Tag Archives: food

Lotzah Matzah

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On April 15th of this year, Passover ended and Jewish people nationwide tossed their remaining matzah to the side and sank their teeth into the doughiest, yeastiest, breadiest bread they could find. Actually, I’m not positive that this is true. It’s an educated guess based on the fact that, on April 15th, grocery stores started handing out boxes of the unleavened cracker for free, and since grocery stores aren’t normally in the habit of giving away food (as this would be a poor business model) I can only assume that after a week of the stuff, our Jewish brethren weren’t begging for an encore.

Phil and I took four boxes. We are big fans of free, especially of the food variety. But, upon the first bite, we understood why this was no-charge fodder.

It isn’t bad, necessarily. In fact, it doesn’t taste like much of anything. If I had to identify the notes of flavor in matzah like a wine connoisseur would at a cabernet tasting, I’d say, “I detect hints of toasted cardboard with subtle suggestions of other tasteless provisions that you eat strictly for nourishment, like say… flour and water.” Which makes sense when you read the ingredients on the label. “Flour and water only.” Only. How often do chefs underscore how little there is in their cuisine?

I’m sure the makers of Aviv Passover Matzos include the word “only” to confirm for those observing Passover that their meal is as bland as it should be. But for a gentile like me, the “only” is not just a little hilarious, but also completely unnecessary. I could have told you that it was flour and water only when a bite of the stuff made my mouth so dry that I expected dust to escape through my lips in a puff cloud.

Needless to say, Phil and I haven’t been sneaking late night snacks of the sacred delicacy. This chow isn’t designed to be a treat. I get that now. It’s designed to make the consumer consciously aware of the resoundingly mediocre experience that chewing it entails. And, since that is the intent, matzah, you are a wild success. But, since I am not a Child of Israel, since my ancestors did not suffer at the hands of Egyptians until finally being liberated by their gracious God and the mostly obedient Moses, there is little reason for me to commemorate the tenth plague, in which God killed all of the Egyptian first-borns in His ultimate warning to the civilization, but passed over the houses of his chosen people. I certainly respect the Festival of Unleavened Bread, but I’m mostly Italian and prefer my bread as leavened as possible; it’s easier to wipe up residual tomato sauce that way. The other half of my heritage is Irish, and they had their own set of problems. I’d be happy to honor their famine by consuming all varieties of potatoes for eight days. No offense to matzah, but potatoes are just a superior carbohydrate, unless of course there is some way to mash or fry matzah that I’m not aware of.

Four months later, Phil and I are down from four boxes to three and a half boxes, and we’ve been mindful of its presence. It isn’t tucked away in the back of the cabinet. It enjoys prime real estate on top of the refrigerator, next to cereal that we eat on a daily basis. We’ve been consciously struggling to consume the matzah. I even looked up recipes, and got really excited when the first result was an article entitled, “100 Recipes for Matzah.” But it turned out that the author was being a bit generous with the word “recipe.” The article really should have been called, “100 Things to Schmear on Matzah.” I have to admit that I was a little disappointed. After 5,000 years of annual matzah leftovers, I expected a more innovative use for it than “as a cracker.”

At this rate, we’ll never get through our supply by the next post-Passover giveaway. And, again, we just can’t resist free. So unless I’m willing to double my supply, and this really isn’t an option since I’ve flat out run out of storage space, I better accelerate the expenditure. To speed things up, I’ve constructed a list of alternate uses for matzah:

  • Placemat
  • Karate chopping sheet for a child’s belt test
  • A customized graduation cap topper
  • Frisbee
  • Mulch
  • Framed as abstract religious art
  • Bookmark
  • Building material for the fourth pig
  • Ninja training: line up a row of matzah sheets for ninja apprentices to run across. If the matzah shatters, they are not yet ready
  • Break into tiny pieces and toss at just-married Jewish couples in lieu of rice
  • Hand fan
  • Take on a hike and leave behind as a crumb trail. You don’t have to worry about the birds eating it. They won’t. Leaves and twigs have more zest
  • Regrind it back into flour
  • If you are a secret agent, you can leave it outside your hotel door. When you hear the matzah crack, you’ll know the villains are about to Uzi their way into your presidential suite, so you should hide inside the tuxedo hanging in your closet.
  • Parchment
  • Rosh Hashanah party confetti
  • Hang as a baby mobile (and this would use multiple sheets! I’m going to be a hit at the next family baby shower!)

Or, I suppose, we could just eat it. Despite my complaints about the “100 Recipe” piece, the woman had a point: matzah was made for slathering—well, not literally—and is also tasty when soaked in something yummy, like soups or chili. It’s a modest fare, but the nice thing about that quality is it doesn’t distract from the taste of whatever you decide to spread on top of it. It serves as a silent vehicle for flavor, and makes me look a whole lot classier than when I just spoon Nutella directly into my pie hole.

(In the google image search for matzah, I saw that people make matzah covered in chocolate, so I think my our problem is solved!)

Eat Before The Clock Strikes Fast!

