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Ok, I have a real post roiling within me. But wow, once the sun goes down I pretty much collapse in a heap and wait until I can justify going to bed. Then I wake up at 5:something and either a) attempt to get out of bed and run for 25-30 minutes or b) attempt to go back to sleep, sometimes with a boy in my bed. And wow, 80 cm is a pretty narrow mattress for an ema + a boy.
So this is to say that I am tired. Awesome! I don’t have to change the name of my blog! What a relief! Life is still worth living!
Anyway.
One of the most humorous parts of living in Israel is the weather report. Israelis take their news very seriously, and at the top of every hour there is a news report on every radio station, just breaking news headlines. It’s about three minutes long. At the end of the report they discuss the weather.
Let me ’splain you. Summer in Israel is five to six months long. Sometimes it’s partly cloudy. It doesn’t rain, even if the clouds are grey. It’s hot. When the high temps vary from the day before, it’s almost never more than two degrees Centigrade. In case you were wondering, 30 degrees C and 32 degrees C ARE BOTH VERY, VERY WARM. You need to drink a lot of water and you will sweat through whatever you are wearing and for the love of all that is holy, why do all the cars have black interiors??
But the newscasters dutifully report the minimal variations at the top of every hour. Sometimes I think they weary of it, because they just say “lo shinui,” which means? “No change.” Last week I heard “Lo shinui mamash,” which means “No real change,” and I started cackling.
Welcome to Israel.
Just for three hours, we put aside all our to-do lists, shelved our kids’ nervousness over school, and went to the beach.
And all
was right
with the world.
For my readers who have never heard of the Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit and the circumstances surrounding his “fame,” please read this poignant and succinct piece by Alissa.
Me, reprimanding Miss M for tearing a long sheet of bubble wrap into tiny bits approximately four seconds before we were going to leave for the beach: “Miss M! What are you doing? What a mess! You’re going to have to clean this up right now. Where are your brains???”
AM, tapping his head: “Right here, Ema?”
Many years ago, when I lived in Israel as a student, I had a citrus guy. I regularly shopped in the shuk on Thursday afternoons and frequented this vendor who sold only citrus fruit. Because the weather here is fairly similar to Florida and California, there are many different kinds: clementines, navel oranges, grapefruits, pomelos, mandarins, lemons. What I never found, however, were limes. I never asked; I assumed that for whatever reason they didn’t grow them here. (And I did not have the Hebrew skills to have a heart-to-heart with the citrus guy.) I closely associate limes with Latin American or Southeast Asian cooking, neither of which are terribly popular in Israel.
Skip ahead to, oh, 2001 or so. Taxman and I came to Israel for a wedding and spent some time with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law. Nobody had kids then, so we could be all foodie and out past bedtime et cetera and we went a very chic hotel restaurant in Tel Aviv. It was, I believe, my one and only experience with an amuse-bouche; some lovely chicken drumette done up fancy and served with a wedge of green lemon.* But! Not lemon, in fact, but lime. I was totally startled, in a good way, and both Taxman and my brother-in-law were surprised to taste an actual lime in Israel. My sister-in-law, born and raised in Israel, could not understand why I was so ga-ga over a garnish.
This was, however, a very fancy restaurant, so in all my future visits I never anticipated tasting a lime again. I knew I’d have to give them up here; I am a total food snob and bottled citrus juices (a la RealLemon) make me wince. Lemons are readily available, so I’d make do. It wasn’t a dealbreaker, clearly, because I am not a chef, just vaguely pretentious about condiments. And I’m here, aren’t I?
So imagine my surprise when I was browsing the weekend section of the Jerusalem Post at my in-laws a couple of weeks ago and discovered that [the royal] they grow limes here now. But the season is only about six weeks long, they don’t show up everywhere, and ta-da! They are available now. In the shuk.
So today we had to go to Jerusalem to take care of some other things. I lobbied Taxman to go to the shuk to buy a lot of limes, so we could squeeze the juice into our ice cube trays and have fresh lime juice…whenever. He has known me for a long time, so he did not even blink at this completely kooky suggestion. Rather he readily agreed and we found them for 7 shekel a kilo and (because I am crazy) made the guy cut one open to make sure it wasn’t a green lemon.
It wasn’t.
If only I could find my citrus reamer. (Of course I have one. It’s in a box in my living room.) Ah, well, a grapefruit spoon had to do.
* Lemons and clementines here start out the season green and as the temperature drops you start to see them yellow or orange. I learned about this phenomenon the first time I read the John McPhee essay “Oranges.” In 9th grade. Geek out!
Gila has promised me that one day, a trip to the grocery store will not be bloggable material. I am going to hold her to that, but in the meantime…
- Miss M apparently likes mango yogurt
- For now
- I found a regular vanilla specimen that is not pudding
- But threw out the container, so now I am not sure I could find it again
- I don’t even remember if I bought it at Mega or Mister Zol
- I also found a “white” Yoplait with the word “matok” (sweet) included, but wasn’t paying full attention to all the words on the package. So this morning, when I opened one, thinking it was slightly sweetened plain yogurt, I noticed that it was rather airy. I began to scrutinize the back of the package and noticed that the fat content was 4.6%, so the reason that it was only 90 calories was because at least half of the container was air. So really, it was like eating airy whipped cream. For breakfast. Later when I was rhapsodizing about it to Taxman, he looked at the container and noted, with his mad Hebrew skillz, that I had missed the word “mousse.” Oh, yeah, that would pretty much describe it. Somehow I have a feeling the 1.5% peach I knock back tomorrow will not feel quite as special.
