A Moveable Feast: My Blog

A Little Piece of Eden, Part #3: Not a fig-ment of my imagination

July 11, 2012 by Carol 2 Comments

One of the very first things I did on arriving at Kibbutz Malkia in 1971 was to pick fresh, succulent figs from ancient trees dotting the rocky landscape. They were the most divine things I had ever tasted and I was overwhelmed by the prospect that I was eating a Biblical fruit in the land of the Bible. How exotic!

Years later, daughter Elana wrote to tell me that she had just plucked figs from atop a horse she was riding at Kibbutz Geva. What a romantic image! I remember thinking I must use that scene in a story someday.

Then, by sheer coincidence, I happened to read two different novels that referred to fig trees growing in Manhattan. Fig trees in New York? Wouldn’t it be too cold there? Once I stopped to think about it, I realized that Malkia, while hot as blazes when I arrived in August, was located in the Upper Galilee on the border with Lebanon. It could get quite cold in winter, although compared with my home in New England, it was mild. (We in the Northeast can get pretty competitive about our weather.)

Could it possibly be true that I could cultivate figs outdoors in chilly Central Massachusetts?

Could I hope to retrieve a piece of that sensuous, exotic Levantine feeling in my own backyard?

So, a little over three years ago I purchased a Mission fig tree from an online retailer. The website said that I could indeed, with care, successfully grow figs. Just in case, I planned to keep mine in the sunroom during the dead of winter and outside on the patio in the summer. Just to be sure.

For a long time the “tree” sat in its little 4-inch pot, not doing much of anything. Twice it lost all its leaves, making me believe that it had died, but each spring the leaves returned. Three years in, the darn thing hasn’t grown more than a couple inches in height, and has only graduated to a 6-inch pot.

Then, around the end of this past April, Joel noticed something growing on the stick that calls itself a tree trunk. A new leaf. Within about a week, we noticed that these leaves were different; they were spherical. We had two tiny green figs! The little fruits grew slowly but surely into teardrop shaped globes about the size of prune plums.

In June, it was time to take the plants outside for their summer vacation. Within 48 hours of taking up residence on the patio, the figs turned brown. Panic ensued. Had they spoiled? Had they become infected? What to do?

What I always do when confronted with a horticultural challenge. I called my wonderfully calm and agriculturally inclined son-in-law, Adam. He assured me that the figs were probably ripening, not spoiling. I then went online to find out what to do. The first piece of info that popped up was that birds were likely to attack the figs, so I ran (okay, walked) to the kitchen to cut off a length of cheesecloth, which I wrapped around the two fruits as gently as if they were my infant children. I checked on them daily, giving a little squeeze to see if they were soft enough to pick. I even took a picture of the tree that you can see here.

Then, we went away for the weekend. On return home I squeezed again and, lo and behold, we had liftoff. I cut the two figs from the tree and called to Joel. The figs would be our dessert that night. The photo of the fig’s interior is a stock photo since I was so excited to eat the fruit that I forgot to take a picture. It is identical to ours, however.

We Skyped with the kids and said a she’hechiyanu, a special blessing of gratitude, as we enjoyed the very first figs of our Biblical garden.

A Rather Daunting Milestone

June 29, 2012 by Carol 1 Comment

I woke up the other day to the realization that I had turned 60 years old. I lay in bed for a few minutes wondering how that had happened and, frankly, a little scared. I also realized that I was partaking of a cliche: How did I get to be so old? Where did the time go? Did 60 mean I was over-the-hill? After all, I haven’t accomplished nearly what I had hoped to. I haven’t written all the books I want to write. I haven’t come close to perfecting my tennis game or my skiing form. And I still haven’t lost all that “baby weight” (My youngest “baby” 28 years old, and I have a grandbaby now).

But then, I began to think about my brother, who died four days after his 62nd birthday. And my cousin David, who left us at 59. And mother-in-law at 62. Staying in bed was not an option. So, I have resolved to live every day to the absolute fullest and squeeze every drop of enjoyment out of it. I will dig up to my elbows in the garden, take that creative writing class, and bring little Max to miniature golf. And, I will stop fretting over wrinkles and sags, even if I can’t help but see them in HD now that my cataracts have been removed. (Note to friends: Please keep your cataracts so that you won’t see the wrinkles and sags.)

As part of my birthday celebration, Joel and I went to see the movie, “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.” While not an intellectually challenging film, it was an awful lot of fun and it reinforced my new resolution that, as long as I am able to put one foot in front of the other, I can have a fulfilling and challenging life. Judi Dench and Maggie Smith are truly magnificent women and fabulous role models, both in the film and in real life.

And, to make the landing a little softer, my husband and kids have all reminded me that, based on the age of the biblical Moses, “to 120” is the traditional Jewish birthday wish. This means that at 60, I am only middle aged now!

Does that mean I have to give up my senior discount at the movie theater?

The Best-Laid Plans

June 14, 2012 by Carol 2 Comments

Well, the wedding was fabulous. Although it had rained for two straight weeks preceding — and the two days immediately following — the sun came out in time to dry out the backyard for the Big Day. And it was a glorious day. The sky was a robin’s egg blue. The thermometer showed a high 70s. Virtually every flower in the yard was in bloom – all shades of pinks and purples and yellows.

