Ki Yachol Nuchal!

Holy Soles, Sushi, Soldiers and Smiles

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Sun, 12 May 2013 07:55:00 +0000

Yom rishon, 3 Sivan 5773.

My "little baby," Sports Guy, completes basic training.

It was a great week for the folks at Chez Mizrachi.

It started with a small miracle, followed by food and friends, promotion and pride, and ended with a successful surprise birthday party for a lovely young family friend.

First, let's set the stage for the miracle.

I have the great privilege of having a professionally-licensed personal trainer as a daughter-in-law. There are wonderful benefits. Basically, Champagne Girl has me on a treadmill, and on an exercise regimen. She is not taking "lazy" or "busy" as excuses; so every day, I am doing something toward my health, ~~blast her~~. (Uh, I mean, "baruch Hashem.")

I needed new tennis shoes, as my old pair was built sometime during the Carter presidency.

This by itself was a pretty amazing adventure. When you haven't purchased new sport shoes in a couple of decades, new shoes feel like something designed in space: super-light, flexible and -- let's face it -- unbelievably cute.

Menashe Sport, 81 Yafo Street, Jerusalem

At Menashe's shoe store on Yafo, where we have purchased shoes and had leather goods repaired for the past five years, we had the next leg (you should pardon the pun) of our adventure in minor miracles.

As mentioned earlier, I don't buy shoes yearly. I buy really, really good shoes that last for ages. I choose my shoes less for fashion than for the requirement that they transport me many kilometers without hurting my feet. So before leaving the house, I put on my trusty (ancient) Naturalizer Mary Janes, which have more than earned their keep over much of the land of Israel. As I began to put my walking shoes back on after boxing up the cute little treadmill trekkers to take home, I suddenly felt a bit unstable. Sitting back down, I removed my shoes... to find that the sole of one shoe had completely crumbled, from old age and dry rot. (Can you say "perfect timing"?)

Needless to say, I walked to the bus station in the new tennies.

Menashe means "pride in workmanship." I'm sure of it.

I told Menashe how sad I was to throw out the old friends. After all, they'd seen me from Rosh Hanikra in the north down to Sderot near Gaza, and from the coast of the Mediterranean to the border with Syria. The uppers were still in excellent shape; and to get shoes of this quality, I'd have to fork over in excess of 600 shekels -- not in my budget these days.

Menashe, always ready with his expert leather stitchery, offered a solution. Come back in a week, he said, and for 150 shek, he'd rebuild my shoes. And he did! They look and feel like they could go at least another decade.

"Mash'hu, mash'hu! You won't believe it!" said Menashe's wife proudly. He even polished them, as Menashe never does anything by halves.

If you need leather repair of any kind at reasonable prices (as well as shoes in a surprising variety of sizes, also affordable), contact Menashe at 050-760-9902, or 02-622-2912.

A taste of everyone's offerings. There wasn't a bad bite on the plate.

Sandwiched in between the broken shoes and their repair was an enjoyable and educational Rosh Chodesh evening here in Neve Daniel. Women from our community got together and showed off their favorite chalavi (aka milchig, aka dairy) delicacies. Of course, I forced myself to try everyone's culinary offerings, not wanting to offend the neighbors. (What lengths I will go to for peace!) Little did I know that I am surrounded by world-class cooking talent, right here in my small town! Fortunately, there will be a cookbook forthcoming -- as soon as all of you turn in your recipes to Haya. (No pressure. Well, a little pressure... I really want to prepare these delights for my family!)

I have been making sushi for years. But the tricks I learned during Corinne's sushi class helped me get over one hurdle: the rice-on-the-outside roll. Yesh! And I had a great time with friends.

Proud Cornhusker and newly-married blogger buddy Chaviva shows off our group talent.

There were mitpachot (head scarves) and handmade jewelry for sale, as well as gifts of kedusha available. Each of us was given our own personal pasuk of Tehillim, with an explanation of what it might mean for us personally, by another lovely and learned neighbor.

My assigned verse: "Your laws were music to me in my dwelling place."

Another son, Sports Guy, was officially inducted into the IDF, at his tekes hashba'ah (swearing-in ceremony), at which he received the Jewish state's weapons of war: an M16 and a Tanach. (There is something very perspective-enhancing about receiving a Jewish Bible from one's military commander.)

Sports Guy's Coach on the Judean Rebels is also his proud papa.

The week ended with yet another of the stunningly complex surprise parties that my personal young people have been throwing for other young people. (Yeshiva Bochur: "I've put a ban on all surprise parties among the brothers for the next year. Seriously. These are wearing us out.") Somehow, the young person being surprised always "falls for it," much to everyone's joy. Once in a while, we old people get to play a part. I got to show off my inside-out sushi for our young friend, who prefers fish and rice to anything al ha aish (Israeli-speak for barbecued), and the Dearly Beloved and I put together a watermelon "cake" for her, since she doesn't eat cinnamon rolls.

What to make for your favorite health-conscious, vegetarian birthday girl? Watermelon, cut in the shape of a cake, with fruit decorations attached by toothpicks. Nutritious, delicious, and cute!

That surprised smile from our young friend Molly McMolly and the "job well done" smile from Stunt Man were more than worth the effort.

Next up: The Kraft Family IFL (Israel [American] Football League) Awards Banquet, followed by Shavuot, meaning cheesecake and all-night-learning (for the guys. To paraphrase Dirty Harry: "A woman's gotta know her limitations." And this woman holds by early to bed, early to rise). Then the Strung-Out Quartet performs at the Judean Rebels' year-end barbecue. Should be a fun and joyful week, bs"d!

May we share many more joyful stories than sad ones. Chodesh tov, and shavua tov!

Hey, Bal'mer! Just catching up with the folks back home.

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 07:13:00 +0000

Yom sheni, 12 Iyar 5773.

Even with all the cold, wind and rain (baruch Hashem for the gift of more water in the holy Kinneret!), there are some things about Spring in Israel that cannot be missed.

Because we were sick, we almost missed the annual trek to the Mahane Yehuda shuk for fresh garlic. When we finally arrived, all of the special deals had passed; so we ended up paying top shekel for three beautiful bunches of this rosy Israeli Garlic. (Experience has taught me that it's better to pay for the good stuff, if you want it to last and keep its quality through the whole year.) We've been trying new ways and places for drying it. This year, the landlord put a window in the opening on our patio. It will help to keep the wind from putting out the lights of the chanukiot at Chanukah, with Shabbat candle lighting at Sukkot... and it appears that the garlic may have found a home as well. (Yes, I know -- I'll have to figure out the logistics when I start lighting fires on the shelf below... We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.)

The kale is still growing for a little while longer... so I can make wonderful breakfast shakshuka to start the day.

Simple ingredients -- fresh garlic and onions, home-stewed tomatoes and grated Parmesan make a nice addition to the kale and a couple of eggs. With a side of piping hot coffee from Sipsters, of course. (Watch for a future interview. These guys are worth knowing, and knowing about. And the coffee is GREAT!)

The sunsets have been amazing. I wish I had the kind of camera (and skill) to truly share them with you -- but here is a picture offering a small hint of the beauty.

The colors G-d chose that evening were straight out of a Maxfield Parrish painting...

The grown kids have been around a lot. It's nice. It's like I'm sitting in a very comfy theater chair, next to the Dearly Beloved, and we're watching this entertaining movie of these fully-capable young people functioning in our kitchen. And we helped produce the picture. (At least some of the main characters...)

They cook! They eat!

They even clean up after themselves!

Occasionally, the weather has been nice enough to allow forays into the Holy City -- where everything from the sublime to the silly can be found. We run into holy friends, enjoying a family day together.

Missed having you in the photo, Yoshi...

And the sweet smiles on these young ladies' faces sort of make you forget that they are enjoying one of the tourist pastimes of Jerusalem: having their feet -- ehhhhhh -- catered to by bacteria-eating fish. Yes, indeed. You can find 'most anything in Israel.

There are just some things we'd rather read about than do...

We had lovely celebrations with friends at Yom Ha'atzma'ut, that I was enjoying far too much to photograph. My son wrote a short piece about the juxtaposition and power of the three days of Yom HaShoa, Yom Hazikaron, and Yom Ha'atzma'ut: The Price of the Independence BBQ.

One son went into the IDF; another has completed his service. Another is adjusting quite nicely to married life, around his continuing service. It will be a pleasure to continue watching as the winds of Spring finally blow in temperate weather, and whatever change is in store for us in the coming months. Looking forward to seeing more friends and family coming to visit -- and coming Home!

The Pain and Power of Yom HaShoah

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Sun, 07 Apr 2013 15:49:00 +0000

Yom rishon, 27 Nisan 5773.

This is a four-year-old post. Sports Guy is now a soldier, as are all of his brothers. I can't say it better now. Please share your thoughts.

Photograph from the Main Commission for the Investigation of Nazi War Crimes, courtesy of USHMM Photo Archives.

Tonight is Yom Hashoah. Sports Guy (all of 14-years-old) attended a Bnei Akiva event to educate Israeli youth about the Holocaust. I only hope he didn't see the video. Of all my children, he is the least able to cope with the Shoah. I remember standing in the public library with him as he tried to do research for an assignment for his third grade class. He was supposed to write something regarding the period between 1930 and 1945. It was clear that the teacher was gearing up these Jewish kids to do a paper on the Holocaust. We pulled out a book designed for children. (It was important to me as a mother to keep my kids from seeing stuff that was more graphic than their ages should be able to bear.) We were looking at this kids' book, which dealt with the subject in a very sensitive manner. And then my Dani looked up at me with eyes frighteningly shining with tears. "I can't do this, Ema."

My eyes filled. "I know, Honey. I know."

After a long quiet hug, we found something else about the Thirties to write about. I don't remember what it was -- something about a US president, probably. But we established a clear understanding between us at the time: Dani doesn't do Holocaust. Intuitively, I understand that he "carries" it differently than my other sons do. Is he "an old soul"? Does he have dreams like his mother's? I don't know. But I respect that he handles this differently than his brothers do. His brothers all want to crush and destroy anyone who would threaten the Jewish people ever again. Dani agrees. But something in Dani remembers or just knows how much it hurt to be a Jew then. He feels it in a way they cannot.

As I type, I glance at the clock. I know that I am going to ground him for being late getting home, just like normal mothers do in normal times. Baruch Hashem, he will say that he is sorry, and that he will get better in the future. Just like normal kids, in normal times. Thank G-d.

"Nu?"

"I'm sorry. I was hanging out with friends. I lost track of time. I know -- it's my fault."

"Did you see the film?"

"No. I'm sorry." (He thinks I'm disappointed. Oy, vey.) "I was talking, and I came too late. A couple of mothers and a kid talked. Hebrew. I didn't understand much.

