Lucky Latkes

Things are definitely different here in Washington state. If you follow the news, you will consistently read about Seattle as one of the strongest and fastest growing Jewish communities in the country. I have little reason to doubt this fact. Except that unless I’m at our wonderful new temple in North Seattle, I could swing dozens of dead cats and never hit a single member of our tribe.

We currently live about 20 minutes North of the city in a suburb at the tip of Lake Washington known as Kenmore. My kids have no Jewish friends at school, I haven’t seen a single home with a Mezuzah on the doorpost in our neighborhood, and I can’t find a decent challah within 20 miles of my front door.

I’m not exactly complaining. But it’s awfully weird for this North Shore Chicago girl who spent the last two decades in Los Angeles and Scottsdale surrounded by plenty of Jewish brethren to be living amongst all of these lovely people, most of whom have never even met a Jew. My oldest son, Levi, who is deeply entrenched in Judaism, torah and spirituality has mentioned to me several times that he feels kind of weird even telling kids at school about his Judaism because he’s always met with strange looks and perplexed stares whenever he mentions his religious heritage.

Please understand that we have in no way met with unkindness or religious intolerance in any way. Our neighbors are civil and have spoken to us on at least one or two occasions. But they’re not busting down our door with plates of great Aunt Sofie’s mandelbread or a sample of Grandma Sarah’s famous rugelach.

That being said, Levi loves his new High School. In part, this is due to the outstanding culinary arts program that he managed to earn a spot in as the only sophomore ever admitted. His culinary arts teacher is an amazing chef, teacher and yes, Iron Chef America winner. We’ve even talked about having her and the students cater my younger son, Eli’s, upcoming Oneg Shabbat Bar Mitzvah luncheon at the temple this March.

But the other day, Levi came home in a state of utter delight and could barely contain his excitement long enough to tell us why he was so elated. He explained that there was a new class competition in culinary. Each student would get to choose one kitchen appliance for the upcoming challenge and would have to prepare a specified dish with their appliance. Levi immediately began gunning for the food processor. But after picking numbers from a chef hat, he ended up being the last student to choose his appliance. “I knew there was no way I was going to get the food processor,” He told us sadly.

The other appliances included a blender, a Kitchen Aide, a waffle iron, a deli slicer and several other typical kitchen helpers. “But somehow,” Levi offered, “No one picked the food processor. I was absolutely last and I got it! Can you believe that?”

“No one picked the food processor?” I asked incredulously. “That’s really bizarre. That doesn’t make any sense. I would’ve thought the food processor would’ve been the first to be snatched up.” “I know,” he said with a huge smile plastered across his face. “I never knew I was this lucky. And guess what else? You will never believe what recipe I got with it.”

“What?” My husband, Mark, asked with intense curiosity. Levi cheerfully replied, “Dad, it’s our favorite thing to make in the food processor! You’ll never believe it. Guess! You have to guess.”

“Our favorite thing to make in the food processor?” repeated Mark. “Um…potato pancakes?”

“Not just potato pancakes,” chirped Levi, “But latkes! Actual latkes! That’s what the recipe said. Isn’t that amazing!”

Now comes the moment where I regret lacking any internal editing programs to stop my mouth from speaking exactly what my brain thinks up. “Well, obviously you got the food processor because no one else even knew what a latke was.”

Both Levi and Mark looked at me in horror. “Mom,” Levi said, “That’s ridiculous. Who doesn’t know what a latke is?” Mark was smiling a knowing smile, “Yeah hon, who doesn’t know what a latke is?”

“Um…you’re right, Leves,” I stammered. “Forget I said that. You just got…lucky, incredibly lucky!

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Just desserts

I am crushed. I just discovered a betrayal of monumental proportion. My favorite restaurant is deliberately utilizing sophisticated, pre-meditated, cognitive techniques in order to manipulate my behavior and psychologically pressure me into doing what they want me to do. This is one of those horrifying realities you try hard not to believe. But at a certain point, you can no longer deny the subversive tactics being employed against you.

I have a favorite eatery. It is one of those restaurants I never tire of frequenting. Their food is delicious, relatively low cal, fresh, filling and nutritious. And they have fabulous desserts. The greatest thing about their desserts is that nothing is ever over 475 calories. Plus the desserts are incredibly eye-pleasing, decadent and small enough to avoid any kind of post-repast guilt or remorse. I always order dessert at this restaurant. Until yesterday.

Yesterday I met my mom and sister-in-law at my fave spot late in the afternoon. I just wanted coffee since I’d eaten several hours earlier. But both of them were hungry and ordered lunch. After they’d finished eating and our table had been cleared, our server came by, dessert tray in hand, and began laying out clean napkins and silverware for dessert. “I don’t think anyone is going to indulge,” I kindly remarked to save him the trouble of replacing all of the utensils and painstakingly describing each of the 10 stunning desserts before us.

