The second week summation

The second week of my adventure in the army is over. It’s been a great week with tons of learning, many more push-ups, lots of new words, and plenty of new friends. My group has really been coming together this week, and we are starting to work as a team. It’s very difficult to make it through the challenges of each day, its great to have so much support from the group. Soldiers in our unit come from Canada, the US, India, Russia, Kazakhstan, Ukraine, Switzerland, Hungary, France and Israel, and that’s just my immediate unit. Each seventeen or eighteen hour day has been planned second by second, and it’s been a very good week. I don’t have much time off this weekend, and will be in for the next two weeks. Thanks to everyone for their calls and emails, here are some highlights from the weeks past in basic training.

Chanukah in the army was really nice, the sufganiot were not that great, but seeing the candles and singing Chanukah songs at dinner time made it really special.

The army is much like an archeological excavation with less digging and more running. The sleep depravation, immediate chain of command, and endless activity seem very familiar, and I think I am adapting well to army life.

I have met officers from our unit and those in charge of the base. Everyone really knows what they are doing, and from our drill sergeant all the way up, I think we are in good hands.

You can never have enough gumiot. They are the small elastics which hold your pants up, and having many spare on and can really be a life saver when they get lost at least once a day.

I figured out how to properly put on my uniform, it looks a lot better now and I finally feel confidant that I look like a soldier. I also learned how to properly tie my boots, one of the more critical soldering skills to have.

While standing in formation a couple nights ago, it started snowing on all of us. The snow was a reminder of Canada, although my Dad told me that they don’t have much snow yet, a bizarre reversal.

In the rain/snow this week there was a magnificent rainbow right off the base, it was by far the clearest and closest I have ever seen a rainbow.

I now know all the parts of the M-16 in Hebrew and can field strip and reassemble it in about 1:20. I am hoping with more practice I can get it down to under a minute.

My first sit-ups of the army turned out to be more like modified crunches, several hundred more and I are sure I will get the hang of it. I am getting much better at pushups, my daily high is around 100 with 20 at one go.

Rain, snow, cold, wind, and hail all made better by insanely strong army tea laced with enough sugar to kill a horse.

Much more detail and many more stories during my next leave, sorry for being so short, but I have to get back to sleep and try to do some more catching up.

First week down

It’s been a very long and exhausting week. The transition from civilian to military life has been drastic, but I seem to be catching on quickly.

From my first day at Bakum (the central in-processing base near Tel Aviv) getting processed and receiving my uniform to starting my basic training in Michveh Alon in the North, it’s been interesting, and quite the adventure. I am located near Tzfat, close to Mt. Miron. I have never done so many pushups, or have to calculate the difference in seconds polishing boots or brushing teeth. I have been keeping notes of what I have been doing during the day, more on that when I am not passing out. I have to be on a bus heading back to the base in less than 10 hours, so more updates on my next weekend off.

The trifecta

After months, weeks and days of waiting it’s finally here. It’s a trifecta event, Chanukah, Shira’s birthday, and my army induction.

To celebrate Shira's birthday we are going to Papagaio tonight to eat several cows’ worth of meat with family. Shira's middle name is literally Chanukah, which makes it all the more special. Chanukah is Israel is amazing, walking down the street last night, you can just smell the latkes and sufganiot smell everywhere. It's going to be great to get out with everyone tonight; I need to limit the amount of meat I eat so I am OK tomorrow in the army.

Tomorrow morning I will be joining the IDF, the first one in my family to do so. I guess by the time I finish my service, my Hebrew should improve to the point that people no longer ask me about my accent. Over the past year quite a number of people have asked me if I am French, perhaps it’s the Canadian Hebrew accent. As far as the army, I should be somewhere in the military for six to eight months. The great thing about having the armed forces all in one branch is that I could end up in the army, navy, air force or any number of other places. Since I am an old out of shape shlav bet (second stage, condensed service for people older than 18) guy, I have a feeling its not going to be glamorous, but that’s all part of the fun. One of the exciting things about Israel is meeting new people from all over the world and experiencing so many cultures. The melting pot in Israel, the commonality everyone has is in the army and I am excited to get the adventure underway.

I don’t know where I’ll be or what I will be doing, but I am sure it’s going to be interesting. I do know that I will be in basic training for a month, probably in Michveh Alon, but I am not yet sure. From what I understand, I report in Jerusalem tomorrow morning, and from there everyone heads to Bakum (the main processing base) near Tel Aviv for in processing. Shots, x-rays, pictures, uniforms, equipment, questionnaires, and much more follow at Bakum before I go on to my basic training base and a tent. That’s about all I know at this point. I will post updates as I get to access to the computer; I hope to keep notes as I go along. From what I understand, I cant post any specifics while I am serving, more on that later.

Thank you so much to everyone for their thoughts, prayers, cookies and candy, keep ‘em coming, I really appreciate all the support.

Trapped!

I just got into the elevator on the ground floor and pushed the button for the fourth floor. The elevator starting ascending, the numbers on the display started going up. When it got to the fourth floor, the doors stayed shut and the display showed a long line instead of numbers. It then shut down, all the buttons not working and went to floor -1, the parking garage. After a moment, the panel came back on and I hit the forth floor button again. The same thing happened another two times, until on the third attempt, the elevator shut down and nothing worked. I started pressing all the buttons, and eventually the alarm button worked. The lobby man asked if everything was alright, and I explained how I was trapped in the elevator. He came down a few minutes later and used a tool to get the outside doors open, I pushed the inner ones aside with my hands. The elevator had stopped about half a foot lower than floor -1. I went back up in the other elevator, I don’t think being trapped in small spaces for five minutes has turned me off of elevators just yet, I still prefer them to the stairs. Regardless, it was quite the experience.

Personal Translator

Most of my friends in Israel are English speaking or Anglo-Saxons. Since most everyone in the Anglo community speaks both English and at least some Hebrew, you would think that being an English/Hebrew translator is not very complicated. Everyone is an amateur translator in some way or another, interacting with Israeli society in any capacity requires a degree of Hebrew comprehension.

When I first came to Israel and went to a primarily American, English speak school, I was not exposed much to Hebrew. Even though I was living in Jerusalem, I really didn’t get out much and talk to the people on the street. The first thing I learned in Hebrew shortly after I arrived was all the toppings for a falafel/shwarma and how to order one. This past summer I ran into a couple fellow Ulpan students who were talking about the exact same thing. Since ordering food is one of the more important things to know how to communicate, they learned how to ask for a falafel, but referred to the toppings by color. So they would go to the local store and say “Can I have just a dab of the red, plenty of green, a bit of the orange, and a little more white?” Fortunately, I had the food thing down within moments of arriving. I didn’t know how to say anything else, ask for a cup, or understand anyone, but I did know how to order a mean shwarma. The next thing I learned in Hebrew was how to take the bus. I learned how to buy a bus ticket and how to scream “REGA” in order for the bus driver not to drive off with someone half in, half out of the bus.

When I first met Shira and discovered she was a translator, I was not very impressed. After all, doesn’t everyone speak Hebrew and English? Little did I realize that having a detailed command of English and Hebrew, and how to translate back and forth is more than an amazing skill, it’s a form of black magic. When I realized that in comparison my Hebrew skills were less than primitive, and my English skills could use work, I started appreciating what exactly goes into proper translation. Understanding the cultural differences between the languages, translating jokes to press briefings, I was blown away. It’s a really amazing skill, and something which I think everyone should have. Shira didn’t always plan on becoming a translator; she sort of came across the two year MA program in translation and interpretation in Bar Ilan University by happenstance. I think it’s a natural fit; Shira grew up speaking English at home, and Hebrew in school from a very young age. I don’t think I would ever be on the level required to even get in the program, I see a number of additional Ulpans in my future with slow and steady progress. Understanding both languages fully and being able to effortlessly switch back and forth is impressive, but sight translation, i.e. reading a newspaper in one language and simultaneously speaking in the other is amazing.

I am just happy to have my own personal translator, it makes figuring things out so much easier, and I could never have gotten through Ulpan if it was not for her help.

Waiting in the Misrad HaRishui for a drivers licence

Yesterday morning I decided to do one of the things olim (new immigrants) and Israeli’s alike abhor, go to the Bureau of Motor Vehicles (Misrad HaRishui) and get my drivers license.

Getting a drivers license is not a simple process and takes many steps, each of which involve arguing and of course, plenty of waiting. According to the AACI’s (The Association of Americans and Canadians in Israel) website, new immigrants, temporary residents and returning residents are permitted to drive in Israel with their foreign or international driver's license for one year following their date of entry into Israel. In addition, tourists who have resided in Israel for more than one year are obliged by law to drive with an Israeli driving license. The Misrad HaRishui allows olim and tourists who are in Israel to transfer their foreign driver's license for an Israeli driver's license within three years of arrival. They are exempt from taking the written exam. However, a driving test is compulsory.