And now I think I am done talking about yogurt, because I can pretty much guarantee that I will not be making my own. At this point, I don’t know that I will ever cook again. Our oven was delivered Friday, but apparently in this fine country the person who delivers your appliances and the person who installs them? Not the same.
Our washing machine was also delivered Friday. Also not installed. Which brings me again to Gila, and the fact that if you ever move to Israel you should totally move to her neighborhood because NOT ONLY will she feed you and take your calls about the most trivial of things, but also might do your laundry. So yay! and go read her blog if you don’t already because she is very, very funny. (And we apologize for laughing at Ariella. She is terribly self-aware for a six year old, at least for these parents of a five year old whose head is constantly somewhere else.)
Yesterday our lift, the 640 cubic feet of STUFF we shipped over the ocean, arrived at our apartment. It was hauled from the street, up a half flight of stairs, and into our building’s tiny elevator. Except for the three huge, heavy, real wood bookcases–those were pushed up another two flights of stairs because they did not fit in the elevator.
The kids mostly stayed out of the way, thanks to a heavy dose of Clifford and a half hour at the park across the street. Halfway through, we fetched the guys falafel and Coke for lunch.
“Why are we buying them lunch?” inquired Miss M.
“Because that’s what you do when you move. It’s hard work to move all those heavy boxes, so we make sure they have plenty of water to drink and we offer them lunch. Remember in New York on the day we moved? We had bagels for the men who were packing our things.”
“It is hard work,” she agreed. “Are they slaves?”
“WHAT?”
“Are the men slaves?”
“No, honey. They work very hard, but they get paid to do it. Slaves don’t get paid. And if these men decide they don’t want to be moving men any more, they can quit and do something else. Slaves can’t leave.”
It occurred to me that Miss M probably doesn’t consider what Taxman and I do as “work” (sitting at a computer, typing, talking on the phone, sending emails, “crunching numbers,” etc.) as hard work. In school, during the run-up to Pesach, I’m sure they described the backbreaking work of the slaves of building cities for the Pharaohs, which jived with the work she saw the movers doing. So it all made sense. After the fact.
People have been asking us how the kids are doing with all the transitions. They’re doing ok, I guess. They don’t seem to miss New York and are excited to live in Israel.
But. C’mon, you had to know there was a but.
Their behavior has been, um, less than stellar. Not with their grandparents, of course, with whom we stayed for nearly two weeks, but with dear old mom and dad. The usual tantrums from both, due to age (3) and propensity for high drama (in case you’re new to the blog, Miss M channels Scarlett O’Hara pretty often), but with a certain degree of edge. It’s been really hot, so their outdoor time is limited. They’ve been going to bed way too late, in part because AM has been falling asleep in the car in the afternoon as we go places and doesn’t nod off until after 9 pm. We don’t have a routine; we’ve been taking them on errands; and there is nervousness about school. AM because he’s never been, and Miss M because she knows that she is facing a language barrier.
But instead of the language issue making her shy at the playground, it’s making her obnoxious. Picking on smaller kids, making faces at everyone, and being generally mean. It makes me feel sick to see her act this way; though I know it’s a defense mechanism, it’s making me nervous about being with her in public because I don’t have the Hebrew language skills to explain what’s eating her.
Anyway, we’ve engaged a lovely British woman as a Hebrew tutor for her, a crash course before school begins, just to help her try to make conversation and draw her out in positive ways.
But back to the kids (plural): they have been unusually nasty to each other, pinching and biting and sneering exchanges. This evening, on the way out to dinner (because while our fridge was delivered, our stove was not), I decided to take a new tack. Sick and tired of the screaming from the backseat, I whipped around and delivered the following ultimatum:
“What is WRONG with you?! I’ve just had enough of the two of you being so terrible to each other! Miss M, I want you to say something nice about AM. NOW.”
Crickets.
“Miss M, can you try to say something kind about your brother?”
“But he bit me.”
“I bited her,” AM added helpfully.
“AM, can you say something nice about Miss M?”
“I don’t know,” he said, lifting both palms towards me in his version of a shrug.
“Let me show you what I mean,” I said, turning to Taxman.
“I think Abba has a beautiful voice. He sings very nicely. Now Abba is going to say something nice about Ema.”
[Taxman smirks.]
“DO IT,” I hiss.
“Ema is the best cook I know.”
“Thank you, Abba. Ok, now Miss M, can you say something nice about AM?”
“I like it when AM sings the Rakevet Alef-Bet song.”
“Good one, Miss M.”
“Wasn’t that a nice compliment?”
“Yes, it was. AM, how about you? Do you have something nice to say about your sister?”