"Then, we all sang 'Gam ki ailech' and 'Ani ma'amim' and 'Hatikvah.' That was pretty cool."

"You know what it was all about?"

"Yeah."

"Any questions?"

"Nope."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah. Go to bed, okay?"

"Okay, Ema. G'night. I love you."

"You, too, buddy."

%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%

After Sports Guy trundles off to bed, I think of a cherished memory.

Soldier Boy was younger, and was -- uh, let's just say he was "giving me fits."

But deep down inside him was a kid who wanted Mama and Papa to be proud. He has a beautiful voice, does Soldier Boy. He learned all of the words to "Mama Rochel," a famous Yaakov Shwekey song, written by Abie Rotenberg.

We don't speak Yiddish in my house. Not our cultural upbringing. But he memorized all of the words, even the Yiddish words.

And while he was singing the Yiddish words at the end, I thought suddenly of my father's grandmother, Ruth, for whom I am named. As far as I know, she was the last religious person in my father's family. As the story goes, the family was pretty wealthy. They had gathered at the family farm just outside of Warsaw... and then the Nazis came. One of them said to my father's lookalike cousin, "Here boy -- catch!" And this animal threw to my father's cousin a hand grenade. My grandmother saw "her son" blown up -- and even though they presented him later (he'd been hiding under a haystack) -- Rita was never the same.

There was a mentally-retarded girl in the family. The Nazis decided to take her into the woods... Of course she was afraid. My paternal great-grandmother, Ruth, said, "I'll go with the child." They were taken into the woods, and that is the last anyone in the family knew of them.

So when I heard my son, in his unbelievably sweet tones, singing this Yiddish lyric... I thought I could hear Ruth, Hy"d, saying: "I won, Adolf. I am still here, through this boy. YOU are gone. But I am still here."

To carry on. To keep singing and telling over... To let them know that we will never let them down again. To fight to protect our people, in our land. And everything that means -- even to protect the holy aspects some of our grandparents did not know.

That's what it's about, isn't it? Never, ever again.

Polish Lemon Tart: Not Just for Pesach

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Sun, 31 Mar 2013 11:17:00 +0000

Yom rishon, 20 Nisan 5773, Erev Yom Shvi'i shel Pesach.

This is not a very important post. But it is delicious, works for Celiac sufferers and non-gebrokts folks and Paleo-centric diners, anybody avoiding potato starch on principle, and for kitniyot and non-kitniyot types alike. In other words: World Peace is possible over this dessert. Unless you never, ever eat butter during Yom Tov... in which case, I cannot help you.

The recipe was borrowed and modified (of course) from About.com, by Barbara Rolek. Check out her original recipe here: Polish Lemon Tart Recipe - Tarta Cytronowa.

200 gr. softened butter
200 gr. sugar
4 large eggs
300 gr. almond flour (aka finely ground almonds)
2 large lemons, zest and juice
113 gr. while chocolate, chopped

1. Preheat oven to 177 degrees Centigrade. Spray sides and bottom of 24 x 17.5 x 5.5 mm pan with Pam or similar substance (unless you happen to have a springform pan for Pesach, in which case you are welcome to line it with parchment paper, as Ms. Rolek suggests. I've done it both ways. It works either way.)
2 Cream butter and sugar till fluffy. Add eggs and beat until nicely blended. Mix in almond flour. Add lemon juice, zest and white chocolate pieces. (I don't own a Pesadike blender; and this recipe works just fine with a spoon and a bit of vigor.) Transfer mixture to prepared pan.
3. Bake 45 minutes to 1 hour. You will know your oven; and the main thing is that the cake should be golden brown at the edges, but moist throughout. This is why it's better than most potato starch cakes. It is NOT dry as dust. Just sayin'. (If you have a moist potato starch cake recipe you'd care to share, I'm open-minded.)
4. Serve directly from the pan when cool. Honestly, does the powdered sugar platter presentation make it taste any better?

The only thing that could possibly make this taste any better is to serve it with a nice almond liqueur and coffee. I know... right???

And Baby Goes to Battle

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Thu, 14 Mar 2013 12:21:00 +0000

Yom chamishi, 3 Nisan 5773.

Saying a temporary goodbye to an old friend?

I have a remarkable ability to live outside moments that are particularly HUGE until I'm in them. This means that I don't suffer from anxiety for weeks and weeks before an event. It also means I crack my husband up in the days or hours before an event, as I go into hyper-accelerated meltdown.

My youngest baby -- all 183 centimeters of him -- is being inducted into the Israeli Defense Forces on Sunday.

And my face isn't exactly melting. But my heart is beating more rapidly than it usually does.

You might ask why this has my attention, when all of that brutal activity on the gridiron just has my awe and pride, rather than my fear. (See the short video at the end of this post, and watch for Number 20. How does he do that????) Many mothers have pointed out to me, in the most loving possible terms, that there is something wrong with a mother who doesn't freak out about her kid playing American football. But it's just who Sports Guy has always been. Taking the essence of my children away from them in order to keep them safe has never been my style. So I just don't think about the danger. Except for those isolated moments, late at night, when the prayer and the bargaining with G-d sneak in...

All of Sports Guy's brothers are or have been soldiers. I spend a lot of time not thinking about this, focusing instead on my gratitude and pride in them for their service to our country, and on the fascination of watching their adult selves emerging from the boys I'd raised with their excellent father.

Suddenly, the baby of the brothers is changing uniforms. From the orange and green of the Judean Rebels to the olive drab of the army. He's not more special to me than his brothers. I have been blessed to have such extraordinarily different sons that Soldier Boy is my favorite. And Yeshiva Bochur is my favorite. And Stunt Man is my favorite. And Sports Guy is my favorite. It's just the end of an era... and it's always hardest to say farewell to the last guy out the door.

While the Dearly Beloved and I have already discovered that we like the empty nest (as long as the chicks fly home every once in a while), today through Sunday and a while after will feel a little odd. And then will be the day he comes back home in uniform...

We'll just keep cheering you on, Brothers.

Thank you for this wonderful video, Pavel Archavsky. I'll probably be watching it a lot over the next few months...

A Bit O' the Irish, Jewish Style

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Sun, 10 Mar 2013 14:27:00 +0000

Yom rishon, 28 Adar 5773.

Stunt Man played a fifteen minute "Irish Set" for his brother's wedding, staying in character throughout. He was so effective at bringing joy to his brother and his new sister-in-law and their guests that one attendee quipped, "This is the first time in my life I've regretted not being born Irish."

Well, G-d gathered us in from the four corners of the world into the Jewish family for some reason or other. Could be to add a few songs, and a little color.

Here's a short sample of brotherly love.

Hat tip to the band Gaelic Storm and to Josh Polak, who taught the lad nearly everything he knows.

Photos and videography by Yehuda Bolsthauser & Co.

A Larger Footprint - Guest Post by Varda Epstein

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Tue, 19 Feb 2013 14:11:00 +0000

Yom shlishi, 9 Adar 5773.

My friend and Times of Israel blogger Varda Epstein writes movingly of another side of Aliyah that must be taken into account, and the good attitude that can make it work, nonetheless.

Mom, dancing at my wedding, couldn't dance at my daughter's...

Making Aliyah, the act of picking up and moving to Israel, changes the meaning of family forever.

For one thing, there’s the physical distance that cannot be bridged no matter how wonderful the notion and reality of Aliyah, because they (your family) are there and you are here, in the Holy Land.

It can mean giving up one mitzvah for another: leaving elderly parents to fend for themselves for the sake of your Aliyah. You can end up feeling, well, a little selfish, like you've abandoned them. That’s true even in the best-case scenario, in which the parents are supportive of your move to the Holy Land.

That physical distance means that when you’re feeling under the weather and finding it hard to cope with parenting or other demands, there’s no one to pinch hit for you. You can’t call your mother to come and rescue you. She’s too far away to bring you chicken soup and do your laundry.

Skype isn't quite like being there...

The miles (or kilometers, now that you’re an Israeli) mean that sometimes the family will miss out on your milestones, Skype notwithstanding. Your child’s first tooth, first word, and first step are just a few of the important occasions your family may miss. And your child will miss out on experiencing the unconditional love that only grandparents can give.

Having family far away also means that during the worst of times, for instance during mourning, there will be no extended family to grieve alongside you. Tradition dictates that only family members visit the Shiva house during the early days of the Jewish mourning period. Yet you may be the only person at Shiva who knew your loved one. That can tend to grow the ache that much larger and lonelier.

Out of necessity, however, the meaning of family undergoes a necessary and very beautiful evolution for those who make Aliyah. Friends metamorphose into something more than friends, if something less than family. They stand in for our families as we stand in for their own.

The bonds we create with our new friends in Israel are so much stronger than those we had with the friends we left behind, because they must fill a much larger footprint. They must be both friends and family or rather a wholly new species that is a merger of the two without being quite one or the other. It’s a tall order, yet one that is filled with the purest of intentions.

It’s an obligation that is a pleasure to fill. It means, for example, that if I have an important business meeting, my friend Leora, a makeup artist, will do my makeup for free so I’ll look spiffy and professional, while I will spend hours creating a many-tiered, decorated cake, for her daughter’s bat mitzvah, in girly-girl colors, free of charge, out of the deepest love and affection. Whatever we have, we give freely. It is a give and take that binds us despite the lack of blood ties or shared history, but binds us no less surely.

Baked with love, even though it couldn't be baked by her "real" aunt

This obligation is not an obligation, but rather something that is volunteered out of great desire. It means that my friend Rachel, who babysat my infant son when I was unwell, was there at his wedding to shed a tear instead of my mother, who could not be there. It means that when we dance together in the middle of the circle, a kind of holy energy surrounds and caresses us, something indescribable that comes perhaps from the heavens -- something that can neither be described nor uttered. It is simply there: born out of Aliyah, a holy and wholly beautiful byproduct of our sojourn in the Land.

Varda Epstein is a mother of 12 children, blogger, and communications writer at Kars4Kids
http://www.kars4kids.org

"You’re Somebody’s Type"

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Tue, 12 Feb 2013 06:56:00 +0000

Yom shlishi, 2 Adar 5773.

The "carry with you everywhere" blood donor's certificate

Donating blood was not part of my upbringing. I don't know why. And had the idea come into my brain, it would have been dispelled quickly by my disproportionate fear of needles.