In my particular case, I am heading for the army next week, and decided it was high time to get my Israeli license. The first step is to go to one of several glasses shops and get an eye test taken. It’s a simple computerized test, after about five minutes the woman at the counter handed me the green paper. The paper is green, has my photo on it, several boxes for driving instructor comments, the licensing ministry’s comments and a medical form. I went to take the eye test months ago in Jerusalem. I got my green paper but just swept it under the rug and conveniently forgot about it. After I realized it may be a good idea to get my license and be able to drive in the police and in the army, I decided to finish the process. After getting a physical and all the medical information filled out on the back of the green paper with a signature and a stamp of approval.

Its a little known fact that Israelis are crazy about stamps. Nothing is official unless it has one. Many people carry around little pocket stamps in order to stamp in addition to their signature. There is a whole story about our family car years ago and finding the right stamp, but that’s a whole other story.

Thinking I was now on my way to getting my Canadian drivers license switched to an Israeli one, I called a driving teacher and asked to schedule a test. In Israel tests are taken with a driving instructor’s car, he waits outside, and the official tester administers the road test. The helpful English speaking instructor asked me if I had the stamp from the licensing ministry, and I said no, seeing as I had no idea what he was talking about. He explained I had to go to Misrad HaRishui (the licensing ministry) and talk with them to get approval in order to take the test.

I arrived at their main office in Holon, just south of Tel Aviv, at about 8am. I had no idea how to get there, but a couple lucky bus changes at random stops landed me exactly where I needed to be. The scene inside the office was already chaotic. People were everywhere, running, shouting, waiting in line and talking loudly on their cell phones. The guard told me to go to window 8 and ask for a ticket. It took me a minute to find window 8 under the sign “foreign licenses”. Once I got my number, I settled in to wait for my turn. I found it hilarious when I later realized that the entire room was pasted in no cell phone posters and everyone sitting underneath them shouting at someone on the phone. I wondered what would happen if you had a waiting room full of people and no one was actually allowed to talk on the phone. Here everyone has at least a couple of phones, and since incoming calls are free, everyone is always talking with someone. The waiting room is large, brightly lit and filled with rows of chairs. On one side of the room Israelis were queued up to get and renew their drivers licenses. On the other side of the room were two counters, one for taxi licenses, and the other for foreign license exchange. The taxi drivers’ side of the room was filled with tired looking middle aged men, all looking like they could use an extra cup of coffee. It was hard to tell if their shifts were just beginning or just ending, but everyone sat quietly, reading the paper and waiting their turn. At the foreign license desk, people were conversing in every language known to man, English and French mixing with Arabic and Russian.

I waited and waited, time slipping by. I kept trying to do something like count the ceiling tiles, but my attention kept drifting back to the people and the stories going on all around me. The room seemed to divide evenly, after an hour or two of watching the door and observing new arrivals, I got a sense of where people were going just by the way they looked. The pair of teens wearing Abercrombie and Fitch naturally made their way to the left side of the room to sit and wait for the foreign license clerk to call their number. Their accessories were laptops and ipods, running shoes and baggy jeans. In contrast, when the tall, dark guy with greased back hair and a jean jacket walked in, I had the feeling he was heading to the right, and the Israeli license line. It may have been the greased back hair, or maybe it was the too tight black sweater or jeans. Perhaps it was the hair band, or the leather boots. His accessories were a pack on Nobles (the cheapest cigarettes in Israel) and a sheaf of papers. I love it how there is a look here combining a 50’s era greaser, imagine the Fonz, then add in a splash of tight Euro fashion and an Israeli flair, and you have, well, you have to see it to understand. In any case, you could definitely tell where people were going.

The place was packed and everyone was jostling in line when the loudspeaker blared “the fast line is now open in the lobby”. It was as if they announced they were giving away free cars or ice cream. The entire room emptied out as if hundreds of people had been sucked out by a vacuum. Startled, the girl seated next to me asked what was going on, I can see how easily someone could have misunderstood the announcement. If they had said “clear the building, there is a bomb in the basement and Jack Bauer is on the way” people could not have emptied out quicker. It would follow that the non native Hebrew speakers would be left standing at the counter trying to figure out what has just happened. The olim were left standing at counter 8, watching the big hand of the clock slowly crawl by.

Number after number, hour after hour, it finally came, my turn was next! I was getting ready to dash to the window and make sure no one snuck in front of me, when the loudspeaker came on again with another announcement. “Attention ladies and gentlemen, we would just like to let you know that the clerks will be on break from 10 to 10:30”. Glancing at my watch, it was now 9:59, and of course I was stuck waiting. I just took a deep breath, reassured myself that I was next in line, and went back to playing Monopoly on my cell phone.

When they finally called my number I kind of felt guilty that I was not letting the waiting crowds go on ahead of me. I did wait three hours though, so I guess it was OK to take my turn. The clerk asked to see my green paper, my license and my teudat zahut (identity document). As expected, it was not exactly smooth sailing.

The clerk asked me when I came to Israel, looked over the stamps in my passport, and glanced at my Ontario drivers’ license. She told me she was sorry, but since I didn’t have the document from the Ministry of Absorption stating I was a returning resident, she could not give me permission to take the written and practical tests. I explained how I was in Israel for more than a year now, was no longer a returning resident, and could she please just stamp the paper? She told me that since I now had residency, it would help if I left the country for four months and came back, which would make me a returning resident and allow me to just take the test. Since most everyone getting their license here must take 28 lessons, I really did not want to go that route. I explained that I was going to the army in a week, and it seemed a bit crazy that I would have to go back to Canada, where my drivers license is valid until 2011, in order to get a license in Israel. I think by that point she was bored with the whole affair and just gave me a couple stamps on my green paper. She just said “OK, just take the test and no lessons. Next?”

It was so simple, I wanted to cry. Three and a half hours of waiting, ten minutes of explaining / arguing and I can now study for the written test, but that’s a completely different story.

More socks, more army gear

I found it a little strange to get my new backpack handed to me by the shop owner in a big plastic bag. It’s sort of like the conundrum with the chicken and the egg. If my bag comes in a bag, and that bag came in a box which came in a box, where does it end?

Walking around Tel Aviv the other day, I stumbled across a knapsack store. After explaining to the owner that I was going in to the army and was looking for a bag to carry all my gear, he showed me all the options. He spent ten minutes reminiscing about his army experience and wishing me a huge Mazel Tov. He said he would love to be starting the army with his future ahead of him. It was nice talking to him about the army, it really is a shared experience everyone has in common. Showing me around the store, I didn’t realize bags came with so many options, and features. He recommended a bag with rails on the top and bottom to attach boots and things to; it’s a mammoth 70L bag, almost big enough for me to fit inside. If you travel around the country, you always see kids backpacking with impossibly huge packs going anywhere and everywhere. It looks a bit better on me because of my size, but that’s the idea. It has a nice padded back, and with all the gear I have purchased so far, it’s only half full.

I bag was marked down from 200, and had a sticker advertising a discount, but when the guy asked me for 195 (in cash), including tax, I was too tired to argue. Normally, tax is included in everything, and I guess he wanted to take advantage of a greener. Its nice to know when you’re getting taken advantage of, because then at least you can make a judgment call that the extra 15 shekels is still worth it.

With my new backpack in tow, I met up with Josh and we got all the little odds and ends on my list. I have a feeling the people in the store thought I was a bit crazy, I don’t think many people come in and get excited about buying electrical tape and ear plugs. I figure that since I am only going to the army once, I should get all the things I may need, or they recommend.

I asked one of the vendors if he sold army socks. He said “well sir, I do have a few pairs, but they are more expensive than normal socks because they are very, very special”. It’s a warning sign when people are two polite to you, it usually means they are really going to jack up the price and bargaining is going to be required. He explained that US Marines use these socks, which came in a package labeled HIKE SOCKS and in small print below US MARINE CORPS. Now, I know Nike, but I have never heard of the internationally acclaimed company Hike. I guess they figure if you print USMC and stick an American flag on the package of Israeli army socks; it makes it a more valuable commodity. He ended up charging a couple shekels more than I paid elsewhere, considering they look like nice padded socks, and they are Hike, it was worth it. I am really going to be making a fashion statement in the army. I am sure my officer is going to come up to me and ask, “Wait, are those Hike?!” Nondescript grey socks go a long way to define your personality, or at least that’s the impression I got from the sock vendor.

While in the shuk buying fruit and veggies for dinner, Josh and I both got an SMS at the same time. Each SMS was personalized with our names. It was something like: “Would you like to come celebrate your enlistment with “Sidney” at a party including unlimited alcohol Thursday night?” I was confused who had both our numbers and knew we were both joining the army, especially considering I was going into shlav bet, and he was going to machal. We called them for more information and they called me back several times. After getting in touch with a number of people going in with us, most seem to have got the message as well. There is a big party this Thursday night in Hertzalya for everyone joining, but I was more concerned how they got our numbers. It seems that my sense of privacy of information is completely wrong; its nothing like it is in Canada. If you want to give enlisting soldiers free booze, the army is happy to give you a list of names and numbers. I found it bizarre, but it’s just another interesting fact to figuring out Israel.

