Strange Reflections.
By the strange quirk of fate I am now living with three cats. First of all, there is George, who technically belongs to Baby Brother, and then there are Gracie and Claudio, who belong to Baby Brother’s friend (incidentally also currently occupying my humble abode). To an extremely unbiased cat lover like yours truly, the entire feline trio is beautiful – each in their own right: all of them are graceful, fluffy, and cuddly; each one of them possesses an adorable bag of tricks. And one of them was born with congenital eye problem and a crooked tale - that cat is Claudio.
Of the three of them, Claudio is the friendliest one; moreover, he is the only one in the bunch who climbs on your lap, lets you pick him up, and allows to pet him any time your mood strikes. But his “pirate” eye scared some of my visitors so much that they refused to touch him at all – ironically, when he was the only cat around actually willing to be petted; even begging for it.
After observing this tableau, my Jewish brain, always eager to analyze, went into overdrive of thinking – how many times had each and every one of us made the same mistake? We all judge each other by the exteriors presented to the world – so how many times have we overlooked the best qualities in the person because of the imperfect outer shell?
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
BELOVED NEPHEW SHINES AGAIN
Few More Unrelated Episodes
While playing with snow in the driveway, observed “friendly” neighbor running out of her house in just a skirt and a T-shirt. “Where is your jacket?” – not just as an inquiry, but a question an exasperated adult would ask a silly child.
While preparing to depart for the park, I asked him to pick up his toys. Unfortunately, my mind was a total blank, and I could not remember the English word for shovel. So, my request came out as “please pick up this, whatever you call it”; “shovel” – was the helpful response.
After being reminded for the umpteenth time that his beloved baby sister is not a toy, and therefore could not be pocked in the eye, he responded “I counting her eyebrows”.
While playing with snow in the driveway, observed “friendly” neighbor running out of her house in just a skirt and a T-shirt. “Where is your jacket?” – not just as an inquiry, but a question an exasperated adult would ask a silly child.
While preparing to depart for the park, I asked him to pick up his toys. Unfortunately, my mind was a total blank, and I could not remember the English word for shovel. So, my request came out as “please pick up this, whatever you call it”; “shovel” – was the helpful response.
After being reminded for the umpteenth time that his beloved baby sister is not a toy, and therefore could not be pocked in the eye, he responded “I counting her eyebrows”.
Friday, February 19, 2010
MY PASTA RECIPE
I threatened to start posting recipes more than a year ago, and today I am finally doing it. In the spirit of this more “light” side of my blog, I would like to start with a little joke.
A couple of years ago I used to have a roommate whose former boyfriend was of an Italian origin. Needless to say, she has eaten many a pasta meal prepared by “real” Italians. But for whatever reason, she kept insisting that my pasta always tasted better. Being understandably flattered, I none-the-less was trying to figure out exactly what is it I was doing that was trumping the real thing. After few months I finally figured it out – I always made sure the blessed macaroni were thoroughly cooked (al dente somehow never captured my fancy), and I always liberally buttered the thoroughly cooked product (unless, of course, I was making meat sauce). That simple formula was a hidden meaning of my success!
Coming from a pretty traditional background, I learned to cook at a pretty early age, and later on was privileged to observe the real chefs – no, not Wolfgang Puck or Mario Batali – my grandmothers, may they rest in peace, and my mom. Thinking back about those lessons as an adult, I think I figured out a formula for being a decent cook, and it is pretty simple. You need precisely two things (in about 60/40 ratio): an innate talent and subconscious ability to gage the good combination of ingredients and spices, and needed cooking time, and a really big heart of a true balabusta; and, presto, truly fabulous meals are on the table. It is that simple – talent plus the genuine desire to feed the people you love or just like. You need genuine artistic abilities and a long and vigorous training if you aspire to be a Cordon Bleu chef. You need a little ability and a big heart if you would like to set a good dinner table for family and friends. Cooking is art, entertainment, sometimes even relaxation (yes, I am not kidding), but most importantly, it is fun and rewarding when you are trying to feed somebody else (even if you sometimes come up with Bridget Jones’s blue soup).
Be’Teavon and Zum Gesund!
A couple of years ago I used to have a roommate whose former boyfriend was of an Italian origin. Needless to say, she has eaten many a pasta meal prepared by “real” Italians. But for whatever reason, she kept insisting that my pasta always tasted better. Being understandably flattered, I none-the-less was trying to figure out exactly what is it I was doing that was trumping the real thing. After few months I finally figured it out – I always made sure the blessed macaroni were thoroughly cooked (al dente somehow never captured my fancy), and I always liberally buttered the thoroughly cooked product (unless, of course, I was making meat sauce). That simple formula was a hidden meaning of my success!