More important, the bride and groom radiated bliss. After a few pre-ceremony tears of nerves for the bride, she giggled as she walked down the aisle. The parents kvelled. Surrounded by our family and friends we danced for hours, to music so fabulous that our neighbors sat out on their decks to listen. The food was scrumptious (although I didn’t get more than a couple hors d’oeurves – the best part of any catered affair).

But, no wedding goes exactly as planned, and it is the unexpected things that make the event memorable. My own is a case in point. We should have anticipated that when a six-foot-four-inch groom walks under a six-and-a-half-foot huppah, the kippah will get knocked off.

Knowing all this, I was prepared. Or, so I thought. It is no secret to family and friends that am a big crybaby. So, well in advance of the wedding, I made sure to note on my lengthy to-do list to place a box of facial tissue on the table under the huppah, right next to the kiddush cups and the glass for the groom to break. The morning of the wedding, I brought it outside to the tent, and there it was, sitting at the ready for the copious tears sure to be shed by the mothers of the bride and groom. After the photographer was finished taking the formal family pictures, we all went inside to wait for the signal to begin the processional. (Nota bene: Photographers like to move things around to make pretty pictures.)

The music began, Adam’s parents escorted him down the aisle, followed by Joel and me on either side of the glowing, giggling bride. Once under the huppah, Joel began to officiate (no, he is not a rabbi and, yes, one can get a one-day celebrant permit from the Governor of the Commonwealth).

I turned to get a tissue for myself, and one for Barbara, my mehuteneste (my son-in-law’s mother – only the Yiddish language has a word for this relationship), to hold in the event of certain blubbering. No tissue box. I looked around me, trying to locate it. There it was, sitting on one of the dining tables — about fifteen feet away. In a panic, I tried to catch the eye of my sister-in-law, Diane, who was busy videotaping us (quite professionally, I might add – the quality of her work was fabulous). Diane did not see me, despite my wild gesticulating, but the video camera certainly did. There I am, eyes open wide like a crazed gunman’s and my head maniacally jerking toward the box.

To make matters worse, I couldn’t remember if my mascara was waterproof or not, and my dress was lemon yellow. Weeping would be a bad choice. So, I decided I had better suck it up and not sob. Just as I had settled on that course of action, who should then choke up? My husband the officiant, who was trying very hard to pronounce the couple husband and wife “with great joy,” but couldn’t get the joyful words to exit his mouth. At that point I got pretty misty, but miraculously did not shed a single tear. Success!

That is, until the toasts offered by the couple’s siblings had me laughing so hard I cried with sheer joy.

The mascara was, indeed, waterproof.

Searching for Bubbie

May 30, 2012 by Carol Leave a Comment

As a child, I loved hearing my mother’s stories about growing up during the Depression. I was fascinated as she recounted how every Thursday, her mother, Sarah Dvorah, would place the chicken that had been living in their yard into a burlap sack for her to bring to the shohet, the ritual slaughterer. The next night that chicken would appear as Shabbat dinner.

I also loved hearing about the buying trips to New York. Sarah Dvorah would occasionally take my mother along with her and, once business was concluded, they would visit with relatives in the Big City. How exciting this was to me.

Since we lived in the same small town in which my grandparents ultimately settled, I could actually go back to the old neighborhood where immigrants lived when they got to America, and even to the very street where my mother lived. Several of my dad’s cousins still lived down on John Street, an exotic place where one of the elders made blintzes in the kitchen while her sons operated the junk business out back and I played with my cousin, Gail, who would visit from another exotic place – New York.

As I have gotten older, I have developed a gnawing hunger to gather and record stories about the family. How did they live? What made them laugh? What did they do for fun? I am especially curious about those people I never knew, such as my maternal grandmother, Sarah Dvorah. Scary how few of us ever thought to ask questions of our parents and grandparents when we were young and they were alive. Not one of her nine grandchildren ever knew Sarah Dvorah. She died in 1932 when my mother, the youngest of five children, was just a teenager, but even the oldest cousin born of the oldest of Mom’s siblings was born well after Sarah Dvorah died.

Along with the stories, I thought it would be neat to gather photos and recipes so that we and our descendants could have a bigger picture of our ancestors’ history. What did they eat? What was considered a special treat? For example, I know from my mom that Sarah Dvorah made her own bagels. Did any of my aunts or uncles inherit that recipe, and perhaps hand it down to their own children? No, not a one. If Sarah Dvorah was anything like my paternal grandmother, Sarah Feyge, she never wrote down her recipes. Other than the bagels, chicken, and soup, I don’t know anything about Sarah Dvorah’s cooking.

And, as for photos, one of the most disappointing discoveries in my quest for family history is that there is not one picture of Sarah Dvorah. Not one photo or sketch among all the cousins. I knew the family was poor, but to have no pictorial record of my grandmother’s physical existence is so sad. What did she look like? Was she tall or short? Fat or thin? Brown hair or black?