Google, cumin and inducing labor

People get to my site through Google by searching for all types of strange things. Looking through the site statistics, I found a keyword entry yesterday titled “tea from ground cumin to induce labor”. This is one of the stranger topics people have searched for and ended up at my blog. I have never written about tea, so I assume they found my recipe including cumin or the story about Dougie’s spicy food inducing labor.

I don’t know one way or the other, but I did find a comment on a message board about it. “My midwife said that the reason Mexican food works sometimes is because cumin does something with the blood vessels of the uterus and makes it contract.” I don’t know the answer one way or another, but I think the advice from the Herbalist makes sense: “Why are you trying to induce your labor? Babies come in their own sweet time unfortunately, and though it can be frustrating, they will arrive when it's time. If, however, you are having problems, you should seek professional medical assistance immediately. Inducing labor is very dangerous and could be fatal to you and your child, so please seek medical help.”

So keep on eating tacos and don't forget to invite me over for dinner. Oh, and Mazel Tov on the new addition to the family!

YnetNews

Exciting news, I just had an article published by Ynet. Check it out http://www.ynetnews.com/articles/0,7340,L-3338603,00.html

I am not sure people have figured out that humor is different than an attack on how things are done or people here. I don't know anyone who has not had a crazy experience with bureaucracy in Israel, if you haven't, let me know your secret. I am just happy its out there, and I only read constructive criticism, so leave me some, or better yet, a nice comment. Time to get back to the real story.

Plain Toast

The Hebrew language has a word for toast: tznim. You probably know what I am referring to, taking a piece of bread, sticking it in the toaster, and voila! You now have a nice piece of toast, perfect for spreading shmear on. This understanding does not always follow here in Israel. Toast here usually means what we call grilled cheese. Asking for toast in a restaurant is usually followed by the waiter/waitress asking you what you would like in it. I myself love a nice slice of toast with my breakfast. I would not eat sunny side up eggs or have a spread of jam any other way.

I went to a French style breakfast place recently and requested toast to have with my eggs. The waitress gave me a puzzled look and asked me what I wanted in my toast. Explaining I didn’t really want toast but actually tznim, I though I had averted a cultural crisis. She took my order and went into the kitchen, only to reappear several moments later. She asked me to explain what exactly I would like in terms of my tznim/toast. I explained what exactly I wanted, and detailed how one makes toast. I went through all the stages from slicing the bread to sticking it in the toaster. She looked confused and frustrated; I guess I was the first person to ever order something as exotic as a plain piece of toasted bread.

While she went off to explain the concept of toast to the kitchen staff, I read an interesting story printed in a corner of the menu. It seems that a few years ago, while waiting for a flight to France, the owners of the restaurant had their flight canceled. Undaunted, they decided to open a French breakfast restaurant in Israel instead. It’s a cute story; it’s just a small example of how Israeli cuisine is really global fusion.

After about twenty minutes the waitress came back with something that had gone from being bread to toast and proceeded to a lump of coal. I thanked her for the effort; they really toasted that bread, and got full points for being extremely thorough.

Savlanut

One of the first things olim (new immigrants) learn upon arriving in Israel is how to cope with Israeli bureaucracy. You would think that having better customer service, longer hours of operation and helpful clerks would actually make the companies/government more money and make life easier for everyone. If that’s what you thought, you would be completely wrong and still living in the “North American head space”. It may seem like a foreign concept to wait in endless lines, initial and sign hundreds of mystery documents, and receive mail with no apparent purpose other than the bank or power company wanting to be in touch. That’s more or less just the way Israel works, fighting the system or trying to change it is usually frustrating and pointless.

Many new immigrants assume these are all just things they don’t understand, and with time they will figure the system out. The only problem is most Israelis have no idea what any of these things mean either, but they do know how to work the system. Dealing with everything from the government to the post office and the banks is like trying to roll a huge boulder uphill while people on the sidelines shout directions at you in a language you can’t understand. Being truly Israeli is a matter of creating balance, a cultural feng shui. There must be a careful balance between two concepts, savlanut and being atzbani.

Savlanut is the concept of patience, taking a deep breath, and not getting frustrated when you realize the bank is only open for three hours on Tuesdays. Savlanut is the reason why we don’t have drive by shootings, people killing each other while waiting in line, and endless public brawling. I guess it also helps you have to check your gun when you visit most government offices and beer is sold in corner stores. I once asked at the Jerusalem DMV why you have to check in your gun before standing in line to wait you turn to argue with the unhelpful clerk. She just stared at me and asked “don’t you think it just makes sense?” It seems that utilizing savlanut is extremely important to get through the day and to deal with the million and one hassles that someone from North America just can’t understand. Why does the tax office think everything you import in your lift contain bottles of single malt scotch and cartons of cigarettes? At the tax rates they inexplicably charge, it would be cheaper to forget the furniture back home and buy a couple cases of alcohol and tobacco here to help you get through the home shopping experience. So take a deep breath and just exhale, reminding yourself its all worth it because you’re now in Israel.

When all else fails, and it quite often does, the real Israeli turns to the second half of the equation. If savlanut is the force side of the Israeli persona, becoming atzbani is nothing less than the dark side. When one finds it’s no longer possible to maintain self control, keep calm and wait patiently, its time to turn atzbani. Like the Hulk getting angry, the screaming, shouting and hysterics come bursting to the surface. The glare, the shouting, the “try me and see what happens” attitude are all parts of getting really, really atzbani. Many Israelis evoke this tactic after waiting in line for a couple minutes, or may even get started while on the drive over. As a North American, you will still have plenty of patience when the entire line has already passed you, gone berserk, and gotten exactly what they wanted by virtue of screaming alone. You may be tempted to copy the Israelis and do some screaming on your own. Just remember, the important thing is not to apologize in between each epithet at the clerk’s mother and his choice of shirt. Apologizing and displaying savlanut in an atzbani situation confuses people. It makes them think you are a fryer (sucker) and are meant to take advantage of, if only to teach you a lesson. Being atzbani is not about creating enemies or making the other person feel bad, it’s just a way of getting what you want. As the maxim goes, he who screams loudest gets exactly what he wants, with a discount to top it off. Just because you went ballistic on someone and got what you wanted, it’s important to remember that in Israel the other person is now your friend, you have been through a cultural exchange, not an exchange of insults or verbal taunting.

The bottom line, try to stay calm, try to figure out how to work the system, wade through endless paper work and keep a smile on your face. When all else fails, blow your top and see if screaming accomplishes anything. Either way, its all part of the experience, welcome to Israel!

Ikea and the army

It’s time for another army update. I now have a small pillow to rest my head on, another box checked on the two page list I have been carrying around. My friend Moshe recommended bringing a small pillow, as they don’t have pillows in the army. The little time you have to sleep should be on something soft, as opposed to a pile of rocks or in the mud. I still don’t know what my basic training is going to be like, but from what I have heard, it involves mud and tents. I still think going in December has to be better than August. In any case, I am Canadian (as the beer commercial goes) I should be better suited to freezing cold than blazing heat. Getting back on track, I found myself in Ikea yesterday and came across their wonderful mini pillow, which cost 10 shekels and rolls up into a tiny bag. I think its going to be perfect to roll up and tuck away in my backpack. I tested it out last night to ensure it works properly, and I slept great. Now all I have to do is replace the bed for a sleeping bag, and the room for a tent, and I’ll be good to go. I am slowly getting all the things on my list; I hope to get most of my shopping done sometime next week. I think know a few people who are going in with me, so hopefully there will some familiar faces. With exactly ten days (to the minute) left to go, its making me really ponder what army life is going to be like. Hopefully there won’t be any digging, but I am sure it will be like a dig, too little sleep, too much fun with your new friends.

I just read a horror story about Machal, I guess I am lucky to be in Shlav Bet. I think these guys are going to be on the same base as I am. I am not sure if we are going to be doing our tiranut (basic training) together, but we should all be going to the same place, Mikveh Alon.

Moving right along, I had a great time in Ikea yesterday. I think it was the first store that was really American (or Swedish) and was like an exact replica of the one in Toronto. Change the signs from Hebrew/English to English/French and I could have been back in Canada. The best thing about Ikea was the food; we had a wonderful breakfast of salad, coffee and hot pretzels. This then gave us the energy to walk around the enormous store for another hour, returning to the cafeteria for lunch. Even though all the food was kosher, I was afraid to try the Swedish meatballs. I had a salad, vegetable soup in a bread bowl (for the first time ever), huge spaghetti with meat sauce, three rolls, and unlimited soft drink refills. I would say it was the best meal of the day, but our friend took us out for a spectacular dinner, but more about that later. If you order something of Israeli origin, like schnitzel, they stick a little Israeli flag in it. If you order something of Swedish origin, it comes with a little Swedish flag in it, and so on. I really had a great time in the store, and it wasn’t just the shopping, food, or cartoon network playing on a projection TV. I impressed the kids sitting around eating lunch with my Johnny Bravo impersonation, although it may have been the dozen Coke refills doing the talking.