He continued placing the silverware, though, as if he hadn’t heard me. My sister-in-law chimed in, “I don’t think we’re going to order dessert.” Again he ignored us and started to describe the first item on the tray, a healthy peach melba housed in a miniature shot glass.

It was then that I realized something astounding. I felt guilty. I felt guilty that he’d gone to all that trouble to lay out the table for dessert and I suddenly felt compelled, out of some kind of misguided sense of duty, to indulge in one of the tiny, tasty treats. I didn’t actually want to eat dessert. I’ve been very disciplined the last few days, adhering to my daily weight watcher point limit. Dessert was the farthest thing from my mind. But I was going to order one simply because I suddenly felt compelled to not hurt his feelings. Rationally, I realized the absurdity of this. But emotionally I’d been hooked. This realization, however, ignited my inner will. “We don’t want dessert!” I announced emphatically.

The server was taken aback by my assertive stance. He looked stunned, and hurt, like I’d shocked him, wounded him, rudely interrupted him. “But I have to finish,” he stammered. “It’s restaurant policy.” And at that moment, everything became clear. “You mean, that’s why you kept placing the dessert spoons and napkins on the table even though we said we didn’t want anything?” I inquired. Then he confessed, “Oh yeah. There’s a whole psychology to getting people to order dessert.”

Feeling guilty? Try not ordering one.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” he fearfully implored, “And if anyone asks, I did describe every dessert. OK?” We assured him of our loyalty and he defeatedly collected the spoons, napkins, and dessert tray and slunk away. His disappointment was palpable.

My sister-in-law picked up the tab. I bet she left him a hefty tip in response to his despondent demeanor. But wait a minute, maybe that was simply another form of emotional manipulation. Maybe he was merely feigning dismay in order to secure a few more gratuity percentage points. I wouldn’t put it past him.

It really is true. Once trust is destroyed in a relationship you can never go back.

Yes, chef!

I’ve hired a a personal chef. I know, money is tight. Times are tough. We’ve got a Bar Mitzvah coming in a little over a year. But, cooking’s never been my thing. My husband, Mark, loves to cook. He’s a great chef too. So I never bothered to force myself into culinary improvement mode. But with the economy plugging along like a slow train through Arkansas, Mark has had to work longer days and later hours and doesn’t have time to practice the culinary arts much anymore. So I did what all smart, savvy women of my…um…religious persuasion do. I hired someone to help. (Okay, its a joke. Don’t get all bent out of shape. I just felt like funning on the “jap” stereotype for a moment.)

But here’s the best part. I don’t have to pay him; the chef I mean. He loves to cook so much that he’s thrilled to have the position. He’s young and hungry and wants desperately to please us. In fact, the reason I offered him the job was because he was complaining so bitterly about summer boredom I just couldn’t take it anymore. It’s really a win/win for all involved.

His first dinner was roasted chicken in whole wheat pita pockets with an arugula pesto. It was served atop a bed of bright green arugula with scattered heirloom cherry tomatoes, then drizzled, ever so slightly, in an olive oil and aged balsamic reduction. The next night he grilled fresh lake Trout and served it with home-made garlic mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli. (I admit, I passed on the potatoes. I’m watching my carbs.) Tonight he served a fresh cucumber salad with rainbow peppers, grilled eggplant and Kale. Il primo piato was bruschetta, and our secondo, a four cheese tortellini lightly bathed in a tomato puree.

Jealous? I bet you are. But don’t hate me because I’m a genius. I just borrowed a page from Dale Carnegie’s archives and used my plethora of summer citrus to make a big old vat of that proverbial lemonade everyone’s always talking about. You see, my new personal chef is my 11 year old son, Levi. If you’ve been loyally following the blog, you know that the summer camp boycott is still underway. Levi and his 8 year old sidekick, Eli, (Remind me some time to explain our logic in choosing to name both of our children using a limited alphabetical roster of no more than four letters), categorically refused to attend any form of structured day camp this summer, opting instead for the joy, mirth and frivolity of hours and hours of backyard fun, pool play and summer reading. Needless to say, they were bored to tears within the first few hours of summer vacation.

Since we had already committed to our sitter, who had bypassed other job opportunities to work with our boys, we really couldn’t veer the ship and alter our course. Plus the whole “Love and Logic” approach we’ve been taking, insists that successful child-rearing occurs only through children making choices and living through the consequences that result from those choices. By making a poor, albeit harmless, choice to stay home all summer, their boredom might propel them towards finding something they truly would enjoy doing next summer. No, the “no summer camp” decision was one we were all going to have to live with, even if it necessitated me renting a small condo on the coast to save my ever dwindling sanity.