So, this summer I am planning a little trek to all the places my grandparents lived in America. I am hopeful that there might be a photo among the archives of the Jewish communities where my zadie, Dov Aryeh, taught heder, religious school. Perhaps I will find a newspaper clipping of Sarah Dvorah having served on a charity committee in Willimantic, Connecticut, or maybe a line about the birth of three of her five children in Ellenville, New York. Those are small towns with what I am hopeful have great potential for success. But what about Brooklyn, New York? What is the chance that I will find a family needle in the haystack there? Is there the slightest chance that a distant cousin or two may still live there and remember Sarah Dvorah’s visits – and even have a photo documenting them?

Is there a chance that somebody out there in the cosmos might read this blog post and recognize the name Sarah Dvorah Katz, daughter of Shrayge Feivel Cohen?

Stay tuned. This could be either a rewarding summer, or a fruitless search.

A backyard wedding

May 7, 2012 by Carol 3 Comments

Our daughter, Elana, has chosen to be married in our backyard in a “simple” wedding. Her father and I were, admittedly, not enthralled with the idea. Images of monsoon-like rain, lightning, tenting, catering logistics, and porta-potties danced in our heads, and the word “simple” just didn’t jibe. But, a backyard wedding is what she wanted, and she asks for so little that we could hardly say “no.”

On reflection, our backyard really is the perfect place for this marriage ceremony and celebration to take place. Elana came to this house when she was two days old and she played in its backyard virtually every day of her childhood. On our lawn she played soccer and softball, badminton and volleyball, sandbox and tea parties, and, doing so, she learned valuable social skills such as teamwork and cooperation in playing with her brothers, the neighborhood kids, and her friends.

Elana and her Adam are a unique couple. While their marital website shows a humorous photo of her hugging him as he hugs a tree, they are truly huggers of people. Their chosen career paths, as well as their leisure activities, mirror their love of humankind and nature.

Elana and Adam will be married under a huppah, or wedding canopy. Over the past few years, I have been working on making one that will, I am hopeful, serve our family for generations. I began painting the silk for brother Seth’s marriage to Elena, but decided that for this marriage, the addition of a few more fruits and flowers would add needed color. Perhaps for every additional wedding in our family I will add another feature, as long as I am able. This huppah is not by any means a work of art (Elana told me after Seth’s wedding “From 15 feet away it looked good, Mummy.”). It is one of love.

The huppah represents a shelter open on all sides. It is a tribute to our ancestors’ Abraham and Sarah, whose tent was always open to visitors, both planned and unplanned. Elana and Adam’s wedding will be welcoming people from all walks of life, as well. Witnessing the marriage vows will be guests representing not only every branch of Judaism but also friends of the Muslim, Hindu, Bahai, and Christian faiths, including Mormon, Quaker, and Eastern Orthodox.

The huppah holds no furniture, but teaches a lesson that the basis of home and family is the people within it, not its possessions. Another thing learned in our backyard: sharing. Elana and Adam represent the polar opposite of consumerism and, in fact, didn’t register for wedding gifts for themselves. Rather, they have asked their guests wishing to make gifts to register with Heifer Project International, so that less fortunate people a world away can have the opportunity to make a life for themselves and their families.

Yes, I think the backyard is exactly the place in which this wedding should take place. “Simple” it is not. Perfect it will be – even with a monsoon.

A Little Piece of Eden: Part #2

April 23, 2012 by Carol Leave a Comment

This past fall, long after the High Holidays had passed, I discovered, hiding under a bag of parsnips in my refrigerator’s vegetable bin, one half of a pomegranate. (Please, no comments about how often I should clean the fridge.) It was still in fairly good condition, but I had no particular desire to eat it and knew that, if left it in the fridge, it would rot.

So, I popped the seeds out of their glossy, cream-colored nest and into some fresh potting soil in a clay pot. And waited. About three weeks later, as I went to the windowsill to water the plants, lo and behold, several tiny green seedlings were popping out of their deep brown home – see photo. I can’t wait to bring the little ones outside this the summer to see how they do. Stay tuned.

The pomegranate is just one of the Seven Species – two grains and five fruits – that are named in the biblical book of Deuteronomy (8:8) as being special products of the Land of Israel. The others are wheat, barley, grapes, figs, olives, and dates.

So, when one day I was eating an absolutely scrumptious Medjool date, it struck me: Why not plant a biblical garden? After all, I already had the etrog (see previous blog post). So I googled “planting dates at home” and learned that I should place the pits into a glass of water for a week or two before planting, changing the water frequently. The date pits have been sitting in soil for about two months now, but nothing has come of that experiment. Maybe I will try planting without soaking next time.

It turns out that I am not alone in wanting to have a little piece of Eden. This past January I got into a discussion with my friend, Josie, who told me of her synagogue’s attempt to plant a biblical garden in the Albany area. Then, just a couple weeks later, the Wall Street Journal published an article that chronicled similar, though not always successful, efforts by various groups around the country. See this link to read it. http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970203646004577213033000884426.html

In the meantime, I’ll start reading up on grapes, olives, wheat, and barley.