Sufganiot explained

My friend Sarah recently asked me about when people in Israel start eating sufganiot (jelly doughnuts) to celebrate Chanukah. Here is a slightly more detailed explanation of what we eat, why, and when.

Back in North America, it’s typical to eat latkes, or fried potato pancakes. The miracle of Chanukah was that the oil in the temple burned for eight days, and to commemorate the special oil, we deep fry everything. Latkes are usually eaten with a variety of condiments, each family having their own tradition. It ranges from your basic apple sauce to sour cream or ketchup. I am sure there are die hard Canadians who have their latkes with a liberal drenching of maple syrup.

Here in Israel, the national Chanukah food is sufganiot, or as I call them, sufis. Unlike in North America, we don’t just have Chanukah where one eats greasy fried food, we have Chanukah season. Bakers wanting to try out their machinery and deep fryers start cranking out fresh doughnuts months in advance. I think I had my first sufi of the season about three months ago, and its still two weeks to Chanukah. When you walk into the corned market and get a whiff of the deep fried powered sugar covered goodness, you get the feeling Chanukah is right around the corner.

For many years the only flavors available were raspberry or strawberry jam filling for the more expensive sufis, the cheaper ones had a generic red goop. I am sure the red goop comes from the same factory where they make petel or Israeli bug juice mix, but that’s a whole different story. Not wanting to be behind the times, I am sure some enterprising Israeli baker visited a Krispy Kreme in the States and saw the multitude of jelly stuffings. He then decided to bring some of the shmaltzy goodness back home. You can still get cheap (2 shekel) red goop doughnuts and a number of mid level jams and fillings. However, there days at many bakeries around the country, you can now get crème and caramel, butterscotch and chocolate dipped. They also have whip cream filled and topped and I have even seen a halva sufi, a simply deadly combination (with a calorie count in the low thousands).

So while we now have many choices, we don’t yet have a Chanukah tradition of dressing up like a Macabee while eating our Chanukah sufganiot, or while playing driedel. I think Sarah is on to something; we should have a recreation Chanukah, and give everyone lots of free food. I think it could be the best festival, ever.

Lucky Lottery

Last night we went to a Chinese restaurant in Tel Aviv. The food was good and the experience was pleasant. The story happened right before we went in. Standing on the street corner near the restaurant waiting for our friends to arrive, I spotted a lottery booth a bit down the street. It was the typical small orange booth, covered with banners and streamers shouting “50 million shekels!” My Mom always said that her father, Zaidy Sidney said “the lottery is a tax on idiots”. With that in mind I read the lower part of the streamer, which said in Hebrew, “it just takes five”. I assumed that meant it takes five shekels to win fifty million, and that seemed like a good deal. I have never bought a lottery ticket in Israel before, and had no idea what to do. I plopped down five one shekel coins on the counter and said “Hello, could I please have a ticket for 50 million shekels?” Having no idea what I was talking about, the vendor just stared at me with a puzzled expression. Undaunted, I continued “you know, the lottery with all the banners all over your booth?” There were so many banners and streamers coming out of the top if the booth it made it look like a giant Hershey’s kiss. Finally understanding what I wanted, the lottery guy explained that the 50 million shekel lottery ticket was a minimum of 11 shekels. Confused and not willing to shell out more than the five shekels lying on the counter, I took one of the scratch tickets he offered. It said I could win 25,000 shekels, and I figured that would be nice too. It turns out that the “it takes just five” refers to picking five numbers for eleven shekels, and not five shekels to win 50 million. Another lesson in Israel learned. I was unsure what to do with the lottery ticket, which was decorated with pictures of fish. I guess fish is a lucky thing; they should come to Northern Canada where we have plenty to spare. I was unsure where to scratch and what the rules were, so I gave it to Shira. She scratched it off and won another ticket. We then scratched off the second ticket and won ten shekels. The guy asked us if we would like a couple more tickets or maybe pay him another shekel and get a ticket for 50 million. Despite the allure of being a thousandaire or a millionaire, we decided to cash out and use the money to tip our waitress. Everything worked out well in the end, I have a feeling I won’t be playing the lottery again anytime soon.

Pita Tacos

We were in the mood for Mexican food. Its really hard to find chili or taco seasoning in stores here. I have seen it in a few specialty stores around Modiin, but that’s about it. Someone on the internet was kind enough to give me a recipe and I modified it to fit what I had on hand. Here it is:

Sid’s Israeli Taco Spice

Ingredients:

2 tablespoons flour
1 teaspoon hot paprika
1 teaspoon sweet coarse Hungarian paprika
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cumin
1/2 teaspoon Charif Adom (red crushed chili mix)
1/2 teaspoon Frank’s Red Hot Sauce
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/4 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon ground oregano
a dash of cinnamon (optional)

I put 1lb of frozen ground beef into a covered pan with 1 cup of water. Once the water was boiling, I slowly flipped and mashed the ground beef until it was broken apart into small pieces. I left it simmering on a low flame until most of the water had evaporated, and added in the above spices with a bit of olive oil and water. I turned the flame back up to high for a moment and browned the meat. I then added just a bit of boiling water to make a bit of sauce.

The meat is served in a pita with chummous, techina and salads. I cut up a whole mess of lettuce, tomatoes, onion and cucumbers to stuff the pitas with, and some new pickle mix.

Bon appetite!

Quick update

Great news! I just found out I passed the police exam. I am now finally done shlav aleph. Its great knowing that I got through 90% of the test, in Hebrew, on my own. I now can fake my way through the army, no one will ever know I really don’t speak Hebrew half as well as I should. Its one thing to order a shwarma and quite another to write an essay or figure out a complicated exam written in complicated Hebrew. I am excited to get my uniform and get started at the police as a uniformed policeman.

For the moment I have bigger problems, such as getting everything on my list for the army. My enlistment day is two weeks from today, its getting closer all the time. I was in touch with some friends who I may be on the same base with, it seems that the Marvah guys are going in the same day, but I am not sure if we will end up in the same place.

Perl's pepperoni supply is getting low

So it’s finally happened. I am down to my last package of Perl’s pepperoni. A friend from Toronto was kind enough to send me a dozen packages of pepperoni before my excavation this summer at Tel Zaharah. Since airmail was more expensive than the pepperoni itself, he opted for the slow boat via China method, and it took about four months to get here. I don't know how it was sent, but it sure took a long time. I didn't even get charged by customs, I guess they figured no one would actually send meat in the mail.

It was triple sealed and double packed, everything got here without a dent. Over the past three months or so, I have been carefully rationing my pepperoni sticks. I knew the day I would run out was coming, I tried a number of different Israeli alternatives, but you know what they say, nothing tastes like home.

With Perl’s out of commission for the next while, I can’t really get more; I was hoping to take some with me to the army. I am going to have to be resourceful and have someone bring me some as soon as they are back open. I can’t imagine waiting months longer so another treat. I am actually a much bigger fan of the real Perl’s pepperoni, but it wont stay preserved as well as the pepperoni sticks will. Well, I guess absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Dov Shurin Live

An interesting video from Dov Shurin. I thought the video was something else, a good illustration of the many types of Israelis who make up the country. Leave comments and let me know what you think.

Four and a Half

Let me paint you a picture. This very well many be a true story, however no one can verify it with any certainty. I am sure everyone will come to their own conclusions and judge for themselves. Be warned, this could change your life…

The twisted and winding roads in Old Yaffo (Jaffa) hide one of Israel’s most secret facilities. Streets upon streets of squat, grey unremarkable buildings create a neighborhood no one would give a second thought to. Off an unmarked side street where even the locals get lost, a path leads away from the road towards yet another grey building. The path leads toward a seemingly ordinary apartment building known only as building Four and a Half.

Like many buildings in Israel this one has a guard stationed outside. On closer inspection one might notice some interesting differences in this particular building. Unlike most guards at public schools or buildings, the guards at four and a half seem to have just finished their military service, a good generation or two younger than the average guard. The guards at Four and a Half seem to act with a sense of mission, knowing the installation they guard holds the key to Israel’s future. They walk upright and are constantly on alert. The building must be the only one in Jaffa without a rampant cat problem, as they too are scared away by the constant patrolling presence of the guards.

The apartments all have dark windows, as if decades of grime and dirt have built up and no one bothered to wipe the windows clean. Like gargoyles perched on the rooftop, Four and a Half is littered with dozens of security cameras, following, watching. There is no laundry blowing in the wind from the balconies, no one is every seen walking outside or sitting out in the sun. If it was not for the trickle of people coming and going, the building would seem to be just another neglected building, forgotten and abandoned.

