Promises promises...

One of my favorite bloggers (not to mention one of my closest friends) has made me a promise. Lisa is a finalist in the "Best Non-Muslim Blog" category in the Brass Crescent Awards (which she won last year). The organizers write that "Past winner Lisa Goldman's posts about encounters with Palestinians, Lebanese, and other members of the Arab world "are always excellent," and frankly, I'm inclined to agree. Of course, I'm biased, especially given "the promise".

If Lisa wins, I get a smoked salmon sandwich, latte and dessert at Cafe Noach (only in Hebrew - sorry) in Tel Aviv. And, if you've tried their smoked salmon sandwiches, you'll understand how much I want Lisa to win! So, if you really love me and want me to eat well, or if you just think that Lisa happens to have a blog that is not only awesome, but also meets embodies the criteria for the category in which its been nominated, head on over to the web site for the Brass Crescent Awards and vote for Lisa. And, as long as you're already there, be sure to check out some of the other finalists in the other categories. Some of them are really excellent, and will soon be added to my blogroll.

Just say yes to smoked salmon! And, all kidding aside, I wouldn't be promoting her if I didn't believe that she truly deserves to win. I never cease to be amazed by her words, her efforts and her actions when it comes to bridge-building and reaching out to others, no matter how many obstacles are thrown in her way, no matter how many people try to provoke, discourage, or dismiss her. She always gets back up, dusts herself off, and jumps straight back in, and all because she's acting on what she believes in. The description for the "Best Non-Muslim Blog" category reads "Which blog writen by a non-Muslim is most respectful of Islam and seeks genuine dialogue with Muslims?", and in my opinion, nobody does it better than Lisa.

Plus, just thinking about those sandwiches...

80s Music Video Sunday #45

Boys, consider yourselves warned. This week’s entry is for the girls…

Ok, ladies, please raise your hands if you didn’t fantasize about replacing Jennifer Grey in the movie Dirty Dancing, especially during those scenes when Patrick Swayze was teaching her how to dance. Just as I expected. I don’t see any hands raised. Not a one. Well, obviously. We all wanted to be the one who “carried a watermelon”. We all wanted Patrick Swayze to teach us that leap in the water. Admittedly, I don’t know anyone who actually wanted to be called “Baby”, though I do have one friend “attended Mount Holyoke in the fall”, after the movie was released.

I loved this movie, not only for the obvious bits mentioned above, but also because I was a child of the Catskills, where the movie took place (though it was actually filmed in North Carolina and Virginia). While we didn’t go there for summers, a lifetime of Passovers was spent at various hotels in the area, and aside from the fact that the wait-staff that had once been comprised of smiling, young college kids was now mostly comprised of native Spanish and Portuguese speakers from Latin America, our experiences there could have come straight from the script of Dirty Dancing, from the plethora of activities (I still have half a backscratcher from the Fallsview, which I won playing Bingo), to the evening shows, to the copious amounts of food served at every meal. The schedule of activities was printed up on a daily basis and available at the front desk, and we would pore over it every morning, seeking out the activities that caught our fancy (miniature golf competitions with prizes), groaning when they conflicted other desirable activities (trivia contests for prizes). There were dance lessons, fashion shows, and endless rounds of Simon Says (more often than not led by the gentlemen described in this article). There was the arcade (“can I have more quarters, Grandma/Grampa/Mom/Dad?”), the swimming pool and the ice skating rink, and one hotel even had a bowling alley. We were busy from the moment we woke in the morning until we fell into bed at night, which was probably a good thing, given how much food we were packing in at each meal.

When my mother, in her youth, would go away to the Catskills with her entire extended family, they were encouraged to fraternize with the aforementioned wait-staff, who were, as I mentioned, young college kids, and most of them, I believe, were Jewish (as were many of the guests). Friendly relationships were welcomed, and waiters and daughters were introduced. By the time we were going to the Catskills, the situation had changed. You’d have been hard-pressed to find a young, Jewish college student among them, and it wasn’t much easier to find a native English speaker. Relationships were no longer encouraged, but me being me, I was fascinated by the young, shy Spanish speakers, and while I carried no watermelons and went to no parties, I did manage to make a few friends along the way.