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In an effort to shave off some newlywed pounds (it’s a real thing), Phil and I have instated a “no eating after 9 pm rule.” Well, Phil treats it as a rule. I view it as more of a guideline.

Ever since the policy has been enforced, there’s something about 8:59 pm that makes me ravenous. So I stuff my face with all edible products within reach, my hunger screaming, “Hurry! There’s no time! This is not a drill– the fast is about to begin!” as if it’s Jack Bauer on a deadline. (Okay, when isn’t Jack Bauer on a deadline?) I consume like it’s not just the last meal of the night, but the last meal of my life. And that’s how I came to eat a handful of tortilla chip crumbs, grapes, a mouthful of whipped cream, and a spoonful of peanut butter, all within 60 seconds. I don’t even remember if I chewed. It’s kind of a blur.

It sort of defeats the whole purpose and, though legal, does not respect the spirit of the policy. I get that. I’m not an idiot. I’m just a compulsive binger.

Then, no matter what was gorged leading up to our deadline, I’m STARVING every minute from nine until we go to bed. Maybe not STARVING, but I want to eat. Same thing, right?

I wonder if it’s actual hunger talking, or just the blaring fact that I’m not supposed to be eating. Given the amount inhaled a minute before the clock struck nine, science would argue it’s the latter.

After this experience, I totally get why Eve ate the apple. It had nothing to do with the apple itself. I mean, apples are tasty and all, especially if you get a nice crispy Gala in early October, but who just needs to eat an apple? You eat an apple to keep the doctor away. Or because everything else in the fridge is moldy. Or because it’s been baked in brown sugar and cinnamon. Or for the same reason you eat celery: it’s slathered in peanut butter. Not because you are crazy for apples.

I’ll admit that Eve might be more likely than your average person to have craved a Macoun. She walked around naked and, according to the Genesis illustrations in A Child’s First Bible, was friends with animals, so it’s safe to assume she was a little granola. I’m guessing a juicy sirloin wasn’t at the top of her wish list, and Hostess didn’t get their act together until a bit later. But despite Eve’s vegan tendencies, she must have had something more irresistible lying around than a Golden Delicious. The cocoa bean existed since day three. As a woman, Eve was probably enjoying refined chocolate for many moons by the time the orchard was heavy with fruit.

But God told her the apple was prohibited. That’s the trick.

I bet Eve wasn’t even in the mood for fruit. If the whole thing wasn’t forbidden when that serpent came along and tempted Eve with the apple, she probably would have said something like, “Eh, I could take it or leave it.”

But the apple was taboo. Off limits. The apple was her “after nine.”

So, I get it, Eve. I probably could have summoned the discipline to stave off nighttime snacking if it meant preventing thousands of years of painful childbirth for women everywhere, but you couldn’t have known, so I feel for you.

Yes, I am comparing myself to Eve. It may be wrong and grandiose, but I’ve seen Satan in my kitchen.

The devil is in the Doritos.

I’m Beginning to Think Strippers Don’t Eat Indian Food

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I can’t seem to make tasty Indian food. Unfortunately for Phil and me, that doesn’t keep me from trying. The first time, I attempted Chicken Tikki Masala. I followed a recipe but, somehow, the chicken tasted too…. chickeny. I’m not sure I can better describe what I mean except that, with every bite, we were hyper aware that we were eating poultry. Anyway, two days ago I tried my hand at Chicken Curry with Peas and, I don’t know how I managed it, but the smell of the dish was reminiscent of my family Cockapoo after he escapes and returns from the neighboring marsh. Yes, the food reeked of wet dog.

The main problem in each of these cases is that I cook in bulk– and I don’t throw food away– so we’ve had to suffer through. Bite, chew, swallow. Bite, chew, swallow. Then we look in the refrigerator, see three remaining Tupperware full of leftovers, and swallow again.

Yesterday at lunch, I plugged my nose and pushed my way through a bowl of marshy curry– then I went off to a pole dancing class.

Because my grandmother reads this blog, I must emphasize that I am not interested in a career change. It’s just that, last year, my girlfriends treated me to a pole dancing class during my bachelorette party, and it was quite possibly the best exercise I’ve ever had. Combine that with the winter weight I’ve accumulated this season and the fact that I can’t resist a deal: I purchased six pole dancing classes from Living Social for the price of two.

But this class was not like my bachelorette party where we giggled and made funny faces. This class had actual strippers in it.

I walked in wearing basketball shorts and a white t-shirt that’s yellowing under the armpits. The other girls wore shorts booty-er than boxer briefs. They let their hair hang loose while I tied mine in a high ponytail. They looked sexy, and to say that I looked like a stereotypical butch lesbian would be an insult to stereotypical butch lesbians.

Alas, class began. We danced a little and swung a little. They climbed the poles– I sort of jumped at the pole, clung for dear life, and then slid to the floor like the fat kid on the rope in gym class. As expected, it was a good work out and I was sweating. That’s when I first smelled it. A familiar fragrance. Exotic and pungent. Not just body odor, not just something you might expect in a workout environment. More like….