To enter Four and a Half, ID must be shown and the current password must be given to the guards. Everyone entering the building must pass through a metal detector, as well as scanned by several humming machines. Upon approval from someone unseen, the guard ushers people into the small lobby. There are video cameras everywhere, tucked away unobtrusively in the corners, silently watching everyone. The interior of the cramped lobby has the ambiance of an era gone by; it was probably furnished in the 60’s and is now frozen in time. Old travel magazines in Hebrew featuring trips to the Orient litter the small corner coffee table. The only other features of the room are a few vinyl chairs draped with cracking plastic covers and a lazy ceiling fan, slowly revolving as if it doesn’t have the energy to spin properly. The air in the lobby smells old and musty, as if it too had not been refreshed in decades. At the opposing end of the small lobby is another door with a panel of buzzers at its side. The door is covered in a faux wood finish, perhaps from the same era as the vinyl chairs. Inserting a key and entering a secret combination on the panel causes the door so slide open silently, the first hint of what lies beyond is much more than just another dull grey building.

The door has the appearance of a simple door panel, but slides away into the wall, as if it were something out of Star Trek. The open doorway reveals the interior of a gleaming elevator, decked out in chrome and mahogany. It’s certain the interior decorator of the elevator was born decades after whoever designed the outside of the building. It’s a huge contrast to the lobby, the air smells fresh and sparkly pushed around by an unseen silent fan. The chrome gleams in the sophisticated halogen recessed lighting, and the wood gives off an aura of prestige. This is a very serious, very powerful elevator, used to transporting people of a similar standing. After several seconds, card verifications, video confirmation and a destination chosen, the elevator door silently slides shut and the decent beings. The speed of the elevator is hard to gauge, but the pressure which builds up, popping ears again and again, may suggest the depth of what lies below.

After several minutes, the elevator arrives at floor one. From an unseen speaker a soothing computerized voice announces “floor one, research, administration and conference rooms”. Whoever designed that voice knew what they were doing, it gave the impression it was thanking you and at the same time complementing you on your excellent taste in elevators. The door slides silently open to reveal a glaring corridor painted in bright white with pastel trim. A light blue sign painted on the wall says “Welcome to Four and a Half”. To the right, another guard checks clearances, and issues a pass. The hallway looks as if it were a sterile environment, not a speck of dust can be seen on the white polished floors. Down the hall are huge plate glass windows, one after another, revealing laboratories with scientists in white lab coats running around and performing experiments, taking notes, and taking naps. Taken out of context the activities and experiments being carried on in the labs might seem strange, but there is an excellent reason for everything. Next to each window in a door with a sign, each labeled with a series of seemingly nonsensical letters and numbers. Directly ahead, at the end of the corridor, are large doors set with a small engraved plaque simply stating “Conference Room”.

Entering the conference room, the true purpose of Four and a Half becomes no less apparent. What seems like a panel of seven delegates sit in the front of the room on an elevated stage, while the rest of the room is ringed with desks arranged in rows. The design is reminiscent of the UN or the Knesset. On each desk is a small card with the name of the occupant. The seated people come from across the spectrum of Israeli society. Every religion, ethnicity, language and culture is represented. The Druze delegate stands and shouts the famous Druze saying “The pen is in thy hands, write and fear not” to the assembly. Heads nod, and the murmuring of the crowd turns to a dull roar. After a moment, the Chassidic Rabbi raises his hand and says , “Does it not say in Perki Avos that Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel said, On three things the world stands: on Judgment, on Truth, and on Peace?” More argument, more muttering and all heads turn to the Muslim and Christian delegates to see which would be able to come up with a witty retort.

But before anyone could take the floor and should out in true Israeli fashion, all attention was suddenly diverted to a heated debate between the Israelis of Yemenite and Moroccan decent. “It has to be ground! That’s what my mother said!” one shouted and turned a slight shade of red. The other screamed loud enough for all the assembled dignitaries to hear while turning a slight shade of purple. “It’s roasted and then ground! Everyone knows that”. The crowd screaming, the panel banging for attention and everyone screaming only added to the chaos. More screaming, more cursing, and the delegates took a few minutes break. Everyone has their own recipe for the perfect cup of coffee, how exactly to put in the grounds, how much sugar, how much water, when and for how long. The five minute break turned into an hour long shmooze about coffee and everything else. Slowly, the delegates filed back into the conference room.

I imagine there really is a place like this in real life, there has to be. Go to any supermarket or makolet, you will find dozens of chummous containers of all shapes, sizes, ingredients and types. How do they come up with so many blends of peppers, eggplant, chickpea, technia, charif and a million other additives? How do they make it appeal to everyone while coming up with new variants on a weekly basis? Chunky, creamy, inbetweeny, green, red, orange, pine nuts and walnuts, the variety is endless. American style, Moroccan, Yemenite, Mediterranean, and Greek, picked peppers, chopped up leek.

The only logical explanation I could come up with is a secret national laboratory, where new recipes are not only created, but cultural input from all sectors of Israeli society is taken into consideration. In a small country where a matter of miles is like a continent away, it’s an amazing challenge to take everyone into consideration. How to make someone who hails from Jerusalem find the same chummous flavors interesting and exciting as someone from Cairo, Siberia or Detroit. We all have different backgrounds and inputs into how things are in Israel. Unlike any other country I have been to; we certainly have the most strangely flavored potato chips, but that’s a whole other story.

Happy December

December is finally here, and it’s going to be a great month. Among the many events happening this month: my army enlistment day, Shira’s birthday, Chanukah and of course, the advent calendar on NeoPets.

I didn’t know what the advent calendar really was until one of my friends from the UK told me that she was excited about the chocolate and gifts one gets in December from the advent calendar. Thinking she was referring to the NeoPets advent calendar which gives free items every day during December, I told her how my NeoPet, HelenDixon, now has over a million neopoints and has been looking forward to December all year long. It was a bit of cultural miscommunication, and after a bunch of emails back and forth, me figured it all out.

If you have no idea what NeoPets is, don’t worry, neither did I. I was introduced to it by my seven year old sister Emunah about a year and a half ago. Since then, I have perfected my neopoints earning strategies and wasted an endless amount of time on the site. The games are addictive, you can collect endless items, and there is a whole community of people out there playing all the time. It’s amazing how a site that appeals to kids holds the same fascination for adults as well. It’s hard to describe the allure and the endless places in Neopia for you to explore. I think the best way to understand it all is to try it out for yourself. You can sign up for an account here.

My Neopet, HelenDixon, is named after my friend Helen Dixon who I met at the Tel Rehov excavation in 2005. She is from Georgia, always has a story, and is a wonderful person to be around. She has long red hair which was the natural inspiration for my red neopet. As Helen puts it, she has the perfect name to run for President because it looks great on a campaign poster. It’s a great looking name because it has five letters and five letters and has a memorable ring. I am sure when she grows up; the world will need a US President fluent in ancient languages.

Back to advent calendars, I did a little research and was told my Mr. Wiki the true meaning on advent calendars here.

In short, the traditional calendar consists of two pieces of cardboard on top of each other. Twenty four doors are cut out in the top layer, with one door being opened every day, from December 1 to December 24. Many calendars have been adapted by merchandisers and manufacturers to include a piece of chocolate or a sweet behind each compartment, aimed at children.

I always thought that while everyone just had the one day of Christmas, we had eight days of Chanukah. Now it seems that some people have a whole month of chocolate and presents. I think we should start a movement to make an entire holiday season, say half a year, with presents, chocolate and school vacation. Although now that I think about it, when I was growing up we had to go to school on Chanukah, and I am sure a candy season would not be that good for anyone’s teeth.

I think Ill stick with the traditional Chanukah, where we take everything and deep fry it.

From buttons to shirts

I have a shirt which is missing two buttons. You would think it would be a simple matter to find matching buttons, or replacement buttons and move on. After visiting more button stores than I thought possible in Tel Aviv, I have yet to find replacement buttons. I even tried to find buttons that would work and replace them all. It seems that of the millions of buttons available in button stores, they are all either for women’s clothing or for arts and crafts projects. Walking through the shuk HaCarmel, I spotted a number of shirts with the right type of buttons, but it seemed silly to buy a shirt for spare parts. They were extremely cheap, so worst case scenario, when I finally find the right buttons only to discover they cost more than a new shirt, I may trade up.

Which reminds me; I was in shuk Betzalel and noticed a store selling Hawaiian shirts for five shekels (about $1.25). It seemed like a fantastic deal until I got close enough to actually feel the material. Apparently, the factory had a mishap and a batch or drapes got somehow mixed up with dish rags and paper towel, the resulting material was both scratchy and strangely absorbent. I guess in this case value isn’t everything.

Perception versus the Israeli reality

With less than three weeks left to go, my army service is right around the corner. I have been wondering what its going to be like, and how I will cope.

I was thinking about how before I started the police I really had such a different perception of what it would like; mainly based on things I had seen on TV. In reality, the way the police operate in Israel and the role they play is completely unlike anything in the States or Canada. I didn’t really have a good frame of reference for how things are done here. To highlight just a couple of the major differences: in Israel police officers don’t wear bullet proof vests under normal circumstances, and unlike in the States, police never use their guns to order people around, ever. Even putting handcuffs on someone is considered an arrest with force; the focus is always on maintaining the dignity of the person, and providing excellent, prompt, respectful and proper service. Many of my friends from back home have the idea that being a cop in Israel is like something out of the Wild West. From what I have seen so far, the role of a police officer in a city is much more benign, with a definite emphasis on “customer service”. It’s really different here, I guess when you feel something in common with the average guy on the street and the fact that everyone is Israeli, makes it completely different. Somehow we are all in this together; you can really feel it while interacting with the general public. In Canada, people have much more of an Us versus Them mentality, here when you pull someone over to give them a ticket, they come running out of their car and either start screaming, tell you who they know, or show you how you’re related.