Between my mother’s stories and my own annual pilgrimages, I truly felt that the Catskill experience was my own, and needless to say, Dirty Dancing resonated with me in a way that other movies did not. Whenever I see it, old, long-forgotten memories are dredged up, exciting, childhood memories from a more innocent time.

And of course, those dance scenes were really hot… Check out the dance sequences threaded into Eric Carmen’s video for “Hungry Eyes”, and you’ll see what I mean.



Hungry Eyes
Eric Carmen

I've been meaning to tell you
I've got this feelin' that won't subside
I look at you and I fantasize
You are mine tonight
Now I've got you in my sights

With these hungry eyes
One look at you and I can't disguise
I've got hungry eyes
I feel the magic between you and I

I want to hold you so hear me out
I want to show you what love's all about
Darlin' tonight
Now I've got you in my sights

With these hungry eyes
One look at you and I can't disguise
I've got hungry eyes
I feel the magic between you
And I've got hungry eyes
Now I've got you in my sights
With these hungry eyes
Now did I take you by surprise

I need you to see
This love was meant to be

I've got hungry eyes
One look at you and I can't disguise
I've got hungry eyes
I feel the magic between you
And I've got hungry eyes
Now I've got you in my sights
With those hungry eyes
Did I take you by surprise

With my hungry eyes

And I thought we had legal loopholes...

Given that my best friend lives in Norway, I have, over the years, developed something of an affinity for various aspects of life in this bastion of blondness (labor unions that boycott Israel and Jostein Gaarder not withstanding, of course). I am rather fond of Norwegian brown cheese, otherwise known as Gjetost (which I can indeed pronounce, thank you very much), Norwegian salmon makes my mouth water, I enjoy lefse, and would love to try lutefisk, if for no other reason than to be able to tell people that I've eaten fish that's been treated with lye. The Husband and I both have beautiful Norwegian sweaters that keep us toasty warm in winter, and the coffee mug I keep at work has pictures of the Norwegian flag on it.

I've been to visit twice, and can even still remember a few words in Norwegian, which is nothing short of a miracle given that it is one of the more difficult languages that I've come across, sounding at times like a cross between words that almost sound like they're in English, and words that sound like the speaker is making them up. Three of the bloggers on my blogroll are Norwegian (blogging in English, obviously), and I had the pleasure of meeting one of them when he came to Israel during the summer.

And of course, because I am a news junkie, I also keep up with the goings on in Norway by periodically reading the English online version of the Norwegian newspaper Aftenposten. Though many of the headlines do not catch my fancy (quite a few of the stories seem somewhat mundane and – for me at least – irrelevant when compared to current events in Israel), I occasionally come across stories that scream for attention, stories that make one realize what passes for headline news in "normal" countries. Like the story I came across today, for example. While skimming the headlines, I was immediately drawn to one in particular...

"Bestiality ban proposed

Minister of Agriculture and Food Terje Riis-Johansen wants Norway's Animal Protection Act updated to expressly forbid sex with animals.

The existing act only specifies the kicking and beating of animals as abuse, and the agriculture minister now wants to close loopholes.

"This is a punishable offense that shall not occur," Riis-Johansen told NRK (Norwegian Broadcasting).

The ban will come into effect with the new Animal Protection Act, which will also prevent violence against animals and the use of live animals as feed or bait.

"It will still be legal to use a riding crop on a horse that must be trained. But beating a dog will be illegal," the minister said.

According to a 2006 survey of 650 veterinarians last year, bestiality - sex with animals - occurs far more often than people think.

"Every fifth veterinarian has either established or strongly suspected the sexual abuse of one of its animal patients. The extent of sexual abuse of animals is far greater than we had reason to believe at the beginning," said Live Kleveland of the Norwegian Animal Welfare Alliance.