That fear was cured in half an hour, as I awaited my turn with other female US Army recruits for the shot in the arm. I had time consider as the line shifted forward. "Don't move," we were warned by the army nurse, "or this gun will make six nice little 'Zorro' tattoos in your lovely young arms." It was a very scary looking piece of equipment, designed to shoot six shots of pressurized air-propelled serum into the arm, thereby inoculating us efficiently without needles. The fact that I was a little older than the other girls, having enlisted at 24, stiffened my resolve to not let these babies see my cry -- or even flinch. Thus ended my fear of vaccinations.

By the time I got out of the army, I appreciated the mitzvah of giving blood, especially since I was from the "universal donor" blood type group. Naturally, I wanted to do my part -- only to be told that the United States Red Cross didn't want my blood: I had been stationed in Germany during years that concerned them. Mad Cow Disease, or something like that. I was really disappointed.

So imagine my surprise when I came to Israel, and tried again to donate blood. "Were you ever in England, Ireland or Portugal?" the young Magen David Adom nurse asked me. No, I hadn't managed to make time to travel that extensively. No mention of Germany. I was in! For the first time in my life.

It is interesting to see who shows up to donate blood at the MDA station on the top floor of the Central Bus Station. Young mechina guys. A lot of soldiers, both male and female. Young mothers. Middle-aged people like me.

Not everyone wanted his or her picture taken -- but everyone asked me to please write about giving blood, to let people know that it's easy, doesn't take much time, and makes a difference.

As the mother of three IDF soldiers (and one about to be drafted), I want so much to do my part. They should never need a drop of their mother's blood, please G-d. But we are all a family here. That mother's son is my nephew, as is that soldier standing and waiting his turn to donate. I can't offer to give my new country what they are willing to give.

But if any of them ever needs this kind of help, I want to be there for him.

For those of us in Israel, the process is simple. If you are in the Central Bus Station in Jerusalem, for instance, and have forty minutes to spare, go to the top floor (the floor above the bus platforms). I am pretty sure the Maden David Adom workers are there every day. They guide you through the process, gently and lovingly. They're good at what they do. (No Zorro marks; very little discomfort.) They'll give you juice or water, and pamper you for a half-hour, to be sure you're not too light-headed to go about your business, before they let you go.

This post was "in the works" for some time. It was finally dusted off and completed today, thanks to a video my friend and fellow writer Varda Epstein sent to me on Facebook. Take a few moments to listen to a grateful young man whose life was saved by 70 people!

I give you the bracha that you will always be a giver and never need to be a receiver. But if Hashem has other plans -- I give you the bracha that there will be good people around you, with the willingness to give up a pint of blood to save another human being's life. Kol areivim zeh lazeh. We are all responsible for one another.

Shabbat on a Budget

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Sun, 10 Feb 2013 18:18:00 +0000

Yom sheni, 1 Adar 5773, Rosh Chodesh.

Some of my favorite Shabbat meals have resulted from the following logical premise: "We had a helluva great party last month [Ed. note: See a future blog post for wedding details]; so we had better tighten our belts, or we're going to still have month at the end of the money."

There were a lot of quality leftovers after the wedding, two sheva brachot, and a Shabbat here and there. I have enough Scot in me to abhor waste -- so the food had to be used -- but Shabbat also must be given the honor it is due.

I had been stashing in the freezer leftovers of really nice Shabbat pot roasts, because the leftovers from the Number 8 (chuck) roast slow-cooked in olive oil, wine and spices is not the sort of thing one throws out or even eats during the week. The same could be said of the leftover homemade shwarma of pargiot (boneless chicken thighs). Neither of these dishes could be served again in their original forms. Cooking them again could dry them out, and would surely cause the meat to shred.

So I decided to make a meat pie and a chicken pie for my expanding/contracting/expanding guest list.

The first step was to sauté onions and garlic in olive oil. While the onions were browning, I cubed potatoes and carrots, and boiled them gently until they were just cooked. Next, I separated the onions into two pans. Into one, I added shredded leftover beef roast (which was already flavored with salt, pepper, thyme and baharat) and into the other, shredded chicken (already spiced with curry powder and garam masala). While these mixtures were heating, I lined a couple of aluminum pans (56mm x 190mm x 260 mm) with prepared pastry dough that comes in rolls, and which I cut to size. I pierced the bottoms and sides of the pastry shells with a fork.

I filled the lined pastry shells with the meat mixtures, and then covered them with rectangles of dough, crimping and and sealing the edges, and decorating the tops with fork tracks. I baked the meat pies at 177 degrees Centigrade (around 350 degrees Fahrenheit), until they were golden brown on top.

So far, I'd spent 25 shekels over what was already in the house (about 7 bucks).

I had a little of the meat mixture left over; so I made a small two-person shepherd's pie for the newlyweds. I wanted a little bottom crust; so I used a leftover flour tortilla, warmed slightly in a frying pan so that it would be soft enough to shape into the bottom of a round pan. I added the meat and onion mixture, and put some freshly-made mashed potatoes on top. A little paprika added color to the top, lightly sprayed with Pam Olive Oil spray. Again, I baked this dish at 177 degrees until it was heated through.

Chicken broth, strained and ready for the slow-cooker. In the upper-right corner, you can see dough strips leftover from the meat and chicken pies. They'll come into play later...

A soup seemed like a nice and filling addition. Usually, my chicken soup is a big deal, with lots of vegetables and pieces of chicken and turkey necks, for added richness. But this week was about saving money; so I bought a package of chicken bones (less than 9 shekels, about $2.50). I used some tired carrots, leeks, and celery (actually better and more flavorful for soup than very fresh vegetables), an onion and some fresh garlic. Once the soup had boiled sufficiently, I seasoned it with salt, pepper, and a bit of hawaij spice. This went into the slow-cooker, and cooked slowly, becoming very brown and rich by Shabbat lunch.

There is such a beauty to a good chicken broth!

There were leftover strips of pastry dough. I decided to make a quick dessert of fried dough. I melted coconut oil in a frying pan, fried the dough strips on both sides until golden brown, and then sprinkled them with sugar and cinnamon. Nope, not even a tiny bit healthy. But tasty, and quite a hit.

And of course, I balanced all of this non-health-food with lots of fresh, green and red and orange and yellow salad. Also not expensive... and a great way to buy off my conscience for feeding them food they loved, that wasn't particularly healthy.

There are times to pull out all the stops to put together a real feast, knowing that Hashem will always reimburse us for the money we spend on Shabbat and the chagim (holidays).

And there are other times when He seems to say, "I'm not sending any extra money just now. Be creative. Don't worry. I made you. I know you've got it in you."

Family Shabbat -- or Not!

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Thu, 07 Feb 2013 23:20:00 +0000

Yom shishi, 28 Shevat 5773.

Our Sages teach that our souls are sent to this world to work on our eventually perfect selves, to correct some problem in the fabric of the universe, or both. My sons are always teaching me, which is why G-d blessed this particular mother with these particular sons.

Over time, I have shared and hope to continue to share some of the lessons they have taught me. Now we are in the Empty Nest stage; and in order to perfect my midah of spontaneity-with-patience, my boys -- who no longer live at home -- appear at random times, with random guests, for Shabbat.

Back story: I am a Yekke by nature. This means that I need to be on time for everything, need to have plans, need to have things follow a pattern. Living with other human beings, this attitude can have certain drawbacks, as you might imagine.

In order to be the best mom I can be, given my nature, I always asked my kids to give me a few days' notice before a friend came to spend the night, or for Shabbat. I can see some of my fellow moms' faces, reading this with utter incomprehension. Just know how special you are, ladies, to have already mastered (or been granted the gift of) spontaneity! It is not one of my natural strengths, to be able to warmly greet drop-in guests.

But life has changed, and with it, G-d's plan for this year's Ruti improvements. My boys live away from home -- with their wives, in their barracks in the IDF, at their yeshiva dorms. Other people or institutions help them to decide where they are spending Shabbat, and how soon they will arrive at my door. In the case of soldiers, these plans remain mysteries until hours before candle-lighting. So I can sit around and kvetch that I don't get the warning I prefer. Or I can leap outside my comfort zone, and learn to "roll with it."

This Shabbat, like so many others, I didn't know until the day before Shabbat who would be home. Buy a roast? Big or small? A big pan of shwarma? Or a couple of pargiot, with a nice sauce? Sodas? Or just seltzer? Ice cream and cookies and chips for seudat shlishit? Or lox and crackers, with maybe a boiled egg or two?

Sports Guy: "Looks like it's an in-Shabbat, Ema. I will probably just stop by on Thursday night with some laundry, if that's okay, and then see you on Sunday for a few hours. Okay?"
Ema: "Sure, Baby. See you when we see you."

(No pretzels. Maybe three kilos less beef.)

Stunt Man: "Ema, I'd like to come and bring a friend, but it depends on whether [Yeshiva Bochur] will be home." (The brothers are close; and one's plans are often contingent on the other's.) "And is [Sports Guy] having an in-Shabbat, or will he be home?"
Ema: "Well, I still don't know for sure about Yeshiva Bochur... and Sports Guy says he won't be coming this time."
Stunt Man: "Oh. Okay -- I'll get back to you... by Thursday, I promise."

(Sushi. Seltzer. Beer. Shwarma, for sure. Some of that horrible hazelnut-filled chocolate square cereal stuff.)

Yeshiva Bochur: "Yesh! Home for Shabbat!"
Ema: "YAY!!! Champagne Girl will be so happy! Will we see you?"
Yeshiva Bochur: "Hmmmm. Maybe for seudat shlishit."
Ema: "No worries."

(Beer. Ice cream and junk for the third meal. Did I say beer? Garanim. Scratch the lox.)

Sports Guy: "It looks like I may be able to be home for Shabbat. Any brothers home?"
Ema: "I think we may have a 'full Shabbat,' with all three brothers!"
Sports Guy: "Cool!"

(Mass quantities of beef. Pretzels. Sushi. Don't forget the sushi.)

Stunt Man: "Ehhhhh... looks like my friend and I will probably not be there for Shabbat, but I'm not a hundred per cent sure. Can I tell you tomorrow?"
Ema: "No problem. Whatever works for you is fine."

(Cut the beer in half. Make the same amount of sushi. Sports Guy won't have to hold back, then. Buy the awful chocolate cereal squares, and stash in the chukalukim closet until next time. Never hurts to be ahead.)

Champagne Girl: "SOOOOOOO exciting! Everyone will be together for the first Shabbat in a long time!"
Ema: "Well, I'm not so sure about Stunt Man."
Champagne Girl: "Oh, don't worry. Sports Guy and Yeshiva Bochur will be there; so you know that Stunt Man won't miss it."
Ema: "Wait, Motek. I'm getting another call..."

(Get some chocolate syrup for the ice cream, and whipped cream...)

