while chain smoking.

As you might guess, there's a story behind this tattoo.  Actually, there are three of them.  The first is, of course, the story of actually getting the tattoo, and quite the tale of horror and victory it is!  But the other two stories are why I got the tattoo.  Not about why, but the reason itself.  This tattoo was chosen, designed, and painfully attached to my body for the rest of my life because of my connection to a particular set of fairy tales.

In most Western storytelling traditions, there are heroes and villains.  A good guy is always a good guy, the evil magician is always an evil magician.  Eastern fairy tales tend to have a lot more room for interpretation.  Russian folklore, for example, has a collection of characters that tend to defy categorization.  Baba Yaga vacillates between being a terrifying bogey man, and sort of a fairy godmother.  The Firebird- a marvelous and terrible creature- destroys whole villages or brings good fortune to children lost in the woods.

I always sort of associated with that. I never believed in absolute goodness or evil in the world, and these characters spoke to me.  Most of all, the Firebird.  As I dug myself deeper into my studies of children's literature (for a short time it was my ambition to write children's books), I discovered what is believed to be the first story in which the Firebird made an appearance.  In fact, it was an origin story.  And I love origin stories.

My Firebird

It was a tragedy.  But the main character was a girl, about my age at the time, who made her family's living by being an artisan.  Not only an artisan, she wove textiles.  And there I was, an artist and seamstress and burgeoning costumer.  I felt for this girl.

And then there was the Firebird.  Never the main character in its own stories, only moving along plot and supporting the action.  The Firebird was a catalyst for other people's growth and change.  As I got older, that spoke to me as well.  I had begun to feel that it was my place in life to be the catalyst, a constant supporting character.  That my life story was not to be my story, but one in which I played a vital role.  And I was okay with that.

I discovered Stravinsky's Firebird ballet during my teen years.  It was a piece of music, story already close to my heart or not, that moved me to tears.  Still does.  The Firebird ballet became almost my theme song as I moved away from home to start my life as sort of an adult.

As I aged a little more and became more distant from my extended family and religious heritage, I began to feel more strongly for my Slavic heritage.  I know, had I actually been living my life in the former Soviet Republic states, I probably wouldn't feel such love for them.  Being Jewish in Russia isn't a particularly pleasant experience.  But I love history, I love Russian folk art and literature, and despite the fact that the Russian government would never call me a Russian, that's where much of my family came from.  Lithuania, actually, but much of the folklore and folk culture is shared.  Including a lot of those storytelling traditions.

So I decided to get a tattoo of the Firebird, depicted in my favorite of her- or at that point, his- stories.  Not the origin of the Firebird, but a later tale- once the Firebird had become a part of popular legend.

People have a lot of unkind things to say to me about my tattoo.  Doesn't it mean I can't be buried in a Jewish cemetery?  How will I tell my kids 'no' when they want a one?  Aren't I afraid of how bad it's going to look when I'm old?

First, no.  It's a popular myth that Jews can't be buried in cemeteries with tattoos.  That only applies to Cohenim, members of the priestly tribe.  Secondly, easy peasy.  "You wand a tattoo?" (pull out single hair from their head) "Did that hurt?  You can't get one."  And three, no.  I'm not worried about what time will do to my art.  Because part of what makes art beautiful is what happens when it ages.  Do you think that the Mona Lisa never had eyebrows?

Most of a very large tattoo

So I'm a mama covered in tattoos, slightly sad, extremely beautiful tattoos.  I like that, it's become a fundamental part of my identity.  And if when my girls grow up they want to be tattooed women, I'm cool with that.  I'll just offer them the same advice I give anyone who tells me they want a tattoo.

Think about it.  Really, really hard.  In fact, think about it for a year.  If after a year you still think it's a good idea, it very well might be.  And if you think a year is a long time to wait, don't do it at all.  You don't get into something permanent if you can't understand the concept of forever.

...yes- I quit smoking.  I had quit over a year before I got the tattoo.  But being in shock will make you lapse into behaviors like that.

...and yes- of course I'll tell you the Firebird stories.  Just give me a few days to write them out.   

The Stories:
The Origin of the Firebird 
Ivan and the Firebird