She said that bestiality was first and foremost a problem with farming animals like cows, pigs, and sheep but also extended to domestic pets like cats and dogs, as well as sporting animals like horses."

Kind of makes you think, doesn't it? And I thought we had legal loopholes...

80s Music Video Sunday #44

What do you get when you combine a restaurant-owner from Happy Days with a young cousin from Eight is Enough? If you guessed three Karate Kid movies, you'd be spot on. In one of the most successful movie series of the 80s, we were repeatedly brought back to the theaters to watch Pat Morita, who played Arnold on Happy Days, and Ralph Macchio, who played cousin Jeremy during the later years on Eight is Enough, as they showed us again and again that goodness always triumphs in the end (though not without quite a bit of sap along the way). Apparently, there was also a fourth Karate Kid flick made in the early nineties, which helped to launch the career of Hilary Swank, but given that I only discovered this earlier today, I confess that I never had the distinct pleasure of watching yet another Karate Kid film.

As a big fan of both television shows (they just don't make shows like they used to!), I was more than happy to witness the repeated pairing of this duo, and was saddened to hear of Morita's passing back in 2005. Macchio, of course, is still the guy who never really looks any older, despite the fact that he's 46 years old!

As I mentioned, there were three Karate Kid films that came out in the 80s. If I had to pick a favorite, it would have to be Karate Kid II, which came out in 1986. I saw it during the summer, while working as a staff babysitter at my old summer camp, though for the life of me, I can't fathom where there might have been a cinema close to Barryville, NY, which is where the camp was located. But I digress. I suppose I liked KK II the best because of the fact that it was set in Japan (despite being filmed on the Hawaiian island of Oahu), and I enjoyed learning bits about Japanese culture.

As much as I enjoyed the movie though, what really swayed me was the theme song. I'd always been a big fan of the band Chicago, and continued to enjoy the music of Peter Cetera even after he left the group and went solo. And of course, being the typical angst-ridden teenager who was always looking for that knight in shining armor, this song, not to mention the scenes shown while it was being played in the movie, struck a chord with me.

Glory of Love
Peter Cetera

Tonight it's very clear
As we're both lying here
There's so many things I want to say
I will always love you
I would never leave you alone

Sometimes I just forget
Say things I might regret
It breaks my heart to see you crying
I don't wanna lose you
I could never make it alone

I am a man who will fight for your honor
I'll be the hero you're dreaming of
We'll live forever
Knowing together that we
Did it all for the glory of love

You'll keep me standing tall
You'll help me through it all
I'm always strong when you're beside me
I have always needed you
I could never make it alone

I am a man who will fight for your honor
I'll be the hero you've been dreaming of
We'll live forever
Knowing together that we
Did it all for the glory of love

Just like a knight in shining armor
From a long time ago
Just in time I will save the day
Take you to my castle far away

I am a man who will fight for your honor
I'll be the hero you're dreaming of
We're gonna live forever
Knowing together that we
Did it all for the glory of love

We'll live forever
Knowing together that we
Did it all for the glory of love

We did it all for love
We did it all for love
We did it all for love
We did it all for love

Mmmmm...

I'm not much of a cook. While you certainly won't starve in my home (and you probably won't even suffer), the chances of me having my own cooking show are about the same as being sought after by the folks over at Iron Chef. The Husband is the true cook in our house; he's the one who has the natural cooking talent, the one who can (usually) throw a bunch of ingredients together and come up with some fabulous new dish. I can more or less follow recipes or instructions, but the concept of just knowing what to do, of intuitively knowing what items go together and what don't simply eludes me, and instead of being daringly creative or complex, I usually stick to dishes that are tried and true. The "wow" factor rarely makes an appearance in my kitchen, and when it does, it usually has nothing to do with me.