Coming from a pretty traditional background, I learned to cook at a pretty early age, and later on was privileged to observe the real chefs – no, not Wolfgang Puck or Mario Batali – my grandmothers, may they rest in peace, and my mom. Thinking back about those lessons as an adult, I think I figured out a formula for being a decent cook, and it is pretty simple. You need precisely two things (in about 60/40 ratio): an innate talent and subconscious ability to gage the good combination of ingredients and spices, and needed cooking time, and a really big heart of a true balabusta; and, presto, truly fabulous meals are on the table. It is that simple – talent plus the genuine desire to feed the people you love or just like. You need genuine artistic abilities and a long and vigorous training if you aspire to be a Cordon Bleu chef. You need a little ability and a big heart if you would like to set a good dinner table for family and friends. Cooking is art, entertainment, sometimes even relaxation (yes, I am not kidding), but most importantly, it is fun and rewarding when you are trying to feed somebody else (even if you sometimes come up with Bridget Jones’s blue soup).
Be’Teavon and Zum Gesund!
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
MY TAKE ON THE OLYMPICS
Just in case you have missed it before, I am not a huge fan of organized sports. To me they (together with TV, Hollywood, and today’s politicians) smack of the original Roman circuses, completed with chariot races and gladiator fights. Add to that the grueling, inhuman regiments that the athletes are subjected too, usually from an early age, and the whole idea of glorification of the physical prowess, and you can count me out of the Olympics aficionados.
This time was no different, and yours truly did not catch any kind of Olympic fever. My personal impressions can be encapsulated in the following. Number one, I am glad that this time the host was a Democratic country. Number two, the more American medals, (especially gold), the merrier – just for the beauty of making everyone listen to the Star-Spangled Banner. And number three – the more drubbing the Russian athletes are going to get, the better (and this time I do not care who is going to get this honor). They are free to love and pledge allegiance to whatever rat hole they were born and raised in, but if they have the unmitigated gall of living and training here, and then representing Russian Federation in the games, they deserve to lose! By the latest count, Americans are first in the total medal count, and Russians are in 18th place – behind Czech Republic, Estonia, and Poland; this is what I call poetic justice.
And this just in: according the important news agencies like MSN, “US Goalies’ Helmets Came Under Fire”; why? Their helmets are in violation of International Olympic Committee Rules, because they have slogans, and having advertisements or political messages is verboten. Ryan Miller has “Miller Time” (his personal joke) and “Matt Man” (in honor of his cousin who died of cancer). Jonathan Quick’s offence is even worse – his helmet has “Support Our Troops”. You know what, scratch my non-involvement! My entire life I could not care less about hockey, but I really hope those guys win, so all the bastards will have to sit through another rendition of the Banner, and, hopefully, America the Beautiful and Yankee Doodle Dandy in the bargain!
This time was no different, and yours truly did not catch any kind of Olympic fever. My personal impressions can be encapsulated in the following. Number one, I am glad that this time the host was a Democratic country. Number two, the more American medals, (especially gold), the merrier – just for the beauty of making everyone listen to the Star-Spangled Banner. And number three – the more drubbing the Russian athletes are going to get, the better (and this time I do not care who is going to get this honor). They are free to love and pledge allegiance to whatever rat hole they were born and raised in, but if they have the unmitigated gall of living and training here, and then representing Russian Federation in the games, they deserve to lose! By the latest count, Americans are first in the total medal count, and Russians are in 18th place – behind Czech Republic, Estonia, and Poland; this is what I call poetic justice.
And this just in: according the important news agencies like MSN, “US Goalies’ Helmets Came Under Fire”; why? Their helmets are in violation of International Olympic Committee Rules, because they have slogans, and having advertisements or political messages is verboten. Ryan Miller has “Miller Time” (his personal joke) and “Matt Man” (in honor of his cousin who died of cancer). Jonathan Quick’s offence is even worse – his helmet has “Support Our Troops”. You know what, scratch my non-involvement! My entire life I could not care less about hockey, but I really hope those guys win, so all the bastards will have to sit through another rendition of the Banner, and, hopefully, America the Beautiful and Yankee Doodle Dandy in the bargain!
Monday, February 15, 2010
THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY OF THE ATTACK AT MERKAZ HARAV
In memory of innocent lives taken from our midst by the Muslim butchers in the name of their false prophet and their murderous cult.
May The Heavenly Father comfort the families of the murdered and may He visit the fate of Haman and his sons on our enemies today. May we unite in love for each other – our best shield against anyone wishing us harm.
May The Heavenly Father comfort the families of the murdered and may He visit the fate of Haman and his sons on our enemies today. May we unite in love for each other – our best shield against anyone wishing us harm.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)