But lo and behold, I was visited by some angelic presence that bestowed upon me the greatest idea I’ve ever had; use my son’s natural talents and simply offer him some tools, (ie. money for groceries, minor instruction, a few healthy cook books), then let him go. And that is exactly what we’ve done.

So I now have a personal chef, an often reluctant sous chef (Eli), and a shred of sanity left. Sure the kitchen is never quite as pristine as I’d desire. Yes, I may be ingesting a few more calories than I’d like. But my kid is happy, engaged in something he loves, and he’s a really awesome chef! I wonder if this is how Gordon Ramsey started?

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Leggo my Eggo!

Stay away from my dinner!

I eat out a lot. Partly because I hate to cook. But even more because I abhor cleaning up. Yes, it’s expensive. Yes, it’s not as healthy as eating at home. But it’s fast, fun and makes my life a whole lot easier. But here’s the thing; I apparently missed the memo to all food service professionals regarding clearing away dirty dishes the nano-second they become “inactive.”

It happens everywhere, and it’s driving me batty. The minute you take your last bite, or someone seems to think you’ve taken your last bite, a person emerges out of the shadows and surreptitiously swipes your supper before you can say Wolfgang Puck. It’s particularly problematic if you were saving your orange garnish for a final palette cleanser or hoped to sop up some spaghetti sauce with a piece of leftover sourdough.

I’ve tried to remain silent on this subject and just go with the flow. But, A, I’m mentally incapable of going with the flow. And B, We hit an all time high on the annoyance Richter scale the other night and I just need to talk about it.

My husband and I had a lovely meal at the White Chocolate Grill in our neighborhood. The food was delicious, the waiter attentive and the atmosphere was elegant yet comfortable. All was well. Until we got to the final thirds of our entrees. That’s when the vultures began circling. One black clad server stealthily snagged the remainder of my husband’s rotisserie chicken as she swept by in such a smooth and fluid motion, it was as if she had performed a Houdini sleight-of-hand maneuver. Luckily his reflexes are sharp. He grabbed the plate back and asserted loudly that he was still working on his dinner. After a few stunned moments, we relaxed back into our meals. But as I distractedly raised my water glass to my lips, I noticed the remnants of my Ahi salad had been snatched. I called out to the young thief. But, alas, it was too late. He had disappeared into a sea of ebony outfitted employees. “I guess I’m finished,” I sadly conceded.

Then, as if carefully choreographed, servers approached, lifted and removed each and every plate, glass and utensil that adorned our two-top. My husband had to ask for a new water glass because someone had commandeered his as he carelessly lost sight of it while lamenting the loss of his sugar-snap peas. At one point, he was so irked that he placed a leftover empty salad plate at the edge of the table to tempt one of the passing waiters. But as soon as she eyed it and moved in for the kill, he swept his napkin over it and slid it to safety beneath the table. Then, not finding this at all amusing, she outstretched her hand like a stern school teacher who had discovered the classroom clown hiding a perilous pea-shooter. “I’m going to take it anyway,” she chastised, “so you might as well give it up.”

At this point, I looked around in search of cameras or a grip or gaffer in case we were victims of some new Ashton Kutcher reality show. But, lo and behold, I found none. We finally called over the manager and inquired about this over-the-top team effort to rid our area of dirty dishes. “Full hands in,” he replied professionally, “Full hands out. It keeps us efficient.” It wasn’t hard for us to read between these lines as we eyed the cue of hungry incoming at the hostess stand.

Before he got around to offering us a free bread pudding we didn’t want, we thanked him, laid down our cash and excused ourselves. After all, we know when we’re not wanted.

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Financial University

It's never too early to teach kids the value of a dollar...or is it?

My youngest son asked his dad how much money he makes. Mark, as usual, came back in his standard unflappable manner with, “More than five dollars and less than enough.” I thought it was a funny retort. But it did kind of get me thinking. What are you supposed to tell kids about finances?

In the past, I’ve mentioned to my kids that we can’t afford certain things. But this always manages to backfire on me in the most embarrassing of ways. For example, I once balked at buying a pint of strawberries for $5.99. They were out of season, small and were the color of hay (in case I needed to justify not buying them for $6) “We cannot afford to buy strawberries right now,” I sternly announced to my children. Well, the next day in school, my eldest son took up a collection to help subsidize our family’s grocery bill. I remember the warm but somber glances I received at pick-up that day. I was mortified when he handed me an envelope filled with a collection of classmates’ coins.