Stunt Man: "Hi Ema --"
Ema: "Hi, Sweetie. I hear you're joining us for Shabbat."
Stunt Man: "Yeah, it's not too late, is it? Wait -- how did you hear? We just decided..."
Ema: "Yeah, I know. It's going to be great, having a 'full Shabbat.'"
Stunt Man: "Yeah, it sure is. See you then, Ema. Thanks!"

(Buy everything. What's the worst? Somebody won't show -- and I'll have some in the cupboard and freezer for next time.)

I have become amazingly adaptable. Score one for the Big Guy and His Soul Perfection Training Plan.

Thank you to my husband and sons and daughters-in-law for helping me to learn to go with the flow... and for flowing with me.

Wedding photos by Yehuda Botshauser & Co.

Glossary:
Midah: character trait
Yekke: A Jew of German descent. In this instance, it refers to the character traits of punctuality and precision. Not always heart-warming to be around -- but we get the job done. On time, and under budget.
Kvetch: complain
Shwarma: THE best fast-food in Israel. Closely rivaled by falafel, which is good if you have less money that day.
Pargiot: boneless chicken thighs. The steak of Israel.
Seudat Shlishit: the third meal of Shabbat, considered to be the holiest meal, the "Yom Kippur" of the Shabbat
Garanim: seeds, specifically sunflower seeds, for liberal spitting all over Ema's freshly washed floor, the patio, the bedrooms, the steps leading to the Cave...
Chukalukim: what IDF soldiers call "junk food for the road"
Motek: Sweetheart

Mothers United to Save a Boy

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Thu, 31 Jan 2013 06:35:00 +0000

Yom chamishi, 20 Shevat 5773.

Whoever destroys a soul, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world. ~ Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:5, Babylonian Talmud Tractate Sanhedrin 37a

What follows is a re-posting of my friend Romi Sussman's post on her blog Sussmans b'Aretz. While this post is out of character for both of our blogs, it's subject matter is something we both care about deeply. Please read and help. We only have a few days to make a difference. And the only thing that matters is word and prayer. No money and not much time is involved.

One Mom's Plea: We All Matter, A Lot

I've written a few times about how social media helped in our Aliyah process with Nefesh B'Nefesh. I was nervous and stewing over a number of issues, and I sent an email to a contact in Israel to pour out my heart. She, in turn, forwarded the email to a number of email groups in Israel and I was flooded with encouragement, answers and reassurance.

Sometimes social media is just silliness. Sometimes, it can change the course of your life.

And we are going to pray and hope that the later will be true for Noah.

A few days ago while I was checking out Facebook, my friend's post caught my eye. One of her friends was having an incredibly difficult situation and was crying out for help.

As Karen explains on the Facebook page that she built for her son, Noah, "My son Noah is 12 years old. On February 8 he will be 13. A teenager at last. This past weekend he posted on his Instagram account that he was planning to commit suicide on his birthday. He also posted images of his arm where he has been cutting himself for the past two months.

Noah has been dealing with bullying for the past year. He has been feeling alone and left out, ostracized from old friends and a misfit among new kids. Things begin to get better, and then another setback. He was once the life of the party among his friends; big man on campus at his first elementary school. Now his self esteem has disappeared.

Noah has been in therapy. I have been doing my very best. But he is in pain. I can't do this alone.

Noah is getting treatment in a hospital now. But it is still not enough."

And in a beautiful act, she turned to her social media outlets to make a difference for her son. Karen has created a page called "Letters for Noah" where she describes her goal. "He needs people to rally. Which is why I've created this page, Letters for Noah. I thought of it last night in the ER when I couldn't sleep. Noah needs to know that He Matters and that It Does Get Better. So many people have been asking me how they can help. Well, this is how:

Today I opened a P.O. Box. I am asking you and your kids to send Noah letters with a message of hope, telling him not to give up. Help him see that He Matters and that It Does Get Better. Please send your letters to:

Letters for Noah P.O. Box 444 Simpsonville, Maryland 21150"

Karen's plea has started to receive some great attention. This article was just in Parenting magazine and she reports that the first of the letters have started pouring in. A blog was just created as well.

I cry every time that I look at Karen's Facebook page and every time that she reports on the latest developments. Our children are so fragile, and their lives and emotions can change so quickly.

What a powerful plan Karen has put into place. She can tell her son that he matters until she's blue in the face; or, she can show him hundreds - maybe thousands - of letters from people who say he matters and who show it with their actions and their words.

Let's use social media to shower Noah with letters of encouragement and love. She's hoping to get most of the mail by his birthday, February 8th. And even if you live far away, as I do, and don't think you can mail a letter the old-fashioned way, you can always re-blog this, join her Facebook page, follow Noah's progress and write a note to him from Facebook.

Because we all matter, a lot.

Week of Weather in Pictures

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Thu, 10 Jan 2013 21:04:00 +0000

Yom Shishi, 29 Tevet 5773.

The Dearly Beloved's forest. He doesn't own it. He just staked his claim there.

Growing up in the States, we used to chuckle about how you knew people were getting old when the first topic of conversation was the weather.

I consider it a great kindness on the part of Hashem that as I moved into that chapter of my life, He allowed me to move to Israel, where everybody talks about the weather, regardless of age. The Kineret having risen 73 centimeters awes young and old alike! The hope that maybe snow will fall in Jerusalem excites children of all ages. We bless rain and dew and wind. In our mountain yishuv of Neve Daniel, fog isn't just low-lying cloud. It's the Ananei HaKavod, the Clouds of Glory.

No time to write.. still busy with wedding plans, b"H. But here are some pictures of my day in Jerusalem on Tuesday with the Dearly Beloved, before we hunkered down on our mountain, awaiting snow.

I was practically blown away trying to stand still for this shot. Couldn't stop laughing.

All down Yafo Street, little trees just fell right over in the wind.

Everywhere, the streets were littered with umbrella corpses. Great for gentle rains. No match for high winds.

Note to self: Super-long dresses are fun in the summer, but dumb in the winter. Wear shorter dress next time.

Wiser, warmer and dryer, we awoke to wild winds and rain on Wednesday. Good day to stay home and make kale chips, mushroom-barley soup, and to enjoy a visit from the just-arrived-in-country parents of Champagne Girl. The wedding is beginning to feel real!

We had a pleasant few hours, but then had to send them on their way to Efrat, before the weather got even wilder. Throughout Neve Daniel, barbecue covers and towels and kipot and other lovely items flew from hill to hill; and citizens posted items lost and found. The next morning, we woke up to a real snow day. What follows is an unbelievably fun day in pictures, made of children's smiles, and the smiles of people still in touch with their inner child.

Snowy morning walk up my steps to the street

The incongruity of snow in the Middle East

The famous metal flowers covered in snow

A good day for cars to spend napping

Men at work: the snowman competitions begin

Remember when we could smile sitting in the cold with frozen fingers?

This clever fellow wears a terra cotta top hat.

The Dearly Beloved and his new friend, Harvey Snowman. No one else could see him.

The Lonely Snowman of Faith stood in the shadow of the shul, arms Heavenward. At least he kept his kipah on.

In this photo by Yeshiva Bochur, Champagne Girl reminds me of a 1930s actress.

IMHO, the winning snowman: A frozen chayal. Note his six-pack abs. Even snow soldiers have to stay in shape.

A mommy getting ready for payback. "Sleep with one eye open tonight, Kid." That'll teach him to ambush his ma in a snowball fight.

Ol' Cucumber Eye, giving directions to motorists.

These bushes look like snow muffins.

The view looking out over Efrat, toward Jordan

Snow blossoms

Snow wars, with the clouds over the Mediterranean Sea in the background

Sunlight through snow-covered palms

More teamwork: The best part of the day was being surrounded by smiles.

Home again, after a fun- and people-filled day

Different dress, shorter hem. Note to self: It doesn't matter. Wear what you like. You're getting soaked anyway.

May your winter be filled with beauty, the laughter of children, the opportunity to play, followed by the opportunity to get warm. May you find the community that makes you feel cherished. May you find your way home.

Cinnamon-Scented Tradition

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Mon, 17 Dec 2012 07:36:00 +0000

Yom sheni, 4 Tevet 5773.

I used to make birthday cake, like nearly everybody else. The boys would eat the frosting (often before it was served to the birthday boy), and my husband would politely consume a piece or two. What he talked about with that misty-eyed look reserved for true nostalgia and a voice filled with wonder were his grandmother's cinnamon rolls.

Those cinnamon rolls were the stuff of legend. Not only was there no cake on the planet that could hold a candle to Grandma's cinnamon rolls, but the tales abounded of how the Dearly Beloved learned speed and competitive treachery as he attempted to get to those cinnamon rolls before his stepfather ate the hearts out of every one, leaving only the less-interesting, drier outsides for "little Jimmy." (Cruel? Perhaps. But great training in the art of being at the right place at the right time.)

Like all good wives, it became important to me to get Grandma's recipe. There were a few obstacles to overcome. Grandma had long since gone to bake cinnamon rolls in that great Kitchen in the Sky. The Dearly Beloved, being a kitchen-challenged male, never asked for the recipe; and it seems his sisters hadn't, either. His dear mama was also gone...

Patient research brought to light a great aunt who was ready to swap letters, photos of little Jimmy that he had never seen, and finally -- the holy recipe. "I not only have the recipe for you," she wrote, "but in Thelma's own hand. I'll find it, and send it along next time." She did, and at last I held the four-by-six handwritten secrets to my husband's nirvana in my hand. (I wish I had it to share with you now.) "Thelma's Recipe for Julia's Buns" was the rather quaint title. What followed only served to deepen the mystery. In rounded pencil were the words:

flour

sugar

salt
eggs
butter

cinnamon

That was it. No measurements. No temperature or time. No clue, to a struggling baker wannabe.

I was not giving up. I scoured cookbooks, and tested every recipe on my husband. I honed and refined and combined recipes, seeking that look of near-euphoria, and the pronouncement: "These taste just like Grandma's cinnamon rolls!"

Grandma Thelma with a precious great-grandson

Finally, finally, whether due to kindness or failing memory or fact, the Dearly Beloved said, "These are the best cinnamon rolls I've ever tasted! Even better than Grandma's."

The problem is that they are little heart attack pills, cleverly disguised as food. So meanie that I am, I told my dear one that he could have the cinnamon rolls once a year, on his birthday, because I want to see him at many, many birthdays.

But all that clever deceit taught to him at the knees of Stepfather Bob had not gone to waste. My dear husband convinced each of his sons, one by one, that the boy didn't really like birthday cake. The boy liked cinnamon rolls, didn't he?