[Palms up, again] “I think there’s something wrong with Miss M.”
At this point, of course, I have to turn my face away from the backseat because I start laughing so hard I can’t see.
AM, for the win.
If I cover my hair according to the shita of the Ba”CH, do I have to cover it on our mirpeset that faces the street? (two floors up)
My general feeling is no because it’s in my chatzer. But I am not a rabbi, though I might have played one on TV.
It’s 1:30 pm on Tuesday. I think it’s Tuesday. Anyway, it’s definitely 1:30 pm because the computer tells me so.
We finally moved in to our new apartment. Sort of. We had slowly been hauling suitcases here (in our little Hyundai rental car) and got the keys on Sunday. The kids’ beds were delivered yesterday. They came with mattresses, and since they are trundle beds: 2 beds + 2 trundles = 4 mattresses = good enough for Kate.
So, in sum, we have about 10 suitcases worth of clothes, shoes, cosmetic-y things and other crap; two beds and random linens; and a computer and stolen internet. No chairs, tables, bookcases, lamps, or desks to be found. Also no appliances but we hope to resolve that by 6pm. We also have what we’ve bought over the past 24 hours, in between the kids beating each other senseless in the car: new Pyrex dishes, drying racks for dishes and clothes, broom and things for shtifa, non-perishable pantry supplies.
Life without a fridge is rough. Those people profiled in the NY Times for “going green/roughing it/getting their 15 minutes”? Are crazy. And must not have small children. This morning I went for a run and then bought a liter of milk. Which we then had to finish within an hour or so. Everyone had Cheerios with milk for breakfast. Only one bowl a piece, which disappointed me–today of all days!
(Conversation I just had with Miss M: “Can I have applesauce?” “Sorry, no, not until we get our fridge. If we open the jar and don’t put it away it will spoil.” “What else can I have?” “You can have a pear or a banana.” “What else is there? What’s in that cabinet?” “Rice. Pasta. Lentils. Tomato paste. Coffee and tea.” “But what else can I have?” “A PEAR OR A BANANA.” “Oh. I guess I want a banana. NO WAIT! I want a pear.”)
Speaking of Cheerios, they are expensive. I mean, probably about what you’d pay in the US for Cheerios if you bought them at a regular grocery store. But I didn’t. My children eat them every single day. If I knock myself out one morning and make French toast for breakfast, then they eat Cheerios for snack. So I bought them at Costco or, in a pinch, I bought Joe’s Os for half the price of Cheerios. But Israel is not terribly into cereal, or at least healthful cereal that’s not bran flakes. (I have standards!) There are a lot of sweetened things in that grocery aisle. I am confounded; what do Israelis give their babies to snack on? Heh. Bamba. Yet another reason I will never totally integrate.
So! The best price I’ve found so far for Cheerios is NIS [New Israeli Shekel] 17.80, which is nearly 4 1/2 dollars, for 395 grams. But whoa unto me if I run out and have to get them at the closest grocery store: NIS 23! $6! Gah!
More grocery fun is to be had in the dairy aisle. Israelis are into their dairy. There is very little in the way of low fat or fat free offerings. I think you might be able to get 0.5% fat cottage cheese, but everyone will snicker at you a little; 3% is the lowest any normal human would buy, and my sister-in-law buys 9%, which, let’s face it, tastes better. There are approximately 400 different types of yogurt in all sorts of interesting flavors: plum, cherry, pineapple, passionfruit, tropical fruit (this is above and beyond the flavors I consider in line with the typical American diet: strawberry, peach, coffee, plain, mixed berry, raspberry).
What I cannot seem to find is just a plain old cup of vanilla yogurt. (Yesterday I mistakenly bought vanilla pudding.)
Miss M, the finicky pickle, has short term love affairs with yogurt flavors that burn white and hot for approximately two days. Then she reverts to only liking vanilla. So naturally, I would like to find some. I have, but it comes with chocolate bits! In their own section of the yogurt package! And then you MIX them together! And it’s awesome! And Miss M would eat this until it comes out of her ears! But here’s the thing. Yogurt (unless it’s “white,” i.e., plain) is sweetened as it is, and I have no intention of letting her add candy to it. Candy is a sometimes food, that you earn by behaving during boring shopping trips and not pinching your brother in the car and being a good listener and following directions. I am so not giving in to yogurt + candy for lunch or snack, because then I couldn’t give ice pops for after-dinner treats and THEN what would I threaten the children with all day long?
So you see my dilemma.
Although I know Gila buys this, because Miss M ate it at her house. Perhaps Gila is in need of a 5 year old and would like to experience gan chova (kindergarten) for a second year in a row? No? (Under normal circumstances I would offer to trade for Ariella, but she sounds like she asks even more questions than Miss M, and my sleeping is not currently up to snuff. Foam mattress + tile floor = crank city.)
By nightfall tomorrow we should have appliances and our 640 cubic feet of stuff from the boat. And I will no longer be able to say, “No, sorry, I can’t cut an apple for you. All the knives are on the boat.” Let the unpacking saga begin!