I say usually, because I do have a few special dishes up my sleeve. I'm good with salmon and fish in general, and am never afraid to experiment with pasta sauce. My spring chicken is always yummy, and I make a pretty nifty crab cake too (when I can be bothered to deal with crab meat). My best dish though, without a doubt, is my Ghormeh Sabzi. As I may have mentioned at some point, the Husband is Persian. As a result, I developed an affinity for all things Persian ( Mahmoud Ahmadinejad not withstanding), especially Persian food. I love Persian food. I did not have a weight problem until I was introduced to Persian food, and I've been battling ever since. I seek out Persian restaurants abroad and keep an eye out for recipes of the Persian dishes I like. Early on in our marriage, I decided to surprise the Husband by making Ghormeh Sabzi, one of the more popular Persian dishes, and on the menu at every Persian restaurant I've ever visited. At that point, I'd never attempted to make Persian food – it hadn't even crossed my mind to try. Once it did, though, I searched the internet looking for a good (read "easy") recipe, and came up with this one. The Husband was suitably impressed, not only by my efforts, but also by the final outcome, and while he might not come right out and say it, I know he's pleased that I took the initiative to learn how to make one of "his" foods.

Since that fateful first attempt, I try to make Ghormeh Sabzi every few months, though more frequently in winter. The recipe I use refers to it as "an exquisite Iranian dish", and I am inclined to agree. I love the sour taste from the dried lemons, the way the greens soak up so much soup and introduce such a fabulous texture. I love the way the chunks of meat practically melt in your mouth, and when I ladle copious amounts over a plateful of rice (Persian, of course!), the world around me almost ceases to exist, as I plunge my spoon into the center of the dish, making sure that the Ghormeh Sabzi is sufficiently mixed into the rice, before carefully guiding the spoon to my mouth, over and over and over again, filling my stomach and dulling my senses, feeling almost sinful because the food is just... so... good...

80s Music Video Sunday #43

As a seriously angst-ridden teenager, I spent a great deal of time dwelling on my feelings and thinking about my relationships with others. This manifested itself in a variety of ways – I can remember spending hours in the greeting card aisle at the local pharmacy, browsing through all the Susan Polis Schutz cards, looking for sentiments that matched my own, or, if I had time, turning the pages of her books in the hopes of finding the words that expressed how I was feeling. Like most of my peers, my moods were all over the place, and if that weren't enough, I probably spent far too much time thinking that not only did no one really seem to notice me, but that they also probably wouldn't notice if I wasn't around (not that I was suicidal, because I wasn't, but thinking in more abstract terms of simply not being there). I even wrote poems about it, poems that I'm assuming (and hoping) no longer exist.

And of course, when I wasn't searching for the meaning of life in Susan Polis Schutz paraphernalia, I would listen to music and try to ascertain whether or not the lyrics could be applied to my own life in some context. I would analyze the words, marveling at the fact that these artists were writing what I was feeling. I would listen to the late night dedication shows, thinking about the songs that I would dedicate and to whom. When I was down, I would make sure to listen to music that best conveyed my emotions of the moment, whether they were of the "nobody understands me" variety or the "why doesn't this person notice me" genre.

While I no longer peruse greeting cards, to this day, I still relate song lyrics to whatever happens to going on in my life. I have sent songs to friends simply because the songs reminded me of these specific individuals for any one of a multitude of reasons (such as the song "Thank You" by South African artist Lionel Bastos, which always reminds me of my pal NRG), and have even been known to pick up the phone to call someone because a song I was listening to made me think of them. There are songs that I can't listen to because the images they conjure up are too difficult to bear, such as Eric Clapton's "Tears in Heaven", which he wrote after losing his young son and hits far too close for home, or songs that automatically take me back to certain periods or events in my life, both good and bad (such as the Eurythmics' "I Saved the World Today").

Lately, more often than not, I've been feeling mellow and out of sorts, as you may have guessed. And me being me, I'm trying to figure out which song from the 80s best suits my current mood. After careful deliberation, I've decided to go with a song by one of the best (in my opinion, anyway) groups of the era - Asia. The song is "The Smile Has Left Your Eyes", which was released as one of the songs on the album "Alpha" in 1983.