So Abba could get away with cinnamon rolls once a month -- at least for the months of January, March, September, October, November and December. Does the wiliness stop there? Not at all. It has become a family requirement that one of the first questions asked a prospective spouse is: "When is your birthday?" The boys have cleverly added a couple more months to the cinnamon roll tradition. (Abba is working on their math skills, to try to persuade them to offer him perfectly-timed grandchildren as well. Thankfully, they seem to be ignoring him here, and simply going about their business.)

Thankfully, my husband did not continue the cycle of theft of his youth: no soft hearts are consumed without their full outer-jackets of crispy, thin dough.

Please enjoy the traditional birthday treat of Chez Mizrachi. Remember: not healthy. Once a year, only. Unless you're very, very clever.

~~Julia's~~ ~~Thelma's~~ Ruti's Cinnamon ~~Buns~~ Rolls

Combine in small bowl:

1 cup whole milk

1 large beaten egg

4 tablespoons melted butter (taken from 200 grams)

4 tablespoons water

Combine in larger bowl:

4 cups self-rising flour (measured by scooping flour gently into cup, and leveling off)

1 package instant vanilla pudding mix

1 tablespoon white sugar

1/2 teaspoon salt

Add the liquid ingredients to the dry ingredients. Mix well. Knead dough until soft ball is formed, adding a tiny amount of flour, as needed. Allow to rise until doubled in size.

Roll out into a large rectangle. A better pastry is produced by rolling the dough out very thin.

Mix together the remaining butter of the melted 200 grams, a cup of dark brown sugar, and 3 tablespoons (or more) of ground cinnamon. Spread it over the dough. (Go ahead. Get your hands into it. Like a great peanut-butter sandwich, it's better if the filling extends right to the edges.) Roll the dough into a log, pinching the seam to seal in the filling. Cut into 1/2- to 1-inch slices, and place in two round pans that have been sprayed with Pam (or greased in any other conventional manner). Cover with a kitchen towel that reminds you of your grandmother's kitchen. Allow to rise until doubled.

Bake in preheated oven set at 350 degrees F (175 degrees C) for 15 or 20 minutes. You want the cinnamon rolls to be thinking about turning brown, but not quite there yet. If you're feeling very decadent, you can spread or drizzle over the warm cinnamon rolls a frosting made of 1 teaspoon milk, 100 grams powdered sugar, 50 grams of melted butter, and a bit of vanilla extract, or etrog liqueur, if it's near Chanukah time, when etrog liqueur is traditionally ready.

Happy birthday, Best Friend! May we share many more happy, healthy years (in spite of your consumption of Thelma's and Julia's Buns). I have no idea what your grandmother would have thought of the final product. But I like to think that she'd be happy I made her little Jimmy happy.

Chanukah and the Dearly Beloved's birthday go hand-in-hand.

The timeless elegance of pearls of time

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Wed, 12 Dec 2012 20:42:00 +0000

Yom revi'i, 28 Kislev 5773, Chanukah.

Life is a series of moments, strung together like pearls.

Sometimes, we hardly notice them, until a great strand is piled up behind us. At other times, we are "in the moment," aware of everything around us, and a minute has the magical feeling of lasting for many more seconds than sixty.

Today, I was shopping with someone I love, helping her to find her very first appliances for her very first home. An excellent fellow with children in Russia and Spain but none in Israel was waiting on us (singing snatches of Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry, Be Happy" as he looked up details about stoves and refrigerators for us).

Champagne Girl and I were having so much fun shopping that we not only didn't lose track of time -- we became very aware of it. She was chattering away with me and the salesman and with Yeshiva Bochur on her cell phone. Suddenly we realized that, for the last time in this century, we could make note of one of those multiple number moments.

At exactly 12:12 on the 12th of December in the year 2012, cell phone cameras were recording Champagne Girl's and Rutimizrachi's Amazing Appliance Adventure.

Even Anatoly, our salesman, realized the importance of the moment, and shared it with us. (After the photo shoot, he went around the store telling everyone about the moment they had just missed. His enthusiasm was very sweet. And his service was great.) I gave him a bracha that his children in Spain and his children in Russia, and all of his grandchildren, should join him soon in our holy Homeland.

The main thing I appreciate about the silly little exercise of the 12-12-12-12-12 photo op is the importance of every. single. moment.

Living mindfully. Making it count.

In case we get too caught up in the wrong perspective on this moment, my sister reminds us of the following on her Facebook status (which she apparently got from a site called Funaba.org:

It is, indeed, 12.12.12 for the Gregorians, but it is also:

Julian (Old Style) 2012-11-30 (Thursday, November 30, 2012)
Islamic (Moslem) 1434-01-29 (Muharram 29, 1434)
Hebrew (Jewish) 5773-09-29 (Kislev 29, 5773)
Mayan Long Count 12.19.19.17.12
Mayan Haab 13-15 (15 Mac)
Mayan Tzolkin 12-9 (9 Eb)
Old Hindu Solar 5113-08-29 (Vris'chika 29, 5113)
Old Hindu Lunar 5113-08-30 (Karttika 30, 5113))
Coptic 1729-04-04 (Kiyahk 4, 1729)
Ethiopian 2005-04-04 (Takhs'as' 4, 2005)
Jalaali 1391-09-23 (Azar 23, 1391)
Japanese Traditional "Kyureki" with CE 2012-11-01 (Taian, Shimotsuki 1, 2012)

Back to reality: We are approaching the fifth night of Chanukah. This has always been a special night for our family. We adopted this Chassidic custom years ago of observing this night of the holiday with special significance... and it is gratifying to us that our children still see the fifth night as something special. It is the only night of Chanukah that can never fall on a Shabbat -- and yet it has its own special holiness, a brave light in the darkness. We Jews can take strength in that holiness. No matter how dark it gets, our job in the world is to add to the light.

One of our special bubas lighting her first "very own" menorah

This is a time to remember, as our future mechutan wrote in a beautiful d'var Torah, that too much geshem (rain) in the form of gashmiut (materialism) can drown us. This is a time that should remind us of the inherent superiority of ruchniut (spirituality) as a pursuit in our lives. So, yeah -- we went fridge shopping today. But what we actually did was to connect with each other in a loving and fun way, with attention to each other's needs; to infect another human being with the love of the moment; to begin the process of building a bayit ne'eman biYisrael (a faithful and faith-filled home in Israel)!

May all of our strung-together moments be individually cherished like prized and polished pearls.

"I got everything I need right here with me. I got air in my lungs, a few blank sheets of paper. I mean, I love waking up in the morning not knowing what's gonna happen or, who I'm gonna meet, where I'm gonna wind up. Just the other night I was sleeping under a bridge and now here I am on the grandest ship in the world having champagne with you fine people. I figure life's a gift and I don't intend on wasting it. You don't know what hand you're gonna get dealt next. You learn to take life as it comes at you... to make each day count." ~ Jack Dawson, on board the "Titanic"

This post dedicated to a friend of mine, Alon Yarom ben BatSheva, who could use your prayers as he wages a mighty battle. May he have a complete and speedy recovery, among all of the holy cholim of Am Yisrael.

Lace and Pearl Paper, Mothers and Daughters

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Tue, 04 Dec 2012 02:51:00 +0000

Yom shlishi, 20 Kislev 5773.

To my dear friend, the mother of my future daughter-in-law:

For more generations than you and I know, Jewish mothers have had to imagine what it was like for far-away daughters to go through the stages of growing up, because it has been a sad part of our people's heritage for families to wander, sometimes separately. It cannot be easy for you, even with all of the modern technology that allows us to stay in better touch than families of other times, or of other less-developed cultures.

Your email today about some of the steps you are coordinating with us from across the sea inspired me to write a little something for you and your daughter, and also for all of the mothers and daughters separated by an ocean and a dream of a better life.

I never had a daughter
So the pretty silver laughter between you over dresses is a sound that’s new to me
Your affection for pearl paper for her wedding invitations
Rings as sweetly has her joy for tulle and lace and grenadine

It must be hard to be so far away
While she is changing from your little bird into this lovely dove before our eyes
May we share for many years the love and laughter that my ears have had the privilege
Of sharing as I’m watching from the side

I hope this fragment of a love song shares just a bit of the happiness and awe I feel at being permitted to be part of the friendship you have with this lovely young woman. I look forward to when you will be her neighbor here in Israel, and mine.

Watching this mother-and-daughter dance will be even more beautiful than hearing it.

And I would consider it an honor if I can play a part.

My mama's not around anymore. But we were also good friends.

In honor of all the mamas and daughters everywhere, who've been separated by time or distance, let's share a joyful tear together, shall we?

May all of our simchas be shared, in person, here in our holy homeland, very soon.

Not everybody's crazy.

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Tue, 20 Nov 2012 05:34:00 +0000

Yom shlishi, 6 Kislev 5773.

Just as every person who had ever rescued that bully from admitting defeat helped create the cowardly brute I saw that evening in the bar, every well-intentioned power that has ever stepped in and negotiated a ceasefire for an Arab aggressor has helped create the monsters we see around us today. ~ David Bogner, 2006

I haven't been writing here a lot lately. Not because we are busy cowering in bomb shelters, thank G-d, but because I have been busy planning a wedding. Life goes on, quite joyfully, except when I worry anxiously about my friends living in direct line of missile fire from Gaza, and about my dear sons, ready and waiting for orders to defend our country.

Okay -- I've also been busy on Facebook, somewhat less on Twitter, doing my part in the hasbara (public diplomacy vs. propaganda) war effort. As you surely know, the modern battle ground isn't just fought with planes and boots in the mud, nor only with prayer. These days, we fight on three fronts: the physical, the spiritual, and the technological. The war of ideas is very active. He who makes the most succinct and persuasive Facebook poster wins.

I know it seems very trite. It does to me, too. But I am reminded that in generations past, columnists in newspapers and writers of magazine articles went head-to-head on the meaning of any given war, and of who had a greater justification to fight for his version of what was right.

Today, you don't have to go to journalism school to have your say. Quite frankly, I think it's better if you don't. The once-honored field of journalism has been totally trashed by too many agenda-driven pundits.

Most recently, my efforts in telling Israel's side in this propaganda war have been fueled by two of my lovely nieces. Both non-Jews, they had very different upbringings. One was raised with the liberal values of loving one's fellow man, of getting along in peace and harmony on a global scale. One was raised with the Christian values of love tempered with responsibility, of family and country first. Both were raised with permission and encouragement to question. So they've been asking "Auntie" a lot of those lately, since I am their eyes and ears on the ground in this tiny but overly-reported and disproportionately-vilified country.

Amanda has just been asking for perspective. She lacks trust in the media, and just wants enough information to make up her own mind. She craves different points of view. I sent her to various sites, trusting in my respect for her innate wisdom that she will see and read what she needs to make informed decisions. Though sometimes, I thought she would appreciate the beauty of simple, graphic images.