Much like the police experience, I have a feeling basic training in the army is going to be nothing like it is portrayed in the movies. I am certain it’s going to be hard, but it’s a great experience and one of the cultural gateways to really becoming Israeli. I am not that great with sleep deprivation or exercise, but as the past two summers excavations have shown, you can get into it quite quickly and enjoy it. I am looking forward to the experience; I think its going to be a real adventure. The first day of the army is a once in a lifetime event, I am sure I will make a lot of new friends, and along the way have a lot of new stories. I am not crazy about getting shots and blood tests on the first day, but I guess it’s a small price to pay to get a uniform and represent the country.

Forest doodle

I was doodling a forest...

Yemenite breakfast

Some days you just wake up and feel like an Israeli, or at least pretend to feel like one. This morning I had two fried melawach smothered in cheeses, hard boiled egg and schug (extremely hot pepper sauce). According to Mr. Wiki, Malawach or malawah is a Yemeni-Jewish bread. Resembling a crepe, malawach is made up of hundreds of thin pancake layers. It is usually fried. It was excellent, definitely a change from cereal and milk, French toast and pancakes. I am usually not much of a breakfast person, but I figured I would give something new a try. Using Scott’s recipe, I covered them in spread-able Bulgarian cheese, Labeneh and Zatar. They also got a liberal spread of red and green schug, I am really feeling Yemenite this morning.

Happy belated Thanksgiving

I am in the middle of writing a new story titled Four and a Half. It just doesn’t seem to want to get off the ground. After a number of revisions, it’s still at the half way mark, and right now I am not inspired enough to write the rest. I guess as soon as I get around to polishing it off, it will be posted for all to see. Its going to be an interesting story, I just need to ponder it a bit more.

In the meantime, I wanted to pose a question. If you’re like me, you’re not an American but have plenty of friends stateside. So when American holidays come around like Thanksgiving, it’s hard to understand what all the fuss is about. In my personal experience, we don’t give American Thanksgiving much though in either Canada or Israel. In Canada Thanksgiving is celebrated on the second Monday in October. It’s a recent development, on January 31st, 1957, Parliament decided that "A Day of General Thanksgiving to Almighty God for the bountiful harvest with which Canada has been blessed ... to be observed on the 2nd Monday in October." From then on, Canadians everywhere had a day to eat turkey.

The problem is, here in Israel we don’t have a national turkey day. So I don’t feel left out, one of my friends from the US gave me a fantastic idea. Everyone in Israel should get into the spirit of Thanksgiving by eating a Turkey shwarma on the new National Shwarma Day to Promote Unity and Harmony. Its something new we are trying to start, get everyone to go out and have a shwarma. It’s a great idea because you don’t have to wait hours for it to cook, you don’t have to keep it moist, and its ready to eat as soon as you get it. Also, I don’t know if chummous would go well with a traditional turkey.

Therefore, I don’t think anyone from the Middle East can object to a national shwarma day or NSDPUH. NSDPUH, or as we call it, Nasdupah, will be the best civil holiday of the year, simply because the government will mandate shwarma eating. I don’t see Hamas staying mad much longer after we invite them to a Nasdupah celebration with tons of roasted meat, fresh pitas, and tons of spreads. Nasdupah revelers from all over the Middle East will be flocking to my favorite shwarma joint to have a hot one right off the presses. At the same time, we can warm our relations with the States, and have yet another reason to eat shwarma. I am sure the turkey producers of Israel and the US would love a holiday which promotes their industries, as well as mutual understanding and cultural exchange.

Happy belated American Thanksgiving!

Chanukah Math

In Israel, we do Chanukah a little differently than everywhere else. Our dreidels have a different letter, and Israeli’s don’t get down with the latkes, rather its sufganiot (jelly doughnuts). While latkes can be eaten with sour cream, apple sauce or ketchup, in Israel sufganiot are stuffed with everything from jam to cream, caramel, and chocolate fudge. For good measure, most sufganiot are covered with a liberal dousing of powered sugar.

My sister told me that since the army gives them to soldiers, and I am enlisting on Chanukah, I should try to make it worth my while. If it wasn’t for me wanting to go to the army for patriotic, Zionistic, or nationalistic reasons, perhaps service for food would be an interesting concept. I signed up looking forward to the real army experience; I think it’s going to make for some great stories. However, say someone did sign up to break even through eating army food.

Here is my calculation. The average plain jelly sufgania sells for about 2-3 shekels (which is about 25-30 cents). Assuming an average monthly salary in Israel of $1462 or 6300 shekels, you would have to eat about three thousand doughnuts. Factor in the salary from the army and multiply by the number of months you have to serve in Shlav Bet (second stage) and account for the other services the army pays for like food, accommodation and transportation. According to my calculations, you would have to eat about 10,800 sufganiot to break even with the army over the course of six months in comparison to the average salary.

In my particular situation however, the only problem is, I am starting my army service on the fourth night of Chanukah, leaving only four days to eat 10,800 jelly doughnuts. Accounting for sleep and bathroom breaks, that totals up to a whopping 175 doughnuts an hour for four straight days!

I guess I will go back to dreaming up loof recipes and take it easy this Chanukah.

Kubah Soup Recipe

Someone searched Google for “Kubah Soup Recipe” and got my blog. I feel bad that I don’t actually have one posted, so here is my recommendation where to get some. One of the best things at my favorite Yemenite restaurant, Marvad HaKisamim (The Magic Carpet) is the Kubah. There are many other amazing dishes; I would of course recommend the shipudim (chicken/meat on a stick) and the salad platters. Kubah served on a plate as a side dish is normally deep fried, it’s a small pocket (or cone) of fried dough, stuffed with ground beef and pine nuts. The kubah in soup is usually boiled instead of fried, and slightly rounder, resembling a matza ball. In Israel, you can pick up frozen packages of kubah ready to drop into any dish.

My Dad and I used to go to their old Jerusalem location fifteen years ago, since then it has gone from being a well kept secret to a Jerusalem landmark. The food is excellent and they have recently opened several new branches around the city. I have been with a number of visitors as well as friends from Israel, and everyone loves the place. I like the huge amounts of salads, choices and value. It’s really authentic; the bread is baked fresh and melts in your mouth. For a review and a coupon, click here: http://eluna.com/rest/Marvad.asp?mumu=251

I don’t have a recipe for the perfect kubah, but eating it at Marvad is better than making it at home.

Fender's brain is melting away: a song

Here is a song for Fender, Stinny’s dog.

I took Fender to the park,
I wanted to see him run and bark,
He ran, straight to me,
But instead he plowed right into a tree…

Fender's brain is melting away,
What more can I say?
The damage is severe,
I think he’s drinking beer,
When will he get back here?

He is always there for me,
Even if we have a dented tree,
We go for walks at night,
He walks me and rides his bike…

Fender's brain is melting away,
What more can I say?
The damage is severe,
I think he’s drinking beer,
When will he get back here?

Fenders acting strange,
I don’t want my dog to change,
He’s smoking Cubans,
And eating Rubens,
What happened to Fender, my old dog?

Fender's brain is melting away,
What more can I say?
The damage is severe,
I think he’s drinking beer,
When will he get back here?

This is the first song I ever wrote, hope Fender likes it. The song will be out on iTunes just as soon as Kammy pimps it out on Garage band. Stay tuned for a best selling hit. Up next, the song about how Trevor and Fender take over the world.

Exam over, waiting on results

Well, it’s finally over. The police exam for shlav aleph (the first stage course) consisted of thirty-four multiple choice questions over eight pages. I understood about 80-90% of the Hebrew, some of the questions and answers were in paragraph form, requiring understanding everything in order to answer correctly. I think (hope) I passed, I will find out in the next couple of days. It took me just over an hour to get through it; I was the first to start and the last to leave. They screamed at us a bit first about being extremely careful in everything we do in a professional capacity. Now that we have uniforms it means there is more risk of being prosecuted for stupid things we do. It was really interesting. Unlike the culture I come from, in Israel people just keep talking throughout the test, with small breaks when the test administrator screams for everyone to shut up, which lasts about five seconds. It was really funny when people walked by and whispered answers to each other. I did everything on my own, and hopefully my grade will reflect that. The exam was extremely varied; there were questions about all aspects of the course. I especially liked the questions about the procedures for opening fire. It was something like this:

Before opening fire you:

1. Shoot first and ask questions later
2. Shout a warning, fire in the air, and then fire to injure but not kill
3. Fire in the air and shoot to kill

Questions like this seemed rather obvious (the second option). Other things about traffic and enforcement were a little more complicated. Over the two months of the course I enjoyed every class; it was always interesting and provides the basics. I think at this stage the biggest help is learning to wade through the endless paperwork and forms. Every class they talk about a different subject, giving the basics of court procedures, traffic, law enforcement, professional ethics, paperwork, first responders, weapons, communications, and a lot more.