Curry.

Or more specifically, marsh curry.

The spice wafted from my pores together with my workout stink.

There were real professionals in the room. Talented strippers. Legitimate athletes. At one point, one of the girls climbed up, pinched the pole between her triceps and torso, released all four hands and legs, flipped upside down, and hung– held up by only her arm! And there I was, smelling like Mumbai. I swear the girl I shared a pole with sniffed me and wrinkled her nose. Then she got a paper towel and wiped down the pole.

Yup, I grossed out a Long Island stripper. I guess I can scratch that off my bucket list.

One class down, five more to go.

Costco: Or Why I Might Be On A Terrorist Watch List

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Costco exhausts me. You know how the elderly have to distribute their obligations across an entire week (laundry on Tuesday, drugstore on Thursday, etc.) because everything is so damn tiring? That’s how I am with Costco. I walk into that warehouse and, I’m not just wiped, I’m done for the day.

Management realizes the stamina required to get from hygiene to produce and then back up again to computer supplies— that’s why they set up sample stands at every aisle. Those noble men and women in their red hats and aprons dispensing bites of dumplings or pizza bagels are as essential to the process as are the individuals handing out cups of water along marathon routes.  And that, of course, makes me the runner. I’m bent at a forty five-degree angle in order to push the oversized cart, which by the time I reach the cereal section is already piled with goods, and setting my sights on the next table equipped with a mini oven and toothpicks is the only thing fueling me from section to section.

By the time I slump my way to the cashier, my cart is teeming— one sharp turn away from a wreck— but there’s no getting around the sheer amount of product. There might be only four items in the carriage, but it’s the quantity of those four items that demands such space. If I want to shave my legs, I have to buy 52 razors. When I walk out with that many blades, I know the cashier is wondering what manner of forestry I’m hiding under my cardigan. And their Parmesan cheese container has such a circumference that it requires two hands to palm. When I’m topping off my spaghetti, I feel like a baby gripping its bottle of milk. (Costco sells 50% of the world’s supply of cashews. Half of the world’s provisions at one franchise!) Caskets may be the only item Costco sells in moderation, although I’ve honestly never looked into it. They very well might come in twelve-packs.

Despite what my local grocery bagger might think (every time I pull up to checkout, he says, “Big family, huh?”), I am part of a small household. The second smallest possible, actually. Two. Costco was not made for families like ours. The toilet paper I bought in June 2011 is still in reserves. We live in a one-bedroom apartment, and I have a roll of toilet paper in every cabinet, nook, and drawer. I continue to find toilet paper like parents continue to find Easter eggs they forgot they hid. Then there’s the canola oil. Olive oil is our oil of choice; it’s what we use to sauté onions and garlic, which is the foundation for pretty much every meal. But, occasionally, I bake muffins, so when I spotted the industrial sized canola oil at Costco, I thought to myself, that would be better for muffins, and without due process, I bought it. Do you know how many batches of banana walnut muffins I’ll have to bake to get through that vat of oil? 320. Breakfast at my place?

And this is why I fear that I might be on a domestic terrorist watch list.

The FBI has labeled bulk food purchase (more than seven days worth) as potential terrorist activity, and God knows it’s going to take more than a week for my Phil and I to eat our way through three pounds of almonds.

I don’t blame the Feds. I’ll be the first to admit that my behavior is suspicious. What do I, a childless woman of 25, need with twelve pounds of peanut butter? The authorities would sooner assume that I’m improvising some manner of Skippy Super Chunky explosive device than that we eat the creamy protein by the spoonful to stave off hunger pains. (Government suspicion may be heightened by my recent Google search, “Can you make a bomb with peanut butter?” The scary thing is– somebody already asked that question on Wikianswers.) I can just see myself cordoned off in a small, stark room with nothing but a metal table and a spotlight, an agent over me screaming, “But twelve pounds of it? Cut the bull***t. Why do you need that amount of whipped nut?”

The truth is, of course, that I don’t. I don’t need 25 lbs of potatoes, 500 Ziploc sandwich bags, 5 quarts of liquid plumber, 2,400 sheets of computer paper, 700 coffee filters, or 10 cans of water chestnuts. But I can’t resist. I can’t resist the idea of never having to shop for water chestnuts again, and I can’t resist the suggestion that, by purchasing my year’s supply of toilet paper upfront, I’m saving. That is the allure. It’s why Costco has 58 million members worldwide, and why its security is tighter than an airport (they demand to see your membership card at the door, screen your receipt on your way out, and last week the cashier asked me for three forms of identification). It’s why customers will put up with quirky eccentricities like only accepting American Express and, despite stocking boxes of 200 count kitchen garbage bags, that there is no plastic in sight at the end of checkout, so after being fatigued by towers of goods, you now have to face lugging all of your purchases from cart to car and from car to home without the help of handles.

Nevertheless, four Sundays a year I devote to my Costco pilgrimages, because wholesale prices and eliminating extraneous shopping excursions is a gift worth subscribing to.