As her insightful questions and comments were made to me in private message, I won't repost them here.

Kirsten participated in a long thread of discussion over a video of a CNN interview with Israel's government spokesman, Mark Regev.

Kirsten's response to the obviously anti-Israel agenda in this video was so normal and healthy, it reminded me that the world is going insane, and that I am grateful that there are people here and there -- some of them, my relatives -- who still think sanely and clearly.

Kirsten: I really don't understand why there is such a huge bias in the media against Israel taking military action. I feel like I'm taking crazy pills. Are people truly so uninformed?

Me: Kirsten, you hit THE question. We don't understand it, either. In the face of logic, in the face of threats they surely would not countenance if their own countries were under constant terrorist attack -- they have insisted for years that Israel "show restraint."

Kirsten: Daniel and I were discussing this earlier today while waiting to pick up Emily. It's like the trashy group of "mean girls" on the playground all picking on the book nerd, her getting pissed and punching one in the mouth, then getting expelled from school. I know it's an awful metaphor, but it's just so completely ridiculous.

I responded by sharing with her the now-famous Treppenwitz post with a similar and very frightening analogy, "A difficult lesson," from 2006. The sad truth is that Israel, pressured by world media and governments, still hasn't absorbed the lesson my young nieces seem to "get" with little effort. It doesn't give me much hope for the current situation -- but it increases my confidence in the next generation.

May Hashem grant our leaders the wisdom and strength to finally, finally put the welfare of our citizens over the delicate sensibilities of pundits and politicians living far away from our terrifying situation. May Hashem bless us with peace and victory over terrorism, in all its forms. May our brave soldiers live to be very old men and women, with fascinating stories to tell their great-grandchildren.

One broken man, with one broken heart

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Mon, 29 Oct 2012 14:07:00 +0000

Yom sheni, 13 Cheshvan 5773.

The streets of my small community were unusually busy this afternoon. We are a bedroom community; so it's very noticeable when there is a lot of foot and car traffic at midday.

People and cars flowed from many streets this hot afternoon, toward the main synagogue. A bus poured forth its contents of holy and normal yeshiva boys, full of life and promise, who moved with us as one man with one heart.

As the Dearly Beloved and I arrived at our destination, we became part of the ever-growing semi-circle of hundreds of yishuv residents, around the entrance to the shul. But nobody went inside. We stood outside in the hot sun. Few sought the fragments of shade. It didn't seem right, somehow, to look for comfort, if you didn't happen to find it easily.

We watched as a small group of men surrounded a family, and began cutting the left top edge of each of their shirts. Our hearts were rent by the sound of the tearing fabric that set off a wave of crying from people around us.

We listened as the Rav talked about the 18-year-old boy who ran to do mitzvot, who died running on a path between our Neve Daniel and a tiny community nearby, a community that is part of us, really. He was probably fulfilling the usual practice of young people his age, preparing his body for IDF service, so that he would be strong enough to be the best soldier he could be.

We listened to a brother, crying through words about his brother, that broke our hearts completely. We listened to a school chum, trying to tell the amusing things about his classmate, through his tearful voice, into our tears. He was everyone's friend, everyone's brother. Of course he was. Billy Joel got that one right.

Some of us knew him. Some of us knew his parents. All of us know that it is otherworldly and aberrant to lose a child on the cusp of manhood who has not yet had the chance to live the life of a man.

We do not know why he died. Was it his heart? Something undetected, that made an apparently healthy young man a victim of a medical mystery?

He was my son's friend. He was the child of my ulpan teacher, a witty, talented, funny woman who makes me quake every time I see her, because I so want to show her that she did a good job teaching me, and I know that I will be tongue-tied, and will only be able to speak English to her, or Level Aleph Hebrew. And now all I can think is that our sons are -- were -- the same age. And language doesn't matter, does it?

As a good friend said, "There is nowhere to channel the emotion. There is nothing to be angry at. The sadness is physically draining. There's never an answer to Why. This time, even less so."

I walk with all of us, one person with one heart. We follow the boy and his bearers as we walk toward the entrance to the yishuv. Most of my community will walk him or otherwise follow him to the cemetery in Gush Etzion.

I talk with a couple of friends who give me strength. Then, I break away to teach a class over the phone to a student in America who has no clue about the day's events. Nor can she know the power of living as part of an entity that ceases to be about individuals when we lose a piece of ourselves. It is painful to be part of the Jewish family. And it is the greatest and most strengthening thing on Earth.

We all lost a son today. And we do not understand.

In memory of Eliyashiv Lubitch, zt"l. May your parents and family be comforted, among the mourners of Zion and Yerushalayim. I know your memory will be for a blessing.

It's a GIRL!

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Thu, 18 Oct 2012 16:18:00 +0000

Yom shishi, 3 Cheshvan 5773.

Mazal tov to Yeshiva Bochur and Champagne Girl.

May you give each other as much joy as you give your parents, for long, healthy, happy years.

Nisan and Marietta, we're looking forward to being related. :-)

Besides granddaughters, this is how Chez Mizrachi adds the Girl Factor.

Party! Party! Party!

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Thu, 11 Oct 2012 08:46:00 +0000

Yom chamishi, 25 Tishrei 5773.

Yesterday was our fifth "aliyahversary." Woo-HOO! How did we celebrate?

The Dearly Beloved coached his football team. He had to wrestle with executive decisions about where to play which guys, who worked best on offense and who on defense, and which guys needed to be cut from the developing team. This is a very difficult decision, as he knows that all of those guys want to fulfill childhood dreams.

Sports Guy went to the team doc and got a dislocated shoulder Kinesio-taped with pretty blue tape. And then he stayed up most of the night with good friends from Baltimore, watching the Orioles and the Yankees duke it out over who will go to the World Series. (I don't hear any fat lady singing yet, New Yorkers...)

Stunt Man sat in a classroom -- as all of his former rebbeim and teachers know, NOT his favorite pastime -- taking advantage of one of his Israeli army benefits: preparing to pass his bagruyot. (Think high school finals combined with college SATs. All in Hebrew. Talk about combat!)

Yeshiva Bochur surprised his girlfriend, Champagne Girl, who is living with us temporarily. (This precious girl has earned this sobriquet by being as uplifting and optimism-enhancing as a glass of champagne.) It is always a delight when Yeshiva Bochur appears at the door after a long stretch with his army unit. That delight is enhanced by watching her bubbling joy at his arrival. (There is something very sweet about watching a beautiful young lady's appreciation for one's son. Good taste, has our Champagne Girl! What better affirmation is there that we parents did a good job!)

And how did I celebrate?

There's nothing as powerful as "sister support."

I had real coffee for a change with eleven of around thirty "virtual" friends. We have been meeting in our special Facebook group for about eight months to chat over our morning or afternoon coffee; and it just seemed important to finally meet -- as one of our very computer-lingo-hip members says -- "f2f" (face to face).

Celebrating five years over Israel's national beverage.

There were two women-and-daughter teams in attendance (and one remarkably well-behaved and patient baby, our only male attendee). We covered a range of ages, and boasted aliyah dates spanning from just last year to 1967.

We spent more than three hours together!

Women told amazing stories of struggle and survival, physical and spiritual and emotional in nature. We shared various uplifting life philosophies: "You can't really know someone else until you hear her story." "Think good and it will be good." "I believe in living a purposeful life." "Age isn't about wrinkles. It's about giving up a sense of wonder." "I've spent the last twenty years trying to earn the privilege of living in Eretz Yisrael." (The one who offered that surprising revelation has given so much to Israel, she has more than earned her privilege!)

We ended our get-together by dividing up the recitation of the 150 chapters of King David's Tehillim, in the merit of those with serious illnesses, and of those looking for their life's partner, and in the honor of our founding member's father's neshama. This would be meaningful at any time; but there was a very special glow in that room, filled by the stories and the appreciation of those stories, that made the prayers soar. I was very moved by the fact that all of my designated chapters spoke so specifically about the character of the ladies I'd met!

As we know, nothing happens for "no reason."

May we share many more cups of virtual coffee, and also many hot, steaming, real cups -- f2f.

This post is dedicated to Paula, Tamar, Anita, Chaya Golda, Drora, Rachel Ann, Chava, Freyda Minna, Angela, Toby, Hadassa, Hadassa, Chloe, Rose, Fayge, Esther, Janet, Miriam Esther, Linda, Bracha, and Chava. See you next time, gals? Coffee pot's on, and your chair at the table is waiting.

Glossary:
Aliahversary: the anniversary of one's aliyah, immigration to Israel
Rebbeim: plural of rabbis, here meaning school Judaica instructors
Bagruyot: the tests all Israeli high school students spend their last instructional years to pass, to prepare for college entrance
Tehillim: Psalms, customarily recited in groups or individually in times of trouble or great longing, or even great joy
Neshama: soul

Jewish Unity Set to Music

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Tue, 04 Sep 2012 06:21:00 +0000

Yom shlishi, 17 Elul 5772.

This seems to be the Year of the Jewish Unity Music Video. Please enjoy the following clips. My prayer is that many Jews will view them and share them, and that we will finally, finally allow ourselves to be freed from cynicism and lack of trust, and will simply love each other into the Geula Shelaima.

Have I said that Yaakov Shwekey is the closest thing to a perfect Irish tenor that the Jewish nation has produced, IMHIO? Yes, I have. And I'll say it again. Mendy Pellin produced this video in memory of his brother Yaakov, zt"l, who was niftar last month. I love what Mendy says about his dear brother: "He was the essence of love beyond the label."

Mendy quotes the Rebbe Maharash of Lubavitch: "On Rosh Hashana, thousands of angels hover around listening anxiously to hear one Jew say a nice thing about his fellow. This is more precious to Hashem than all the prayers of the righteous."

Lipa Schmeltzer is known for "coloring outside the lines" with his music. Here is a lovely tribute to the Nahal Hareidi unit of the IDF, which ends up being a tribute to Jews, and to ahavat Yisrael.

Of course, there is the wonderful and uplifting video from last year, from the group called "8th Day." Listening to the Marcus brothers rock the house makes me think that the Brothers Mizrachi should start thinking about a little recorded collaboration...

Here is a local offering on the subject of Jewish unity, produced by Shemesh Music. David Bar-Cohn says: "'Unity' is not about all of us coming to agreement religiously, politically or otherwise. It's about being able to disagree vehemently with someone, and yet still wanting the best for them, desiring their joy and seeking to alleviate their pain. If we can do this, even with our 'opponents,' not only will this create a culture of solution-building -- it will cultivate the possibility for 'Chaverim kol Yisrael' -- where all Jews look out for one another, as friends do."

Amen, brother.