The shlav bet (second stage) course is starting in December; I will be in the army, but I hope to take it when I am done. The next course is exclusively about traffic and tickets, it should be interesting, but not what I am looking for right now. After the course I just took, everyone has the option of joining a specialized unit. After considering my options, I asked to join the patrol unit; it’s very general and gets called out to all types of situations. Not that school security, traffic enforcement and the many other options are not interesting, but I like to as Ole says, mix it up and see what happens.

Toasted Parmesan

Toasting parmesan cheese might sound like a great idea, but as I found out the hard way, it’s not. Think about it, wonderful little crumbs of lightly toasted and slightly crispy cheese, what could be better? After thinking about it and realizing the only thing standing between me and the realization of my dream is action, I got busy. The first stupid thing was using baking paper instead of tinfoil. The second was probably forgetting about it while it was baking. The resulting fire was probably caused by the baking paper igniting, incinerating any traces of parmesan cheese. It was doused with a coffee cup full of water conveniently sitting in the sink, and disaster was averted. The toaster is fine and so are we; the cheese was unfortunately beyond salvage. I guess its back to the gastronomic drawing board.

A story from the Moshav

Shira's father, R' Dovid Hertzberg z'l wrote the following story in the second chapter of his joke book. The joke book is a collection of jokes, stories, and recollections from R' Shlomo Carlebach, his followers and friends, otherwise known as the chevrah... Sometimes a little disjointed, sometimes nonsensical, they are always wonderful. Reading through the joke book makes you laugh, smile and cry. The stories run the gamut of emotion, you can always find a deeper or hidden meaning in them. Sometimes a simple story or a joke which has a punch line which you had to be there for, brings back something. I picture R' Dovid and R' Shlomo sitting with a group of friends and laughing into the night. I never had the pleasure of meeting Shira's abba, but through his stories, I hope to learn a little about who he was, the importance of being happy, and enjoying a good joke.

From the joke book, chapter 2, Dovidl's Jokes.

It was Friday night at the Moshav, and the Rebbe was going strong. We were all in the synogogue that was exquisitely painted by the famed artist Reb Yitschak ben Yehuda. He and his wife Rivka had been on the Moshav for some twenty years, ever since the school bus they were living in broke down. Sitting in this beautiful Shul (synogogue) with Reb Shlomo was truly a taste of the Garden of Eden. The teaching and the prayers went on for hours, and It was almost midnight by the time we got to 'Shalom Aleichem,' welcoming in the Shabbos angels. It seems the angels had a worthwhile wait as Reb Shlomo sang slowly and melodiously, swaying back and forth with his eyes toward heaven.

The holy Kiddush wine was flowing freely but our Rebbe gently taught us that the whole world drank in order to forget, but we Yidden drink wine to remember. The main thing, he said was that, G-d forbid, a person should never get drunk on Shabbos; but then he reminded us that we have to be drunk from Shabbos. So, too, we drink wine under the wedding canopy to remind ourselves that we should be drunk with love for each other. We ate, drank and sang for hours, and I don't remember anyone getting drunk. But we were certainly flying high that Shabbos. By the time we stood in front of Reb Shlomo's house on the Moshav I couldn't tell anymore what I was drunk from, but it seemed like an appropriate moment to tell one of my favorite jokes. I'd heard it from my good friend Reb. Fred.

Once there was a guy who went into a bar and ordered two scotches on the rocks. The bartender brought him a double scotch on the rocks. The guy started complaining saying, 'I ordered two single shots, not one double shot.' The bartender took back the double scotch, muttered something under his breath and brought back two single shots. They guy drank the first one and then crank the second one, saying 'cheers!' Now this went on for a month, and the bartender finally said to himself, 'I can't take it anymore. I have to ask this guy what's going on.' So the next night he said to the guy, "Hey Buddy, I know it's none of my business but could you tell me why you have to drink two single scotches everyday at the exact same time, five o'clock?" The guy started getting nostalgic. "Well, Joe, I'll tell you the truth. I have a buddy I served with in the army in Vietnam, and when we got out of Nam, he joined the Navy. We swore to each other that every day at five PM, wherever we were, we would both drink two scotches on the rocks and say 'cheers'; I do it twice, once for him and once for me. And he says 'cheers' twice, once for me and once for him. And that's the reason." After the guy left the bar, Joe the bartender turned to his regular customers, and with a tear in his eye he told of this guy's story to everybody. "Can you imagine? His buddy is out in the middle of the sea and he's here and the both of them are always connected, toasting each other and themselves. That's just so touching." By this time just about everyone at the bar was crying. Now this two-drink ritual continued for another six months until one fateful day the guy came into the bar at 5:00 and ordered one single shot of scotch on the rocks. Joe the bartender began trembling and was afraid to ask what happened to his buddy in the Navy. But the regulars kept signalling to Joe to ask him.

Finally, with trepidation, Joe asked: "Hey, listen, I don't mean to be nosy but I noticed you only ordered one drink. Is your buddy OK?" "Oh yeah," the guy answered, "he's as fine as can be." "Well then," Joe continued, "what's going on? How come you only ordered one drink?" "Oh," said the guy, "that's because I stopped drinking!"

Shlomo laughed hysterically and then said, "Dovid'l, that's a great joke. Where did you hear if?" I said, "where else Reb Shlomo? At the bar!"

The video of: I am cow

Return of the Schwartz and the Dinner at Dougie's

Here is another ramble about how things were way back when.
Schwartz and I were on many adventures together over the years. Our Dad’s grew up across the street from each other, years later we went to grade school together, made aliyah around the same time, went to yeshiva together, were roommates in Toronto, and so much more. Our stories could fill a book; we both have very different interests, yet were always close friends. I think the common denominator between us is that Schwartz and I always loved the news. To this day I have a fascination with what is going on around the world and read a dozen papers every morning. A typical breakfast was Schwartz frying up a package of Perl’s beef strips (a.k.a. kosher bacon) and me eating a grapefruit and toast, or something left over from the night before like a burger. We would sit at the table and say things like “so, have you heard what’s going on in China?” to which the other would say “yeah, that train derailment in Fujian province…” to which the other would say, “no, the one about the panda biting the guy in the zoo in Beijing”. That’s how good we were, both plugged into the news and deadly at trivial pursuit.

There are so many adventures we had together over the years…There was that time Schwartz almost got arrested by the police in upstate New York while eating a bucket of chicken and speeding. Or perhaps the time when the world went crazy when he couldn’t find his keys and we were stranded at a party. Maybe even the story about being at a friend’s house in the middle of the night and being confronted by her mothers screaming Italian boyfriend. All good stories, but I was thinking of New York a few years ago. These days, even when we end up on opposite sides of the globe, we still try to keep in touch with the occasional email or instant message. I guess that was one reason it was so shocking to meet his daughter, who is now a very mature three. She is a really cute kid, who walks and talks, and of course makes me feel old. We were all together in Flushing, NY the night before she was born, and this is more or less what happened.

I guess I could start by how strange I thought it was to live in a place called Flushing, NY. I quickly got past the toilet jokes when they took me over to the Israeli restaurant literally a couple doors down on the corner and got me some delicious lamb chops. I thoroughly enjoyed the visit, and realized I would easily weigh a few hundred more pounds if I lived around the corner from that restaurant. Living in close proximity to such a delicious eatery really takes some self control. Actually, I think the restaurant was near their second apartment and doesn’t really come into this story, but how could I pass up a mention of lamb chops?

In any case, I was in visiting from Toronto, and we all went out to Dougie’s in Brooklyn. It was a Monday night, and little did I know, there was an all you can eat buffet. Dougie’s is your typical meat burger/steak/chicken kosher restaurant with some interesting flair. The table cloths were made out of paper and you could draw your dinner with the supplied crayons while waiting. They come and give you salsa and nacho chips while you’re waiting, and the service is usually good. They had some interesting items on the menu, spicy chicken poppers, salad with a liberal sprinkling of meat, grilled meats, the works. We grabbed a table, and the gastronomic orgy began. There we all sat, Schwartz, his extremely pregnant wife ML, and I. We sat and stared at the rows of the buffet, chefs whipping and grilling, all for the taking. We ordered some drinks and grabbed our plates and it was off to the races. I have heard eating spicy food helps induce labor, and since ML was just snacking on the spicy chicken poppers all night, I guess it’s true. That’s the great thing about snacking, you can say you’re not really eating, but before you know it, you have nibbled away enough meat to feed a football team. From what I recall, I went up and grabbed about eight to nine plates of food. There was some great grilled meat, meat and chicken in sauces, salads, and not much in the way of “light” food. It was a real mans meal, meat, chicken and potatoes. I think that’s where the problem was. Women might have the common sense to know when to quit or maybe switch those last ten steaks for salad, but what can I say? I was captivated by the abundance of meat for the taking. I was drinking coke like a camel as well; I think I also drank a number of water pitchers. Once it got to the point where I could no longer get up, I sent Schwartz to grab me some more, a huge miscalculation.