The Smile Has Left Your Eyes
Asia

I saw you standing hand in hand
And now you come to me the solitary man
And I know what it is that made us live
Such ordinary lives
The where to go the who to see
No one could sympathize
The Smile Has Left Your Eyes
The Smile Has Left Your Eyes

And I've become a rolling stone
I don't know where to go or what to call my own
But I can see that black horizon glooming
ever close to view
It's over now it's not my fault
See how this feels for you
The Smile Has Left Your Eyes
The Smile Has Left Your Eyes

But I never thought I'd see you
Standing there with him
So don't come crawling back to me

Now it's too late you realized
Now there's no one can sympathize
Now that the Smile Has Left Your Eyes
Now it's too late you realized
Now there's no one can sympathize
Now it's too late you realized
Now that the Smile Has Left Your Eyes

My Son the Gynecologist

For as long as I can remember, I have always loved to read. Growing up, it was not uncommon for me to be working on two books at once, and even today I often keep one book in my bag and another in the bathroom (yes, I admit it – I keep reading material in the bathroom. What can I say – I bore easily...). Even now, as I sit here on the train writing this, my mind keeps wandering to the Bill Bryson book tucked away in the bag at my feet. I first encountered the marvelous world of Mr Bryson during a visit to the Anglosaxies, and he's since become one of my favorite writers (thanks, AS!). I've read all of his travel books at least once, and have read most of them twice. The man is brilliant, what can I say (I am, of course, referring to Bill Bryson, so don't get cheeky on me Anglosaxy!).

But I digress. Reading. Given my great love of books, it was only natural that I would try to pass on my passion to the Little One, and so far, it seems to be working. His collection of books is growing, and one of our favorite activities is to curl up together with a good story. Most of his books are in English, purchased during trips to the US, or delivered as gifts from family and friends. Every year on his birthday, without fail, he receives at least one gift certificate from Amazon, and I have almost as much fun choosing books for him as I do for myself.

Some of the books, he knows by heart (as do I... sigh...), and not only will he recite them out loud as I read, but he also won't hesitate to let me know if I've skipped a page, always keeping me on my toes.

And then there are times when the books themselves keep me on my toes. We always leave the book selection up to the Little One (though not without a bit of nudging if he chooses a book that we simply can't bear to read yet again). Sometimes he opts for a book in English, and other times, he'll prefer a book in Hebrew. Several weeks ago, he chose the latter, and brought a book that we hadn't read before. It was one of the many we'd inherited from my sister-in-law, whose children had outgrown the books long ago. The book was about bringing babies into the world, and given that it was obviously a children's picture book, I had no concerns about the contents.

Apparently, I should have. What began as a lighthearted description of baby animals quickly gave way to talk of sperm and eggs. As I continue to read out loud, my mind is spinning. "Whoa! Did I read that correctly?" "Sperm?" "I'm reading about sperm and eggs to a three year-old?" "Well Jesus, Mary and Joseph! This has got to stop!" It would seem, however, that I stopped too late, as a little penny dropped somewhere in the Little One's head. While the sperm failed to register, the concept of eggs definitely left its mark. Despite the fact that the book has since been shoved to the back of a high shelf, the mythical eggs live on.

The Little One, bless him, is convinced that I now have a tummy full of eggs, and has proudly shared this news with nearly everyone who crosses his path – the neighbors, his teachers, my husband's business colleagues (who, I'm told, were visibly uncomfortable by the disclosure)... He keeps tugging at my shirt and pressing my stomach in order to try to find them, and has suggested that I go to the doctor, so that he can take pictures of my eggs.

As this saga was unfolding, we received word that our son had drawn the most marvelous pictures, demonstrating a level of skill usually shown by children who are at least five years old, not three. It was, apparently, a picture of me. "And what is that little line in my tummy," I asked him, pleased that he may have inherited his grandmother's art skills (which have obviously skipped a generation...). "Your eggs, Mommy!"

Welcome to my world, folks. Put on your seatbelts - I think we're in for a bumpy ride!