May this year's hovering angels hear us say many wonderful things and no mean or spiteful things about our fellow Jews this Rosh Hashana.

Glossary:
Geula Shelaima: the complete Redemption -- a time of love and peace, and end to all of the terrible things that surround us today
IMHIO: in my humble Irish opinion :-)
Niftar: passed away
Ahavat Yisrael: love of a fellow Jew

Hebrew Lessons in Cyberspace

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Sun, 26 Aug 2012 15:14:00 +0000

Yom sheni, 9 Elul 5772.

Flash cards. I don't know if they help, actually. But they don't hurt.

It's the month of Elul -- and besides trying to get our act together spiritually before Rosh Hashanah, it is also a time when Jews start putting together the list of "Things I'm Finally Going to Improve. Really. This Year for Sure." There can be no doubt that for the average oleh, the hardest struggle and the most important task is learning the Hebrew language.

There are no quick fixes. People who immerse are much more likely to learn the language than people who live in communities of their linguistic peers.

Yeshiva Bochur saying "Lehitra'ot" to a favorite teacher at the Kibbutz Sde Eliyahu Ulpan at which he worked and learned for five months.

People who get jobs in the Israeli mainstream will learn faster, too. "You want to learn Hebrew?" asked one friend. "Go into business." This includes kids in Israeli schools and soldiers.

Stunt Man and a friend from the Old Country barely speak pure English anymore. "Or I'm going to Ireland, or I'm going to America after the army." That is actually good Hebrew grammar.

For those of us (like the Dearly Beloved and me) who break all the rules of language immersion, staying in our little linguistic ghettos, working in our country of origin (either by commuting or by working on the internet in our mamaloshen), patience and persistence remain our most important tools.

There are a few additional tools, however, presented by individuals and organizations with the goal of helping the oleh to integrate as quickly as possible. Lots of these tools cost money -- and some of them are so famous, they don't need my little blog to help them out. Some are free, and for most people in my income tax bracket, free is a really good option. Here is a sample of what is available out there in Cyberspace.

Ami Steinberger and Company at Ulpan La-Inyan make the experience of learning Hebrew as organic as possible, with topics that feel natural, using expressions and words that will come up in everyday situations. Ulpan La-Inyan also teaches in a very natural way, the way a child learns language, rather than inundating the student with piles and piles of grammar laws. Ami is an expert in Hebrew grammar -- so it is available. Just not all-consuming of every last brain cell -- a fact which keeps his program fun, and effective.

Be sure to check out the Ulpan La-Inyan website, for more free stuff, and for the best ulpan available in Israel, when you are ready to get what you pay for.

Jacob Richman has made it his one-man mission to offer as many free aids to Hebrew language and cultural education as possible. From online Torah to Jewish history and holidays, from recipes and radio stations to kashrut and clipart, Jacob's "Hot Sites - Jewish" is an aliyah resource to be visited again and again.

Another interesting website is Learn Hebrew Pod: Hebrew That Goes With You. While the free lessons are actually a very nice sales pitch for the course, one can get a great deal even from these few free lessons. The method of Hebrew conversation flowing more-or-less seamlessly with English translation is a refreshing approach when my mind is tired from more intensive study.

And if you haven't a lot of time each day to devote to learning the language, but want to feel "in the know" with a word or phrase added daily to your repertoire, you can also check out Transparent Language's "Word of the Day" in Hebrew, or of course, Ulpan La-Inyan's "Daily Dose" featured word or phrase, with detailed etymological explanations.

YouTube has lots of video clips from TV series and commercials in Hebrew. I especially like the ads. Good ads are often little short plays -- so one can feel a sense of accomplishment in finally understanding the little story in a one minute (or shorter) format, that can be paused and replayed as necessary.

Finally, Hebrew language study is never as much fun as when it's sarcastic political commentary, with English subtitles (for clarity. But don't forgo the opportunity to listen without paying attention to the subtitles, just to test yourself). Caroline Glick's Latma TV is an exceptional example of the genre. Wicked enjoyment.

I tell everyone that I'll be in ulpan till I'm eighty. (I can finally say this well enough in Hebrew to make Israeli young people laugh. This makes me cool in two languages. Woo-HOO.) Please feel free to share with me any sites you have that will fill the gaps between enough money for ulpan tuition. I wouldn't want to disappoint Ami and my other instructors when I finally get back to the classroom.

Now if I can just lose those last five kilos before Yom Kippur...

Shabbat, With Love

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Sun, 19 Aug 2012 03:14:00 +0000

Yom rishon, 1 Elul 5772, Rosh Chodesh.

Having our sons home in ones, twos, threes or many is our greatest Shabbat pleasure.

Well -- almost.

This Shabbat happened to be unusual. Sports Guy is in Sweden with the Israeli National American Flag Football team, helping his team to some very respectable standings. Yeshiva Bochur and Stunt Man are still doing their part to protect Israel's borders from people who don't want Israelis to live here. And Soldier Boy and his family and the other brothers are still in a galaxy far, far away.

So this Shabbat was just the Dearly Beloved and me.

And we decided to do it up in regal style.

"Let's just pretend that we are at a holiday resort, and have Shabbat catered. It'll be like room service!"

He agreed. We did. And I highly recommend you give something like this a try, at some point in your marital career. (Here I will toss in a brief disclaimer for my young readers with fifteen or twenty little kids still at home. Don't be jealous. You will get to do this someday, too. Trust me. And we don't feel guilty. It's our compensation for arthritis, intermittent tooth loss due to gum exhaustion, and never, ever again looking as good as you do in that dress.)

Our meal was catered by the wonderfully talented, educational and conscientious Marc Gottlieb of Culinart Kosher. While it is convenient for us that he lives and works right here in Neve Daniel, I understand that he was delivering a large number of orders to other areas of the Gush on Friday as well. (The rumor mill has it that brand-new olah and celebrity kosher chef Jamie Geller and I shared the same caterer this Shabbat. In case you needed to know just how good our local boy is...)

Everything was reasonably priced, and delivered by his charming children in plenty of time to get things set up on the blech before Shabbat. And I had zero stress, because my big job of the day had been to set the table. For two. Draining, I know -- but a woman does what she must.

For Friday night, we shared the Classic Beef Brisket and the Stuffed Chicken Breast with Roasted Red and Yellow Peppers. Both dishes were prepared beautifully, and were perfectly complemented by the cheerfully-named Garlic Smashed Potatoes. As sides, we had a Roasted Summer Squash Duet, juicy and lightly seasoned, and Zucchini Papparadelle, which was so refreshing, it actually cleaned the palate like a sip of wine between bites of more robust foods. We complemented the meal with possibly the last bottle of 2009 Tabor Cabernet Sauvignon in Super Turgiman. :-)

Shabbat lunch had me a bit worried, as I wasn't sure I'd ordered enough. I have often found that appetizers provide enough for a main dish -- but I wasn't sure if my choice of Citrus Salmon Skewers with Herbed Rice would be sufficient. I needn't have worried. The salmon held up to the light pre-lunch warming, and was light, lightly-tangy, and not in the least dry. The creamy rice was seasoned exactly right. In fact, if there could have been one improvement, it would have been to have the rice presented separately from the fish, as it was abundant, and would have gone nicely with meat as well. With the Grilled Chicken Caesar Salad came a perfectly tangy dressing. (The dressing was so delicious, we saved some of it for seudat shlishit, and chopped up some vegetables for dipping.) And with the addition of some leftover Zucchini Papparadelle, and our usual additions of olives, pickles, salatim and hummus, we had a perfect lunch.

As the lovely afternoon wound down, we realized we couldn't wait for seudat shlishit to have our dessert. So we had the Chocolate Mousse early. This decadent dish should come with a warning label. Delicious. Too much too-muchness. Probably illegal in most states in America and in all Muslim countries.

I wish I had photos for you -- but it was Shabbat, after all. Recommendation: Give Marc a call at 02-991-9443, and see what he has to offer for yourself. You deserve it.

Correction: Well -- you know how rumor mills are. Twasn't Jamie, it turns out (though when she finally gets to give Marc's fare a try, I'm sure she'll be impressed). It was Gil Marks, of Encylcopedia of Jewish Food fame. Ehhhhhh... Seems one way or another, Culiart Kosher is running with the big boys.

Rebels with a Cause

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Thu, 16 Aug 2012 03:45:00 +0000

Yom chamishi, 28 Av 5772.

A Rebel greets a future IDF soldier

When I was young, I loved opportunities to work with the local theater. But I never wanted to be on stage. Too much pressure to get it right. Besides, the best show was happening backstage. We stage-hands, makeup artists, and costume and props people had more fun than either the performers or the audience.

On Tuesday this week, former Baltimoreans planned to meet at the Nefesh B'Nefesh welcome ceremony for the 350 new North American olim who joined us as citizens of the Holy Land. Our goal was to gather to honor our fifth-year anniversary. My family actually arrived later in the year -- but everyone was invited to catch up in the admittedly emotional atmosphere at Ben Gurion Airport, Terminal 1. The news has covered more than adequately the highlights of the day: 127 young soldiers-to-be dancing joyfully with old friends and new; Prime Minister Netanyahu speaking to the group; Natan Sharansky and all of the usual Nefesh B'Nefesh lineup of inspiring speakers reminding guests and immigrants alike of why we have all come Home.

I didn't participate in the onstage party as I usually would have. (If you live in or are visiting Israel, and have never done a Nefesh B'Nefesh welcome gig, do yourself a favor: make a point of going to greet the olim. As Go'el Jasper once remarked, he was too exhausted at his own welcome ceremony to really appreciate it. But when he attended the ceremony to greet other olim, he couldn't stop crying at the beauty of the experience.)

Instead, I was at the backstage party, hanging out with a bunch of orange-clad Rebels, as they unloaded baggage from the baggage carousels.

If you have trouble viewing the video, you can find it here on YouTube.

The Dearly Beloved, in his new life as guitar instructor and football coach, is now the proud head coach of not only the high school team, the Orli Print Ravens, but also of the Judean Rebels, one of the Israel Football League's ten adult teams.

One of our players, Tani Kramer, has Nefesh B'Nefesh as his day job. He had the idea that big, strong, strapping football players might be just the right guys for the job of unloading the amazing amount of very heavy luggage the new immigrants bring in, as they uproot their lives, and replant them in holy soil.

We were proud of our guys. They worked hard, not stopping with just pulling bags and boxes off of carousels, but also organizing them so that the tired new immigrants could find their possessions easily.

It was a good day, hard as any Rebels workout, and just as satisfying. A couple of Tel Aviv Pioneers even showed up to assist, and the cooperation was a pleasure to watch.