At the end of the meal, I had the feeling that someone had rammed a pointy box into my round stomach, and things were poking out, just like when a snake expands and swallows an elephant. I could almost feel those small round chicken poppers poking me and trying to bust out. If you are what you eat, I am scared to think what I was after that meal. When we were finally done, I got up to pay. I stumbled over to the counter and was greeted by the chirpy woman, pretending not to stare at the guy who just ate and drank her out of business. She said “thank you so much for coming to Dougie’s! I hope you enjoyed everything, can we expect to see you back soon?” My brain was a little foggy from the mass quantities of everything I had just ingested and replied “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be back on a Monday night, I have better self control when I have to pay for what I eat.” She thought it was funny, but since then I had not been back to an all you can eat meat place until a couple months ago when we went to Papagio in Tel Aviv. I don’t remember much else of what happened that night, we went back to their apartment and I urinated for about half an hour, and somehow got back to where I was staying and passed out. The next thing I knew, Schwartz was calling to tell me they had a baby girl, Mazel Tov!

I guess its good luck to have the dinner to end all dinners the night before you give birth, or at least watch someone else eat one. The baby lives up to the hype, because while visiting Israel a couple months ago, she sang a song about cows by the Arrogant Worms, lyrics posted below. Anyone who sings songs about cows is a singer after my own heart. Everyone can sing about love, relationships, and being a teenager in angst, you have to be a genius to come up with a good cow song. I am sure one day she will be old enough to understand how she was born with the help of Dougie’s spicy poppers, and I will still be an old guy reminiscing about the good old days.

Arrogant Worms – I am Cow

I am cow, hear me moo
I weigh twice as much as you
And I look good on the barbecue
Yogurt, curd, cream cheese and butters
Made from liquid from my udders
I am cow, I am cow, hear me moo (moo)

I am cow, eating grass
Methane gas comes out my ass
And out my muzzle when I belch
Oh, the ozone layer is thinner
From the outcome of my dinner
I am cow, I am cow, I’ve got gas

I am cow, here I stand
Far and wide upon this land
And I am living everywhere
From B.C. to Newfoundland
You can squeeze my teats by hand
I am cow, I am cow, I am cow
I am cow, I am cow, I am cow!

My College Apartment

My college apartment had a unique feature that separated it from most other bachelor pads. New forms of life were slowly taking over the apartment, but I skipped ahead to the end of the story. To start at the beginning, my roommate Schwartz and I rented an apartment in Toronto almost ten years ago now. We had both decided to come back from Israel and go to college back in the old country, Canada. We had a small three bedroom apartment in the middle of the city, which in most ways was unremarkable. There were the small quirks of living in any building, but generally it was a nice quiet place to live.

The owner of the building, an old woman, also owned the laundry machines. The laundry room was located right across from our front door. We often “forgot” our laundry in the dryer, and the friendly superintendent, with teenagers of her own, folded our laundry with a smile. I tried not to take advantage of her kindness, but she really wanted to help us, and we had no idea how to survive on our own, so we happily accepted. Easy access to laundry facilities is one of the perks living in the half basement, we still had windows, but about half our walls were underground. It actually came in handy on occasion when we forgot our keys and had to break into our own place.

The laundry/owner lady had an obsession with quarters. We had made a sport out of getting our endless rolls of quarters for the laundry. From the bank to the 7/11, they knew us well and usually saw us coming. When you come in every day and buy the cheapest item in the store with a $20 bill and ask for change in quarters, they tend to catch on quick. Back to the owner, I don’t know what she did with all those quarters, or why she refused to sell them back to us, but I am sure there was a good reason. She was always lugging away sacks of our scrounged up quarters. Perhaps like Scrooge McDuck, she enjoyed swimming in pools of coins in her massive vault. It’s a mystery, but I guess we’ll never know. In the apartment, we often had guests over, as I liked to cook, they liked to eat and everyone watched hockey or football, depending on the season. As these types of gatherings call for, someone inevitably brought beer.

Now in those days, we thought being fancy and sophisticated meant putting a slice of lemon or lime in the bottle. I think we used a few groves of lemons in that apartment. Thinking back, I imagine it was because I had a thing for Corona beer early on, probably because it was so expensive in Israel I could never afford it. Once we were in Toronto and I had sampled the multitude of Canadian alcoholic options, we applied the lemon rule to just about anything. Once the drinks were drunk, and so too were our guests, the lemon wedge was dropped in the bottle and set on our massive window ledges arranged all over the apartment. Within a few months, hundreds of bottles were neatly arranged around the windows in rows. Day after day, the sun beat down on those beer soaked lemon wedges, week after week, and month after month. One day, the lemons decided they had enough. It seems that’s it’s a cruel way to end your life, growing up in a sunny grove in Florida, only to be stuck at the bottom of a beer bottle. I guess that’s when they decided to get even and started forming bacteria in the bottles. The apartment smelled horrendous, and slowly but surely new forms of life started slowing making their way out of the bottles. I use the term “new life form” because unlike the regular types of mold and bacteria any university student can easily recognize, these molds were unique. The memory of the smell, colours, texture and shapes still to this day make me want to slap on a pair of rubber gloves, scrub something and jump in the shower.

While the bottle revolution was slowly forming on the window ledges, the battle of the sink was in its early stages of development. It seems that much like lemon wedges, dishes and food dumped in the sink with some water shpritzied on them, don’t stay happy long either. It soon came to pass that both of us would just dart into the kitchen, grab something from the fridge, and try not to look at the sink, gagging all the while. I think we had the policy of not looking at the sink as not to anger it, after a few days it was very, very angry. Tall, strange, foamy bacteria had started forming, and it threatened to take over the kitchen entirely. I don’t know what could have happened if not for the intervention of our friend Itimar. One day he came over to the apartment, put on some gloves, and started spraying soap and water at the sink. I don’t think the sink liked that much and started to fight back. This type of combat is not for the faint of heart or the weak stomached, I went to go lie down on the couch and tried not to gag. I don’t know what happened next, but ten minutes later he emerged from the kitchen and had clearly won the battle. From that day on, we tried to keep the kitchen as clean as possible, I had a feeling that Brutus the Bacteria was lurking, just waiting for him chance to come back and take us out once and for all. Suffice it to say, the bottles were gone the next day, and the only life forms left in the apartment were the two of us.

There are too many stories and adventures I have had with Schwartz to write them all down or ever remember them, this is another one that I won’t forget.

There was that time I put a knife though my hand, in one side and out the other while making hamburgers. The burgers were frozen and slippery and all stuck together. I placed them in the palm of my hand and tried to pry them apart with a serrated steak knife. In retrospect, it may not have been the most brilliant idea, but then again most ideas seem stupid post fact. In any case, I put the knife right through my hand and shpritized blood all over the open freezer, the ceiling, the cupboards, and the floor. I am still to this day appreciative of the guys wiping it all up while I was in the hospital. I know it wasn’t easy for them and had planned on doing it myself when I got back. I really wasn’t thinking when I pulled the knife out, it was an instinctive reaction. I grabbed a couple new dish towels, applied pressure, elevated the hand, and walked into the living room where Schwartz and a couple guests were watching the hockey game. I think it was an important game because they were both glued to the TV. I was completely calm and asked, I think it was Yona, to call an ambulance. Schwartz said, “can’t this wait until after the game?” After the told him it could not wait and it was an emergency, they got up and took a look at the kitchen. I don’t mind the sight of blood, but considering as the kitchen looked like it had been the set for a slasher movie, they were freaked out. There was a huge snow storm outside, and it took the ambulance a while to get to us. In fact, a couple days later, they ended up using ambulance APC’s from the Canadian Army, some areas were so snowed in they were impassable. The next thing I did while waiting was of course to call my Dad in Israel and ask what to do. Since it was 3am and he was sleeping, I apologized for calling so late and asked Doctor Dad what to do. He told me to head straight for the hospital and get sewn up. It was practical advice.

When we had waited for ten minutes and were sure the ambulance was due at any moment, we went out in the snow and waited at the curb. Within minutes a police car drove up, two officers got out and started asking us questions. I think I should have been clearer when I said to the guys they should call 911. Apparently if you call and say “come quick, someone’s been stabbed”, they tend to misinterpret the information. After reassuring them I did it to myself, and yes, I was actually stupid enough to cut frozen hamburgers while holding them in my hand, the ambulance rolled up behind the police car. They told me that they could not take me because of the storm, since my injury was not that critical, but I should get to the emergency room right away because losing lots of blood could be fatal. I love it how everyone gets pleasure out of stating the obvious. Fortunately, Schwartz’s cousin Elana had recently gotten her drivers license, and she rushed me over to the hospital. Everything ended up well, and I have a scar on either side of my hand to remind me to defrost first in the microwave.