When we go to a restaurant, it’s the same thing. My 10 year old, Levi, eats like a horse. And he enjoys the finer foods. We can be at a cheap eatery and he’ll easily run up a $20 food bill all by himself. But I feel weird saying, “No, you can’t order the freshly grilled salmon with roasted organic vegetables. Why don’t you have chicken nuggets and fries off the kid’s menu?” It’s really a conundrum.

On Tuesdays we go straight from school to karate. We stop somewhere for a quick snack. I’ll admit I’m the least organized person on the planet, so I never manage to plan ahead and bring something to eat in the car or at a park along the way. Our favorite place to stop is Einsteins. Who’d have thought a couple of bagels and some fruit would end up costing upwards of $25. Then Levi almost invariably asks if he can go next door to Jamba Juice for a drink. He wants a fresh fruit and vege smoothie, without my even prompting him to eat healthy. But I find myself annoyed that he wants to spend an additional $4 for a drink. I usually catch myself before scolding him and fork over the funds. But is that the right thing to do?

I remember taking my nephew out for lunch once back in Chicago and he insisted on ordering half a sandwich because a whole sandwich would cost too much. I was horrified. What was my sister teaching this boy? Food was plentiful in America. So was money at that time, and children shouldn’t have to worry about the cost of things. Of course now that I have my own kids, I’m not sure she didn’t have the right idea. Just once I’d like my 6 year old to not pout when I tell him he can’t have whatever useless item he’s coveting as we race through Target. I think it’d be nice if my kids offered to do extra stuff around the house without earning extra cash. It would be a lovely surprise if, instead of tears, they’d nod knowingly at Trader Joes when I said I was sorry, we couldn’t buy blueberries today.

There just doesn’t seem to be a middle ground here. Too much focus on what things cost and my kids go to work collecting for us like we’re homeless and broke. But without my continued efforts to make them aware of a dollar’s value, they want and whine about everything from pomegranate seeds to Star Wars Legos. Anybody have the answer to this enigma?

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My two cents…literally

So we’re hanging at Z Pizza, me and the boys. Levi’s just inhaled his second humongous slice of za and Eli’s barely touched his first. “Mom, can I go get another piece?” my bottomless pit of a son asks. I sigh a bit hopelessly as I contemplate how we’re going to feed him for the next 9 years until he turns 18. “Of course,” I say, forcing a smile. I reach into my wallet and hand him a five. “This should cover it.” Of course the counter is 4 feet away, so if my fin doesn’t suffice, I can step in and cover the difference.

Levi orders politely and pays for his pizza. Then he brings me the change. “Here you go,” he says, as he places a few coins in my palm. “Mom,” he adds, still gripping a penny, “Can I have this for the ‘take a penny, give a penny’ pot by the cash register?” I once again oblige and he bops back to the counter, penny in hand.

When he comes back to the table he looks really perplexed. I notice a penny still clenched between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t really get this,” he says looking at the penny. “It says ‘take a penny, give a penny.’ But now I’ve just got a different penny. I mean, what’s the point?”

“Honey,” I say trying not to laugh, “they don’t mean ‘exchange’ a penny. The idea is that if you have an extra penny or two, you can leave them for someone who might need a penny sometime in the future. Does that make sense?”

“But why would anyone ever NEED a penny? You say all the time that they’re just worthless pieces of copper that ought to be done away with.”

“That’s true,” I concede. “But people do still use them and sometimes it’s easier to borrow a penny and not end up with a fist full of change.” I quickly realize that this simple concept is morphing into a complex dissertation. “Like if your bill comes to $20 and two cents, you’d rather just pay the two cents than walk away with 98 cents.”

He’s a smart kid, but I can see he’s having trouble wrapping his mind around this. “Whatever,” he harumphs, eyes grazing the ceiling, “Grown-ups are just…weird.”

“Yes they are,” I concur. “Now why don’t you sit down and eat your pizza.”

“Actually,” he announces without a trace of regret, “I’m not really hungry anymore.”
And with that, he tosses his perfectly good slice of uneaten pizza into the trash and I erupt like a verbal volcano. “You just wasted four dollars. We could have at least taken that piece home, or your brother might have wanted it. Why would you do something like that?”

“Because mom,” he reasoned, pointing to a sign on the wall above my head, “It says ‘please discard all uneaten food into appropriate trash container.”

I thought about explaining that sometimes grown-ups don’t actually say exactly what they mean. But I let it go this time, too tired for yet another foray into the realm of his intellectual curiosity.

“Come here, you silly boy,” I said opening my arms for him to snuggle into. He obliged at first and then pulled away.

“Come on, mom,” he said quietly, as he wiggled out of my embrace, “someone might see us.”

I let him go, a bit sadly I must admit. Guess my little guy’s growing up.