Which inspired in me a coach-mom prayer: Hashem, see the brotherhood on this "field"? If You can inspire this kind of sportsmanship on the gridiron, maybe football can go back to what it was meant to be -- a game.

One of the greatest games a guy can play.

Not the whole detail -- just the first guys to show up for this game

Leave a bunch of high-energy guys with nothing to do in a big, open space, and they will toss a pigskin around to fill the time. "We should get up for practice at 4 AM every day. We're really good today."

One of the 127 new IDF recruits. Thank you for your holy service, guys and gals!

Many Israelis got up at 4 AM to cheerfully greet the new citizens.

Apparently, a couple of the guys failed to catch the ball during one handed catch drills.

"Drop and give me ten!" A man does what a man's gotta do.

Finally, the bags begin to show up. Game over. Or just getting started...

Coach gets right into the action with his boys.

Halftime. Waiting with anticipation for the next onslaught. "Smoke me, Coach!"

You can only imagine some of the weight these guys hefted.

Working together to make the whole process run smoothly

Hundreds (thousands?) of bags were carefully organized for easy location.

Our Rebels stand for "Hatikva." The TV monitor shows the new IDF recruits.

Welcome Home, to all of the new olim. And if any of you future soldiers have a little energy left over after your tour of duty, have you heard that there is American football being played in your new homeland? See? You didn't leave everything behind after all...

Thank you Uria, Baria, Brill, Tani, Didi, Ari, Yaniv, Jaymes, Michael, David, Yitzchak, Jake -- and anybody else who showed up later to help. It was a pleasure working with you guys.

A Soldier of the People

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Wed, 15 Aug 2012 08:33:00 +0000

Yom revi'i, 27 Av 5772.

As much as I love writing this blog, guest posts from my sons are still my favorites. Here, Yeshiva Bochur (aka Exiled Warrior) shares some feelings about another aspect of being an IDF soldier.

"I'm not a role model... Just because I dunk a basketball doesn't mean I should raise your kids." (Charles Barkley, 1993)

EPIC FAIL

Today, while walking through the stone passageways of the Old City in my uniform, I was reminded of something. Something that a soldier sitting on the lonely border, counting the hours before he goes home again, can easily forget: my job as an IDF soldier.

Of course, I know that part of my job is to guard the borders of Israel from possible attacks. I know that part of my job is that in case of war I must set aside my individual safety for the continuation of the State of Israel. These things we are reminded of everyday.

What I was reminded of today, however, was the other part of my job. Possibly the part I draw the most pride from.

On my short walk through the Old City, two kids asked me to be in a photo with me, at least five people asked me directions, and a few old Yerushalmi women threw me blessings for safety.

Even though I've only been in the army a year and have seen very little of what would be called "action," to those kids I was Yoni Netanyahu rescuing hostages at Entebbe; I was Ro’i Klein leaping on a grenade to protect his fellow soldiers. To them I was a hero, and they were honored to be standing beside me.

It doesn't matter that I've only been in this country two years -- to those "direction seekers" I was a reliable source of information, because of course, I'm a soldier, so of course, I know.

Our job is to defend these people. Whether that means giving our lives in the field of battle or giving a woman a hand with her bags, our job is to help our fellow Israeli.

We are part of the very fabric of this Land. We are your sons and daughters. We are your brothers and sisters. We are your grandkids.

We represent this country and every human being who sacrificed his life for it.

It doesn’t matter what I was before, what I will be after, or what I am when the uniform comes off. When I don this garb, I represent sixty-four years of rebuilding the State of Israel, sixty-four years of bravery, sixty-four years of brotherhood.

It is this part of my job, we soldiers tend to forget. And it this part of my job the Old City reminded me of today.

Sleep well Am Yisrael. Your family has got your back.

My Amazing Illegal Outpost Adventure: Psagot and Migron

noreply@blogger.com (Ruti Mizrachi) — Mon, 30 Jul 2012 10:48:00 +0000

Yom sheni, 11 Av 5772.

If you haven't read Parts One and Two of this tour and feel the need, please click here and here.

From one boutique to another, we now moved on to the town of Psagot, where we would tour the winery. We were to have met with Noam Orr, eighth-generation Jeusalamite and journalist, who is also one of the founders of our previous stop, Barkan. Unfortunately, he had to take care of his elderly parents -- which is about the best excuse a nice Jewish boy can give for not keeping an appointment. (We got to see first hand how challenging is the life of a tour guide, as Eve Harow had to juggle her tour around our hosts' schedules.) So we went straight to the wine tasting. Nobody argued about that.

Most people I know will never be able to afford to live in villas such as these.

A little Palestinian "Gan Eden," courtesy of a relatively free life in Israel.

As an aside, I want to speak to you a little bit about the countryside en route. Let me make it clear that I would like Israel to be a Jewish country, under complete Jewish control, within the Biblical borders established by the Creator of the Universe. In a perfect world, Arabs and other peoples would not be excluded from living in my country as foreign residents -- unlike the Arabs' call for a Judenrein Middle East -- as long as they accepted living peaceably in the Jewish State. That said, I recognize that they currently live among us, in their own "no Jews allowed" towns and cities. What I resent is that many of the world governments and media would have you believe they all live in refugee tent villages and get about exclusively on donkeys. The truth is that there are Arabs dwelling in dire poverty (as are there Jews, much to our shame); but there are also Arabs living in affluent villages and cities, and driving late-model private vehicles. Do yourself and me a favor, and never let those who lie about Israel convince you to perpetuate the sin of the spies.

They tried to kill us, they didn't succeed... Let's drink. (Okay, in keeping with the actual tradition of "Let's eat," they did serve pretzels, too...)

The Psagot Winery was impressive, situated in a a beautiful little oasis in the desert... and filled to the brim with tasty, expensive wine. I truly enjoyed it -- but I have a rule. If a wine is going to cost 110 + NIS a bottle, it had better give me that "Ahhhhhh!" dance on my tastebuds that only one decently-priced wine has ever accomplished. (That was a 1997 Beron Herzog Cabernet Sauvignon. Everything else has to measure up to that.) No dance, no shell out shekels. But since it was free, and spitting was optional, the Dearly Beloved and I had a lovely time.

The staff was friendly and informative. The film about the winery remembered to tell us that this was Biblical territory, recently proved by an authentic coin found in an archaeological dig. Please check out the Wine Musings Blog for details and a more flattering review.

One of the friendly staff members at Psagot Winery.

Nice, clean layout for efficiency and tasting pleasure

Belly up to the bar, frum tasters! It was hard to get us downstairs for the movie...

Not the best photo of the actual metal replica of the authentic coin found in the area.

The Dearly Beloved and I spent most of our time outside, enjoying the scenery.

After that refreshing little break, it was time to move on to the part of the tour I had waited for since Egged wheels first hit the highway. Life in a little semi-Anglo bubble forces one to travel outside the comfort zone if we're going to learn anything about the communities that spend an inordinate amount of time in the news. Migron is such a place.

When we entered the gate, love of Israel and love of children were the first signs this tiny community exuded.

We were met by a lovely young woman (who said that she was asked to speak to us because she speaks English fluently, being an Anglo olah vatika, and because she's the yishuv grandmother. Looked pretty young to us). Her name is Aviela Deitch, and if you have questions about Migron from an insider -- including how you can help -- please feel free to contact her.

Eve Harow, Aviela Deitch, and another sweet member of our tour group.

Aviela, speaking with passion and conviction born of the knowledge that she and her community are in the right.

These small caravan houses look out on our Jewish Biblical history.

Children are the most important "crop" produced in this sweet little village.

We had to take over a classroom, as the shul was being used for an educational program for the children.

Aviela explained to us the situation. Migron was established in 1999, on property legally designated as under the management of the Authority for Abandoned Property. For years, the small community carved out of the rock and weeds a vibrant little home. For twelve years, there was never a complaint by an Arab about stolen property. But in 2006, Peace Now (an organization whose true motivation I would love to understand) found lists from the 1960s of names of mukhtars from the clan of the King of Jordan to whom he had gifted the property. According to the king's own ruling, the property was to be farmed within 10 years, or would revert to the crown. In the interim, the land was reclaimed by Israel in a defensive war.

These are the Arab agricultural fields that Peace Now accuses the Migron Jews from stealing from the Palestinians? What were they growing? Where can you sell rocks and brush?

The land was never farmed. In fact, when the residents of Migron approached the Arabs whose names were on the list in order to buy the property, the Arabs were surprised to hear that they owned any land! This apparently did not stop them from accepting money -- so the residents of Migron have raised and spent a great deal of money over time to buy every parcel of land upon which Migron rests. Peace Now has attempted to block these land purchases at every turn, preferring to go the more inflammatory route through the court system.

More of the alleged "fields" supposedly stolen. Yeah... I can see that. NOT. The building in the background is the community mikveh.

Sandwiched between the elegance of the Psagot Winery and an Arab-owned quarry (where rock is legitimately harvested, rather than in the fields of Migron), is the new planned refugee village for the Migron residents.

At one time, the Israeli government supported and encouraged the settlement enterprise, as did the Magistrate's Court (which should be the only body involved in a property dispute). Migron was no exception. According to the booklet "Migron: All the Lies, All the Truth," Ariel Sharon classified Migron as a "strategic outpost" that would not be evacuated in any scenario. However, recently the Israeli government -- and especially the Supreme Court -- has seemingly turned its back on any communities that might upset their hopes for a two-state solution -- even though many Israelis and other intelligent observers now see this option as an epic fail.

Remember the beautiful bracha inadvertently given to the Jewish people by Bilaam? "How lovely are your tents, O Yaacov..." This referred to the modesty of the Jewish people who emplaced their tents so that no window or door faced the window or door of another's tent. No such consideration here. "If we need a cup of sugar," quipped Aviela," we will only have to reach out our window and take it from the table of the dwelling next door."

One of the many precious industries Migron adds to the world is a Horseback Riding Therapy Clinic, devoted to helping young people to overcome psychological and emotional challenges. One of our tour members asked Aviela what would become of the horses. Would the community be given sufficient warning to move them? "There is nowhere to move them. When you see the housing they have planned for us, you will see that there is no place for them," she responded. "What will be done with them?" we asked. Aviela answered as gently as she could: "They will have to be killed."

The sign outside the stables quotes Pirke Avot: "If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?"

At this writing, Migron (originally condemned by the Supreme Court to be evacuated on 1 August) has been given a reprieve until at least 21 August. May our prayers for the establishment of Migron as a legitimate part of Israel be answered, along with our prayers for all of our Torah-established inheritance. If you want a tour with an excellent, informed and passionately pro-Israel tour guide, I strongly recommend Eve Harow.

Photo credit: Ruti and Avi Eastman